Journal articles on the topic 'Wedding poetry (Provençal): Modern'

The poetry of Arab-Andalusian poets is a bridge between Eastern and Western culture. Its roots date back to the sixth century, when the first Bedouin songs resounded in the limitless areas of the Arabian desert. His echoes resounded in the poetry of Provençal troubadours. Traces of this poetry can be found in the works of Renaissance poets, including Petrarc. Elements of Andalusian poetry were also visible in the poetry of the Spanish court since the 16th century. The characteristic poetic forms still appeared in 20th century poetry – at least one of the most outstanding Spanish poets, Federico Garcia Llorca, reached for it. Its greatest prosperity was in the 10th andd 11th centuries, and among the outstanding Andalusian poets were both men and women. The main motive of this poetry was unfulfilled love, which remained the dominant element of modern European court poetry.

Before the brand image design, the analysis of brand positioning is the first step to build a successful brand. For the brand image design of wedding companies, consumer demand should be put in the first place, and what can stimulate consumers to produce consumer behavior should meet the following two conditions, -- explicit demand, invisible demand. Dominant demand refers to the purchase demand, while brands should pay more attention to the invisible needs of consumers to meet the psychological level. This is a key step in the brand's long-term development. This paper through the analysis of the wedding brand development market status, according to the demand of consumption as the guidance to carry out the brand image design work, from the ancient poetry and traditional wedding style to extract the design inspiration, in the visual design of the combination of traditional and modern techniques, for the wedding brand image design.

Nandong is a song usually sung by Padang people who come to trade to the island of Simeulue. Nandong poetry is sung in the form of rhymes and describes the story of human life, but over time, the poems conveyed by intelligent people are compiled into art called Nandong. Nandong poetry tells the story of human life and is displayed in wedding events to be entertained and give advice to those who are married. However, at this time, the preservation of Nandong culture seems to be fading due to the development of modern musical instruments so that local culture is rarely displayed. This study will describe the factors causing the loss of Nandong culture in Sambay village, West Aceh.

Abstract This article examines the understudied political dynamics of the televised nabaṭī poetry competition Shāʿir al-Milyūn (“Million’s Poet”) to offer a new understanding of the program. Media coverage has focused on the participation of a single female participant, while scholars have assessed Shāʿir al-Milyūn as primarily an experiment in the wedding of local tradition to modern technology, overlooking the central and complex negotiations of ruler-ruled relationships taking place on the show’s stage. Shāʿir al-Milyūn’s political aspect becomes particularly apparent in the regular performances of waṭaniyyah verse, i.e. poetry for the waṭan or homeland. Reading a waṭaniyyah poem performed during the fifth season of Shāʿir al-Milyūn by Emirati poet Aḥmad bin Hayyāy al-Manṣūrī, I argue that Shāʿir al-Milyūn, rather than merely celebrating local poetic tradition, operates as a political technology that provides both poetry contestants and the show’s princely patron with opportunities to articulate and enact expectations of proper citizenship.

AbstractThe first section of this paper examines an allusion to Propertius 3.15 at 2.239 of Statius’ Thebaid. Here Statius refers to a certain Mount Aracynthus in the context of the double marriage of Argia and Deipyle to Polynices and Tydeus. Invoked in Latin poetry as we have it a scant three times, Statius’ Aracynthus recalls Propertius 3.15.42, where the mountain is the site of Amphion’s paean celebrating the victory over Dirce, whose jealous pursuit of Antiope wrought her own destruction. Invoked in the midst of the wedding of Polynices, whose own jealousy over Eteocles will bring about his downfall, Aracynthus casts a pall over the otherwise idyllic description of the two brides and further hints at the doomed nature of their union to the two exiles, Polynices and Tydeus.The second section of this paper examines an implied reference to another Aracynthus at 2.729. This second Aracynthus, however, is Aetolian and not the Boeotian mountain of Propertius. Statius’ two Aracynthi draw us in to an obscure debate, ancient and modern, concerning the location(s) of this (or these) mountain(s) and may suggest something about his engagement with his literary models.

Who was andré Jolles? born in den helder in 1874; raised in amsterdam; in his youth a significant player in the literary Movement of the Nineties (Beweging van Negentig), whose organ was the Dutch cultural weekly De Kroniek; a close friend of Aby M. Warburg's and Johan Huizinga's—Jolles studied art history at Freiburg beginning in 1902 and then taught art history in Berlin, archaeology and cultural history in occupied Ghent during World War I, and Netherlandic and comparative literature at Leipzig from 1919 until shortly before his death, in 1946. A man of extraordinary intellectual range—his publications include essays on early Florentine painting, a dissertation on the aesthetics of Vitruvius, a habilitation thesis on Egyptian-Mycenaean ceremonial vessels, literary letters on ancient Greek art, and essays in German and Dutch on folklore, theater, dance, Boccaccio, Dante, Goethe, Zola, Ibsen, Strindberg, and Provençal and Renaissance Italian poetry—he was also an amateur playwright and an outspoken champion of modern trends in dramatic art and stage design. To his friends, he could be something of an intellectual midwife, helping Warburg to formulate what would become a signature notion, the “pathos formula,” and Huizinga to conceive The Waning of the Middle Ages (1919). Jolles's chief work, the one for which he is best known, is Einfache Formen (1930; “Simple Forms”), a collection of lectures he had delivered in German at Leipzig in 1927-28 and revised.

Resum: A l’antiga Grècia i Roma els epitalamis actuaven com a preludi eròtic de la nit nupcial. Claudià, a l’antiguitat tardana, va tractar el motiu del desflorament com a pugna amoris amb lasciu refinament. A partir del Quattrocento italià, l’Europa moderna va reprendre amb profusió aquesta tradició laudatòria d’erotisme estilitzat amb cants consagrats a la unió de les famílies il·lustres. El poeta barroc Francesc Fontanella (1622-1682/83) va compondre quatre magnífics epitalamis dedicats a les noces d’un enigmàtic personatge: el ‘galant Alba’. Diversos estudis han intentat, sense èxit, desvelar-ne la identitat. En aquestes composicions, Fontanella va emprar un llenguatge refinat i metafòric per descriure gradualment els estadis que porten a la unió carnal entesa com a lluita amorosa: els versos, rics en imatges florals i minerals, s’han de reconvertir al seu sentit concret a través d’una doble lectura. L’estudi inclou l’edició crítica dels textos i la contextualització del cicle dins del corpus epitalàmic europeu, així com una argumentació sobre la possible identitat dels protagonistes. Paraules clau: literatura catalana moderna; poesia barroca; epitalami; Francesc Fontanella Abstract: In ancient Greece and Rome, epithalamia acted as an erotic prelude to the wedding night. In Late Antiquity, Claudian explored the theme of deflowering as pugna amoris with lascivious refinement. As of 15th century Italian poets, modern Europe recommenced this laudatory tradition of stylised eroticism with songs devoted to the union of illustrious families. The Baroque poet Francesc Fontanella (1622-1682/3) composed four magnificent epithalamia dedicated to the wedding of an enigmatic character: ‘gallant Alba’, of whom several studies have tried, unsuccessfully, to reveal his identity. In these compositions, Fontanella employed refined, metaphorical language to gradually describe the stages of carnal union understood as a love battle: the verses, rich in floral and mineral imagery, must be transformed into their particular meaning through double reading. The study includes the critical edition of the texts and a contextualisation of the series within the European corpus of epithalamia, as well as an argument on the possible identity of the protagonists. Keywords: Early modern Catalan literature; Baroque poetry; epithalamium; Francesc Fontanella

EZRA’S CAGE”. BETWEEN POETRY AND POLITICSEzra Pound 1885–1975 was, next to Thomas Stearns Eliot, the most prominent American poet of modernist. He was considered the creator of vorticism and imagism — modern trends in art and world culture. In his works he reached to different eras and cultural trends. He was as well fascinated by medieval Provençal, Spanish and Italian literature, and Japanese art of haiku. On his work also had an impact scholasticism, Confucianism and Far East literature. In addition to poetry, Pound was also involved in literary criticism, painting and sculpture, he wrote historiosophical es­says and dramas. The greatest fame brought him, however, written for many years, „Canto”. During his stay in the British Isles he also dealt with politics and economics. He was considered a supporter of the theory of Social Credit of Hugh Douglas Clifford, aBritish engineer and economic theorist. In the early twenties Pound went to Italy. Here he became fascinated with fascism and the person of Benitto Musollini. In his works including his poetic works appeared clear fascist and anti-Semitic accents. He criticized Jewish international financiers and banking critique of usury. During World War II he gave propaganda „talks” in the Italian radio. He praised the organization of the fascist state and fascism as an idea, and at the same time warned the threat from international Jewish conspiracy. His views meant that he was accused of collaboration and treason. He was arrested and imprisoned in the US prison camp near Genoa. He spent almost amonth in aclosed cage. During his stay in the camp he had nervous breakdown. After transportation to the United States for many years he was locked out in hospital for mentally ill. After leaving the hospital, he returned to public space. Still creative, he was nominated for the most prestigious literary awards. His works have been translated into many languages around the world, including Polish. He died in Italy in 1975.

Communication media as a means to convey information is traditional and modern. The rapid development of communication technology in modern media by some communication experts is allegedly able to change the traditional form of communication found in Indonesia. The author is interested to know the benefits of the implementation of the Gorontalo tribal tradition as a traditional communication media play a role in development in the village of Titidu? By using the method of observation and in-depth interviews with 34 sources obtained from purposive sampling techniques. This study was also complemented by a literature review to deepen data and data processing using descriptive qualitative analysis. The findings show the existence of traditional media that still survive in the village of Titidu aims to preserve the traditions of the Gorontalo tribal people who place the tradition based on syara 'and syara' based on the book of God as a way of life, so that the culture of Gorontalo people highly values traditions especially those with Islamic nuances. The tradition is related to customs in the form of wedding ceremonies, coronation and reception of officials, funerals, hair cutting and weighting. Art in the form of remembrance (obeyed), burdah (buruda), funds and zamrah. Dance movements or sports such as langga, longgo, and literature in the form of prose and poetry. By implementing interpersonal, group, free and social communication to socialize regional development in the fields of innovation (health, education, national defense, arts, development), government policy, program accountability in the village head's remarks.Media komunikasi sebagai sarana untuk menyampaikan informasi bersifat tradisional dan modern. Pesatnya perkembangan teknologi komunikasi pada media modern oleh beberapa pakar komunikasi disinyalir dapat merubah bentuk komunikasi tradisional yang terdapat di Indonesia. Penulis tertarik untuk mengetahui manfaat pelaksanaan tradisi suku Gorontalo sebagai media komunikasi tradisional berperan dalam pembangunan di Desa Titidu. Dengan menggunakan metode observasi dan wawancara mendalam terhadap 34 narasumber yang di dapat dari teknik sampling purposive. Penelitian ini juga dilengkapi dengan kajian pustaka untuk memperdalam data serta pengolahan data menggunakan analisis deskriptif kualitatif. Temuan menunjukkan keberadaan media tradisional yang masih bertahan di Desa Titidu bertujuan untuk melestarikan tradisi masyarakat suku Gorontalo yang menempatkan adat bersendikan syara’ dan syara’ bersendikan kitab Allah sebagai pandangan hidup, sehingga secara kultural masyarakat Gorontalo sangat menghargai tradisi-tradisi terutama yang bernuansa Islami. Tradisi tersebut berhubungan dengan adat istiadat berupa upacara pernikahan, penobatan dan penyambutan pejabat, pemakaman, pengguntingan rambut serta pembeatan. Kesenian berupa dzikir (diikili), burdah (buruda), dana-dana dan zamrah. Gerak atau olahraga tarian seperti langga, longgo, dan sastra berupa prosa maupun puisi. Dengan menerapkan komunikasi antar pribadi, kelompok, bebas dan sosial untuk mensosialisasikan pembanguan daerah pada bidang inovasi (kesehatan, pendidikan, bela negara, kesenian, pembangunan), kebijakan pemerintah, pertanggungjawaban program dalam sambutan kepala desa.

ABSTRACT: Gabriel Bocángel’s silva «El retrato» (c. 1638) is a textual Trojan horse in the war for poetic patronage in the early modern Spanish court. Written on the wedding of the poet’s cousin to Juan de Cetina, secretary to the Admiral of Castile, the poem is a verbal portrait of the bride that undermines not only the tradition of the descriptio puellae, but also the Count-Duke of Olivares’s power. As a panegyric of the latter’s enemy, the text employs the botanical images of the laurel and the ivy, exploiting the full sense of their symbolic meaning. As an appeal for the patronage of poetry and letters at court and an exercise in «self-fashioning» (Greenblatt), the text makes the lovers’ and the poet’s pursuits parallel to the «siege» of Daphne; the poet, as a new Apollo, sings and weaves a complex poetic fabric in which different tensions are ultimately resolved in the image of the Admiral’s laurelcrowned brow, to which both the couple’s and the poet’s ambitions aspire. KEYWORDS Bocángel; Patronage; Silva; Olivares; Baroque; Emblems. RESUMEN: La silva «El retrato» (c. 1638) de Gabriel Bocángel es un caballo de Troya en la guerra por el patronazgo poético en el contexto de la corte española del siglo XVII. Escrita con motivo de la boda de la prima del poeta con Juan de Cetina, secretario del Almirante de Castilla, el poema es un retrato verbal de la novia que socava no sólo la tradición de la descriptio puellae, sino el poder del Conde-Duque de Olivares, enemigo acérrimo del Almirante. Como panegírico de este último, el texto emplea las imágenes botánicas del laurel y la hiedra explotando el pleno sentido de su significado emblemático y simbólico. Como petición de patronazgo de la poesía y las letras en la corte y como ejercicio de «self-fashioning» (Greenblatt), el texto pone en paralelo los objetivos de los amantes y del poeta con el acoso a Dafne; como nuevo Apolo, el poeta canta tejiendo un complejo tapiz en el que distintas tensiones se resuelven finalmente en la imagen de la frente del Almirante, coronada de laureles, a la que aspiran por igual las ambiciones de los amantes y del propio poeta.

Considerable attention to the study of specific Ukrainian folk oral literature, observed recently led to the need for linguistic exploration of calendar ritual songs, because they most clearly record the echoes of the past and at the same time fix the peculiar changes caused by modern civilization processes. The folk poetry epithets are a conceptually important component of the artistic structure of folk works, including calendar-ritual poetry, as they relate to all the main images depicted in the songs. In the attributive space of calendar-ritual texts, the basic features of the outlook of the people are coded, as well as the meanings necessary for understanding the reconstruction of the mythological model of the Ukrainian world. Wreath is a ritual object that appears in all calendar ritual genres and has a wide range of epithets. It is determined that the names of plants are the most productive attributives for the designation of the wreath. This is due to the ritual practice of making wreaths from certain plants, endowed with symbolic semantics. Instead, epithets related to the names of jewels and express the idea of value are later in origin. It is observed that among the analyzed attributives, those whose have the positive evaluative component in the semantic structure are predominant. This is due to pragmatic studied texts, the purpose of ritual practices, mainly to the preservation, enhancement and production of important and useful things for person, and an overall positive reflection of the symbol of the wreath in the folk tradition. Attention is drawn to rarely used, but symbolically spacious epithets, the analysis of which contributes to the conceptualization of individual fragments of the world's mythological model. Consequently, the epithet characteristic of the wreath as a ritual object depends on the subject of the text, the speaker's orientation on the appropriate speech strategy to achieve the desired goal, as well as on the peculiarities of the mythopoetic model of the world. Epithets of the autumn-winter cycle are mostly secondary, transposed both from texts of spring-summer songs, and borrowed from the wedding ritualism of Ukrainians.

Teesid: Tartu Ülikooli maailmakirjanduse professori, luuletaja, kirjandusteadlase ja hispaaniakeelse kirjanduse spetsialisti Jüri Talveti tõlketegevuse viljade hulka kuulub luulet ja proosat nii sajandeid vanast Hispaania klassikast kui ka 20. sajandil või tänapäeval romaani keeltes või inglise keeles loodud teostest. Käesolev artikkel keskendub sellele, kuidas professor Talvet on tõlgendanud luule ja poeetika, kuid ka kirjandusajaloo, iseäranis barokk-kirjanduse alaseid küsimusi oma kirjandusteaduslikes esseedes. Vaadeldakse ka tema tõlketegevuse mahtu ja tõlketöö põhimõtteid. Jüri Talvet (born in 1945) is a poet and a scholar of comparative literature, Chair Professor of World Literature at the University of Tartu. His numerous translations of poetry and poetical fiction from the Romance languages and, to a lesser extent, from English, reflect his views on world poetry. Those views are also expressed in his theoretical writings from the years of 1977 to 2015. Having studied English literature as the main subject at the University of Tartu, he early developed an interest in Spanish, in other Iberian languages, and in the Iberoamerican literatures. His translations from that area include works from medieval and early modern literature as well as notable literary achievements from the 20th century and the contemporary era. Talvet’s interpretations of Federico García Lorca and the “Latin American boom” authors are supported by profound insights into the philosophy, aesthetics, and poetics of the 17th century Spanish Baroque literature, known as the literary Golden Age of Spain. The influence which Talvet’s activities have exerted has widened the horizons of Estonia’s literary culture: while in the early 20th century, the previous German, Russian and Finnish leanings were supplemented by orientations to, and translations from, French and Italian literatures, Talvet has helped to enrich the Estonian literary landscape with the mentality and traditions of even more distant language areas, such as Castilian (Spanish), Catalan, Galician, Portuguese, and the Latin American countries. In the section “Quevedo and Góngora” of this article, Talvet’s interpretation of some of the key issues of dispute in the Baroque literature of Spain are studied, based both on his theoretical essays and on his translations of the poetry of Francisco de Quevedo. Talvet has attempted to use the terms of the Baroque philosopher and writer Baltasar Gracián, agudeza, concepto (definable approximately as “conceit” or “wit”) and conceptismo, for the analysis of the late 20th century Estonian poetry. On that background, defnitions of conceptismo and cultismo (the other main school in Spanish Baroque poetry) are offered in this article, with implications that those definitions may have for understanding different styles and methods of poetry in general, and the characteristics of Talvet’s own poems and poetry translations in particular. To escape diffusion in pure sensuality and verbal indulgence, poetry has to rely on concepts as well as images. Talvet’s interpretations of poetry and poetical thinking are found to be close to conceptismo, or with a considerable amount of conceptuality inherent to them. The juxtaposition of paradoxical ideas from different levels of reality, social and psychic, is seen as the essential poetical method that Talvet refers to as he defines, quoting Yuri Lotman, the structural-semantic code of poetry as being “paradigmatic”. In the final section of the article, Talvet’s 23 book-length published translations are listed, including translations from Spanish, Catalan, English and French. The list does not include numerous translations of single poems or cycles of poetry that have appeared in literary journals, nor his contributions to anthologies of poetry, nor the translations from his native Estonian into a foreign language, such as Spanish or English, in which he has participated. His translations encompass lyrical works as well as fiction and plays. Talvet has translated classical European poetry, such as the sonnets of Petrarch and Quevedo and Provençal poems, as well as the rhymed poems of American poets into Estonian with complete metrical correspondence and full rhymes. However, in the latest decades Talvet has expressed scepticism in the sense and feasibility of attempting to convey the rhyming complexities of the major European literatures into Estonian, a language with a considerably smaller potential for finding full rhymes. Accordingly, his three translations of Spanish Baroque drama (by Calderón and Tirso de Molina) employ a liberal method of versification. In all his versatile activities as a poet, a translator, and a theorist of poetry, Professor Talvet has shown great devotion to developing and cultivating aesthetic values. A lot of his colleagues and students have benefited from his friendly advice. Thinking of his contributions to Estonia’s literary tradition, one may repeat and paraphrase the sentence that he used for the conclusion of his essay on the Catalan poet Salvador Espriu in 1977: “to write (and to translate) poetry is to work for the benefit of the people.”

“Flora & Fauna Crónica” is from the book, Killer Crónicas, which will be published by the University of Wisconsin Press in 2004. This collection of chronicles began in 2000, after Susana was awarded a fellowship by the US National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) for a project on contemporary Argentine women's poetry. She spent thirteen months in Buenos Aires where, in addition to research and writing on her official (academic) book, she began to send bilingual, punning “letters from the southern [cone] front” to colleagues and friends by email. Susana says: “Living in Buenos Aires, that gorgeous, turn of the century city in a country on the brink of (economic) collapse—home to many of the authors and artists I had long admired (Borges, Cortázar, Alfonsina Storni, Alejandra Pizarnik, and before them the foundational Romantics, Sarmiento and Echeverría)—brought out a sense of self, dis/placed yet oddly at home, in a cultural, linguistic and even tangible way. In Buenos Aires, the fragmented parts of me, the voices, cultures, and places inside of me, rubbed up against each other and struck fire. I called my email missives “Crónicas,” inspired by the somewhat rough-hewn, journalistic, often fantastic first-hand accounts sent “home” by the early conquistadores, and refashioned by modern-day counterparts such as Carlos Monsiváis, Elena Poniatowska, and Cristina Pacheco.” One of Susana’s crónicas, “Anniversary Crónica,” inspired by the wedding anniversary of Susana’s parents and by the so-called “Soweto Riots” in South Africa, was recently awarded First prize in Personal Memoir in the Chicano Literary Excellence Contest sponsored by the U.S. national literary magazine el Andar.

This consideration of British poet, novelist, and critic Iain Sinclair’s ‘bad’ writing begins at the summit of Beckton Alp, a pile of waste in London’s east that has been reconstituted as recreational space. For Sinclair, Beckton Alp functions as a totem signifying the pervasive regulatory influence of Panopticism in contemporary urban culture. It shares the Panopticon’s ‘see/being seen dyad’, which is delineated thus by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Punish: In the peripheric ring [which in this case acts as an analogue for London] one is seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower [for our purposes, Beckton Alp], one sees everything without being seen. (201) In his most recent novel, Dining on Stones (or, The Middle Ground), the prospect from Beckton Alp offers Sinclair the following image of London: Leaning on a creosoted railing London makes sense. There is a pattern, a working design. And there’s a word for it too: Obscenery. Blight. Stuttering movement. The distant river. The time membrane dissolves, in such a way that the viewer becomes the thing he is looking at. (190) The city, following Michel de Certeau, can be read as a text from Beckton Alp, one that appears intelligible, one that ‘makes sense’ (92). But what “sense” is the reader to make of Sinclair’s vision of London, a London characterised by this intriguing (and typically Sinclairean) neologism, obscenery? Obscenery’s etymological origins in the word ‘obscene’ suggest that it is indecent, unruly, offensive. It would seem to encompass everything that hegemonic culture would prefer to keep off-stage and unseen, everything that it considers ‘bad.’ Yet as Sinclair makes clear, it is hardly hidden—it can be seen from the Alp. By all accounts, obscenery proves to be the completely visible manifestation of what is normally segregated, managed and disposed of by disciplinary apparatuses, such as the Panoptic schema, which organise and supervise urban space. In summary, obscenery contends the regulatory power of Panopticism by being visible, obscenely so. Sinclair is careful to avoid a dialectic positing obscenery as the disordered antinomy to the pattern of hegemonic order. Instead, obscenery problematises the differentiations demarcating ‘good’ and ‘bad’ culture. Sinclair’s poiesis also blurs the boundaries between divergent spheres of culture as it oscillates between small press publishing and the mass market. His mimeographed chapbooks and limited edition hardcovers have for the major part of his career been conceived, produced, and disseminated outside the parameters of mainstream culture. An affiliation with the avant-garde British Poetry Revival indicates Sinclair’s dedication to alternative publishing, as does the existence of his own imprints: the punningly named horz commerz, and the Albion Village Press. But his mainstream publications (including Dining on Stones, which was released by multinational publishing house Penguin) complicate this position because although he is published and circulated within the sights of hegemonic literary culture, and therefore subject to the gaze of the Panopticon, Sinclair rejects hegemonic expectations about what comprises literature. He exploits written language, a tool licensed by the Panopticon, for unlicensed praxis. Identifying Sinclair’s cultural production as a type of textual obscenery, or ‘bad’ writing proposes an alternative model of cultural production, one that enables the creative practitioner to loosen the panoptic bonds with which Foucault pinions the individual and productively negotiate the archetypal struggle faced in a capitalist political economy: the conflict between artistic integrity and commercial imperative. In a sense, Sinclair and his circle of collaborators constitute a modern day la bohème—a league of artistic and literary putschists conspiring against the established order of cultural production, distribution, and consumption. As Sinclair commented in an interview: There’s no anxiety. Most of the stuff I have done didn’t have to win anybody’s approval. For me, there wasn’t that question of ‘How do I get published?’ that seems to preoccupy writers now. I used to publish myself. (Jeffries) For Sinclair, hegemonic culture is marching acquiescently, mindlessly to the ‘military/industrial two-step. That old standard… YES was the word.’ (Sinclair, London Orbital 4) If ‘yes’ is the mantra of this type of (false) consciousness, then Sinclair’s contrary creations are asserting a politics of ‘no.’ Sinclair’s refusal to accede to hegemonic attitudes regarding what is ‘good’ writing points to a deliberate decision to preserve what Herbert Marcuse terms ‘artistic alienation’ (Sinclair 63). According to Marcuse, artistic alienation, as distinct from traditional Marxist notions of alienation, should be encouraged in order to preserve the integrity of the work of art as something that has the power to rupture reality. In late era capitalism, reality is the totality of commodity culture, thus art must remain antagonistic to the ubiquity of the commodity form. Or, in Marcuse’s words, ‘art has …magic power only as the power of negation. It can speak its own language only as long as the images are alive which refuse and refute the established order’ (65). Within the panoptic schema, the disciplinary apparatus of capitalism, refusal, or refuse, is equivalent to obscenery. Like raw sewage washing up on the beach, or a split garbage bag lying uncollected in the street, Sinclair’s writing is matter out-of-place. If Panopticism, as Foucault theorises, is to efficiently and effectively implement discipline via real and imagined networks of surveillance that shift constantly between operations extrinsic and intrinsic to the subject, it does not necessarily prevent heterogeneous, transgressive, or subversive practice from emerging. However, it will, by means of this surveillance, draw attention to these practices, classify and segregate them, apply pejorative labels such as ‘bad’, ‘useless’, ‘harmful’, and relegate them to a social or spatial sphere outside the realm of the normative tastes and standards. In this process lies the Panopticon’s vast potential to devise, standardise, and regulate patterns of production and consumption. Practices and production that do not conform to hegemonic conventions are deemed aberrant, and rendered invisible. In a capitalist political economy, where governing institutions and operations function as extensions of systems predicated upon the fetishism of commodities, regulating patterns of consumption—by deciding what can and can’t be seen—imposes control. According to the logic of scopophilic culture, to be ‘unseen,’ by choice or otherwise, necessarily restricts consumption. In this manner, the Panopticon reinforces its role as arbiter of public taste. Obscenery’s visibility, however, rejects panoptic classification. It resists the panoptic systems that police cultural production, not by remaining hidden, or Other, but by declaring its presence. Unlike the commodity, which in its conformity is seamlessly assimilated into consumer culture, obscenery draws attention. Beckton Alp, a sanitised pile of waste rendered useful, palatable, is, in contrast, an example of obscenery averted (see endnote). As Marx explains, for a product to exist fully it must be consumed (91). A book becomes a product only when it is read. Writing that is designed to refuse the act of reading is perverse according to any schema of cultural logic, but particularly according to the logic of an economy driven by consumption. This refusal resonates with particular force within a capitalist schema of cultural production because it is fundamentally contrary to the process of commodification. Sinclair’s texts deny easy, uncritical consumption and subsequently cause a blockage in the process of commodification. In this manner, Sinclair contends the logos of capitalist alchemy. A book that resists being easily read, but is still visible to mainstream culture, constitutes a type of obscenery. Situating Sinclair’s poiesis within the domain of obscenery enables an understanding of why his texts have been judged by some critics and readers as ‘bad,’ difficult, inaccessible, impenetrable, even ‘unreadable’. Practitioners of counter-cultural and sub-cultural art and literature traditionally protect their minoritarian status and restrict access to their work by consciously constructing texts which might be considered ‘shit’; in other words, creating something that is deemed excremental, or ‘bad’ according to hegemonic tastes and standards. They create something that inhibits smooth digestion, something that causes a malfunction in the order of consumption. Stylistically, Sinclair employs a number of linguistic and formal devices to repulse the reader. Unrelenting verbiage and extreme parataxis are two such contrivances, as this exemplary excerpt from Dining on Stones illustrates: HEALTHY BOWELS? No problem in that department. Quite the reverse. Eyes: like looking out of week-old milk bottles. Ears clogged and sticky nose broken. But bowels ticked like a German motor: Stephen X, age unknown: writer. Marine exile. His walk, the colonnade. Wet suits for scuba divers. Yellowed wedding dresses. Black god franchises. Fast food. NO CASH KEPT ON PREMISES. The shops, beneath the hulk of the Ocean Queen flats, dealt in negatives, prohibitions – fear. They kept no stock beyond instantly forgotten memorabilia, concrete floors. Stephen releases a clutch of bad wind. (Sinclair 308) Sinclair’s writing constructs linguistic heterotopias that ‘desiccate speech, stop words in their tracks, contest the very possibility of grammar’ (Foucault, Archaeology xix). His language is clipped, elliptical, arrhythmic. In fact, Sinclair’s prose often doesn’t resemble prose; formally and syntactically, it is more aligned with poetry. It is peppered with paradoxical conceits—‘forgotten memorabilia’—which negate meaning and amplify the inscrutability of his words. His imagery is unexpected, discordant, frequently unsettling, as is his unpredictable register which veers from colloquialisms (‘No problem in that department’; Sinclair 308) to more formal, literary modes of expression (‘Stephen X, age unknown: writer’; Sinclair 308). Sinclair also alienates the reader through the use of digressive narrative, which in its Blakean insistence on cyclical shapes resists the linear structure associated with the shape of rational imagination. In terms of the economy of a teleological narrative, Sinclair’s storytelling in novels like Dining on Stones is wasteful in its diversions. His fictions and non-fictions contain characters and events that are incidental to what only occasionally resembles a plot. The apotheosis of the urge to contend linear forms of narrative is chronicled in Sinclair’s 2002 book London Orbital, a navigation of the M25 that as a circuitous journey has neither defined point of origin nor a locatable terminus. Sinclair’s novels, criticism, poetry, films constitute a hermeneutic circle, insisting that you have a working knowledge of the other texts in order to decipher the single text, and the body of work gives meaning to each discrete text. Acquiring Sinclair’s recondite code—which those who are cognisant with his style are well aware—is not a task for the uncommitted. The reader must assume the role of detective tracking down his poetry in second-hand bookshops. Obscure references that saturate the page must be researched. To read and understand Sinclair requires what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has called ‘cultural competence’ (2). Bourdieu’s ideas on taste and consumption provide a framework for understanding Sinclair’s textual allegiances, his affinity for other types of textual obscenery—unsanctioned graffiti, small magazine poetry—which are also derided as ‘shit’, as ‘bad’ writing by those who have not acquired the cultural competence necessary to understand their coded information. There is a self-reflexive joke contained in the title Dining on Stones. After all, it is a novel that constantly urges the reader to swallow indigestible text and unsavoury subject matter. Sinclair’s writing continually forces our attentions back to the purlieus of urban culture, to everything that the centrifugal forces of Panopticism have driven to the periphery: social inequality, marginal spatial practice, refuse, shit. Sinclair’s textual obscenery is perceived as ‘bad’, as excremental because it denies mainstream literary audiences the satisfaction of uncomplicated, uncritical consumption. According to the restrictive logic of late era capitalism, Sinclair’s slippery, complex, inaccessible narratives are perverse. But they are also the source of perverse pleasure for those who refuse the inhibitions of conformity. Endnote Visual technology in the service of surveillance has been steadily integrated into the everyday, and, by virtue of its ubiquity, has become ‘unseen.’ Similar to the panoptic technologies described by Foucault, Beckton Alp, ‘a considerable event that nobody notices,’ (Sinclair, Dining on Stones, 179) is also assimilated into the urban landscape. References Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge, 2003. De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin, 1977. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Jeffries, Stuart. “On the Road.” The Guardian Online 24 Apr. 2004. 28 Apr. 2004 http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,1201856,00.html>. Marcuse, Herbert. One-Dimensional Man. London & New York: Routledge, 2002. Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy (Rough Draft). Trans. Martin Nicolaus. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973. Sinclair, Iain. Dining on Stones (or, the Middle Ground). London: Hamish Hamilton, 2004. Sinclair, Iain. London Orbital. London: Granta, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Seale, Kirsten. "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>. APA Style Seale, K. (Feb. 2005) "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>.

Introduction Food has always been an essential component of daily life. Today, thinking about food is a much more complicated pursuit than planning the next meal, with food studies scholars devoting their efforts to researching “anything pertaining to food and eating, from how food is grown to when and how it is eaten, to who eats it and with whom, and the nutritional quality” (Duran and MacDonald 234). This is in addition to the work undertaken by an increasingly wide variety of popular culture researchers who explore all aspects of food (Risson and Brien 3): including food advertising, food packaging, food on television, and food in popular fiction. In creating stories, from those works that quickly disappear from bookstore shelves to those that become entrenched in the literary canon, writers use food to communicate the everyday and to explore a vast range of ideas from cultural background to social standing, and also use food to provide perspectives “into the cultural and historical uniqueness of a given social group” (Piatti-Farnell 80). For example in Oliver Twist (1838) by Charles Dickens, the central character challenges the class system when: “Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. He rose from the table, and advancing basin and spoon in hand, to the master, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity–‘Please, sir, I want some more’” (11). Scarlett O’Hara in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind (1936) makes a similar point, a little more dramatically, when she declares: “As God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again” (419). Food can also take us into the depths of another culture: places that many of us will only ever read about. Food is also used to provide insight into a character’s state of mind. In Nora Ephron’s Heartburn (1983) an item as simple as boiled bread tells a reader so much more about Rachel Samstat than her preferred bakery items: “So we got married and I got pregnant and I gave up my New York apartment and moved to Washington. Talk about mistakes [...] there I was, trying to hold up my end in a city where you can’t even buy a decent bagel” (34). There are three ways in which writers can deal with food within their work. Firstly, food can be totally ignored. This approach is sometimes taken despite food being such a standard feature of storytelling that its absence, be it a lonely meal at home, elegant canapés at an impressively catered cocktail party, or a cheap sandwich collected from a local café, is an obvious omission. Food can also add realism to a story, with many authors putting as much effort into conjuring the smell, taste, and texture of food as they do into providing a backstory and a purpose for their characters. In recent years, a third way has emerged with some writers placing such importance upon food in fiction that the line that divides the cookbook and the novel has become distorted. This article looks at cookbooks and cookery in popular fiction with a particular focus on crime novels. Recipes: Ingredients and Preparation Food in fiction has been employed, with great success, to help characters cope with grief; giving them the reassurance that only comes through the familiarity of the kitchen and the concentration required to fulfil routine tasks: to chop and dice, to mix, to sift and roll, to bake, broil, grill, steam, and fry. Such grief can come from the breakdown of a relationship as seen in Nora Ephron’s Heartburn (1983). An autobiography under the guise of fiction, this novel is the first-person story of a cookbook author, a description that irritates the narrator as she feels her works “aren’t merely cookbooks” (95). She is, however, grateful she was not described as “a distraught, rejected, pregnant cookbook author whose husband was in love with a giantess” (95). As the collapse of the marriage is described, her favourite recipes are shared: Bacon Hash; Four Minute Eggs; Toasted Almonds; Lima Beans with Pears; Linguine Alla Cecca; Pot Roast; three types of Potatoes; Sorrel Soup; desserts including Bread Pudding, Cheesecake, Key Lime Pie and Peach Pie; and a Vinaigrette, all in an effort to reassert her personal skills and thus personal value. Grief can also result from loss of hope and the realisation that a life long dreamed of will never be realised. Like Water for Chocolate (1989), by Laura Esquivel, is the magical realist tale of Tita De La Garza who, as the youngest daughter, is forbidden to marry as she must take care of her mother, a woman who: “Unquestionably, when it came to dividing, dismantling, dismembering, desolating, detaching, dispossessing, destroying or dominating […] was a pro” (87). Tita’s life lurches from one painful, unjust episode to the next; the only emotional stability she has comes from the kitchen, and from her cooking of a series of dishes: Christmas Rolls; Chabela Wedding Cake; Quail in Rose Petal Sauce; Turkey Mole; Northern-style Chorizo; Oxtail Soup; Champandongo; Chocolate and Three Kings’s Day Bread; Cream Fritters; and Beans with Chilli Tezcucana-style. This is a series of culinary-based activities that attempts to superimpose normalcy on a life that is far from the everyday. Grief is most commonly associated with death. Undertaking the selection, preparation and presentation of meals in novels dealing with bereavement is both a functional and symbolic act: life must go on for those left behind but it must go on in a very different way. Thus, novels that use food to deal with loss are particularly important because they can “make non-cooks believe they can cook, and for frequent cooks, affirm what they already know: that cooking heals” (Baltazar online). In Angelina’s Bachelors (2011) by Brian O’Reilly, Angelina D’Angelo believes “cooking was not just about food. It was about character” (2). By the end of the first chapter the young woman’s husband is dead and she is in the kitchen looking for solace, and survival, in cookery. In The Kitchen Daughter (2011) by Jael McHenry, Ginny Selvaggio is struggling to cope with the death of her parents and the friends and relations who crowd her home after the funeral. Like Angelina, Ginny retreats to the kitchen. There are, of course, exceptions. In Ntozake Shange’s Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo (1982), cooking celebrates, comforts, and seduces (Calta). This story of three sisters from South Carolina is told through diary entries, narrative, letters, poetry, songs, and spells. Recipes are also found throughout the text: Turkey; Marmalade; Rice; Spinach; Crabmeat; Fish; Sweetbread; Duck; Lamb; and, Asparagus. Anthony Capella’s The Food of Love (2004), a modern retelling of the classic tale of Cyrano de Bergerac, is about the beautiful Laura, a waiter masquerading as a top chef Tommaso, and the talented Bruno who, “thick-set, heavy, and slightly awkward” (21), covers for Tommaso’s incompetency in the kitchen as he, too, falls for Laura. The novel contains recipes and contains considerable information about food: Take fusilli […] People say this pasta was designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself. The spiral fins carry the biggest amount of sauce relative to the surface area, you see? But it only works with a thick, heavy sauce that can cling to the grooves. Conchiglie, on the other hand, is like a shell, so it holds a thin, liquid sauce inside it perfectly (17). Recipes: Dishing Up Death Crime fiction is a genre with a long history of focusing on food; from the theft of food in the novels of the nineteenth century to the utilisation of many different types of food such as chocolate, marmalade, and sweet omelettes to administer poison (Berkeley, Christie, Sayers), the latter vehicle for arsenic receiving much attention in Harriet Vane’s trial in Dorothy L. Sayers’s Strong Poison (1930). The Judge, in summing up the case, states to the members of the jury: “Four eggs were brought to the table in their shells, and Mr Urquhart broke them one by one into a bowl, adding sugar from a sifter [...he then] cooked the omelette in a chafing dish, filled it with hot jam” (14). Prior to what Timothy Taylor has described as the “pre-foodie era” the crime fiction genre was “littered with corpses whose last breaths smelled oddly sweet, or bitter, or of almonds” (online). Of course not all murders are committed in such a subtle fashion. In Roald Dahl’s Lamb to the Slaughter (1953), Mary Maloney murders her policeman husband, clubbing him over the head with a frozen leg of lamb. The meat is roasting nicely when her husband’s colleagues arrive to investigate his death, the lamb is offered and consumed: the murder weapon now beyond the recovery of investigators. Recent years have also seen more and more crime fiction writers present a central protagonist working within the food industry, drawing connections between the skills required for food preparation and those needed to catch a murderer. Working with cooks or crooks, or both, requires planning and people skills in addition to creative thinking, dedication, reliability, stamina, and a willingness to take risks. Kent Carroll insists that “food and mysteries just go together” (Carroll in Calta), with crime fiction website Stop, You’re Killing Me! listing, at the time of writing, over 85 culinary-based crime fiction series, there is certainly sufficient evidence to support his claim. Of the numerous works available that focus on food there are many series that go beyond featuring food and beverages, to present recipes as well as the solving of crimes. These include: the Candy Holliday Murder Mysteries by B. B. Haywood; the Coffeehouse Mysteries by Cleo Coyle; the Hannah Swensen Mysteries by Joanne Fluke; the Hemlock Falls Mysteries by Claudia Bishop; the Memphis BBQ Mysteries by Riley Adams; the Piece of Cake Mysteries by Jacklyn Brady; the Tea Shop Mysteries by Laura Childs; and, the White House Chef Mysteries by Julie Hyzy. The vast majority of offerings within this female dominated sub-genre that has been labelled “Crime and Dine” (Collins online) are American, both in origin and setting. A significant contribution to this increasingly popular formula is, however, from an Australian author Kerry Greenwood. Food features within her famed Phryne Fisher Series with recipes included in A Question of Death (2007). Recipes also form part of Greenwood’s food-themed collection of short crime stories Recipes for Crime (1995), written with Jenny Pausacker. These nine stories, each one imitating the style of one of crime fiction’s greatest contributors (from Agatha Christie to Raymond Chandler), allow readers to simultaneously access mysteries and recipes. 2004 saw the first publication of Earthly Delights and the introduction of her character, Corinna Chapman. This series follows the adventures of a woman who gave up a career as an accountant to open her own bakery in Melbourne. Corinna also investigates the occasional murder. Recipes can be found at the end of each of these books with the Corinna Chapman Recipe Book (nd), filled with instructions for baking bread, muffins and tea cakes in addition to recipes for main courses such as risotto, goulash, and “Chicken with Pineapple 1971 Style”, available from the publisher’s website. Recipes: Integration and Segregation In Heartburn (1983), Rachel acknowledges that presenting a work of fiction and a collection of recipes within a single volume can present challenges, observing: “I see that I haven’t managed to work in any recipes for a while. It’s hard to work in recipes when you’re moving the plot forward” (99). How Rachel tells her story is, however, a reflection of how she undertakes her work, with her own cookbooks being, she admits, more narration than instruction: “The cookbooks I write do well. They’re very personal and chatty–they’re cookbooks in an almost incidental way. I write chapters about friends or relatives or trips or experiences, and work in the recipes peripherally” (17). Some authors integrate detailed recipes into their narratives through description and dialogue. An excellent example of this approach can be found in the Coffeehouse Mystery Series by Cleo Coyle, in the novel On What Grounds (2003). When the central protagonist is being questioned by police, Clare Cosi’s answers are interrupted by a flashback scene and instructions on how to make Greek coffee: Three ounces of water and one very heaped teaspoon of dark roast coffee per serving. (I used half Italian roast, and half Maracaibo––a lovely Venezuelan coffee, named after the country’s major port; rich in flavour, with delicate wine overtones.) / Water and finely ground beans both go into the ibrik together. The water is then brought to a boil over medium heat (37). This provides insight into Clare’s character; that, when under pressure, she focuses her mind on what she firmly believes to be true – not the information that she is doubtful of or a situation that she is struggling to understand. Yet breaking up the action within a novel in this way–particularly within crime fiction, a genre that is predominantly dependant upon generating tension and building the pacing of the plotting to the climax–is an unusual but ultimately successful style of writing. Inquiry and instruction are comfortable bedfellows; as the central protagonists within these works discover whodunit, the readers discover who committed murder as well as a little bit more about one of the world’s most popular beverages, thus highlighting how cookbooks and novels both serve to entertain and to educate. Many authors will save their recipes, serving them up at the end of a story. This can be seen in Julie Hyzy’s White House Chef Mystery novels, the cover of each volume in the series boasts that it “includes Recipes for a Complete Presidential Menu!” These menus, with detailed ingredients lists, instructions for cooking and options for serving, are segregated from the stories and appear at the end of each work. Yet other writers will deploy a hybrid approach such as the one seen in Like Water for Chocolate (1989), where the ingredients are listed at the commencement of each chapter and the preparation for the recipes form part of the narrative. This method of integration is also deployed in The Kitchen Daughter (2011), which sees most of the chapters introduced with a recipe card, those chapters then going on to deal with action in the kitchen. Using recipes as chapter breaks is a structure that has, very recently, been adopted by Australian celebrity chef, food writer, and, now fiction author, Ed Halmagyi, in his new work, which is both cookbook and novel, The Food Clock: A Year of Cooking Seasonally (2012). As people exchange recipes in reality, so too do fictional characters. The Recipe Club (2009), by Andrea Israel and Nancy Garfinkel, is the story of two friends, Lilly Stone and Valerie Rudman, which is structured as an epistolary novel. As they exchange feelings, ideas and news in their correspondence, they also exchange recipes: over eighty of them throughout the novel in e-mails and letters. In The Food of Love (2004), written messages between two of the main characters are also used to share recipes. In addition, readers are able to post their own recipes, inspired by this book and other works by Anthony Capella, on the author’s website. From Page to Plate Some readers are contributing to the burgeoning food tourism market by seeking out the meals from the pages of their favourite novels in bars, cafés, and restaurants around the world, expanding the idea of “map as menu” (Spang 79). In Shannon McKenna Schmidt’s and Joni Rendon’s guide to literary tourism, Novel Destinations (2009), there is an entire section, “Eat Your Words: Literary Places to Sip and Sup”, dedicated to beverages and food. The listings include details for John’s Grill, in San Francisco, which still has on the menu Sam Spade’s Lamb Chops, served with baked potato and sliced tomatoes: a meal enjoyed by author Dashiell Hammett and subsequently consumed by his well-known protagonist in The Maltese Falcon (193), and the Café de la Paix, in Paris, frequented by Ian Fleming’s James Bond because “the food was good enough and it amused him to watch the people” (197). Those wanting to follow in the footsteps of writers can go to Harry’s Bar, in Venice, where the likes of Marcel Proust, Sinclair Lewis, Somerset Maugham, Ernest Hemingway, and Truman Capote have all enjoyed a drink (195) or The Eagle and Child, in Oxford, which hosted the regular meetings of the Inklings––a group which included C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien––in the wood-panelled Rabbit Room (203). A number of eateries have developed their own literary themes such as the Peacocks Tearooms, in Cambridgeshire, which blends their own teas. Readers who are also tea drinkers can indulge in the Sherlock Holmes (Earl Grey with Lapsang Souchong) and the Doctor Watson (Keemun and Darjeeling with Lapsang Souchong). Alternatively, readers may prefer to side with the criminal mind and indulge in the Moriarty (Black Chai with Star Anise, Pepper, Cinnamon, and Fennel) (Peacocks). The Moat Bar and Café, in Melbourne, situated in the basement of the State Library of Victoria, caters “to the whimsy and fantasy of the fiction housed above” and even runs a book exchange program (The Moat). For those readers who are unable, or unwilling, to travel the globe in search of such savoury and sweet treats there is a wide variety of locally-based literary lunches and other meals, that bring together popular authors and wonderful food, routinely organised by book sellers, literature societies, and publishing houses. There are also many cookbooks now easily obtainable that make it possible to re-create fictional food at home. One of the many examples available is The Book Lover’s Cookbook (2003) by Shaunda Kennedy Wenger and Janet Kay Jensen, a work containing over three hundred pages of: Breakfasts; Main & Side Dishes; Soups; Salads; Appetizers, Breads & Other Finger Foods; Desserts; and Cookies & Other Sweets based on the pages of children’s books, literary classics, popular fiction, plays, poetry, and proverbs. If crime fiction is your preferred genre then you can turn to Jean Evans’s The Crime Lover’s Cookbook (2007), which features short stories in between the pages of recipes. There is also Estérelle Payany’s Recipe for Murder (2010) a beautifully illustrated volume that presents detailed instructions for Pigs in a Blanket based on the Big Bad Wolf’s appearance in The Three Little Pigs (44–7), and Roast Beef with Truffled Mashed Potatoes, which acknowledges Patrick Bateman’s fondness for fine dining in Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho (124–7). Conclusion Cookbooks and many popular fiction novels are reflections of each other in terms of creativity, function, and structure. In some instances the two forms are so closely entwined that a single volume will concurrently share a narrative while providing information about, and instruction, on cookery. Indeed, cooking in books is becoming so popular that the line that traditionally separated cookbooks from other types of books, such as romance or crime novels, is becoming increasingly distorted. The separation between food and fiction is further blurred by food tourism and how people strive to experience some of the foods found within fictional works at bars, cafés, and restaurants around the world or, create such experiences in their own homes using fiction-themed recipe books. Food has always been acknowledged as essential for life; books have long been acknowledged as food for thought and food for the soul. Thus food in both the real world and in the imagined world serves to nourish and sustain us in these ways. References Adams, Riley. Delicious and Suspicious. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Finger Lickin’ Dead. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Hickory Smoked Homicide. New York: Berkley, 2011. Baltazar, Lori. “A Novel About Food, Recipes Included [Book review].” Dessert Comes First. 28 Feb. 2012. 20 Aug. 2012 ‹http://dessertcomesfirst.com/archives/8644›. Berkeley, Anthony. The Poisoned Chocolates Case. London: Collins, 1929. Bishop, Claudia. Toast Mortem. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Dread on Arrival. New York: Berkley, 2012. Brady, Jacklyn. A Sheetcake Named Desire. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Cake on a Hot Tin Roof. New York: Berkley, 2012. Calta, Marialisa. “The Art of the Novel as Cookbook.” The New York Times. 17 Feb. 1993. 23 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/1993/02/17/style/the-art-of-the-novel-as-cookbook.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm›. Capella, Anthony. The Food of Love. London: Time Warner, 2004/2005. Carroll, Kent in Calta, Marialisa. “The Art of the Novel as Cookbook.” The New York Times. 17 Feb. 1993. 23 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/1993/02/17/style/the-art-of-the-novel-as-cookbook.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm›. Childs, Laura. Death by Darjeeling. New York: Berkley, 2001. –– Shades of Earl Grey. New York: Berkley, 2003. –– Blood Orange Brewing. New York: Berkley, 2006/2007. –– The Teaberry Strangler. New York: Berkley, 2010/2011. Collins, Glenn. “Your Favourite Fictional Crime Moments Involving Food.” The New York Times Diner’s Journal: Notes on Eating, Drinking and Cooking. 16 Jul. 2012. 17 Jul. 2012 ‹http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/16/your-favorite-fictional-crime-moments-involving-food›. Coyle, Cleo. On What Grounds. New York: Berkley, 2003. –– Murder Most Frothy. New York: Berkley, 2006. –– Holiday Grind. New York: Berkley, 2009/2010. –– Roast Mortem. New York: Berkley, 2010/2011. Christie, Agatha. A Pocket Full of Rye. London: Collins, 1953. Dahl, Roald. Lamb to the Slaughter: A Roald Dahl Short Story. New York: Penguin, 1953/2012. eBook. Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist, or, the Parish Boy’s Progress. In Collection of Ancient and Modern British Authors, Vol. CCXXIX. Paris: Baudry’s European Library, 1838/1839. Duran, Nancy, and Karen MacDonald. “Information Sources for Food Studies Research.” Food, Culture and Society: An International Journal of Multidisciplinary Research 2.9 (2006): 233–43. Ephron, Nora. Heartburn. New York: Vintage, 1983/1996. Esquivel, Laura. Trans. Christensen, Carol, and Thomas Christensen. Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Instalments with Recipes, romances and home remedies. London: Black Swan, 1989/1993. Evans, Jeanne M. The Crime Lovers’s Cookbook. City: Happy Trails, 2007. Fluke, Joanne. Fudge Cupcake Murder. New York: Kensington, 2004. –– Key Lime Pie Murder. New York: Kensington, 2007. –– Cream Puff Murder. New York: Kensington, 2009. –– Apple Turnover Murder. New York: Kensington, 2010. Greenwood, Kerry, and Jenny Pausacker. Recipes for Crime. Carlton: McPhee Gribble, 1995. Greenwood, Kerry. The Corinna Chapman Recipe Book: Mouth-Watering Morsels to Make Your Man Melt, Recipes from Corinna Chapman, Baker and Reluctant Investigator. nd. 25 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.allenandunwin.com/_uploads/documents/minisites/Corinna_recipebook.pdf›. –– A Question of Death: An Illustrated Phryne Fisher Treasury. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2007. Halmagyi, Ed. The Food Clock: A Year of Cooking Seasonally. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2012. Haywood, B. B. Town in a Blueberry Jam. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Town in a Lobster Stew. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Town in a Wild Moose Chase. New York: Berkley, 2012. Hyzy, Julie. State of the Onion. New York: Berkley, 2008. –– Hail to the Chef. New York: Berkley, 2008. –– Eggsecutive Orders. New York: Berkley, 2010. –– Buffalo West Wing. New York: Berkley, 2011. –– Affairs of Steak. New York: Berkley, 2012. Israel, Andrea, and Nancy Garfinkel, with Melissa Clark. The Recipe Club: A Novel About Food And Friendship. New York: HarperCollins, 2009. McHenry, Jael. The Kitchen Daughter: A Novel. New York: Gallery, 2011. Mitchell, Margaret. Gone With the Wind. London: Pan, 1936/1974 O’Reilly, Brian, with Virginia O’Reilly. Angelina’s Bachelors: A Novel, with Food. New York: Gallery, 2011. Payany, Estérelle. Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction. Paris: Flammarion, 2010. Peacocks Tearooms. Peacocks Tearooms: Our Unique Selection of Teas. 23 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.peacockstearoom.co.uk/teas/page1.asp›. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna. “A Taste of Conflict: Food, History and Popular Culture In Katherine Mansfield’s Fiction.” Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 2.1 (2012): 79–91. Risson, Toni, and Donna Lee Brien. “Editors’ Letter: That Takes the Cake: A Slice Of Australasian Food Studies Scholarship.” Australasian Journal of Popular Culture 2.1 (2012): 3–7. Sayers, Dorothy L. Strong Poison. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1930/2003. Schmidt, Shannon McKenna, and Joni Rendon. Novel Destinations: Literary Landmarks from Jane Austen’s Bath to Ernest Hemingway’s Key West. Washington, DC: National Geographic, 2009. Shange, Ntozake. Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo: A Novel. New York: St Martin’s, 1982. Spang, Rebecca L. “All the World’s A Restaurant: On The Global Gastronomics Of Tourism and Travel.” In Raymond Grew (Ed). Food in Global History. Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1999. 79–91. Taylor, Timothy. “Food/Crime Fiction.” Timothy Taylor. 2010. 17 Jul. 2012 ‹http://www.timothytaylor.ca/10/08/20/foodcrime-fiction›. The Moat Bar and Café. The Moat Bar and Café: Welcome. nd. 23 Aug. 2012 ‹http://themoat.com.au/Welcome.html›. Wenger, Shaunda Kennedy, and Janet Kay Jensen. The Book Lover’s Cookbook: Recipes Inspired by Celebrated Works of Literature, and the Passages that Feature Them. New York: Ballantine, 2003/2005.

The Gothic is not always suited to women’s emancipation, but it is very well suited to women’s anger, and all other instances of what Barbara Creed (3) would refer to as ‘abject’ femininity: excessive, uncanny and uncontained instances that disturb patriarchal norms of womanhood. This article asserts that the conventions of the Gothic genre are well suited to expressions of women’s rage; invoking Sarah Ahmed’s work on the discomforting presence of the kill-joy in order to explore how the often-alienating processes of uncensored female anger coincide with contemporary notions of the Monstrous Feminine. This should not suggest that the Gothic is a wholly feminist genre - one need only look to Jane Eyre to observe the binarised construction of Gothic women as either ‘pure’ or ‘deviant’: virginal heroine or mad woman in the attic. However, what is significant about the Gothic genre is that it often permits far more in-depth, even sympathetic explorations of ‘deviant femininity’ that are out of place elsewhere.Indeed, the normative, rationalist demand for good health and accommodating cheerfulness is symptomatic of what Queer Crip scholar Katarina Kolářová (264) describes as ‘compulsory, curative positivity’ – wherein the Monstrousness of deviant femininity, Queerness and disability must be ‘fixed’ in order to produce blithe, comforting feminine docility. It seems almost too obvious to point to The Yellow Wallpaper as a perfect exemplar of this: the physician husband of Gillman’s protagonist literally prescribes indolence and passivity as ‘cures’ for what may well be post-partum depression – another instance of distinctly feminine irrationality that must be promptly contained. The short story is peppered through with references to the protagonist’s ‘illness’ as a source of consternation or discomfort for her husband, who declares, “I feel easier with you now” (134) as she becomes more and more passive.The notion of men’s comfort is important within discussions of women’s anger – not only within the Gothic, but within a broader context of gendered power and privileged experience. Sara Ahmed’s Killing Joy: Feminism and the History of Happiness asserts that we “describe as happy a situation that you wish to defend. Happiness translates its wish into a politics, a wishful politics, a politics that demands that others live according to a wish” (573) For Ahmed, happiness is not solely an individual experience, but rather is relational, and as much influenced by normative systems of power as any other interpersonal process.It has historically fallen upon women to sacrifice their own happiness to ensure that men are comfortable; being quiet and unargumentative, remaining both chase and sexually alluring, being maternal and nurturing, while scrupulously censoring any evidence of pregnancy, breastfeeding or menstrual cycles (Boyer 79). If a woman has ceased to be happy within these terms, then she has failed to be a good woman, and experiences what Ahmed refers to as a ‘negative affect’ – a feeling of being out of place. To be out of place is to be an ‘affect alien’: one must either continue feeling alienated or correct one’s feelings (Ahmed 582). Sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild uses the analogy of a bride feeling miserable at her wedding, obliging herself to bring her feelings in-line with what is expected of her, “Sensing a gap between the ideal feeling and the actual feeling she tolerated, the bride prompts herself to be happy” (Hochschild 61).Ahmed uses to the term ‘Kill Joy’ to refer to feminists – particularly black feminists – whose actions or presence refuse this obligation, and in turn project their discomfort outwards, instead of inwards. The stereotype of the angry black woman, or the humourless feminist persist because these women are not complicit in social orders that hold the comfort of white men as paramount (583); their presence is discomforting.Contrary to its title, Killing Joy does not advocate for an end to happiness. Rather, one might understand the act of killing joy as a tactic of subjective honesty – an acknowledgement of dis-ease, of one’s alienation and displacement within the social contract of reciprocal happiness. Here I use the word dis-ease as a deliberate double entendre – implying both the experience of a negative affect, as well as the apparent social ‘illness’ of refusing acquiescent female joy. In The Yellow Wallpaper, the protagonist’s passive femininity is ironically both the antithesis and the cause of her Monstrous transformation, demonstrating an instance of feminine liminality that is the hallmark of the Gothic heroine.Here I introduce the example of Lily Frankenstein, a modern interpretation of the Bride of the Creature, portrayed by Billie Piper in the Showtime series Penny Dreadful. In Shelley’s novel the Bride is commissioned for the Creature’s contentment, a contract that Frankenstein acknowledges she could not possibly have consented to (Shelley 206). She is never given sentience or agency; her theoretical existence and pre-natal destruction being premised entirely on the comfort of men. Upon her destruction, the Creature cries, “Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness?” (Shelley 209). Her first film portrayal by Elsa Lanchester in James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein (1936) is iconic, but brief. She is granted no dialogue, other than a terrified scream, followed by a goose-like hiss of disgust at Boris Karloff’s lonely Creature. Kenneth Branagh’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994) merges the characters of Elizabeth and the Bride into the same doomed woman. After being murdered by the Creature, she is resurrected by Frankenstein – and consequently fought over by both. Her inevitable suicide is her one moment of tragic autonomy.Penny Dreadful is the first time that the Bride has been given an opportunity to speak for herself. Lily’s character arc is neither that of the idealised, innocent victim, nor is she entirely abject and wanton: she is – quite literally – two women in one. Before she is re-animated and conditioned by Victor Frankenstein to be the perfect bride, she was Brona, a predictably tragic, Irish street-walker with a taste for whisky and a consumptive cough. Diane Long Hoeveler describes the ambiguous duality of the Gothic feminine arising from the fantasies of middle-class woman writing gothic fiction during the 19th century (106). Drawing upon Harriet Guest’s examination of the development of femininity in early Gothic literature, Hoeveler asserts that women may explore the ‘deviant’ pleasures of wanton sexuality and individualistic, sadistic power while still retaining the chaste femininity demanded of them by their bourgeois upbringings. As both innocent victim of patriarchy and Monstrous Feminine, the construction of the gothic heroine simultaneously criminalises and deifies women.I assert that Penny Dreadful demonstrates the blurring of these boundaries in such a way that the fantasy of the sympathetic, yet Monstrous Gothic Feminine is launched out of the parlours of bored Victorian housewives into a contemporary feminist moment that is characterised by a split between respectable diplomacy and the visibility of female rage. Her transition from coerced docility and abject, sexualised anger manifests in the second season of the show. The Creature – having grown impatient and jealous – comes to collect his Bride and is met with a furious refusal.Lily’s rage is explosive. Her raw emotion is evidently startling to the Creature, who stands in astonishment and fear at something even more monstrous and alien than himself – a woman’s unrestrained anger. For all his wretched ‘Otherness’ and misery, he is yet a man - a bastard son of the Enlightenment, desperate to be allowed entrance into the hallowed halls of reason. In both Shelley’s original novel and the series, he tries (and fails) to establish himself as a worthy and rational citizen; settling upon the Bride as his coveted consolation prize for his Monstrous failure. If he cannot be a man as his creator was, then he shall have a companion that is ‘like’ him to soothe his pain.Consequently, Lily’s refusal of the Creature is more than a rejection – it is the manifestation of an alien affect that has been given form within the undead, angry woman: a trifecta of ‘Otherness’. “Shall we wonder the pastures and recite your fucking poetry to the fucking cows?” She mocks the Creature’s bucolic, romantic ideals, killing his joyful phantasy that she, as his companion, will love and comfort him despite his Monstrousness (“Memento Mori”).Lily’s confrontation of the Creature is an unrestrained litany of women’s pain – the humiliation of corsetry and high heels, the slavery of marriage, the brutality of sexual coercion: all which Ahmed would refer to as the “signs of labour under the sign of happiness” (573). These are the pains that women must hide in order to maintain men’s comfort, the sacrificial emotional labours which are obfuscated by the mandates of male-defined femininity. The Gothic’s nurturance of anger transforms Lily’s outburst from an act of cruelty and selfishness to a site of significant feminine abjection. Through this scene Hochschild’s comment takes on new meaning: Lily – being quite literally the Bride (or the intended Bride) of the Creature – has turned the tables and has altered the process of disaffection – and made herself happy at the expense of men.Lily forms a militia of ‘fallen’ women from whom she demands tribute: the bleeding, amputated hands of abusive men. The scene is a thrilling one, recalling the misogyny of witch trials, sexual violence and exploitation as an army of angry kill joys bang on the banquet table, baying for men’s blood (“Ebb Tide”). However, as seems almost inevitable, Lily’s campaign is short-lived. Her efforts are thwarted and her foot soldiers either murdered or fled. We last see her walking dejectedly through the London fog, her fate and future unknown.Lily’s story recalls an instance of the ‘bad feminism’ that nice, respectable, mainstream feminists seek to distance themselves from. In her discussion of the acquittal of infamous castatrix Lorena Bobbitt, poet Katha Pollitt (65-66) observes the scramble by “nice, liberal middle-class professional” feminists to distance themselves from the narratives of irrational rage that supposedly characterise ‘victim feminism’ – opting instead for the comforting ivory towers of self-control and diplomacy.Lily’s speech to her troops is seen partly through the perspective of an increasingly alarmed Dorian Gray, who has hitherto been enjoying the debauched potential of these liberated, ‘deviant’ women, recalling bell hooks’ observation that “ultimately many males revolted when we stated that our bodies were territories that they could not occupy at will. Men who were ready for female sexual liberation if it meant free pussy, no strings attached, were rarely ready for feminist female sexual agency” (41). This is no longer a coterie of wanton women that he may enjoy, but a sisterhood of angry, vengeful kill-joys that will not be respectable, or considerate of his feelings in their endeavours.Here, parallels arise between the absolutes drawn between women as agents or victims, and the positioning of women as positive, progressive ‘rational’ beings or melancholic kill-joys that Ahmed describes. We need only turn to the contemporary debate surrounding the MeToo movement (and its asinine, defensive response of ‘Not All Men’) to observe that the process of identifying oneself as a victim has – for many – become synonymous with weakness, even amongst other feminists. Notably, Germaine Greer referred to the movement as ‘whinging’, calling upon women to be more assertive, instead of wallowing in self-victimisation and misandry, as Lily supposedly does (Miller).While Greer may be a particularly easy strawman, her comments nonetheless recall Judith Halberstam’s observations of prescriptive paternalism (maternalism?) within Western feminist discourse. His chapter Shadow Feminisms uses the work of Gayatri Spivak to describe how triumphalist narratives of women’s liberation often function to restrict the terms of women’s agency and expression – particularly those of women of colour.Spivak’s Can the Subaltern Speak? asserts that the colonial narratives inherent within white feminists’ attempts to ‘save’ non-Western women are premised upon the imagined heroicism of the individual, which in turn demands the rejection of ‘subaltern’ strategies like passiveness, anger and refusal. She asks, “does the category of resistance impose a teleology of progressive politics on the analytics of power?” (9). Put more simply, both Halberstam and Spivak beg the question of why it is necessary for women and other historically marginalised groups to adopt optimistic and respectable standards of agency? Especially when those terms are pre-emptively defined by feminists like Greer.Halberstam conceptualises Shadow Feminisms in the melancholic terms of refusal, undoing, failure and anger. Even in name, Shadow Feminism is well suited to the Gothic – it has no agenda of triumphant, linear progress, nor the saccharine coercion of individualistic optimism. Rather, it emphasises the repressed, quiet forms of subversion that skulk in the introspective, resentful gloom. This is a feminism that cannot and will not let go of its traumas or its pain, because it should not have to (Halberstam, Queer Art 128-129).Thus, the Monstrousness of female rage is given space to acknowledge, rather than downplay or dismiss the affective-alienation of patriarchy. To paraphrase scholars Andrew Smith and Diana Wallace, the Gothic allows women to explore the hidden or censured expressions of dissatisfaction and resentment within patriarchal societies, being a “coded expression of women’s fears of entrapment within the domestic and within the female body” (Smith & Wallace 2).It may be easy to dismiss the Gothic as eldritch assemblages of Opheliac madness and abject hyperbole, I argue that it is valuable precisely because it invites the opening of festering wounds and the exploration of mouldering sepulchres that are shunned by the squeamish mainstream; coaxing the skeletons from the closet so that they may finally air their musty grievances. As Halberstam states in Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters, the Gothic represents the return of the repressed and thus encourages rather than censors the exploration of grief, madness and irrationality (Skin Shows 19). Accordingly, we may understand Lily’s rage as what Halberstam would refer to as a Monstrous Technology (21-22) – more specifically, a technology of the Monstrous Feminine: a significant site of disruption within Gothic narratives that not only ‘shows’ the source of its abjection, but angrily airs its dirty laundry for everyone to see.Here emerges the distinction between the ‘non-whinging’, respectable feminism advocated by the likes of Greer and Lily’s Monstrous, Gothic Feminism. Observing a demonstration by a group of suffragettes, Lily describes their efforts as unambitious – “their enemies are same, but they seek equality” (“Good and Evil Braided Be”). Lily has set her sights upon mastery. By allowing her rage to manifest freely, her movement has manifested as the violent misandry that anti-suffragists and contemporary anti-feminists alike believe is characteristic of women’s liberation, provoking an uncomfortable moment for ‘good’ feminists who desperately wish to avoid such pejorative stereotypes.What Lily offers is not ethical. It does not conform to any justifiable feminist ideology. She represents that which is repressed, a distinctly female rage that has no place within any rational system of belief. Nonetheless, Lily remains a sympathetic character, her “doomed, keening women” (“Ebb Tide”) evoking a quiet, subversive thrill of solidarity that must be immediately hushed. This, I assert, is indicative of the liminal ambiguity that makes the Monstrous Feminine so unsettling, and so significant.And Monsters are always significant. Their ‘Otherness’ functions like lighthouses of meaning. Further, as Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (6) reminds us, Monsters signify not only the fragile boundaries of human subjectivity and discourse, but also the origins of the alterity that defines them. Like the tragic creature of Shelley’s masterpiece, Monsters eventually follow their creators home to demand an explanation – their revenant terror demands accountability (Cohen 20). What Lily exemplifies does not have to make others comfortable, and it is under no obligation to remain within any standards of ethics. To return one last time to Halberstam, I argue that the Monstrosity manifested within female rage is valuable precisely because it because it obliges us “to be unsettled by the politically problematic connections history throws our way” (Halberstam, Queer Art 162). Therefore, to be angry, to dwell on traumatic pasts, and to revel in the ‘failure’ of negativity is to ensure that these genealogies are not ignored.When finally captured, Victor Frankenstein attempts to lobotomise her, promising to permanently take away the pain that is the cause of her Monstrous rage. To this, Lily responds: “there are some wounds that can never heal. There are scars that make us who we are, but without them, we don’t exist” (“Perpetual Night and the Blessed Dark”). Lily refuses to let go of her grief and her anger, and in so doing she fails to coalesce within the placid, docile femininity demanded by Victor Frankenstein. But her refusal is not premised in an obdurate reactionism. Rather, it is a tactic of survival. By her own words, without her trauma – and that of countless women before her – she does not exist. The violence of rape, abuse and the theft of her agency have defined her as both a woman and as a Monster. “I’m the sum part of one woman’s days. No more, no less”, she tells Frankenstein. To eschew her rage is to deny its origin.So, to finish I ask readers to take a moment, and dwell on that rage. On women’s rage. On yours. On the rage that may have been directed at you. Does that make you uncomfortable?Good.ReferencesAhmed, Sara. “Killing Joy: Feminism and the History of Happiness.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 35.3 (2010): 571-593.Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” Monster Theory: Reading Culture. Ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen. Minnesota: U of Minnesota P, 1996. 3-25.Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. New York: Routledge, 1993.“Ebb Tide.”. Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.“Good and Evil Braided Be.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.Halberstam, Judith. Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. USA: Duke UP, 1995.———. The Queer Art of Failure. USA: Duke UP, 2011.Hoeveler, Diane. “The Female Gothic, Beating Fantasies and the Civilizing Process.” Comparative Romanticisms: Power, Gender, Subjectivity. Eds. Larry H. Peer and Diane Long Hoeveler. Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1998. 101-132.hooks, bell. Communion: The Female Search for Love. USA: Harper Collins, 2003.Kolářová, Kristina. “The Inarticulate Post-Socialist Crip: On the Cruel Optimism of Neo-Liberal Transformation in the Czech Republic.” Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies 8.3 (2014): 257-274.“Memento Mori.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2015.Miller, Nick. “Germaine Greer Challenges #MeToo Campaign.” Sydney Morning Herald, 21 Jan. 2018.“Perpetual Night/The Blessed Dark.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.Pollitt, Katha. “Lorena’s Army.” “Bad Girls”/“Good Girls”: Women, Sex & Power in the Nineties. Eds. Nan Bauer Maglin and Donna Perry. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1996. 65-67.Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein, Or the Modern Prometheus. 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