tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62275647149567402272024-03-22T12:29:03.847+13:00Crisis DiariesChronicles of Heartbreak, Illness, Madness, Plague & Civil War: Special Topic in Comparative Literature - School of Culture & Society - Radial Campus - Semester TwoDr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-27767882620180618192008-12-11T15:21:00.008+13:002009-01-02T11:55:26.594+13:00Site-map<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBno9nWIgXgjWXc72c2uMzO_7P0z4fkkN0ZpA2S-Tv1B95GIV5IDoLnwHl_MLeX-QcgOyND7hujglT0K3xnruwBno8wPMyTlDtiAyKxKlEgTgH6vPwsdX4xFZcwkF_CIyu17nn-bVTpC67/s1600-h/duerer-melancholia-624.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBno9nWIgXgjWXc72c2uMzO_7P0z4fkkN0ZpA2S-Tv1B95GIV5IDoLnwHl_MLeX-QcgOyND7hujglT0K3xnruwBno8wPMyTlDtiAyKxKlEgTgH6vPwsdX4xFZcwkF_CIyu17nn-bVTpC67/s400/duerer-melancholia-624.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261287644559125810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Albrecht Dürer: <a href="http://www.math-inf.uni-greifswald.de/mathematik+kunst/kuenstler_duerer.html">Melencolia I</a> (1515)]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><strong>Crisis Diaries</strong></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><strong>Administration Guide:</strong></span><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcKin7TzcPU0l4cAeWacMbUpwxPuk3ferLwAtsOBd-IUMV1yybU-didaZtzC5YoIP_7OWIemGWXLp4ahprGsWS8rgZpTDAyydK3ziyKIiL6zANXdZybJ4nsqPMJC8NljYP452vbLQpf8k/s1600-h/diary_of_dreams_freak_perfume__big.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxcKin7TzcPU0l4cAeWacMbUpwxPuk3ferLwAtsOBd-IUMV1yybU-didaZtzC5YoIP_7OWIemGWXLp4ahprGsWS8rgZpTDAyydK3ziyKIiL6zANXdZybJ4nsqPMJC8NljYP452vbLQpf8k/s400/diary_of_dreams_freak_perfume__big.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261275577242718210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://skzertudi.blogspot.com/2008_07_01_archive.html">Diary of Dreams</a>]</span><br /></div><br /><ul><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/welcome.html">Welcome</a></li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/timetable.html">Timetable</a></li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/course-description.html">Course Description</a></li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/bibliography.html">Bibliography</a></li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/assignments.html">Assignments</a></li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><strong>Authors:</strong></span><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4An0V-j2Wjj7hOHPyIDw99mthDcoS4xYZNJbV5YvdEq-riaApaNlcAH6LyZsQs07bxdCR38jYSsr6gHFpps0ULXuk6dj4f0CjQjuczgaHjF6c0aSSHwJapKkDM40jU6pmAjkV7QlX1tt/s1600-h/Black_RoseGirl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4An0V-j2Wjj7hOHPyIDw99mthDcoS4xYZNJbV5YvdEq-riaApaNlcAH6LyZsQs07bxdCR38jYSsr6gHFpps0ULXuk6dj4f0CjQjuczgaHjF6c0aSSHwJapKkDM40jU6pmAjkV7QlX1tt/s400/Black_RoseGirl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261279254219441426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://diarist.com/">Black Rose Girl</a>]</span><br /></div><br /><ul><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lady-daibu.html">Lady Daibu</a> (c.1157-c.1235)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/daniel-defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a> (c.1660-1731)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/mary-chesnut.html">Mary Chesnut</a> (1823-1886)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/alice-james.html">Alice James</a> (1848-1892)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/douglas-mawson.html">Douglas Mawson</a> (1882-1958)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/jean-cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a> (1889-1963)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/vaslav-nijinsky.html">Vaslav Nijinsky</a> (1889-1950)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lydia-ginzburg.html">Lydia Ginzburg</a> (1902-1990)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/arthur-koestler.html">Arthur Koestler</a> (1905-1983)</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/denton-welch.html">Denton Welch</a> (1915-1948)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><strong>Sessions:</strong></span><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLGA5hn6ZIK6OIvQ5vb5izflx4AEXpmezQH_8pjk-3Q6A_Ursi1KiOZgtKXneLLtxouR0nX87O1ZVgRCvZZY0Yx-ADCTneJbsLbus8P74qlWOsKH_cTzr5JIAspkFEbtLp1Tx5idVMSqx/s1600-h/alpha.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLGA5hn6ZIK6OIvQ5vb5izflx4AEXpmezQH_8pjk-3Q6A_Ursi1KiOZgtKXneLLtxouR0nX87O1ZVgRCvZZY0Yx-ADCTneJbsLbus8P74qlWOsKH_cTzr5JIAspkFEbtLp1Tx5idVMSqx/s400/alpha.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261289567453637394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://ninthwavedesigns.typepad.com/ninth_wave_designs/quotes_for_your_notebook/">The Alphabetic Labyrinth</a>]</span><br /></div><br /><ol><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-1.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 1</a> - <strong>Questions of Genre</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Fellow Travellers</span></li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 1:</strong> Journal-Keeping</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-2.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 2</a> - <strong>Lady Daibu</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Tale of the Heike</span> [c.1174-1232]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 2:</strong> Get on the Waka</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-3.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 3</a> - <strong>Daniel Defoe</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Plague</span> [1665]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 3:</strong> Writing a Journal Entry</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-4.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 4</a> - <strong>Mary Chesnut</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">A Diary from Dixie</span> [1861-65]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 4:</strong> Content vs. Form</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-5.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 5</a> - <strong>Alice James</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Alice in Bed</span> [1889-92]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 5:</strong> Family Gatherings</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-6.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 6</a> - <strong>Douglas Mawson</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The Home of the Blizzard</span> [1911-14]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 6:</strong> Travelling Hopefully</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-7.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 7</a> - <strong>Vaslav Nijinsky</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Diary of a Madman</span> [1919]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 7:</strong> Seven</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-8.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 8</a> - <strong>Jean Cocteau</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Diary of a Drug Fiend</span> [1929]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 8:</strong> 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-9.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 9</a> - <strong>Arthur Koestler</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Spanish Testament</span> [1937]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 9:</strong> Rules & Taboos</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-10.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 10</a> - <strong>Lydia Ginzburg</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">The 900 Days</span> [1941-44]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 10:</strong> Writing from Elsewhere</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-11.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 11</a> - <strong>Denton Welch</strong><br /><ul><li><span style="font-style: italic;">A Voice through a Cloud</span> [1942-48]</li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 11:</strong> Changes</li></ul></ul><br /></li><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-12.html">Lecture / <em>Workshop</em> 12</a> - <strong>Prison Notes</strong><br /><ul><li><em>Contemporary Extremities</em></li><ul><li><strong>Exercise 12:</strong> Tracing the Line of Desire</li></ul></ul><br /></li></ol><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsUkc7yqp_55L8WWxHUc4vFobxc1s5iH01xMhcPSt_-p72xabXapX-bMJMtrboAcXiNdJ3VYl_pa0oJyd6sx6SgjhQo3HLsqDkvgrT_wZLKKbbTJHkPTDSshKU_Qcmj89KcuFvlxG3B2D/s1600-h/melancholia.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsUkc7yqp_55L8WWxHUc4vFobxc1s5iH01xMhcPSt_-p72xabXapX-bMJMtrboAcXiNdJ3VYl_pa0oJyd6sx6SgjhQo3HLsqDkvgrT_wZLKKbbTJHkPTDSshKU_Qcmj89KcuFvlxG3B2D/s400/melancholia.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261288434012757826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.datastacks.com/%7Ewhtedwrf/melancholia.html">Melancholia</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-45830619869521133302008-12-07T15:24:00.019+13:002009-09-27T10:40:56.811+13:00Notebook<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kB19-8xWkNjPKm5l5-TGr7gJgpJPvYClGnZG06-Lw_BMnZLjkAhojv4PNkIe2dgQKCAeiunO0KtarOMOCa1neNtIZAGuyWsOdAcO41l-86c4TqZbpInQMwxqYOnlaF_uVIoAwCgNI1U8/s1600-h/Diary-Of-The-Dead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kB19-8xWkNjPKm5l5-TGr7gJgpJPvYClGnZG06-Lw_BMnZLjkAhojv4PNkIe2dgQKCAeiunO0KtarOMOCa1neNtIZAGuyWsOdAcO41l-86c4TqZbpInQMwxqYOnlaF_uVIoAwCgNI1U8/s400/Diary-Of-The-Dead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286457520893218098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://newsblaze.com/story/20080209072847tsop.nb/topstory.html">Diary of the Dead</a> (2008)]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><a href="http://bannednovels.blogspot.com/2008/12/course-notes.html">Semester 2 Timetable</a></strong></span><br /></div><br /><br />Two courses:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/">Crisis Diaries</a></strong></span> (MA: 797)</div><br /><blockquote><em>Sessions:</em><br /><ol><li><strong>Introduction</strong> - Donald Keene: <em>Travelers of a Hundred Ages</em> (1989)</li><li>Lady Daibu (c.1157-1235): <em>Poetic Memoirs</em> (written c.1174-1232 / edited c.1260 / translated 1980)</li><li>Daniel Defoe (1660-1731): <em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em> (written (ostensibly) 1665 / published 1722)</li><li>Mary Chesnut (1823-1886): <em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War</em> (written (ostensibly) 1861-65 / edited 1880s / published 1905 / complete edition 1981)</li><li>Alice James (1848-1892): <em>Diary</em> (written 1889-92 / expurgated 1934 / complete edition 1964)</li><li>Douglas Mawson (1882-1958): <em>Antarctic Diaries</em> (written 1911-14 / published 1915 / complete edition 1988)</li><li>Vaslav Nijinsky (1889-1950): <em>Diary</em> (written 1919 / published 1936 / complete edition 1999)</li><li>Jean Cocteau (1889-1963): <em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure</em> (written 1929 / published 1930 / translated 1958)</li><li>Lydia Ginzburg (1902-1990): <em>Blockade Diary</em> (written 1941-44 / published 1984 / translated 1995)</li><li>Arthur Koestler (1905-1983): <em>Dialogue with Death</em> (written & published 1937 / expurgated 1942 / re-edited 1966)</li><li>Denton Welch (1915-1948): <em>Journals</em> (written 1942-48 / published 1952 / complete edition 1984)</li><li><strong>Conclusion</strong> - Kurt Cobain: <em>Journals</em> (2002) &c.</li></ol><br /></blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br />__________________________________</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><a href="http://bannednovels.blogspot.com/">Banned Books</a></strong></span> (stage 2: 666)</div><br /><blockquote><em>Sessions:</em><br /><ol><li><strong>Introduction</strong> - John Milton: <em>Areopagitica</em> (1644)</li><li>James Joyce: <em>Ulysses</em> (1922) - banned in Britain and America [moral censorship]</li><li>Radclyffe Hall: <em>The Well of Loneliness</em> (1928) - banned in Britain [moral censorship]</li><li>D. H. Lawrence: <em>Lady Chatterley's Lover</em> (1928) - banned in Britain and America [moral censorship]</li><li>Henry Miller: <em>Tropic of Cancer</em> (1934) - banned in Britain and America [moral censorship]</li><li>Graham Greene: <em>The Power and the Glory</em> (1940) - censured by the Vatican [religious censorship]</li><li>Vladimir Nabokov: <em>Lolita</em> (1955) - banned in Britain [moral censorship]</li><li>Boris Pasternak: <em>Doctor Zhivago</em> (1957) - banned in the USSR [political censorship]</li><li>William S. Burroughs: <em>Naked Lunch</em> (1959) - banned in Britain and America [moral censorship]</li><li>Kathy Acker: <em>The Adult Life of Toulouse Lautrec</em> (1975) - withdrawn from sale in Britain [accused of plagiarising Harold Robbins' <em>The Pirate</em> (1974)]</li><li>Salman Rushdie: <em>The Satanic Verses</em> (1988) - banned in most of the Islamic world [religious censorship]</li><li><strong>Conclusion</strong> - Rick Poynor: <em>Pornotopia</em> (2006)</li></ol></blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br />__________________________________</div><br /><em><br /></em>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-80709993029087019382008-10-22T08:32:00.018+13:002008-12-31T14:17:18.458+13:00Session 12<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBUh32NMFkHn9cx2gZAcNIfL6vC0Brfv3oXwLO3o1UIkUskxA4E5bstRhP8IAQIFdwgHjQ6gUQ6s0P1cyNjtRZbZDmYrM_zb6eOorGlncmpCeN38dsYLOEkvLeMh6qc7fL6YAqkcuJdbM/s1600-h/Kurt_Cobain.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBUh32NMFkHn9cx2gZAcNIfL6vC0Brfv3oXwLO3o1UIkUskxA4E5bstRhP8IAQIFdwgHjQ6gUQ6s0P1cyNjtRZbZDmYrM_zb6eOorGlncmpCeN38dsYLOEkvLeMh6qc7fL6YAqkcuJdbM/s400/Kurt_Cobain.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261277048392663442" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.cannanes.com/news.html">Kurt Cobain's Diary</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 12</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Conclusion:<br /><em>Prison Notes</em></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Jack Henry Abbott: from <span style="font-style:italic;">In the Belly of the Beast</span> (1981)</li><li>Kurt Cobain: from <span style="font-style:italic;">Journals</span> (2002)</li><li>Donald Keene: from <span style="font-style:italic;">Modern Japanese Diaries</span> (1999)</li><li>Wole Soyinka: from <span style="font-style:italic;">The Man Died: Prison Notes</span> (1971)</li><br /></ul><br /><blockquote><br /><div align="center"><strong>The MeLVINS ARE ALIVE</strong><br /></div><br />WORDS suck. I mean, every thing has been said. I cant remember the last real interesting conversation ive had in a long time. WORDS arent as important as the energy derived from music, especially live. I dont think ive ever gotten any good descriptions from lyric sheets, except WHITE ZOMBIE whose lyrics remind me that theres only so many words in the English language, and most good imagery has been used, as well as good band names, LP titles and not to mention the bloody music itself. GEE, I dont want to sound so negative but were dealing with the MELVINS. IN one live MELVINS performance you wont be able to understand very many words, as is with any band) but you will FEEL the negative ENERGY. Music is ENERGY. A mood, atmosphere. FEELING. The MELVINS have and always will be the king pins of EMOTION. Im not talking about fucking stupid human compassion, this is one of the only realistic reminders that every day we live amongst VIOLENCE. <br /><br />There is a time and place for this music. So if you want to shake your groove thang to simple primal rock, then go see a fucking bar band! The MELVINS aint for you. And they probably dont want ya. <br /><br />Like I said im not too hip on lyrics, so I didnt ask them about lyrics. Aparently their lyrics are almost equally important as the music. In their case I have to agree, even though I can hardly decipher any of the words, I can sense they display as much emotion as the music and therefore I hypocritically plead to you "BUZZ". On the next record have a lyric sheet, and if you need, have an explanation for every line. Im shure a lot of kids would dig it. man. <br /><br />Speaking of BUZZ, he looks better in an afro than that guy in the movie CAR WASH. Im thinking he should take advantage of this blessing and be the first to go beyond the hip hops shaved symbols and architectured genious of scalp artistry and SCULPt a wacky far out cactus or Bull Winkle antlers.<br /><br />He writes the songs, riffs first, lyrics second and goddamn is they good! Hes an all around nice guy.<br /><br />DALE lost weight, bleached and chopped his hair. He plays even harder and an all around NICE GUY. <br /><br />LORI kicks John Entwistles butt, and is all around nice guy.<br /><br />They enjoy the GYUTO MONKS , Tibetan Tantric choir. <br /><br />One of the only forms of religious communication in which I have been emotionally affected by along with the MELVINS and uh maybe the STOOGES or SWANS raping a slave EP'. The only good thing MICKEY HART ever did was to bring this sacred group of monks on a tour in which lve heard from many, seemed like an impersonal circus or freak show. Oh well they needed money to build a new monestary. They probably didnt notice the yochie dead heads hanging out in the audience. yuk! <br /><br />The special technique in the monks vocalization is a long study of producing three notes or a full chord in the form of long droning chants. It makes for a soothing eerie feeling.<br /><div align="center"><br />- Kurt Cobain: <span style="font-style:italic;">Journals</span> (London: Viking, 2002): 59.</div><br /></blockquote><br />So now, having spent much of the past three months discussing a number of texts from widely differing cultural backgrounds, united not by genre but by the assumption of day-to-day, quotidian <em>immediacy</em> and <em>accountability</em> in their processes of production - that, and the (possibly subjective) elements of crisis or disruption which I've identified as crucial to their creation - I guess the time has now come to ask the question where the diary is going now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century? Has the inventions and proliferation of the web-log and the personal phone made the idea of a personal journal obsolete?<br /><br />It's perhaps heartening to acknowledge, then, that when I look at some of the literary successes of the past few years, I see:<br /><ul><li>Experiments in style and format (but not subject-matter) such as Mark Z. Danielewski's horror novel <em>House of Leaves</em> (2000) or Craig Thompson's graphic novel <em>Blankets</em> (2003)?</li><li>Blurring of genre / style boundaries in texts such as Alan Moore's graphic novel <em>The Lost Girls</em> (2006) or W. G. Sebald's <em>Austerlitz</em> (2001)?</li></ul><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GRqF2WhHag5u49qGl-ogwo_vOHryrKQFyGLw7h79ilu8b4T_VhzpjWnqzEkBBi8TUVkH6g_o9npCaghZRtIFJ_k1pvGBsRntpJmyg-_QnrxykHACpMyoQ1XwGUD6R7QG0LUpIWxkrA8N/s1600-h/Danielewski.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GRqF2WhHag5u49qGl-ogwo_vOHryrKQFyGLw7h79ilu8b4T_VhzpjWnqzEkBBi8TUVkH6g_o9npCaghZRtIFJ_k1pvGBsRntpJmyg-_QnrxykHACpMyoQ1XwGUD6R7QG0LUpIWxkrA8N/s400/Danielewski.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257905103454205538" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://steampunkworkshop.com/books-mark-z-danielewski-ihouse-leaves-i">image source</a>]</span><br /></div><br />According to Johnny Truant, the tattoo-shop apprentice who discovers Zampanò's work, once you read <span style="font-style:italic;">The Navidson Record</span>,<br /><blockquote><br />For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. You'll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you'll realize it's always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room. But you won't understand why or how.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Mark Z. Danielewski</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3AVIAiEMeXt_73jo7UBhY8Oxgt8gQ_E3hyb24ZcpfjrXTdHlpN0VJESEp6016zldF9wihcWHV-6XcN1y-jZ6-8JZWrUGfyRCtwoVygOy7y9YpoU-hB3Wrj6L8TuuaHBEjOiu6_1E1H8f/s1600-h/graphic_novels1.jpg.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3AVIAiEMeXt_73jo7UBhY8Oxgt8gQ_E3hyb24ZcpfjrXTdHlpN0VJESEp6016zldF9wihcWHV-6XcN1y-jZ6-8JZWrUGfyRCtwoVygOy7y9YpoU-hB3Wrj6L8TuuaHBEjOiu6_1E1H8f/s400/graphic_novels1.jpg.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257909615578980882" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Craig_Thompson">image source</a>]</span><br /></div><br />In Thompson's composition process, pages are initially composed<br /><blockquote><br />... in a very illegible form, a shorthand where words and pictures blur into alien scribbles ... I'm working with words and pictures right from the beginning, but the picture might not look any different from a letter, because they're just a bunch of scribbles on a page.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Craig Thompson</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7oCVSHCOZaczOHnxo4fgXnrLJQ6dj-vci8VCjiY6g8ZT5KIdbdqyqVhagiUMYdzjaGbKCyyNsn8aW_ztzgDE2rFC2lIW4WD9QNxTfXf99VGRM4v6CE3UmIObXf0_MACFunCCyRREVIIV/s1600-h/moore_photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7oCVSHCOZaczOHnxo4fgXnrLJQ6dj-vci8VCjiY6g8ZT5KIdbdqyqVhagiUMYdzjaGbKCyyNsn8aW_ztzgDE2rFC2lIW4WD9QNxTfXf99VGRM4v6CE3UmIObXf0_MACFunCCyRREVIIV/s400/moore_photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257903946336297842" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://dedroidify.blogspot.com/2008/04/alan-moore-quotes.html">image source</a>]</span><br /></div><br /><blockquote><br />Truth is a well-known pathological liar. It invariably turns out to be Fiction wearing a fancy frock. ... Self-proclaimed Fiction, on the other hand, is entirely honest. You can tell this, because it comes right out and says, "I'm a Liar," right there on the dust jacket.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Alan Moore</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_-GnGVq_0j2zyLDiepaXTw5oh-hKdi1pp3eugvnUtHbgw1zOLRzrpXe_PhG2lkAaeqnXJRX6MdnOn-om7dVRklnKq4f0Xy6f8we9lJfZPC5-QfHiNnzuaeQKhaJz08slzi6L3T9henbO/s1600-h/sebald-cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_-GnGVq_0j2zyLDiepaXTw5oh-hKdi1pp3eugvnUtHbgw1zOLRzrpXe_PhG2lkAaeqnXJRX6MdnOn-om7dVRklnKq4f0Xy6f8we9lJfZPC5-QfHiNnzuaeQKhaJz08slzi6L3T9henbO/s400/sebald-cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257902331036915234" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.culturalinquiry.org/sebald.html">image source</a>]</span></div><br /><blockquote><br />Every river, as we know, must have banks on both sides, so where, seen in those terms, where are the banks of time? What would be this river’s qualities, qualities perhaps corresponding to those of water, which is fluid, rather heavy, and translucent? In what way do objects immersed in time differ from those left untouched by it? Why do we show the hours of light and darkness in the same circle? Why does time stand eternally still and motionless in one place, and rush headlong by in another? Could we not claim, said Austerlitz, that time itself has been nonconcurrent over the centuries and the millennia? It is not so long ago, after all, that it began spreading out over everything. And is not human life in many parts of the earth governed to this day less by time than by the weather, and thus by an unquantifiable dimension which disregards linear regularity, does not progress constantly forward but moves in eddies, is marked by episodes of congestion and irruption, recurs in ever-changing form, and evolves in no one knows what direction?<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- W G Sebald</div><br /></blockquote><br />I don't know if it's really the job of critics - especially Academic ones - to be prophetic, but I guess I'm putting my money on the second of these alternatives.<br /><br />In that sense, then, the diary - as the most self-undermining and potentially genre-bending literary genre in existence - might be said to have plenty of tricks up its sleeve still.<br /><br />As for crises, I think it's fair to say that we're unlikely ever to be free of <em>them</em> - whether they come in the form of personal or collective devastation. All I can pray is that you may be spared some of their worst manifestations in your own lives.<br /><br />As a wise man, from a wise and ancient culture, once said: "Live long and prosper." Another one of his mantras: "The needs of many outweigh the needs of the few," I'm not sure I can so wholeheartedly endorse. <br /><br />That, at any rate, has been (for me, at any rate) the message behind this course as a whole: respect for individual rights and peculiarities, however extreme a manifestation they may find.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QXjmPF573H9yuUW1z6UEOmjeMz0j4wqrNCdXwuvIPi6gvnleTOI51u7EveFQ0lBZMd9jWV0iMMKL9ufPSAjHU8ItehyJb6m_BgcwUuxENRtRhh9mS0HF0_Uen3rjbLEa3WOXpx4ylXW_/s1600-h/Modern+japanese+diaries.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QXjmPF573H9yuUW1z6UEOmjeMz0j4wqrNCdXwuvIPi6gvnleTOI51u7EveFQ0lBZMd9jWV0iMMKL9ufPSAjHU8ItehyJb6m_BgcwUuxENRtRhh9mS0HF0_Uen3rjbLEa3WOXpx4ylXW_/s400/Modern+japanese+diaries.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261220812592212898" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Donald Keene: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Modern-Japanese-Diaries-Donald-Keene/dp/0231114435/ref=wl_it_dp?ie=UTF8&coliid=I1CLWDK0MD9SNY&colid=3SIE8Q977Y6FC">Modern Japanese Diaries</a> (1999)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 12</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Contemporary Extremities</strong></span></div><br /><blockquote><br /><em>The windiest militant trash<br />Important Persons shout<br />Is not so crude as our wish:<br />What mad Nijinsky wrote<br />About Diaghilev<br />Is true of the normal heart;<br />For the error bred in the bone<br />Of each woman and each man<br />Craves what it cannot have,<br />Not universal love<br />But to be loved alone.</em><br /><div align="center"><br />– W. H. Auden, "September 1, 1939."<br />In <em>The English Auden: Poems, Essays and Dramatic Writings, 1927-1939</em>, ed. Edward Mendelson (London: Faber, 1977): 246.</div><br /></blockquote><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any final seminars scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below as a way of preparing you for the last two assignments, due in next week:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 12:</span><br />Tracing the Line of Desire</strong> [<em>in-class</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />You’ve now compiled a number of journal entries (which you should be in the process of revising), and have a research essay to write as well.<br /><br />In pairs or three discuss the following questions, before reporting back to the whole group:<br /><ul><br /><li>Trace the line of desire. What are your pieces about?</li><li>What do your characters (whether it be yourself, or someone else) want, what do they need?</li><br /></ul><br />If they don’t want or need <em>anything</em>, then you don’t really have a story.</blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><em>Both the </em>Course Journal<em> and the </em>Research Essay<em> are due in at the Department on Tuesday, 28th October (the day after Labour Weekend).</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljmPSNCh9jCkn_VBi5fZBZU_ywaog0-T4OjfvBbCPc6mSYnK53WT0uj4ZafQd8DWYQMTxNDv67J8hbYB7Jp_izWvH3nc-9xwimIMetN5pDL9rtarwGj_2dacWsjlA2zEymHciKDM4kSXV/s1600-h/heaven.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljmPSNCh9jCkn_VBi5fZBZU_ywaog0-T4OjfvBbCPc6mSYnK53WT0uj4ZafQd8DWYQMTxNDv67J8hbYB7Jp_izWvH3nc-9xwimIMetN5pDL9rtarwGj_2dacWsjlA2zEymHciKDM4kSXV/s400/heaven.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276887792183803074" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Jeffrey Archer: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heaven-Prison-Diary/dp/0312354797">Heaven: A Prison Diary, vol. 3</a> (2006)]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-55162127648236404612008-10-22T08:31:00.018+13:002008-12-31T15:33:22.276+13:00Session 11<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nTJ9tEV-_kDW35x_K8h8kSvlXGiBzhsfc7QsGRjvTwU1N3sXRrWzvb3_UzCoqghRpghARmF0b50Va9uYhdgAccaswpC-7J8BaElGu7GjECT1VkRk1KWDg0C2SZUDusNSt9eiLCXgqHYJ/s1600-h/welch1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nTJ9tEV-_kDW35x_K8h8kSvlXGiBzhsfc7QsGRjvTwU1N3sXRrWzvb3_UzCoqghRpghARmF0b50Va9uYhdgAccaswpC-7J8BaElGu7GjECT1VkRk1KWDg0C2SZUDusNSt9eiLCXgqHYJ/s400/welch1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260859340886914082" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Denton Welch: <a href="http://www.spamula.net/blog/2006/08/denton_welch_1.html">Self-portrait</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 11</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/denton-welch.html">Denton Welch</a>:<br /><em>The Journals</em> (1942-48 / 1952)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Denton Welch (1915-1948): from <em>The Journals</em> (1952 / 1984)</li><li>Denton Welch: from <em>A Voice through a Cloud</em> (1950)</li><li>Michael De-la-Noy: from <em>Denton Welch: The Making of a Writer</em> (1984)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[2 December, 1942]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Today I found, or think I found, three pure white hairs. They seemed to be shining like silver, but as there is gold in my hair they were difficult to track down and I am still not absolutely certain.<br /><br />When I had them all plucked out and in the palm of my hand a curious thrill of horror and pleasure ran through me. I had a resurgence of my longing for death which obsessed me so four years ago. Then I was twenty-three, now I am twenty-seven, and it comes back vividly how I longed and prayed to die before I was twenty-four. <br /><br />I remember that terrible afternoon when Francis took me to the thirty-year-old religious film in the parish hall. The flickering and the spitting and the starring of the reel gave the picture an unbearable nostalgia and depression. The camels, the robes, the city gates and the hats of the parishioners and the smell of their clothes hemmed one in and stifled me. I was seized in the panic of not being able to breathe or escape. <br /><br />Roughly, I pushed past the others, disarranging the row of van-wood chairs. Francis said, "Where are you going?" <br /><br />I did not answer but ran out into the air. <br /><br />I wandered in the street; the light was failing. <br /><br />I passed down the High Street and climbed the hill inevitably to ]. E.'s house. I spied through the hedge but could see nothing; the curtains were tightly drawn. Then I slunk into the garden and flattened my face against the pane of the living room window. The warm lamp was shining, and through a crack in the living room curtains I could see the corner of a bookshelf and the cream paint of the wainscot. Once the little black Aberdeen ran across my line of vision, then there was nothing. <br /><br />I took my face away in despair and utter hopelessness. It was then that I had the idea to kill myself. "These things are cumulative," I remembered reading. "If you go on trying, you'll one day succeed." <br /><br />Alertly, and with more vigour, I threaded my way back through the town. <br /><br />I knew now that there was something I could try. When I got back to the flat Francis was waiting for me, wanting to know why I had run away. Supper was nearly ready too. I could smell the soup. <br /><br />I was in a sort of drunken state with the hard stone in my heart and stomach. I went into my bedroom "to change my shoes", as I told Francis. I sat down on the bed and looked out the little black-and-white box of Prontosil tablets. I looked at them long, nestling in the puce lining of the box. I counted them. There were sixteen. I had been ordered three or four a day and was always asked rather anxiously if they made me feel depressed. I thought from this that they must be poisonous. <br /><br />Sixteen, I felt, would be decisive, or at least enough to make me extremely ill. <br /><br />Getting some water in a glass, I sat with the water and tablets before me; then I began systematically to swallow the tablets until they were all gone. <br /><br />I stood up desperate and happy, wondering when I should feel the effects. <br /><br />I ran back into the other room where the soup was already steaming in two bowls. I felt that I must enjoy my last moments to the full. I laughed and shouted. <br /><br />"Have some soup, Francis, some lovely, steaming, soothing soup." <br /><br />I caught hold of the sherry bottle and poured out two glasses. I drank mine quickly, taking some more. I poured sherry into the soup and spread my toast with butter. <br /><br />"I must die happy and contented," I thought. <br /><br />Suddenly I burst out with what I had done. I became terrified and ecstatic because I felt a creeping tingling and swimming in my head. <br /><br />"I've just swallowed sixteen Prontosil tablets," I shrieked. <br /><br />At first Francis did not believe me, then he jumped to his feet nervously. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Why did you do that?" <br /><br />I tried to calm him. <br /><br />"Don't be so stupid. Don't be so stupid. I only feel a little queer." <br /><br />I seized the sherry bottle again and poured more out, slopping it on the tray and feeling sorry at the mess and the waste. I suddenly realized that it would not matter how much I spoilt and degraded the things I loved, for I was going to die. I almost knew it, yet I could not quite believe it. When I said, "These are your last moments; look long, bore down with those eyes which will soon never be able to see anything again", when 1 said, "Taste this last bowl of soup which will never pass those lips," I wanted to cry and laugh and smack myself and wake up to find that I was still a small boy of nine or ten whose mother loved him and had a warm place by the library fire at night where his father would sit reading some old, leathery, upholstered, comforting fustian. Something about Maria who lived in Genoa which was the great and wicked rival of Venice where the winged lion, so wonderful and fierce, swam against the sky in the square of St Mark's. <br /><br />I opened my eyes again to see Francis still sitting there awkwardly, feverishly fiddling with his cigarette, and giving me short, sharp furtive glances. He was clearly about to jump up and leave me. <br /><br />"Those nicotined fingers," I thought, "and those dirty nails; those unspeakable teeth and your agile diverting mind, you are a wreck at thirty-four. You're craven and you'll one day be a lunatic." <br /><br />I stretched out my hands and said, "Don't go." I had a sudden horror of being left to die alone. <br /><br />"You can't go and leave me. Look at the state I'm in." He lurched to his feet like a frightened bullock. <br /><br />"You go to bed," he urged. "Or get the doctor." <br /><br />The drumming was rising to a crescendo in my ears. I could not tell now whether I was drunk or whether it was the Prontosil in action. <br /><br />As he pushed his way clumsily to the front door I followed, snatching up a stick in the hall. We walked rapidly in the direction of his house. <br /><br />My legs were getting curiously heavy but I was still able to move them. I laughed and sang, cracking stupid jokes and saying how disgusting it was to leave someone who was dying. When we got to the fork at the Star and Garter I shouted again: "You can't go. You can't go. What's going to happen to me? I can't be abandoned like this. It is shameful, you're a monster. " <br /><br />Anyone seeing us would think we were acting. It was midnight, the lights were still burning in the silence. Nothing moved. <br /><br />"Shall I take you to the doctor's!" he asked, half-heartedly. "Yes, if I can walk that far," I answered. <br /><br />Then I saw the craven, lazy light come into his eyes again and he veered away rapidly, saying, "Good-night. Go back to bed quickly." <br /><br />I screamed oaths and blasphemy after him, half in fun, then, alone, beginning to be frightened, I wondered whether to go on to the doctor's house or home. <br /><br />I decided on home and dragged myself there somehow. The fire was still burning in the sitting room. I told myself that there were things that must be burnt before I lost consciousness. <br /><br />I threw them on to the fire so that great flames licked out and roared up the chimney. The paint on the mantle piece blistered. I got alarmed, ran for water and E. carne in excitedly.<br /><br />Gradually the blaze subsided. Then l lay down and thought that my hour was nearly come. My head was splitting. Everything in me seemed to be burning. I was in some way losing all the salt and virtue of my senses; all was dumb, muffled, distorted, terrifying. <br /><br />I told E. to ring the doctor. I dreaded calling him so late, but I felt that I could not be left in ignorance like this. <br /><br />I waited, wriggling and lashing about on the bed, with the dull stone heated to red heat now in my stomach or my heart. <br /><br />He came and saw me on the bed. There was an unbearable moment of self-consciousness. He roughly turned me towards him and said, "What's this?" like a school prefect coldly, disdainfully. <br /><br />I faltered out something about the Prontosil and more about my unhappiness. His manner suddenly changed to one of businesslike gaiety. <br /><br />"I think first of all we'd better try and make you sick," he said. I smiled and laughed in spite of everything. <br /><br />He went for the mustard, the hot water, the spoon. <br /><br />I drank the yellow stuff in great gulps, and waited. Nothing happened. He looked at me rather anxiously. <br /><br />"Nothing doing?" he asked. "I don't think so," I said. <br /><br />Then, because my head seemed about to boil and crack, I added, "Can you give me anything for my head or to make me sleep?" <br /><br />"It would be very much better for you if you didn't," he said. "You've taken quite enough drugs for one night." <br /><br />He laughed and joked and I began to be grateful to him. He had driven away the nightmare, if only for the moment. <br /><br />At last he left me. He came forward saying ceremoniously, like a schoolboy again, "Let's shake hands." <br /><br />I sat up in bed and held mine out. It was not silly, although it was self-conscious. <br /><br />"I'll come and see you tomorrow," he said. "Try to sleep and be as calm as possible. Although you'll have a hell of a night. It's much better that you shouldn't take anything else. You've got to work all that stuff out of you." <br /><br />I lay back in the dark room, thankful to him and grateful but just a little resentful about his seeming unconcern about the effects of prontosil. I'm sure it will be more serious than he makes out, I thought. If only there had been more tablets I would have swallowed them all. I am fond of him for being nice. He is young and lusty and quite different from me and those people are only nice when everything else is stripped away, and they see someone else left quite hopeless and "dished". In ordinary circumstances they are bound up and encased in all their funny little fetishes and taboos. <br /><br />Towards early morning I fell into a short sleep, and on waking, the fantastic memories of the night seemed to hover above my head, out of reach; then they came down like a shirt enveloping me, lapping me round, submerging me.<br /><div align="center"><br /><em>The Journals of Denton Welch</em>, edited by Michael De-La-Noy (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984): 26-30.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsV31SEVxXoCnY0fKA3il5CGorBc9DsUqOo-5a7F1Xu_Nt_lB-QKgoDLGSo2GLi8HxsYEDlfOoYFAuYnZ9F6LFHCXryV10WNdvPFvSy1ct5Jd99UGP12JA-Oi_4GwkuAOA3dTXLS4rQNq/s1600-h/mousetrap.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFsV31SEVxXoCnY0fKA3il5CGorBc9DsUqOo-5a7F1Xu_Nt_lB-QKgoDLGSo2GLi8HxsYEDlfOoYFAuYnZ9F6LFHCXryV10WNdvPFvSy1ct5Jd99UGP12JA-Oi_4GwkuAOA3dTXLS4rQNq/s400/mousetrap.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221602244501306530" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Agatha Christie: <a href="http://www.stonehamtheatre.org/archive/the_mousetrap.html">The Mousetrap</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Significance of the Country House in English Fiction</span></strong><br /></div><br />[Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers etc. -- but also Forster's <span style="font-style:italic;">Howards End</span> (1910) and Waugh's <em>Brideshead Revisited</em> (1945)]<br /><br />What <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> the significance of the country house in British fiction? Obviously it's a good vehicle for examining themes of class, of course (peasants, servants, guests, and Aristocrats / Middle-Class Social climbers at home). It pits nostalgia and conservatism against the encroachments of modernity -- and that's as true in detective fiction as it is in more considered "state-of-England" novels such as <em>Howards End</em> or Kazuo Ishiguro's <em>The Remains of the Day</em> (1989).<br /><br />In chapter six of Ian McEwan's <em>Atonement</em> (2001) the young heroine Briony Tallis's mother Emily's migraine provides a pretext for an almost Fall-of-the-House-of-Usher like self-identification with the fabric of her own estate. She is forced to conclude, though, that:<br /><blockquote><br />She could send her tendrils into every room of the house, but she could not send them into the future. She also knew that, ultimately, it was her own peace of mind she strove for; self-interest and kindness were best not separated. (71)</blockquote><br />The country-house is, finally - from Jane Austen's <span style="font-style:italic;">Northanger Abbey</span> to Evelyn Waugh's <span style="font-style:italic;">Brideshead Revisited</span> - a symbol for well-meaning selfishness.<br /><br />Lady Marchmain, General Tilney and Emily Tallis, then, might be seen as birds of a feather. "Self-interest and kindness were best not separated" - an oxymoron if ever I heard one.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpT7JNku2F7pkKkx3w8pcPcSzGAG6j9qm5RrYs91zkPgBaQZqt7UZw27NqW121a1eZGfsbGCuISHb9jb7uWEgyGflp619sXXOM1JQBwedE2Eo4PXCwShh1I2KavtLpNaWTWFh_OLXumEYu/s1600-h/welch2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpT7JNku2F7pkKkx3w8pcPcSzGAG6j9qm5RrYs91zkPgBaQZqt7UZw27NqW121a1eZGfsbGCuISHb9jb7uWEgyGflp619sXXOM1JQBwedE2Eo4PXCwShh1I2KavtLpNaWTWFh_OLXumEYu/s400/welch2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260859661100146034" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Denton Welch: <a href="http://www.spamula.net/blog/2006/08/denton_welch_1.html">Mythological Landscape</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 11</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>A Voice through a Cloud</em></strong></span><br /></div><br /><blockquote><em>I watch the ripples change their size<br />But never leave the stream<br />Of warm impermanence and<br />So the days flow through my eyes<br />But the days still seem the same<br />And these children that you spit on<br />As they try to change their worlds<br />Are immune to your consultations<br />They're quite aware of what<br />they're going through</em></blockquote><div align="center">- David Bowie, <a href="http://www.mp3lyrics.org/d/david-bowie/changes/">Changes</a><br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 11:</span><br />Changes</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Graham Greene’s advice was to write autobiographically but always change one thing. This is one way to make the transition from auto¬biographical to fictional writing.<br /><ul><br /><li>Think of something that changed your life. It could be something as superficially trivial as a new haircut. It could be a chance meeting or moving house. Make some rough notes, trying to locate the precise moment of change, and to relive what it felt like from the inside.</li><li>Now make your change. Alter a setting, or switch characters, while keeping to a first person narrative.</li><li>You are now on the road to fiction. One alteration may well lead to another. Don’t specify the changes you’ve made during initial feedback from the workshop. Later on, a general discussion will be helpful. What difference did your change make to the story? How did it affect the rest of the material? Could the members of the workshop tell what you had invented? And does it really matter any more?</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NB:</span> This exercise was adapted from <em>The Creative Writing Handbook: Techniques for New Writers</em>, edited by John Singleton and Mary Luckhurst (London: Macmillan, 1996): 90-91.</blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 12:</strong> Tracing the Line of Desire<em> and </em><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-12.html">Any remaining seminars</a><em> due (by arrangement with your lecturer).</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdz0S3mvqpQZ3rrsoUd6qRx_538vmL1l00Rh3kJfvmQNE3a_X4ktBud6Bi5gg1Ju4I-b3GaDQUm7gVjQkkZPVPkLpG4T3n2jwAJeljwYl-WDYA7YwHDwPApG-oIi3cLCOXvK3ByK4Vxf2y/s1600-h/cobain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdz0S3mvqpQZ3rrsoUd6qRx_538vmL1l00Rh3kJfvmQNE3a_X4ktBud6Bi5gg1Ju4I-b3GaDQUm7gVjQkkZPVPkLpG4T3n2jwAJeljwYl-WDYA7YwHDwPApG-oIi3cLCOXvK3ByK4Vxf2y/s400/cobain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276886572859824066" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,388400,00.html">Kurt Cobain</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-83224817131984636572008-10-22T08:30:00.018+13:002009-01-02T16:27:27.684+13:00Session 10<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cRsdvjF3ahAAB4EZO4rWT1LdkTMe3gBpP_GT6I7-3GiWTF1XAE-Hl8H0mpaoO48EiKeTlXhhLBLgDY9VQwKg5wpULdZft0LK90uO-2Bp5nfu-a8c25hA9WvUi7RgKRBnnvNnbWV-oxgM/s1600-h/Leningrad-siege4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cRsdvjF3ahAAB4EZO4rWT1LdkTMe3gBpP_GT6I7-3GiWTF1XAE-Hl8H0mpaoO48EiKeTlXhhLBLgDY9VQwKg5wpULdZft0LK90uO-2Bp5nfu-a8c25hA9WvUi7RgKRBnnvNnbWV-oxgM/s400/Leningrad-siege4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261201992756386066" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Dmitri Shostakovich: <a href="http://www.freewebs.com/ncorchestra/">Symphony no. 7</a> (1944)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 10</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lydia-ginzburg.html">Lydia Ginzburg</a>:<br /><em>Blockade Diary</em> (1941-44 / 1984)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Lydia Ginzburg (1902-1990): <em>Blockade Diary</em> (1984 / 1995)</li><li>Harrison E. Salisbury: from <span style="font-style:italic;">The 900 Days: The Siege of Leningrad</span> (1969)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[Excerpts from a Siege Day]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Urgency</span>.<br /><br />N did not immediately understand why every day at work, after about one o'clock, he was possessed by a strange sense of malaise. Then he realized what it was - urgency. This urgency was one of the guises of starvation or starvation trauma. Urgency as a mask for hunger - the ceaseless rush from one stage of eating to the next, accompanied by the fear of missing something. This urgency was particularly associated with lunch. This was given out by an indifferent government agency. That is, it had objective criteria for everything - this was certainly true and the criteria were certainly objective. But what if it wasn't enough? Several times during the winter there hadn't been enough porridge. <br /><br />Nowadays canteens always give out everything they're supposed to. Nowadays urgency is a reflection of the mind, a chase from one aimless goal to another. These goals are set in a circle, a repetitive series leading nowhere. <br /><br />If the motivation were just the usual ordinary feeling of hunger, it would be something heartening, reassuring. It is at precisely that time of day that it begins to sharpen. But the traumatized person can't stand feeling hungry; that in turn gives rise to lassitude and fear. N concentrates now on the desire to go out (his working day has not been standardized). He reads his typing, moving effortfully from line to line. The most unpleasant thing is transferring a correction from one copy to a second, then a third. A triple brake on his urgency. Nowadays he has to observe the decencies and he does so, meticulously slowing down his gestures. He speaks carelessly: "You give it in, then. I've got to go out just now. I'll be back before four, if anyone needs to know ... " <br /><br />Somebody enquires: "You off to the canteen?" <br /><br />"Yes, that is I will be. I have some things to do first."<br /><br />You can't reveal your hurry. <br /><br />The secretary says in a bright voice: "You know it would be so nice if you signed this paper right now." <br /><br />From her point of view it just means a delay of a minute or two. Sweet girl, she doesn't realize that she has cut into the internal headlong dash of a traumatized man and that it's painful. <br /><br />By now N is unable to carry out a single braking movement. He can't get to his desk. He asks the secretary for a sheet of paper, although he has paper in his briefcase; it would mean snapping the lock of the briefcase again. He grabs the nearest pen, which barely works, sits himself down somewhere, and writes a few lines in an alien hand, gaining a minute that way. He writes thinking that he still has to overcome the exit to the street, the tram, the queue at the control point, the canteen queue, the deliberateness of the serving-girl ... And in that series of problematic actions, the thing for the sake of which he they are being carried out _ a helping of 200 grams of soup seems imperceptibly brief and ephemeral. <br /><br />After the tram, there remains an extremely unpleasant stretch on foot. On the way he encounters people coming back from the canteen. It's hard to resist the question: "What is it today?" and you want to resist so as to keep all expectations open. You can also make deductions from the way they hold their bags, lunch pails or briefcases. Round the corner he sights the entrance, always halfopen. Now nothing (including air raids or shelling) will stop you going up to it and going inside. In the depths of the dark corridor there is a patch of light where the bald head of the server flickers by - the joyous sign of extra helpings. Sometimes though, the smooth surface of the counter gleams dismally. <br /><br />During the winter (especially before the general evacuation) an hours-long queue used to stand here by the control point. They stood submissively. It seemed natural to employ every effort to get the lunch which saved them from starvation. Besides, people stood in a chilly corridor, not out in the freezing cold. Nowadays it was empty here - the reason being that everybody was in so much of a hurry. Getting their cards, money and passes mixed up, everybody wanted to push through the dam of the three or four slowly advancing backs; everybody had to get their tallies as soon as might be just to calm down (so long as the serving-girl hadn't lost them ... ) the old trauma was still working. <br /><br />Nowadays this would seem to be an apparently third-rate canteen (an imitation of normal existence) with its unwatered flowerpots on the tables, half-grimy tablecloths, almost dean serving-girls. It may not he seen at once (during the winter everything was seen at once), that people here are acting out a tragedy. You realize this if you look closely; how they lick their spoons quickly (it isn't done to lick your plate any more), scrape their plates clean, tilting it up, running the finger round the rim of the tin of porridge, how they stop talking as the food is served and study it carefully, how their heads automatically turn to follow the serving-girl. <br /><br />Of all the meals, lunch bore the least resemblance to its name. The soup still gives ground for hope. It's not very tasty and there's more of it; and after all, it is the first course. At lunch the saddest thing is eating the porridge; the briefest of acts, so brief that the start touches the finish. Two swings of the spoon are enough to wreak irreparable damage on the round fluffy mass doled out on your plate, with the dimple in the middle, and ten grams of darkgolden oil poured over it. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Lidiya Ginzburg: <em>Blockade Diary</em>, 1984, trans. Alan Myers (London: Harvill Press, 1995): 103-05.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qs14pFavWLkQF_gfh2wsnpc-sF_mT5CAjjBm-xIz1xZk2zmSLktNZFtkLAeW2Ol1O5UGU3TmQwBKs-Os-9UuMsNg1iJ63Lnz4l1c-sDcdAyIiTw29ozM4hc2KUoWsmVT-Sv3YSrMHEMz/s1600-h/stalin_voroshilov_in_kremlin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qs14pFavWLkQF_gfh2wsnpc-sF_mT5CAjjBm-xIz1xZk2zmSLktNZFtkLAeW2Ol1O5UGU3TmQwBKs-Os-9UuMsNg1iJ63Lnz4l1c-sDcdAyIiTw29ozM4hc2KUoWsmVT-Sv3YSrMHEMz/s400/stalin_voroshilov_in_kremlin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286532399179095010" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.great-victory1945.ru/baltic.htm">Stalin and Voroshilov in the Kremlin</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Siege of Leningrad as the Human Condition</span></strong><br /></div><br /><blockquote><br /><em>It seemed that out of battle I escaped<br />Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped<br />Through granites which titanic wars had groined.<br /><br />Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,<br />Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.<br />Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared<br />With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,<br />Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.<br />And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -<br />By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.<br />...<br />I am the enemy you killed, my friend.<br />I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned<br />Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.<br />I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.<br />Let us sleep now...'</em><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Wilfred Owen, "Strange Meeting" (1918)</div><br /></blockquote><br />It's important to remember that every war is as much of an ideological battle as it is a physical one. Think of the opening passage from Hemingway's <em>A Farewell to Arms</em> (1929):<br /><blockquote><br />There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of the places were all you could say and have them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.</blockquote><br />Then compare them to this, Winston Churchill speaking to the House of Commons on 4th June, 1940:<br /><blockquote><br />Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender</blockquote><br />I think it's a fair juxtaposition. There's something magnificent about those Churchillian periods, of course: just like that speech two weeks later heralding the beginning of the Battle of Britain:<br /><blockquote><br />Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, "This was their finest hour."</blockquote><br />But we must beware. That was the point of all those surrealist outrages in the first place. Hitler could make eloquent, moving speeches, too - so could Stalin. So could (for that matter) Walt Disney, whom Goebbels admired as the master propagandist of the age.<br /><br />Possibly, then, we should interrogate Ginzburg's strange, distant <em>Blockade Diary</em> as much for what it does <em>not</em> do as what it does. Soveit literature abounds in plenty of examples of heroic idealisation of the victims of the siege.<br /><br />What, then, is Ginzburg especially attentive to avoid? W. H. Auden put it best, perhaps, in his "At the Grave of Henry James" (1945):<br /><blockquote><br /><em>All will be judged. Master of nuance and scruple,<br />Pray for me and for all writers, living or dead:<br />Because there are many whose works<br />Are in better taste than their lives, because there is no end<br />To the vanity of our calling, make intercession<br />For the treason of all clerks.</em></blockquote><br />For every Hemingway, stripping our rhetoric bare and showing us the grinning skull beneath the skin, there's a war propagandist lavishly hymning the deeds of a leader who never actually left his bunker to visit the front. Yes, there are many "whose works / are in better taste than their lives."<br /><br />Lydia Ginzburg is clearly on the side of the angels when it comes to <em>that</em> dichotomy.<br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEPj_vqYcfiSuqj_uSICXrQ2ifUXTfb7Vl92lp-XdvGT3L-EXsY3sXYtoCVgr7-ylcGSXdOl0Z3y5Neb3OSwGF-ojK8378ytV3U0EeF1r4mcAMQYmojYZ5yOhI3VLnyCjVIrYCAKX7rOT/s1600-h/Siege_of_Leningrad_Eastern_Front_1941_06_to_1941_12.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEPj_vqYcfiSuqj_uSICXrQ2ifUXTfb7Vl92lp-XdvGT3L-EXsY3sXYtoCVgr7-ylcGSXdOl0Z3y5Neb3OSwGF-ojK8378ytV3U0EeF1r4mcAMQYmojYZ5yOhI3VLnyCjVIrYCAKX7rOT/s400/Siege_of_Leningrad_Eastern_Front_1941_06_to_1941_12.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261201174762336226" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.priskos.extra.hu/kelet/kelet.htm">The Siege of Leningrad</a> (1941-44)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 10</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>The 900 Days</em></strong></span><br /></div><br /><blockquote>“Ilya's mother, thinking him asleep, quietly asked a neighbour: if she covered him with her body, would that protect against the German bullets? The neighbour thought it wouldn't. His father smoked his pipe, looked out the window and stared up at the cloudy sky.”</blockquote><div align="center">– Harrison E. Salisbury, <em>The 900 days: The Siege of Leningrad</em>, 1969 (London: Pan Books, 1971): 251.</div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 10:</span><br />Writing from Elsewhere</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />The Leningrad Blockade undoubtedly had its most dramatic effect on the children who experienced it. Think of something traumatic that happened to <em>you</em> as a child.<br /><br />You’re now going to write a poem or short prose text describing it.<br /><ul><br /><li>First outline (quickly, in note form) the shape of the story, the sequence of events.</li><li>Then think about how old you were, what time of year it was, where it all took place.</li><li>When you start to write, try telling the story from the perspective of one of the other people involved, not from your own point-of-view.<br /></li><li>Write it as concisely as possible – as if you were telling it as an anecdote to a group of people at the dinnertable.</li><br /></ul></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 11:</strong> Changes<em> and Seminars on <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-11.html"></em>The Journals of Denton Welch<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBMDFIZsg_Ru2l3DREDmYtc7gw64-Adyarwusp5D4GZ87ZcEtizwzq_OpGx5JtGgDVrEhnMWPbdZkair6IEzI6L74Fs5C7FIGn6n4wYDXRUmjsTgBMbDQbEV9MUKtaxxGNrq7Lpm73vEx/s1600-h/Denton+Welch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBMDFIZsg_Ru2l3DREDmYtc7gw64-Adyarwusp5D4GZ87ZcEtizwzq_OpGx5JtGgDVrEhnMWPbdZkair6IEzI6L74Fs5C7FIGn6n4wYDXRUmjsTgBMbDQbEV9MUKtaxxGNrq7Lpm73vEx/s400/Denton+Welch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276885449385184866" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Denton Welch: <a href="http://www.laurahird.com/showcase/hptinker.html">A Voice Through a Cloud</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-10702591934607045972008-10-22T08:28:00.035+13:002008-12-31T14:44:45.372+13:00Session 9<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wccHBD-VkQPNfAvQyjXg3QBXQaEAVnhzc-rAB3rGynznB2CkMUjtW1Gz9l59IMeSfAkGLWd21Pb_UK3K01_oJyGNEf52wFJSuZ0alvxmDQkJZJc7_vcObDew2zFu0m97YX93LPvl2uvW/s1600-h/Koestler+(1948).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 380px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wccHBD-VkQPNfAvQyjXg3QBXQaEAVnhzc-rAB3rGynznB2CkMUjtW1Gz9l59IMeSfAkGLWd21Pb_UK3K01_oJyGNEf52wFJSuZ0alvxmDQkJZJc7_vcObDew2zFu0m97YX93LPvl2uvW/s400/Koestler+(1948).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260863377848533154" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.diplomatie.gouv.fr/fr/actions-france_830/documentaire_1045/diffusion-non-commerciale_5378/collections-video_5374/arts_8728/ecrivains_9067/arthur-koestler-du-commissaire-au-yogi-1905-1983_9866/index.html">Arthur Koestler</a> (1948)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 9</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/arthur-koestler.html">Arthur Koestler</a>:<br /><em>Dialogue with Death</em> (1937 / 1942)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Arthur Koestler (1905-1983): from <em>Dialogue with Death</em> (1942)</li><li>Arthur Koestler: from <em>Spanish Testament</em> (1937)</li><li>Arthur Koestler: from <em>The God That Failed</em> (1950)</li><li>Arthur Koestler: from <em>The Invisible Writing</em> (1954)</li><li>George Orwell: from <em>Homage to Catalonia</em> (1938)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[March-April 1937]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><blockquote>... With the evening soup he brought me a whole basketful of the most fabulous treasures. Cigarettes, matches, toothbrush, toothpaste, sardines in oil, sardines in tomato sauce, lettuce, vinegar, oil and salt in a special container, red paprika sausage, dried figs, cheese, Andalusian cakes, chocolate, tunnyfish in oil and four hard-boiled eggs. My bed was transformed into a delicatessen store. I poured my ration of lentils down the w.c. at one swoop, and devoured these luxuries in any order I fancied – chocolate and sardines, sausage and sweetmeats. <br /><br />For the first time for six weeks I feel satisfied - satisfied, contented and tired. <br /><br />If only I could get a word to D.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Sunday, March 28th.</span><br /><blockquote><br />Through Angelito bought socks, writing paper, basket to store my provisions and further delicacies. Day passed chiefly in eating and smoking. Librarian brought three little volumes of humorous sketches by Averchenko. <br /><br />In the afternoon the blond young German spoke to No. 37 again. Said he had got paper to write to his Consul and promised the invisible Carlos to lend him a peseta. <br /><br />In the evening the bugler blew a new tune for the last post. <br /><br />An even more melancholy tune.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Monday, March 29th.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />All my pleasure in eating and drinking has gone to the devil. Every bite reminds me of the origin of the money and the letter. These attacks of homesickness recur at short intervals and with a violence I've never before experienced. What a sad sort of creature one is; so long as one's hungry, one has no other desire but to eat and eat, but the moment one is replete the 'nobler feelings' suddenly make themselves felt and spoil all one's pleasure. Three days ago a piece of cheese seemed to me the highest of all earthly gifts. Now, the moment I set eyes on a piece of cheese or a sardine tin, the thought of home inevitably occurs to me, and then there's the devil to pay. The good God has definitely put a few wheels too many in our heads. <br /><br />Afternoon Angelito paid me a private visit and relieved me very willingly of a part of the cause of my misery by devouring sardines, cheese and chocolate. Afterwards the new <span style="font-style:italic;">jefe de servicio</span> came to inform me that Colonel Fuster had not yet answered his inquiry about my confiscated money and luggage. Doesn't interest me now. Asked him when a decision as to my case was to be expected. Said he didn't know; I was an important case, one didn't capture a Red journalist every day. I was highly flattered, but wonder whether it's good or bad to be an important case.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tuesday, March 30th.</span><br /><blockquote><br />I fancy the <span style="font-style:italic;">jefe</span> only visited me because he had heard I'd got some money. It is really curious to see how my prestige has risen overnight and how my own self-confidence has grown since I've had some money. <br /><br />Have sixty pesetas left; must begin to be careful. Dreamed - for second time during imprisonment - that I was free. All rather colourless and disappointing. <br /><br />Got Mill once more and made extracts whole day.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Wednesday, March 31st.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />At midday the warder asked me whether I would like some wine. You bet I would. Got a big beaker full for 45 centimos - about half a pint. Learned that every prisoner has the right to buy wine for the midday and evening meals, but no more than this quantity ... I keep the midday ration for evening, so as to drink both together. Tolerably good white wine, but too little to have any effect. All the same very good to have wine at all. </blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Thursday, April 1st.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Got Nerval's <span style="font-style:italic;">Aurelia</span>, Bunin's <span style="font-style:italic;">Puyodol</span> and Stevenson's <span style="font-style:italic;">Olala</span> at same time. Now I have pretty good food, wine, cigarettes, clean underclothes and good books, no material worries, no bother with publishers, editors and colleagues. Soberly viewed, things are going quite well with me if it were not for my fear. I fancy that if my state of uncertainty came to an end, and later on I were to receive permission to be with the others in the patio, I should rub along quite well here. <br /><br />When I read I forget everything for hours on end and am quite contented and really cheerful. Then I remember the letter and all the commiseration expressed in it and I have a feeling that I have a conventional obligation to be unhappy. I picture to myself how my wife must be picturing my situation and my commiseration reflects her commiseration like the echo of an echo. Again and again I catch myself being conscience-stricken at being so cheerful. Custom demands that a man in prison must suffer. <br /><br />It must be very irksome for the dead to have the living think of them.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Friday, April 2nd.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />What pearls one discovers in comparatively unknown books, when, as a result of unwonted circumstances, one forms the unwonted custom of reading attentively! <br /><br />Gerard de Nerval spent half his life in a madhouse; he wrote the book that I am reading partly between two attacks of madness and partly during an attack; it contains page after page of completely absurd visions and the plot of the story is his own fluctuation between insanity and reason. At one point his condition seems definitely to improve, and his mind grows clear. The result is that he is now kicked out of the asylum and has to wander homeless through the streets of Paris in the cold winter nights, without a penny in his pockets and without an overcoat, instead of pursuing his gay visions in the well-heated madhouse. Half-dead with exhaustion, he muses: <br /><br />'When you regain what people call reason, its loss seems scarcely worth bemoaning.' <br /><br />At thirty-five he was found hanged. <br /><br />I should like to know whether he hanged himself because, at the moment when he knotted the rope, he happened to be mad or because he happened to be sane. <br /><br />The outside world becomes more and more unreal to me. Sometimes I even think that I was happy before. One weaves illusions not only about one's future, but also about one's past.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Saturday, April 3rd.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Got needle and thread, spent the whole day cobbling the tattered remains of my shirt, my pants and my new socks. At midday got fresh lettuce from Angelito wrapped up in a scrap of old newspaper. Saw from it that King of the Belgians had been in Berlin and that Italy had concluded a pact with Jugoslavia; but nothing about the Spanish war. Was astonished and horrified to find how little this news affected me and how much my interest in what is happening outside is waning. And the second month is not yet up. <br /><br />What interests me much more is that the siesta promenaders - Byron and the consumptive - have now got a companion. Lanky, unshaven, dirty, and wears glasses. Has on a short leather coat which looks much too small for him. His whole appearance is somehow comic and pathetic in its awkwardness; have no idea what he can be.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Sunday, April 4th.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Very bad day. Only a few hours' relief in sleeping and writing. My heart is giving me so much trouble that at times I feel as though I am suffocating. Whole day in bed in a kind of apathetic coma. The idea of getting up alarms me. <br /><br />Have never been so wretched since Malaga.</blockquote> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Monday, April 5th.</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Had heart attack during night, just like the one in 1932. Am very much afraid another one coming on.</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Arthur Koestler: <em>Dialogue with Death</em>, trans. Trevor & Phyllis Blewitt, 1937, abridged edition, 1942, revised Danube edition, 1966 (London: Papermac, 1983): 144-47.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJENyekuRg4pOwqxBOIWgbfM063_UpK061tQv8EvSU4MtWa5aJeVe2Ej47McNwtMew-1NflnoZMHwgMfsPYI8-iqCx-a5Y-5wWDtbQjjF3XTKUowzVAbUT4IyAvTKc9_Ifs0Wtv6hJ5of/s1600-h/sartre.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJENyekuRg4pOwqxBOIWgbfM063_UpK061tQv8EvSU4MtWa5aJeVe2Ej47McNwtMew-1NflnoZMHwgMfsPYI8-iqCx-a5Y-5wWDtbQjjF3XTKUowzVAbUT4IyAvTKc9_Ifs0Wtv6hJ5of/s400/sartre.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221599311660168786" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://uncleeddiestheorycorner.blogspot.com/2008/01/why-existentialism-sucks.html">Existentialists</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Outsider</span></strong><br /></div><br />Albert Camus' <span style="font-style:italic;">L’Étranger</span> was first published by Libraire Gallimard in Paris in 1942. In 1946, it was first translated into English by British author Stuart Gilbert and this translation was read by millions for over four decades. A second English translation was published in 1982 by British publishing house Hamish Hamilton. This translation, by Joseph Laredo, was adopted by Penguin Books in 1983 and reprinted for Penguin Classics in 2000. In 1989, another translation by American Matthew Ward was published.<br /><br />The tone of the three English translations is quite different, with the Gilbert translation exhibiting a more formal tone. An example of this difference can be found in the first sentence of the first chapter:<br /><br /><blockquote>French: "<span style="font-style:italic;">Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. J'ai reçu un télégramme de l'asile: Mère décédée. Enterrement demain. Sentiments distingués. Cela ne veut rien dire. C'était peut-être hier</span>"<br /><br />Gilbert translation: "Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. The telegram from the Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday."<br /><br />Ward translation: "Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday."<br /><br />Laredo translation: "Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know. I had a telegram from the home: 'Mother passed away. Funeral tomorrow. Yours sincerely.' That doesn't mean anything. It may have been yesterday."</blockquote><br /><br /><strong>Plot Summary:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />At the start of the novel, Meursault attends his mother's funeral, where he does not express any of the usual emotions that such an event often induces. He is asked if he wants to view the body of his mother but declines, instead smoking and drinking coffee in front of the body. Meursault sent his mother there because he felt she would be more happy with other people rather than living alone with Meursault in his apartment. The novel goes on to document the next few days of his life through the first person point-of-view. His best friend Raymond Sintès, one of his neighbors, of whom Meursault aids in dismissing his Arab girlfriend because Raymond suspects her of infidelity. Later, Raymond and Meursault encounter her brothers on a beach, and Raymond is injured in a resulting knife fight. After retreating, Meursault returns to the beach and shoots one of the brothers in a moment of confusion caused in part by the glare of the sun. "The Arab" is killed, and Meursault fires four more times into the dead body.<br /><br />At the trial, the prosecuting attorneys seem more interested in the inability or unwillingness of Meursault to cry at his mother's funeral than the murder of the Arab, because they find his lack of remorse offensive. The argument follows that if Meursault is incapable of remorse, he should be considered a dangerous misanthrope who should be executed by guillotine in order to set an example for others who consider murder. Meursault is charged largely due to the lack of emotions shown at his mother's funeral, rather than for the murder of the Arab man.<br /><br />As the novel comes to a close, Meursault meets with a chaplain and rejects the chaplain's insistence that he turn to God. The novel ends with Meursault recognizing the universe's indifference toward humankind. The final lines echo his new realization: "As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself — so like a brother, really — I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate."</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;">- <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stranger_(novel)">Wikipedia</a><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbezm1OYXiFWlv0wzqwI0xLH5CLlQPrD1vwA0mm6r8L_PVPuyA2T0SZsxgVanFi8mUHFjLFbataRQmSReo3TDac99EzUyzPi9aKmen2lyXph6vpsBioz2Mu07Dje6eLSRIgrTtxQeBvlXf/s1600-h/p02i02.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbezm1OYXiFWlv0wzqwI0xLH5CLlQPrD1vwA0mm6r8L_PVPuyA2T0SZsxgVanFi8mUHFjLFbataRQmSReo3TDac99EzUyzPi9aKmen2lyXph6vpsBioz2Mu07Dje6eLSRIgrTtxQeBvlXf/s400/p02i02.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237487143195714258" /></a><br /><br />According to Brian McHale’s <em>Postmodernist Fiction</em> (New York: Methuen, 1987), p.9:<br /><blockquote><br />The dominant of modernist fiction is <em>epistemological</em>. That is, modernist fiction deploys strategies which engage and foreground questions such as … “How can I interpret this world of which I am a part? And what am I in it?” Other typical modernist questions might be added: What is there to be known?; Who knows it?; How do they know it, and with what degree of certainty?; How is knowledge transmitted from one knower to another, and with what degree of reliability?; How does the object of knowledge change as it passes from knower to knower?; What are limits of the knowable? And so on.</blockquote><br />He then goes on to formulate a second thesis (p.10):<br /><blockquote><br />The dominant of postmodernist fiction is <em>ontological</em>. That is, postmodernist fiction deploys strategies which engage and foreground questions like the ones Dick Higgins [in <em>A Dialectic of Centuries</em> (1978)] calls “post-cognitive”: “Which world is this? What is to be done in it? Which of my selves is to do it?” Other typical postmodernist questions bear either on the ontology of the literary text itself or on the ontology of the world which it projects, for instance: What is a world?; What kinds of world are there, how are they constituted, and how do they differ?; What happens when different kinds of world are placed in confrontation, or when boundaries between worlds are violated?; What is the mode of existence of a text, and what is the mode of existence of the world (or worlds) it projects?; How is a projected world structured? And so on.</blockquote><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistemology">Epistemology</a> foregrounds questions of consciousness.<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ontology">Ontology</a> foregrounds questions of existence.<br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDCd6VMg3pDqjgbgK7xgK4gzgJDeAYgqoHAWLL8j-1bfgByilyQ4cn59u905GzcoeseSkJnjVDESumatlqpTlQHw0xugHyrP5boio9E67ZUjxno5zbtBKCpsxykQyCs521Q8NexbOe0cV/s1600-h/capa-spain-falling-soldier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDCd6VMg3pDqjgbgK7xgK4gzgJDeAYgqoHAWLL8j-1bfgByilyQ4cn59u905GzcoeseSkJnjVDESumatlqpTlQHw0xugHyrP5boio9E67ZUjxno5zbtBKCpsxykQyCs521Q8NexbOe0cV/s400/capa-spain-falling-soldier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260864703402052994" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Robert Capa: <a href="http://emvergeoning.com/?p=1028">Falling Soldier</a> (1937)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 9</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Spanish Testament</em></span></strong><br /></div><br /><blockquote>““When the storm rages and the state is threatened by shipwreck, we can do nothing more noble than to lower the anchor of our peaceful studies into the ground of eternity.”</blockquote><div align="center">– Johannes Kepler (6th November 1629)<br />quoted in Arthur Koestler. <em>The Sleepwalkers: A History of Man's Changing Vision of the Universe</em>. 1959 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972): 427.<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 9:</span><br />Rules & Taboos</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />For better or worse, institutions all have rules. Draw up a list of five rules from your childhood.<br /><ul><br /><li>Draw on your experience of family, school, the workplace, hospital, church or prison and describe some of the unspoken rules that influenced your life.</li><li>What happened when you broke the rules?</li><li>Have you ever told a lie? Were you found out? Write about the incident and its aftermath.</li><li>Alternatively, you could recall an embarrassing moment from your own life and imagine you are trying to explain it all away to an adult. Write the dialogue.</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NB:</span> This exercise was adapted from <em>The Creative Writing Handbook: Techniques for New Writers</em>, edited by John Singleton and Mary Luckhurst (London: Macmillan, 1996): 96.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 10:</strong> Writing from Elsewhere<em> and Seminars on Lydia Ginzburg's <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-10.html"></em>Blockade Diary<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9QEAit_b6nYC6RSY8qMoP6SSRXhG3N8ND1QGyxK_VYKBntNW-iAlMiuu2B4fb1T9RqB133lc574i_Ez5jUQgqjjE5GhJ4GgookjdcbUfZ0Nw02klYLs0RBNNBgFAiHJ63grj7qaGA7ka/s1600-h/siege_3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9QEAit_b6nYC6RSY8qMoP6SSRXhG3N8ND1QGyxK_VYKBntNW-iAlMiuu2B4fb1T9RqB133lc574i_Ez5jUQgqjjE5GhJ4GgookjdcbUfZ0Nw02klYLs0RBNNBgFAiHJ63grj7qaGA7ka/s400/siege_3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276884009326155282" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.saint-petersburg.com/history/siege.asp"><em>Doroga zhizni</em></a> / The Road of Life]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-91646648075191578042008-10-22T08:28:00.034+13:002008-12-31T13:55:04.778+13:00Session 8<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_V3GyFKJeqctcdjgqoax_DktqsuihyphenhyphenP37d4cW9SXXyBS-gFjHxHPNHSTjQzT2czpA2VVRIAR5Yvh6MQU9UC0cppR8Adl9NfTExL0uX6nVqk6ft2hVyGkIjUNENAkNe2r4F5vRrG20cuU/s1600-h/cocteau1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_V3GyFKJeqctcdjgqoax_DktqsuihyphenhyphenP37d4cW9SXXyBS-gFjHxHPNHSTjQzT2czpA2VVRIAR5Yvh6MQU9UC0cppR8Adl9NfTExL0uX6nVqk6ft2hVyGkIjUNENAkNe2r4F5vRrG20cuU/s400/cocteau1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261210644855693090" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://nobara.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/jean-cocteau/">Jean Cocteau</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 8</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/jean-cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a>:<br /><em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure</em> (1929 / 1930)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Jean Cocteau (1889-1963): from <em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure</em> (1930 / 1958)</li><li>Aleister Crowley: from <span style="font-style:italic;">Diary of a Drug Fiend</span> (1922)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[1929-30]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />If an addict who has been completely cured starts smoking again he no longer experiences the discomforts of his first addiction. There exists, therefore, outside alkaloids and habit, a sense for opium, an intangible habit which lives on, despite the recasting of the organism. This sense must not be taken for the regret felt by an opium-addict who has become normal again, although this regret does constitute part of the appeal. The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house. <br /><br />• <br /><br />An addict who has been cured keeps defences against the poison within himself. If he becomes addicted again his defences come into action and force him to take stronger doses than those of his first addiction. <br /><br />• <br /><br />Opium is a season. The smoker no longer suffers from changes in the weather. He never catches cold. He suffers only from the changes in drugs, doses and hours, in everything in fact which influences the barometer of opium. <br /><br />Opium has its colds, shivers and fevers which do not coincide with cold and heat. <br /><br />• <br /><br />Doctors would have us believe that opium dulls us and takes away our sense of values. But if opium takes away the old scale of values from under our feet, it sets up another for us, superior and more delicate. <br /><br />• <br /><br /> (1930). One cannot say that opium, by removing all sexual obsessions, weakens the smoker, because not only does it not cause impotence, but what is more it replaces those somewhat base obsessions by others which are somewhat lofty, very strange and unknown to a sexually normal organism. <br /><br />For instance a type of mind will be sensed, sought out, and linked across the centuries and the arts, against all appearances, and will haunt the untended sexuality across the most dissimilar sexes and social backgrounds (Dargelos, Agathe, the stars and the boxers in Paul's bedroom). <br /><br />• <br /><br />All animals are charmed by opium. Addicts in the colonies know the danger of this bait for wild beasts and reptiles. <br /><br />Flies gather round the tray and dream, the lizards with their little mittens swoon on the ceiling above the lamp and wait for the night, mice come close and nibble the dross. I do not speak of the dogs and monkeys who become addicted like their masters. <br /><br />At Marseilles, among the Annamites, where one smokes with implements calculated to confuse the police (a gas-pipe, a sample bottle of benedictine with a hole in it, and a hat-pin), the cockroaches and the spiders form a circle in ecstasy. <br /><br />• <br /><br />A POOR TYPE. THIS UNINTERESTING CREATURE. Labels which would be attached by the newspapers and the police to all those whom we love and admire. Leonardo da Vinci, for example. <br /><br />In addition there are certain superior cliché remarks made by the people who know. <em>But the young Annamites do not smoke. In Indo-China the people don't smoke any longer. It's only in books that they smoke aboard ship</em>. <br /><br />When I hear one of these phrases I close my eyes, I see again the boys' berths on board the X., one of the largest steamers on the Marseilles-Saïgon line. The X was waiting to get under way. The purser, one of my opium-smoking friends, had suggested the escapade to me. At eleven o'clock at night we crossed the deserted docks and climbed up the ladder on to the deck. We had to follow our guide at full speed and avoid the watch. We climbed over cables, worked round columns and Greek temples, crossed public squares, labyrinths of machines, shadow and moonlight, we mixed up the companion ways and the corridors so much and so well that our poor guide began to lose his head, until, softly, that powerful strange smell put us on the right path. <br /><br />Imagine enormous berths, four or five dormitories, where sixty 'boys' lay smoking on two tiers of planks. In each dormitory a long table filled up the empty space. Standing on these tables, and cut in two by a flat, unmoving cloud half-way up the room, the latecomers were undressing, tying up the cords where they liked to hang up their washing, and gently rubbing their shoulders. <br /><br />The scene was lit by the dim lights of the lamps, and on top of them burnt the spluttering drug. The bodies were wedged against each other and without causing the slightest surprise, or the slightest ungraciousness, we took our places where there was really no place left, with our legs doubled up and our heads resting on stools. The noise we made did not even disturb one of the boys who was sleeping with his head against mine. A nightmare convulsed him; he had sunk to the bottom of the sleep that stifled him, entering into him through his mouth, his large nostrils and the ears which stuck out from his head. His swollen face was closed like an angry fist, he sweated, turned over and tore at his silken rags. He looked as though a stroke of the lancet would deliver him and bring forth the nightmare. His grimaces formed an extraordinary contrast with the calm of the others, a vegetable calm, a calm which reminded me of something familiar. What was it? On those planks lay the twisted bodies in which the skeletons, visible through the pale skin, were no more than the delicate armatures of a dream ... In fact, it was the olive trees of Provence which those young sleepers evoked in me, the twisted olive trees on the flat red earth, their silver clouds hanging in the air. <br /><br />In that place I could almost believe that it was all this profound lightness that alone kept this most monumental ship floating on the water. <br /><br />• <br /><br />I wanted to take notes during my stay in the clinic and above all to contradict myself in order to follow the stages of the treatment. It was a question of talking about opium without embarrassment, without literature and without any medical knowledge.<br /><br />The specialists seem to be unaware of the world which separates the opium addict from the other victims of poisons, 'the drug,' and drugs. <br /><br />I am not trying to defend the drug; I am trying to see clearly in the dark, to make blunders and to come face to face with the problems which are always approached from the side. <br /><br />I imagine that young doctors are beginning to shake off the yoke, to revolt against the ridiculous prejudices and follow new developments. <br /><br />A strange thing. Our physical safety accepts doctors who correspond to the artists whom our moral safety rejects. Imagine being cared for by someone like Ziem, Henner or Jean Aicard. <br /><br />Will the young doctors discover either an active type of cure (the present method remains passive), or a regime which would enable us to withstand the blessings of the poppy? <br /><br />The medical faculty detests intuition or risks; it wants practitioners, forgetting that they only arise thanks to discoveries which in the first place come up against scepticism, one of the worst forms of comfort. <br /><br />There will be objections – art and science follow different paths. This is not true. <br /><br />• <br /><br />A normal man, from the sexual point of view, should be capable of making love with anyone and even with anything, because the instinct of the species is blind; it works in the mass. This explains the casual behaviour of the people and above all of sailors, which is usually attributed to vice. Only the sexual act counts. A brute is little concerned with the circumstances which provoke it. I do not speak of love. <br /><br /><em>Vice begins with choice</em>. According to the heredity, intelligence and nervous fatigue of the subject concerned, this choice becomes more and more selective to the point of becoming inexplicable, comic or criminal.<br /><br />• <br /><br />A mother who says 'My son will only marry a blonde,' does not suspect that her remark corresponds to the worst sexual imbroglios. Travesties, mingling of the sexes. torturing of animals, chains and insults.<br /><br />• <br /><div align="center"><br />STRANGE LACK OF INTEREST IN SEX THROUGH THE EXISTENCE OF A SPIRITUAL PROGENY</div><br />Art is born of coitus between the male and female elements of which we are all composed, and they an: more balanced in the case of artists than of other men. It results from a kind of incest, of love of self for self, of parthenogenesis. It is this that makes marriage so dangerous among artists, for whom it represents a pleonasm, a monstrous effort towards the norm. The 'poor specimen' look which is the mark of so many men of genius arises from the fact that the creative instinct is satisfied elsewhere and leaves sexual pleasure free to exert itself in the pure domain of aesthetics, inclining it also towards unfruitful forms of expression. <br /><br />• <br /><br />One cannot translate a real poet; not because his style is musical, but because his thought has a plastic quality, and, if this changes, the thought changes . <br /><br />A Russian said to me: 'The style of <em>Orphée</em> is musical in the opposite way to what the public calls musical. In spite of its lack of music, it is musical because it leaves the spirit free to profit from it as it wishes.’<br /><br />• <br /><br />A poet, unless he is a politician (such as Hugo, Shelley or Byron), must only count on readers who know his language. the spirit of his language and the soul of his language.<br /><br />• <br /><br />The crowd likes works which impose their melody. which hypnotise, which hypertrophy its sensibility to the point of putting the critical sense to sleep. The crowd is feminine; it likes to obey or bite. <br /><br />• <br /><br />Radiguet said '<em>The public asks us if the author is serious. I ask the public if they are serious</em>.' Alas! works of genius demand a public of genius. One can achieve a substitute for this receptive state of genius through the electricity emanating from an agglomeration of mediocre persons. This substitute allows one to have illusions about the fate of a play in the theatre. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Jean Cocteau: <em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure</em>, 1930, trans. Margaret Crosland and Sinclair Road, 1958 (New York: Grove Press, 1980): 74-81.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">International Modernism:</span><br />Art Movements (late 19th Century / early 20th century)</strong></div><br /><blockquote><br />1880 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">post-impressionism</span><br /><br />1905 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">fauvism</span><br /><br />1905 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">expressionism</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETp8C-QpIXGMOpmcbciIapKQsFDk_hemqeysuqKKHmtOlOASLFzuSGyh5FzDLQj3YA7hyxpI6At0HugFYVVqG-ZCkeUGdCeTvgJem1sDgwIw-Ru1xTJNQ9UbWpa11oKmDVTExCLzO_CNB/s1600-h/Picasso+avignon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETp8C-QpIXGMOpmcbciIapKQsFDk_hemqeysuqKKHmtOlOASLFzuSGyh5FzDLQj3YA7hyxpI6At0HugFYVVqG-ZCkeUGdCeTvgJem1sDgwIw-Ru1xTJNQ9UbWpa11oKmDVTExCLzO_CNB/s200/Picasso+avignon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228197173154075346" /></a>1907 – Pablo Picasso: <span style="font-style:italic;">Les Demoiselles d'Avignon</span><br /></div><br />1908 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">cubism</span><br /><br />1909 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">futurism</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Z0iLexYy4WWmJp4fpUAC0E0UPZ2fEcZXY9w98clfPhEv_tsnCuBAYlLnyrnRCbgS1oCOmuhGrYgMmDs2kqTVjbAQCbkWF10_MPqqKkfz5iFXRP3kg_y5iQAwtR0jjAuIcgJgjE738gI3/s1600-h/Matisse+dance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Z0iLexYy4WWmJp4fpUAC0E0UPZ2fEcZXY9w98clfPhEv_tsnCuBAYlLnyrnRCbgS1oCOmuhGrYgMmDs2kqTVjbAQCbkWF10_MPqqKkfz5iFXRP3kg_y5iQAwtR0jjAuIcgJgjE738gI3/s200/Matisse+dance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228196747007344018" /></a>1909 – Henri Matisse: <span style="font-style:italic;">La danse</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5TXg_coivq2TAVumavhleWF_lmJWIgPvaIZ96u6AGgEkaJa4jzv85qRhbkSs7cPru9vjJyF-9iP4aK0avlodEzQGsFuLMc4lynae9rD81gEv8bEtr8Cworyw0ax1rjJptUQStrelzOp1s/s1600-h/bloomsbury_group_small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5TXg_coivq2TAVumavhleWF_lmJWIgPvaIZ96u6AGgEkaJa4jzv85qRhbkSs7cPru9vjJyF-9iP4aK0avlodEzQGsFuLMc4lynae9rD81gEv8bEtr8Cworyw0ax1rjJptUQStrelzOp1s/s200/bloomsbury_group_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228195532449000722" /></a>1910 – Roger Fry: <span style="font-style:italic;">Post-impressionist exhibition, London</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTuosF6RoDIT_w4UcEzFfY8VO8MrhllAjLWZ_7mQE2ekTraXt2rV5SDeJTlEPqcxSO-2HQKiwoS2HJQD8qokrYqgmzoSpqVgBoCOcxyPQEOgV95GWiOoaizNmYtDoZfHh0WDew_LQVU_X/s1600-h/Wright+Robie+House.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTuosF6RoDIT_w4UcEzFfY8VO8MrhllAjLWZ_7mQE2ekTraXt2rV5SDeJTlEPqcxSO-2HQKiwoS2HJQD8qokrYqgmzoSpqVgBoCOcxyPQEOgV95GWiOoaizNmYtDoZfHh0WDew_LQVU_X/s200/Wright+Robie+House.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228195289529552642" /></a>1910 – Frank Lloyd Wright: <span style="font-style:italic;">Robie House, Chicago</span><br /></div><br />1912 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">vorticism</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYkwgIgZJzKiC5f3sDOfnhJV9BbpAWKkXp5O-Jk0ygT2o0lYV9uh1NYZAT1z5ro-h4oZ2Ko4QJ2EAHYkM2Wc6oS9veH3SQg9Y-XY4PTcZwhw-iLhhyphenhyphen0X1YLT7g1EoTZbnZVrU7tjvHG69/s1600-h/Nicholas+Roerich+Rite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYkwgIgZJzKiC5f3sDOfnhJV9BbpAWKkXp5O-Jk0ygT2o0lYV9uh1NYZAT1z5ro-h4oZ2Ko4QJ2EAHYkM2Wc6oS9veH3SQg9Y-XY4PTcZwhw-iLhhyphenhyphen0X1YLT7g1EoTZbnZVrU7tjvHG69/s200/Nicholas+Roerich+Rite.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228197346357107602" /></a>1913 – Igor Stravinsky: <span style="font-style:italic;">The Rite of Spring</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnp66Z1ltMo2zgQZkCgzD8mI7UmcKYkYwcXjm9LwLX8QfzCqbrSCCsHa6enuagDMaeeY1SG4ddERehconNz25R52Dyo-AxpyJ5j51IooE3QUqEfexlJlG_5TmzYQW55uzooV7yNzcpiG7/s1600-h/Lewis+Blast2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxnp66Z1ltMo2zgQZkCgzD8mI7UmcKYkYwcXjm9LwLX8QfzCqbrSCCsHa6enuagDMaeeY1SG4ddERehconNz25R52Dyo-AxpyJ5j51IooE3QUqEfexlJlG_5TmzYQW55uzooV7yNzcpiG7/s200/Lewis+Blast2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228195981353462962" /></a>1914 – Wyndham Lewis: <span style="font-style:italic;">BLAST </span>(Issue I)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2dQC2iHvGQZGVlpDs1OSAerWCRTJoj0v4irKyV44ZOjTrn_rDByCerm7mhXi3Da4a32JCNS09nVwkcMhhQKeCZOQQPO7iGirGaXY0Ux8FtwSpGWt4dZGxJiTXl2GUI7WIR2NHn5d4PcS/s1600-h/Ezra+Pound+1913.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2dQC2iHvGQZGVlpDs1OSAerWCRTJoj0v4irKyV44ZOjTrn_rDByCerm7mhXi3Da4a32JCNS09nVwkcMhhQKeCZOQQPO7iGirGaXY0Ux8FtwSpGWt4dZGxJiTXl2GUI7WIR2NHn5d4PcS/s200/Ezra+Pound+1913.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228196476273045570" /></a>1915 – Ezra Pound begins <span style="font-style:italic;">The Cantos</span><br /></div><br />1916 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">dada</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZBgyod1oI76nQYrl_9zE4c1qSk3kMReKt7IzYLMUqtyFWEJI0T9ilSkQsKQZQCnr5vZGuZmPfTY72yb8K2-Cc8XN28KWRY0sCUmXDNqn2Hil02THmaTEJraoK1DNBjFSSUE9gZs3n_gE/s1600-h/Duchamp+Fountaine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZBgyod1oI76nQYrl_9zE4c1qSk3kMReKt7IzYLMUqtyFWEJI0T9ilSkQsKQZQCnr5vZGuZmPfTY72yb8K2-Cc8XN28KWRY0sCUmXDNqn2Hil02THmaTEJraoK1DNBjFSSUE9gZs3n_gE/s200/Duchamp+Fountaine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228196226262828034" /></a>1917 – Marcel Duchamp: <span style="font-style:italic;">Fountain</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAkUu-0A4FGB2S3llb57iJ7VtjfddcSaszXLuaWWoF7bHVUIRxx53hxZwywRm4WBswCzG1cCbQOH3zMinM3PS1-w8eT1edNrEhqWMiWG5DZTUiZXjTU3Tv6Kr1QhAnuPN2QOGLEV0rRTH/s1600-h/Cabaret+Voltaire+Plaque.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEAkUu-0A4FGB2S3llb57iJ7VtjfddcSaszXLuaWWoF7bHVUIRxx53hxZwywRm4WBswCzG1cCbQOH3zMinM3PS1-w8eT1edNrEhqWMiWG5DZTUiZXjTU3Tv6Kr1QhAnuPN2QOGLEV0rRTH/s200/Cabaret+Voltaire+Plaque.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228195048616961282" /></a>1918 – Tristan Tzara: <span style="font-style:italic;">Dadaist manifesto</span><br /></div><br />1919 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">bauhaus</span><br /><br />1920s – <span style="font-weight:bold;">art deco</span><br /><br />1920s – <span style="font-weight:bold;">magic realism</span><br /><br />1920s – <span style="font-weight:bold;">constructivism</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66LgTED0wzw1Upj_RU8ywGjzEoj01EtWOQCw1jh67Box9P_rJmmZZhAQI-hXMmPgwv3PHU3AIoYFEEksV-QbqXVXYgT3X-Hmx8mqsPMOFfdVa6jlG7Dqjg7Pfkhb7QcxkZLvGbVxqD3In/s1600-h/TSEliot.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66LgTED0wzw1Upj_RU8ywGjzEoj01EtWOQCw1jh67Box9P_rJmmZZhAQI-hXMmPgwv3PHU3AIoYFEEksV-QbqXVXYgT3X-Hmx8mqsPMOFfdVa6jlG7Dqjg7Pfkhb7QcxkZLvGbVxqD3In/s200/TSEliot.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228195716181923842" /></a>1922 – T. S. Eliot: <span style="font-style:italic;">The Waste Land</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTPawljmSm3juPRk44060Bn0VW9d5GK1eQ8n0zVfbz-Pu-uoAYBhrvGY6sP94zVAlv_8dADGQ74-ZcgrBGK1k1ZGm8FuCGlEqJ4EgFMArYowYvjnZ0Q-V9R9ia5KzqMegoUSg5PCmBT6Q/s1600-h/ulysses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTPawljmSm3juPRk44060Bn0VW9d5GK1eQ8n0zVfbz-Pu-uoAYBhrvGY6sP94zVAlv_8dADGQ74-ZcgrBGK1k1ZGm8FuCGlEqJ4EgFMArYowYvjnZ0Q-V9R9ia5KzqMegoUSg5PCmBT6Q/s200/ulysses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228260397051707570" /></a>1922 – James Joyce: <span style="font-style:italic;">Ulysses</span><br /></div><br />1924 – <span style="font-weight:bold;">surrealism</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1O5c3Dg0qWLVWbPXkjyHxDtTyWJQj4_m6OIFapZDSqhdWorSMZCcqi8Pz8_LwBqLwYG3x-5rsuRfevhVs6lZGdUmdMstqAgDFX2aG1y8LMkhcH6XFjyFAieyA3GZ087yGqDRgX8oHdp3/s1600-h/Sothebys-AndreBreton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1O5c3Dg0qWLVWbPXkjyHxDtTyWJQj4_m6OIFapZDSqhdWorSMZCcqi8Pz8_LwBqLwYG3x-5rsuRfevhVs6lZGdUmdMstqAgDFX2aG1y8LMkhcH6XFjyFAieyA3GZ087yGqDRgX8oHdp3/s200/Sothebys-AndreBreton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228260878793833842" /></a>1924 – André Breton: <span style="font-style:italic;">Surrealist manifesto</span><br /></div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_G4yPwMsqfAC-diGlxGkTmnU3H4tEFa9RvHRXvFXSMtmnF7ZTBG8aSjDhidlHWk1f1KHj8yd0daZADOe9vhW3DXcY3NJ0xoWsN4nmUmUjXFEnt8hnmTyh26FZ3K7AWLwukfwerT2eOZlP/s1600-h/CocteauOpium.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 378px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_G4yPwMsqfAC-diGlxGkTmnU3H4tEFa9RvHRXvFXSMtmnF7ZTBG8aSjDhidlHWk1f1KHj8yd0daZADOe9vhW3DXcY3NJ0xoWsN4nmUmUjXFEnt8hnmTyh26FZ3K7AWLwukfwerT2eOZlP/s400/CocteauOpium.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261209660415524674" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Jean Cocteau: <a href="http://www.socialfiction.org/index.php?archive=current/archive_31Oct2006.html">Opium</a> (1930)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 8</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Diary of a Drug Fiend</span></strong></div><br /><blockquote><br />“As Glanvil says: Man is not subjected to the angels, nor even unto daeth utterly, save through the weakness of his own feeble will.<br /><br />Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.”</blockquote><div align="center">– Aleister Crowley, <em>Diary of a Drug Fiend</em>, 1922 (London: Sphere Books, 1979): 7.<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 8:</span><br />13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I</span> <br />Among twenty snowy mountains, <br />The only moving thing <br />Was the eye of the blackbird. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">II</span> <br />I was of three minds, <br />Like a tree <br />In which there are three blackbirds. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">III</span> <br />The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. <br />It was a small part of the pantomime. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IV</span> <br />A man and a woman <br />Are one. <br />A man and a woman and a blackbird <br />Are one. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">V</span><br />I do not know which to prefer, <br />The beauty of inflections <br />Or the beauty of innuendoes, <br />The blackbird whistling <br />Or just after. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">VI</span> <br />Icicles filled the long window <br />With barbaric glass. <br />The shadow of the blackbird <br />Crossed it, to and fro. <br />The mood <br />Traced in the shadow <br />An indecipherable cause. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">VII</span> <br />O thin men of Haddam, <br />Why do you imagine golden birds? <br />Do you not see how the blackbird <br />Walks around the feet <br />Of the women about you? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">VIII</span> <br />I know noble accents <br />And lucid, inescapable rhythms; <br />But I know, too, <br />That the blackbird is involved <br />In what I know. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IX</span> <br />When the blackbird flew out of sight, <br />It marked the edge <br />Of one of many circles. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">X</span> <br />At the sight of blackbirds <br />Flying in a green light, <br />Even the bawds of euphony <br />Would cry out sharply. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">XI</span> <br />He rode over Connecticut <br />In a glass coach. <br />Once, a fear pierced him, <br />In that he mistook <br />The shadow of his equipage <br />For blackbirds. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">XII</span> <br />The river is moving. <br />The blackbird must be flying. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">XIII</span> <br />It was evening all afternoon. <br />It was snowing <br />And it was going to snow. <br />The blackbird sat <br />In the cedar-limbs. <br /></div><br />Bring a picture with you to class – perhaps a photograph out of a magazine, or any image which intrigues you in some way.<br /><br />Using Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” as a model, you’re going to write a poem or short prose paragraph describing it.<br /><ul><br /><li>Look at the picture carefully. List the things you see in it.</li><li>How do you react to those things? Write down some of those reactions.</li><li>Try grouping them together. Are there common factors?</li><li>When you start to write, describe the picture, then your associations with it – what it means to you.</li><li>Remember, your description must convey the essence of the picture even to a reader who can’t see it.</li><br /></ul></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 9:</strong> Rules & Taboos<em> and Seminars on Arthur Koestler's <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-9.html"></em>Dialogue with Death<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ucwVq03wAjFsLYTvhltoMoUqJfqHMyahvsY4j-uqxOZiz6IPthKeZjs8GYFFn5WFJ4nDzqs61dhm6XtOyGFW0094hF9Gk-gGZO4CB9PCbYYB9gBWPDDM9fSoflgl2ReaaoL6R5emJ3Mf/s1600-h/american-soldier-killed-by-german-snipers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ucwVq03wAjFsLYTvhltoMoUqJfqHMyahvsY4j-uqxOZiz6IPthKeZjs8GYFFn5WFJ4nDzqs61dhm6XtOyGFW0094hF9Gk-gGZO4CB9PCbYYB9gBWPDDM9fSoflgl2ReaaoL6R5emJ3Mf/s400/american-soldier-killed-by-german-snipers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276882929821168306" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Robert Capa: <a href="http://newcentrist.wordpress.com/2007/11/08/fieldtrip-to-the-international-center-for-photography/">Soldier Killed by Snipers</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-83724345803466921032008-10-22T08:26:00.042+13:002009-01-03T14:33:05.510+13:00Session 7<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJS7byWyJWyLH_iJal4fDKIOaIyEZZW5WhHTdkgphbmHbvHwp2h-b7XyUSPMn3STBzlksxOgivzY33D720W78zpA5aUIyjC7osd8_jPArtWBs0xPW-0k3APHH-_Oa6XvaBr7NRgKYpeFk1/s1600-h/Nijinsky_tombstone.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJS7byWyJWyLH_iJal4fDKIOaIyEZZW5WhHTdkgphbmHbvHwp2h-b7XyUSPMn3STBzlksxOgivzY33D720W78zpA5aUIyjC7osd8_jPArtWBs0xPW-0k3APHH-_Oa6XvaBr7NRgKYpeFk1/s400/Nijinsky_tombstone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261205330120231698" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Serge Lifar: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Vaslav_Nijinsky_tombstone.jpg">Nijinsky's Tombstone</a> (Paris Montmartre)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 7</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/vaslav-nijinsky.html">Vaslav Nijinsky</a>:<br /><em>Diary</em> (1919 / 1936)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Vaslav Nijinsky (1889-1950): from <em>The Diary</em> (1936 / 1999)</li><li>Richard Buckle: from <span style="font-style:italic;">Nijinsky</span> (1971)</li><li>Lu Xun: "Diary of a Madman," from <span style="font-style:italic;">Cheering from the Sidelines</span> (1918-1922)</li><li>Romola Nijinsky: from <span style="font-style:italic;">Nijinsky</span> (1933)</li><li>Romola Nijinsky: from <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Years of Nijinsky</span> (1952)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[1918-19]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />[<em>Death</em>]:<br /><br />I write about the things I have lived through and am not imagining anything. I am sitting at an empty table. In the drawer are all my paints. They have dried up, for I do not do any more painting. I have done a lot and made good progress. I want to paint but not here, as I feel death. I want to go to Paris, but I am afraid I will be too late. I want to write now about death. I will call the first part of this book "Life," and this part "Death." I will make people understand life and death and I hope to be successful. I know that if I publish these books people will say that I am a bad writer, but I do not want to be a writer. I want to be a thinker. Mind is life, not death. I write about philosophy but I am not a philosopher. I do not like philosophy because it is a whim of spoiled people. I am not Schopenhauer. I am Nijinsky. I am the one who dies when he is not loved. I pity myself as I pity God. God loves me and will give me life in death. I do not want to sleep. I am writing at night. My wife is not asleep either, she is thinking. I feel death. <br /><br />I understand people. They want to enjoy life, loving the pleasures of life. All pleasures are horrible. I do not want pleasure. My wife will be frightened when she finds out that everything I write is the truth. I know she will be sad because she will think that I do not love her. It is possible she will not want to live with me any more, because she will not trust me. I love her and I will suffer without her. But my sufferings are necessary and I will bear them. I cannot hide the things I know. I must show the meaning of life and death. I want to describe death. I love it - I know what it is. Death is horrible. I have felt death many times. <br /><br />I was dying in a hospital when I was fifteen years old. I was a brave boy. I had been jumping and fell. They took me to a hospital. There I saw death with my own eyes. I saw a patient foaming at the mouth. It was because he drank a whole bottle of medicine, which keeps one well, but if one drinks it all it makes one die and leave this world. Beyond this world there is no light, and therefore I am afraid of death and what is beyond. I want light, the light of twinkling stars. A twinkling star is life - and a star that does not twinkle is death. I have noticed there are many human beings who do not twinkle. Death is an extinguished life. The life of people who have lost their reason is an extinguished life. I have also been mad. I had lost my reason, but I understood the truth when I was left in St. Moritz - for I have felt deeply about things. I know it is difficult to feel when one is alone. But only alone can one understand feeling. <br /><br />I know it is my fault that my wife is trying to calculate. I have told her not to do it, for all accounts have been settled. I want to go and have a drink and to eat and, after, to write down my impressions. I will write about all the things I see and hear. <br /><br />I drank the whole bottle of mineral water. I want to live as I have lived before. After finishing this book I will do so. I want to write about death and therefore I must have impressions fresh in my mind. When a man writes about his experiences, this must be so. I will write about all my experiences I want to live through. <br /><br />I know that everyone will be frightened of me and they will put me into a lunatic asylum, but I do not care. I am not afraid of anything, and want to die. I will be ready for everything. God wishes to improve life and I will be His instrument. <br /><br />It is past one o’clock and I am still awake. People ought to work during the day but I work at night; tomorrow my eyes will be red. My mother-in-law will be frightened and will think that I am mad. I hope I will be sent to an asylum.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky </em>, ed. Romola Nijinsky, 1936 (Berkeley & LA: University of California Press, 1973): 98-100.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Some Possible Analogies:</span><br /></strong><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9YQE2abVXkk8ybolAPpL2W7k63hqZV2vMVmzHuMl5yG-zgLZEAEFMDpIZLEvzfYRXD1SuzYH6KPxjcjGLJ7hO8k2AvcCt-toOfxQPFfAerrU6dpZr2d-BCKjBqpmQFNB4tm7mREIQRWOG/s1600-h/Kafka.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9YQE2abVXkk8ybolAPpL2W7k63hqZV2vMVmzHuMl5yG-zgLZEAEFMDpIZLEvzfYRXD1SuzYH6KPxjcjGLJ7hO8k2AvcCt-toOfxQPFfAerrU6dpZr2d-BCKjBqpmQFNB4tm7mREIQRWOG/s400/Kafka.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235591873110047762" border="0" /></a>Franz Kafka, <span style="font-style: italic;">Der Process</span> [The Trial] (1925)<br />(English translation, by Edwin and Willa Muir, first published in 1935).<br /></div><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jemand mußte Josef K. verleumdet haben, denn ohne daß er etwas Böses getan hätte, wurde er eines Morgens verhaftet</span>.<br /><br />[Someone must have been telling lies about Josef K., for without having done anything wrong, he was arrested one morning.]<br /><br />- a bureaucratic nightmare of confusion and mistaken identity.<br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eXU7qm4RVdyZ0JMQGS9e6EeUHTdfUO1rEP_QqHanL1kiF4BaB1VZYM8ICHVvr4hwEHZqzfruyBNUzTsk25vXGhaLcxaj2plP3NDC0MIgvUgTfdlIOxdjSYIee2y95MitA7JPzzPaPLpt/s1600-h/Rashomon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eXU7qm4RVdyZ0JMQGS9e6EeUHTdfUO1rEP_QqHanL1kiF4BaB1VZYM8ICHVvr4hwEHZqzfruyBNUzTsk25vXGhaLcxaj2plP3NDC0MIgvUgTfdlIOxdjSYIee2y95MitA7JPzzPaPLpt/s400/Rashomon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235591978231209986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Woodcutter, commoner and priest]</span><br /></div><br />Akira Kurosawa, dir. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rashomon</span> (1950) - based on two stories by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa: "Rashomon" (1915) provides the setting, while "In a Grove" (1921) provides the characters and plot.<br /><blockquote><br />- multiple points-of-view on the same event contradict the notion of a simple, discoverable truth.<br /></blockquote><br />Why did Nijinsky's diary have such a wide vogue when it was first published in the 1930s? What precedents are there for a work of art composed on the very borders of sanity?<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYa67Ul0Z8Eui_jZyaoz-OnJKyyerb1xBI6Y7VPERpntOGGUlOFsCerBufCLax6gIsZhRpgY2rySp5vz_Ew74ficHXrF8-pY42I1fc9O2K-X32PIzSCtEHIVPKrSFgXCIV3jGUthkwokGh/s1600-h/henry-darger-4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYa67Ul0Z8Eui_jZyaoz-OnJKyyerb1xBI6Y7VPERpntOGGUlOFsCerBufCLax6gIsZhRpgY2rySp5vz_Ew74ficHXrF8-pY42I1fc9O2K-X32PIzSCtEHIVPKrSFgXCIV3jGUthkwokGh/s400/henry-darger-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285787081015876482" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.colectiva.tv/wordpress/lang/en-us/2008/04/">The Vivian girls</a>]</span><br /></div><br /><a href-="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Darger">Henry Darger</a>'s outsider art might offer some possible comparisons also.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0NFZe-99nZ9_ZU00-1R-FVkIKHBzJDpcvxd9-4XQklIuBJ2F4iPyfN7arq3K9wqmEPWsGv8_QeMIkX2mMpyZvrxZ8UBiSgDgZZYuOgXN4aihyphenhyphenJ3N-_LOZi99bTabcEb3cAzM_FNxnbYC/s1600-h/Nijinsky+Diary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0NFZe-99nZ9_ZU00-1R-FVkIKHBzJDpcvxd9-4XQklIuBJ2F4iPyfN7arq3K9wqmEPWsGv8_QeMIkX2mMpyZvrxZ8UBiSgDgZZYuOgXN4aihyphenhyphenJ3N-_LOZi99bTabcEb3cAzM_FNxnbYC/s400/Nijinsky+Diary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261206183881912018" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Diary-Vaslav-Nijinsky-Waslaw/dp/0787118311">Nijinsky's Diary</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 7</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Diary of a Madman</strong></span><br /><br />“Maybe there are some children around who still haven't eaten human flesh.”<br />– Lu Xun: "Diary of a Madman" (1918) <br />from <span style="font-style:italic;">Diary of a Madman and Other Stories</span>. 1911-1925. Trans. William A. Lyell. Honoloulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1990. 29-41 (41).<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 7:</span><br />Seven</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />"I have had a good lunch, for I ate two soft-boiled eggs and fried potatoes and beans. I like beans, only they are dry. I don not like dry beans because there is no life in them ..." Nijinsky begins his diary by discussing the taste and texture of beans and other foods. This exercise aims to recapture the intensity of childhood perceptions through the use of sense impressions.<br /><ul><br /><li>Try to remember when you were seven years old. The exact age doesn’t really matter: we're thinking more of a stage when the world still seems new and strange, but babyhood is far behind.</li><li>Going through the five senses – sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste – jot down one particular sound, texture, and so on that brings that time back to you. It can be pleasant or unpleasant: the taste of new bread or of cod liver oil. A few words are all that you need at this stage, just enough to jog your memory. Some people will relate to one sense more strongly than the others. It doesn’t matter if you have to leave one out.</li><li>After that, go through the sense impressions on your list, describing not only the details of texture, taste and so forth, but the associations they bring with them. Sometimes the sense impressions will connect with one another. The smell of sliced green apples might lead on to the taste of the pie, which, in turn, conjures up a Sunday morning and the noise of suburban lawnmowers.</li><li>If you put these sense impressions together, you will find yourself shaping anecdotes about them into longer stories. A student once recalled the smell of the canal, which reminded him of having to carry a large pane of glass through Salford for his father. Just by describing the feel of the glass, he was communicating some of the terror of being seven years old, at the illogical mercy of adults.</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NB:</span> This exercise was adapted from <em>The Creative Writing Handbook: Techniques for New Writers</em>, edited by John Singleton and Mary Luckhurst (London: Macmillan, 1996): 80-82.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 8:</strong> 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird <em>and Seminars on Jean Cocteau's <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-8.html"></em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PfCPyIbU02YaUYQLFI5F-EJv_b06lbxAvbrve6Ih1sAW4sqilx_rRnCYckek_KxErqeAQ4Q-zdM7rXlV60m0BAcQK3ogPfB-R3e75mAvAP9mDvW98QEVXoPUE8xInnv2wzNwoaD2Or3r/s1600-h/opium.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 380px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PfCPyIbU02YaUYQLFI5F-EJv_b06lbxAvbrve6Ih1sAW4sqilx_rRnCYckek_KxErqeAQ4Q-zdM7rXlV60m0BAcQK3ogPfB-R3e75mAvAP9mDvW98QEVXoPUE8xInnv2wzNwoaD2Or3r/s400/opium.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276881721346845858" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.opium.org.uk/">The countdown has begun ...</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-30090387933021099252008-10-22T08:26:00.041+13:002009-01-03T14:32:20.197+13:00Session 6<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig26pgpJ7HgWP3e6r5jBWmqlqsJTQEFUMGH4xzUcwWTIqJqkJ44L2V30_tLSn3y0Fpt-ntTJL2xrWDVX0Df93hQ2nfOF8hICh2x3jXr_P9NJT_d4kGvcjx9NCFh_bpI5s692SgfnKn4FX0/s1600-h/Mawson1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig26pgpJ7HgWP3e6r5jBWmqlqsJTQEFUMGH4xzUcwWTIqJqkJ44L2V30_tLSn3y0Fpt-ntTJL2xrWDVX0Df93hQ2nfOF8hICh2x3jXr_P9NJT_d4kGvcjx9NCFh_bpI5s692SgfnKn4FX0/s400/Mawson1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261212444431057682" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://student.bmj.com/issues/02/05/life/158.php">Mertz & Ninnis</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 6</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/douglas-mawson.html">Douglas Mawson</a>:<br /><em>Antarctic Diaries</em> (1911-1914 / 1988)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Douglas Mawson (1882-1958): from <em>Antarctic Diaries</em> (1988)</li><li>Douglas Mawson: from <em>The Home of the Blizzard</em> (1915)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[1912-13]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">30 December</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Slight rise at start, more of low doming type than flat (indeed one slight fall) - perhaps best described as undulating. Surface improved, became very smooth and firm - good sledging - then old hard sastrugi began to show through, nearly N & S in direction. The sastrugi on smooth (summer) snow almost SE. <br /><br />Xavier off colour. We did 15 m, halting at about 9 am. He turned in - all his things very wet, chiefly on account of no burberry pants. The continuous drift does not give one a chance to dry things, and our gear is deplorable. <br /><br />I go on 3 hours cooking dog meat on arrival in camp. <br /><br />Our course probably did not lie N of (N 43°W). 15 m [covered]. <br /><br />[Computations. ] <br /><br />Did not finish cooking and turn in till 2 pm. Wind and drift still blowing. Woke up 9.15 pm. Sun shining, wind and drift. Woke 10.15 pm. Sun gone. Got up, cooked food-had dog meat breakfast and a little pem. Mertz somewhat better. <br /><br />Tent has dripped terribly, all caked with ice. Light impossible - snowing. Turn in again. Turn out 5.30 am.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">31 December</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Make breakfast of biscuit, butter and tea à la Mertz - quite a time. Got under way by 10 am. Light atrocious - could see almost nothing. Light snow falling. Camped after 2½ m, 2 m for chart at noon 31st. Had small pem and cocoa. Keeping off dog meat for a day or two as both upset by it. Turned in during afternoon. At 7.15 pm sun appeared, but dead calm. I waited till 9.30 pm, then got up, had small meal and got under way. Sun soon disappeared and dense clouds everywhere, got denser, light very bad. Surface very smooth and good, down-grades now though slightly undulating. Can't be certain exactly where going so camped after 5 miles. Light E (?) airs.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1 January [1913]</span><br /><blockquote><br />Turned in 6.30 am. Had 2½ ozs chocolate each up till morning of 2nd when a small pem & cocoa & ¾ biscuit. Intended to make a start but sun, which had gleamed a little, now disappeared. Turned in, had 2 ozs choc till noon 3rd.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">3 January</span><br /><blockquote><br />Mertz boiled a small cocoa and had biscuit, and I had a bit of liver. No sign of sun today. Wind has continued 25 to 35 m per h for last 3 days; snow falling, drifting. I boiled cocoa at 3 pm. Conditions same. <br /><br />Sun gleaming in evening, rapidly improved. I looked out, found sky clearing, boiled up cocoa and off. Did 5 miles but cold wind frost-bit Mertz's fingers, and he is generally in a very bad condition. Skin coming off legs, etc - so had to camp though going [was] good.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">4 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Intended getting up 10 am and going on as day very good but Mertz in bad condition, so I doctored him part of day and rested. Started on new food bag, using on morning of 5th first of it, serving Mertz milk, etc. <br /><br />We sighted other side highlands of glacier before camping. Towards midnight it started to snow and completely overcast.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">5 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Overcast, a little snow falling, drift. Wind as usual in early morning hours 20 to 3.5 mph, reached 40 mph this morning. Became somewhat calmer, 20 mph at 9 am. I tried to get Xavier to start but he practically refused, saying it was suicide and that it much best for him to have the day in bag and dry it and get better, then do more on sun-shining day. I strongly advocated doing 2 to 5 miles only for exercise even if we could not see properly. Eventually we decided to rest today but every day after that he would shift. <br /><br />We had one meal at 3.30 pm - a half tin hoosh and cocoa and ½ biscuit- a rattling good meal and I now feel comparatively satisfied as if I just came out of one of best London restaurants. This meal broke first food of Bag 10 and sun appeared fitfully at same time - a good omen. Later at 4.20 pm, sun shines bright and weather clearing. Mertz will not move till tomorrow however. It may be better for his legs too. <br /><br />All will depend on providence now - it is an even race to the Hut.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">6 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />I got up at 7 am and started arrangements for packing, did cooking, etc. Sun only gleaming through cloud but surface fairly well distinguished. Got off 10.30. Xavier not being able to help at all. Did not raise sail though favourable breeze - surface very good and down hill. Surface slippery, so occasional falls. Quite dizzy from long stay in bags, I felt weak from want of food. But to my surprise Xavier soon caved in - he went 2 miles only in long halts and refused to go further. I did my best with him offered to pull him on the sledge, then to set sail and sail him but he refused both after trial. We camped. I think he has a fever, he does not assimilate his food. Things are in a most serious state for both of us - if he cannot go on 8 or 10 m a day, in a day or two we are doomed. I could pull through myself with the provisions at hand but I cannot leave him. His heart seems to have gone. It is very hard for me - to be within 100 m of the Hut and in such a position is awful. <br /><br />At 3 pm it became more deeply overcast and all trace of sun lost. I cook up dog meat. Turn in 8 pm. A long and wearisome night. If only I could get on. But I must stop with Xavier, and he docs not appear to be improving - both our chances are going now.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">7 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Up 8 am, it having been arranged that we should go on at all cost - sledge sailing, I leading and Xavier in his bag on the sledge. Just as I got out at 8 am I found Xavier in a terrible state having fouled his pants. He must be very weak now for I do up and undo most of his things now and put him into & take him out of the bag. I have a long job cleaning him up, then put him into the bag to warm up. I have to turn in again also to kill time & keep warm - for I feel the cold very much now. At 10 am I get up to dress Xavier & prepare breakfast but I find him in a kind of a fit & wrap him up in the bag & leave him - obviously we can't go on today, and it is a good day though bad light, the sun just gleaming through the clouds. This is terrible. I don't mind for myself, but it is for Paquita and for all others connected with the expedition that I feel so deeply and sinfully. I pray to God to help us. <br /><br />I cook some thick cocoa for Xavier & give him some beef tea - he is better after noon but very low. I have to lift him up to drink. During the afternoon he has several fits & is delirious, fills his trousers again and I clean out for him. He is very weak, becomes more & more delirious, rarely being able to speak coherently. He will eat or drink nothing. At 8 pm he raves & breaks a tent pole. Continues to rave & call 'Oh Yen, Oh Yen' [<span style="font-style:italic;">sic</span>; possibly German '0 Weh, 0 Weh'] for hours. I hold him down, then he becomes more peaceful & I put him quietly in the bag. He dies peacefully at about 2 am on morning of 8th. <br /><br />Death due to exposure finally bringing on a fever, result of weather exposure & want of food. <br /><br />He had lost all skin of legs & private parts. I am in same condition & sores on finger won't heal.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">8 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />The weather today overcast most of time, then gleams of sun & light snow in evening, This awful weather is quite unlooked for and I deeply hope it has not caught any of the party short of food.<br /><br />For many days now (since 1st quite) Xavier's condition has prevented us going on and now I am afraid it has cooked my chances altogether, even of a single attempt either to the coast or to the Hut - lying in the damp bag for a week on extremely low rations has reduced my condition seriously. However, I shall spend today remodelling the gear to make an attempt. I shall do my utmost to the last for Paquita's & supporters' & members of expedition's sakes, and at least get word through how matters stand.<br /><br />This spot is only about 100 miles SE of Hut - a few miles nearer, probably on slopes of icy plateau over the large glacier past the crater. <br /><br />Up at 9 am, Cut sledge in two, [retain] original mast and permanent spars; and [make] many other alterations and make a sail by sewing materials. I have 2 boil-ups and a little more food than usual. I have left Xavier in his bag and taken him outside to bury. <br /><br />I hope to get off in good time with reasonable weather tomorrow. Turn in 10 pm.</blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">9 January</span> <br /><blockquote><br />Sun gleamed early in morning then got stronger. Wind however so strong, about 45 to 50 m per h, that I dare not take down tent as could not get it up again by myself: so do odd jobs waiting for a chance. I have more to eat today in hope that it will give me strength for the future. One annoying effect of want of food is that wherever the skin breaks it refused to heal, the nose and lips break open also. My scrotum, like Xavier's. is also getting in a painfully raw condition due to reduced condition, dampness and friction in walking. It is well nigh impossible to treat. <br /><br />I read the Burial Service over Xavier this afternoon. <br /><br />As there is little chance of my reaching human aid alive I greatly regret my inability to set out the coast line as surveyed for the 300 miles we travelled and [record] the notes on glaciers and ice formations, etc. – the most of which latter is of course committed to my head. …</blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Douglas Mawson: <em>Antarctic Diaries</em>, ed. Fred & Eleanor Jacka, 1988 (North Sydney: Susan Haynes / Allen & Unwin, 1991): 156-59.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tzIxAvTK0Fz4QEIsYwLqWFyI5mT8Yj3t7zeE8qDmmcydVJcqy6Ew1iouaO12O2acqvfSB36hyphenhyphenyvPMNxSgrvkVb4BGbv38mtPeNbyItEa0TyWi2yr8nRfVpSSEKDT4nXPatJJDemytKDG/s1600-h/endurance_night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tzIxAvTK0Fz4QEIsYwLqWFyI5mT8Yj3t7zeE8qDmmcydVJcqy6Ew1iouaO12O2acqvfSB36hyphenhyphenyvPMNxSgrvkVb4BGbv38mtPeNbyItEa0TyWi2yr8nRfVpSSEKDT4nXPatJJDemytKDG/s400/endurance_night.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286530704022800482" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.coolantarctica.com/Antarctica%20fact%20file/History/antarctic_ships/endurance.htm">Endurance</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration:</span><br />A Chronology (1897-1922)</strong><br /></div><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1897–99<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Belgian Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Belgica <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Adrien de Gerlache<br /><blockquote><br />This was the first expedition to overwinter within the Antarctic Circle, after the ship was icebound in the Bellingshausen Sea. It collected the first annual cycle of Antarctic observations. It also reached 71°30'S, and discovered the Gerlache Strait.</blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1898–1900<br /><strong>Title:</strong> UK / British Antarctic Expedition 1898<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Southern Cross<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Carsten Borchgrevink<br /><blockquote> <br />The first expedition to overwinter on the Antarctic mainland (Cape Adare), it was the first to make use of dogs and sledges. It made the first ascent of Great Ice Barrier, and set a Farthest South record at 78°30'S. It also calculated the location of the South Magnetic Pole.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1901–04 <br /><strong>Title:</strong> National Antarctic Expedition 1901<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Discovery / Morning (relief ship)/ Terra Nova (relief ship) <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Robert Falcon Scott<br /><blockquote><br />It made the first ascent of the Western Mountains in Victoria Land, and discovered the polar plateau. Its southern journey set a new Farthest South record, 82°17'S. Many other geographical features were discovered, mapped and named. This was the first of several expeditions based in McMurdo Sound.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1901–03<br /><strong>Title:</strong> First German Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Gauss<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Erich von Drygalski<br /><blockquote><br />The first expedition to investigate eastern Antarctica, it discovered the coast of Kaiser Wilhelm II Land, and Mount Gauss. The expedition's ship became trapped in ice, which prevented more extensive exploration.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1901–03<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Swedish Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Antarctica<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Otto Nordenskiöld<br /><blockquote><br />This expedition worked in the east coastal area of Graham Land, and was marooned on Snow Hill Island and Paulet Island in the Weddell Sea, after the sinking of its expedition ship. It was rescued by the Argentinian naval vessel <em>Uruguay</em>. <br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1902–04<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Scottish National Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Scotia <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> William Speirs Bruce<br /><blockquote><br />The permanent Orcadas weather station in South Orkney Islands was established. The Weddell Sea was penetrated to 74°01'S, and the coastline of Coats Land was discovered, defining the sea's eastern limits.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1903–05<br /><strong>Title:</strong> First French Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Français <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Jean-Baptiste Charcot <br /><blockquote><br />Originally intended as a relief expedition for the stranded Nordenskiöld party, the main work of this expedition was the mapping and charting of islands and the western coasts of Graham Land, on the Antarctic peninsula. A section of the coast was explored, and named Loubet Land after the President of France.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1907–09 <br /><strong>Title:</strong> British Antarctic Expedition 1907<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Nimrod<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Ernest Shackleton <br /><blockquote><br />The first expedition led by Shackleton. Based in McMurdo Sound, it pioneered the Beardmore Glacier route to the South Pole. Its southern march reached 88°23'S, a new Farthest South record 97 geographical miles from the Pole. The Northern Party reached the location of the South Magnetic Pole.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1908–10<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Second French Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Pourquoi-Pas? IV<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Jean-Baptiste Charcot<br /><blockquote><br />This continued the work of the earlier French expedition with a general exploration of the Bellingshausen Sea, and the discovery of islands and other features, including Marguerite Bay, Charcot Island, Renaud Island, Mikkelsen Bay, Rothschild Island.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1910–12<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Japanese Antarctic Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Kainan Maru<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Nobu Shirase<br /><blockquote><br />The first non-European Antarctic expedition carried out a coastal exploration of King Edward VII Land, and investigated the eastern sector of the Great Ice Barrier, reaching 80°5'S.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1910–12<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Amundsen's South Pole expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Fram<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Roald Amundsen<br /><blockquote><br />First to the South Pole: Amundsen set up camp on the Great Ice Barrier, at the Bay of Whales. He discovered a new route to the polar plateau via the Axel Heiberg Glacier. A party of five led by Amundsen reached the South Pole via this route on 15 December 1911.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1910–13<br /><strong>Title:</strong> British Antarctic Expedition 1910<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Terra Nova<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Robert Falcon Scott<br /><blockquote><br />Scott's last expedition, based like his first in McMurdo Sound. Scott and four companions reached the South Pole via the Beardmore route on 17 January 1912, 33 days after Amundsen. All five died on the return journey from the Pole, through a combination of starvation and cold.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1911–13<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Second German Antarctic Expedition <br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Deutschland <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Wilhelm Filchner <br /><blockquote><br />The objective was the first crossing of Antarctica. The expedition made the southernmost Weddell Sea penetration to date, reaching 77°45'S, and discovering Luitpold Coast, Filchner-Ronne Ice Shelf, and Vahsel Bay. It failed to establish a shore base from which to mount its transcontinental march, and after a long drift in the Weddell Sea pack ice it returned to South Georgia.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1911–14 <br /><strong>Title:</strong> Australasian Antarctic Expedition <br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Aurora<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Douglas Mawson <br /><blockquote><br />The expedition concentrated on the stretch of Antarctic coastline between Cape Adare and Mount Gauss, carrying out mapping and survey work on coastal and inland territories. Discoveries included Commonwealth Bay, Ninnis Glacier, Mertz Glacier, and Queen Mary Land.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1914–17 <br /><strong>Title:</strong> Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition <br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Endurance<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Ernest Shackleton<br /><blockquote><br />Another transcontinental crossing attempt. It failed to land the Weddell Sea shore party after <em>Endurance</em> was trapped and crushed in ice. The expedition then rescued itself after a series of exploits, including a prolonged drift on an ice-floe, Shackleton's open boat journey, and the first crossing of South Georgia.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1914–17<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Ross Sea party<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Aurora <br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Aeneas Mackintosh<br /><blockquote><br />Its objective was to support the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition by laying depots across the Great Ice Barrier, to supply the party crossing from the Weddell Sea. All the required depots were laid, but in the process three men, including the leader Mackintosh, lost their lives.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Dates:</strong> 1921–22<br /><strong>Title:</strong> Shackleton-Rowett Expedition<br /><strong>Ship/s:</strong> Quest<br /><strong>Expedition Leader:</strong> Ernest Shackleton<br /><blockquote><br />Vaguely defined objectives included coastal mapping, a possible continental circumnavigation, the investigation of sub-Antarctic islands, and oceanographic work. After Shackleton's death on 5 January 1922, <em>Quest</em> completed a shortened programme before returning home. <br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Information from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroic_Age_of_Antarctic_Exploration">Wikipedia</a>.</div><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Ptd4lENTv866wFfSD8W249skWi4P0SNTKMV07fwL_lpwYd5yTYqP32B-sFnefxXxa33uI2rYuVSSsXR2NIdqCJIYGgPN9D90maQn_3aoRgMXM6IGKxEdmL_aZ0ugcDX1nUjmIe_m25gR/s1600-h/Home+of+the+BIizzard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Ptd4lENTv866wFfSD8W249skWi4P0SNTKMV07fwL_lpwYd5yTYqP32B-sFnefxXxa33uI2rYuVSSsXR2NIdqCJIYGgPN9D90maQn_3aoRgMXM6IGKxEdmL_aZ0ugcDX1nUjmIe_m25gR/s400/Home+of+the+BIizzard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261213024868378898" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.myhero.com/myhero/hero.asp?hero=d_mawson">The Home of the Blizzard</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 6</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>The Home of the Blizzard</em></span></strong><br /><br />“To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.”<br />– Robert Louis Stevenson, <em>Virginibus Puerisque</em> (1881).<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 6:</span><br />Travelling Hopefully</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Mawson's journey was an epic of frustration and bad luck, overcome by indomitable will. His misfortunes stemmed mainly from three unpredictable factors: (1) the loss of Ninnis and the sled with most of their food and supplies in a crevasse; (2) Mertz's mysterious illness; (3) vagaries of weather and terrain.<br /><ul><br /><li>Imagine a character hurrying to get somewhere. Why? What do they hope to find there?</li><li>Put three obstacles in their way – not insurmountable problems, but little things that threaten to derail their schedule.</li><li>One is a person, one some kind of machine, and the third is … something else.</li><br /></ul><br />Write a page to a paragraph describing what they find when they reach their destination. Might it have been better if they’d never got there at all?<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 7:</strong> Seven<em> and Seminars on <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-7.html"></em>The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRRjTK0SvSE1OBQud_uLECPLhqRIOULYhaS15981Df6k08_9y7rYNAeICLQOWhrM7rdljHL5fek6a2oYzYGn4FBJUcifZtErkoq_9a0njKwMfrOrOcRRW5_7jKnCvgI28ubQ3HIk3jsAT/s1600-h/nijinsky_barbier2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 348px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRRjTK0SvSE1OBQud_uLECPLhqRIOULYhaS15981Df6k08_9y7rYNAeICLQOWhrM7rdljHL5fek6a2oYzYGn4FBJUcifZtErkoq_9a0njKwMfrOrOcRRW5_7jKnCvgI28ubQ3HIk3jsAT/s400/nijinsky_barbier2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276880756409396594" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[George Barbier: <a href="http://www.johncoulthart.com/feuilleton/?p=1337">Narcissus</a> (1913)]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-88534332602259983222008-10-22T08:25:00.020+13:002009-01-02T16:15:43.593+13:00Session 5<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_H8vAh3vY2R-k6yYepjqIYFNK_7FrPw1qwgo5oo1QJ3jEqK4xUIgB5DQ2FinCs3txysq2BKfaJt8QLCM0VVij6lGbnFZH7Oci60_qOew7O4VvO8AamjLpJIzmn9KFQeuxbv2zlvbbxWhk/s1600-h/Alice+in+bed.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_H8vAh3vY2R-k6yYepjqIYFNK_7FrPw1qwgo5oo1QJ3jEqK4xUIgB5DQ2FinCs3txysq2BKfaJt8QLCM0VVij6lGbnFZH7Oci60_qOew7O4VvO8AamjLpJIzmn9KFQeuxbv2zlvbbxWhk/s400/Alice+in+bed.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261217280974396466" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://niftynats.tripod.com/lesbians/">Alice in bed</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 5</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/alice-james.html">Alice James</a>:<br /><em>The Diary of Alice James</em> (1889-92 / 1894)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Alice James (1848-1892): <em>Diary</em> (1934 / 1964)</li><li>Susan Sontag: from <em>Alice in Bed</em> (1993)</li><li>Jean Strouse: from <em>Alice James: A Biography</em> (1980))</li><li>Ruth Bernard Yeazell: from <em>The Death and Letters of Alice James</em> (1981))</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[January 23, 1891]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">South Kensington</span>.<br /><br />Before the year waxes older, I must recount our novel festivities at Christmas. Little Nurse has an exemplary habit of telling me all her experiences, great and small, and since I have been here, she has afforded me infinite amusement by psychological revelations of the Stewards' Room. She is allowed to report all mental eccentricities of the Lady's Maid, the Chef, the Steward, the Waiter, etc., but the line is supposed to be rigidly drawn at all gossip about the "ladies," though I must confess that curiosity often gets the better of my high tone, and I listen, with great receptivity, to the shortcomings of Mrs. Jones, Brown and Robinson; for alas! I am sorry to say, that the ladies' maid mind, like mine, finds the recital of humanity's shortcomings more succulent than that of its perfections; virtue permitting of little license of treatment more than accounts for our preoccupation with the deviations therefrom. <br /><br />In this way a wide social range was vicariously opened out to us - beginning by a servants' ball in the hotel on Christmas night, tapering down through a party at "Cousin Val's," a bootmaker, who has been to Marlborough House to measure the illustrious foot of Royalty, and ending on Saturday night with a comprehensive gathering at the Sweep's at Hampstead, where the exalted Assistant from Marshall and Snelgrove's watched from the other side of the room the inspirations of a Carter and a ploughboy. <br /><br />The Nursling, knowing that she did not shine as a dancer, and being in no way inclined to obscurity, disguised herself for the ball very successfully as an old hag, and sang and acted one of those dreary Compounds of "Charing." "Betsey Waring," "Damp-attics" and "roomatics" known as a Comic song. We have long had it impressed upon us that she "knew" music and Drawing, but her histrionic genius had lain fallow, so we were much surprised and delighted at its unexpected blossoming. One day, when I told her how anxious I was about the first night of The American, she asked: "Should you have felt very badly if I had failed on Christmas night?" adding: "I never should have held up my head in this hotel again if I had." <br /><br />The Ladies and gentlemen being invited to honour the occasion: K. put on her mouse-coloured velvet gown, and went down just before Nurse's song. She was received at the door, by one of the "gentlemen" in the office, who escorted her to a chair. When Jennie, our housemaid, came up with enthusiasm, to greet her and introduced another housemaid, Jessie (our second housemaid) sat beside her, while our three waiters interchanged conversational amenities with her from time to time all as if they were friends and hosts, till one's heart was melted to hear about it. These aesthetic decencies so wrap about the iniquities, and so explain and justify their long continuance, that one has flaccid moments of shivering at the raw edges that will be laid bare as democracy sweeps its pope's-head through the festooning cobwebs, and crumbles the richly hued mould into dust. Jennie said to Nurse, with delight, the next morning: "fancy Miss Loring shaking hands with me before the whole room." Let us pray that our unconscious benefactions outweigh our unconscious cruelties! <br /><br />This by the way allies K. with the Countess of Portsmouth, who says she always shakes hands with the village school mistress, because she thinks "it's the best plan." Think of the swindle of being so placed! rigid with the framework of the Personage, and ne'er a shady corner from the cradle to the grave for the limbering and rejoiceful somersault. But I must get on with my festivities. <br /><br />Cousin Val's party seemed commonplace with the trail of Royalty and a professional comedian upon it, - Ivan Berlin, more woolly than terrible; but real life was found in perfection at the Sweep's, who lives in a little cottage in one of the hollows of Hampstead Heath. <br /><br />The party consisted of about 20, 10 having fortunately failed, who were placed, in order to fit in, on stools close together round the walls of the little sitting-room, against which they couldn't lean, however, because they were dripping with wet, there being no fire, for fear of too much heat at this frigid season. Upon her stool, Nurse sat from five in the evening until six the next morning, save at the moments when she burst into song, the essence of the occasion being uninterrupted vocalization and an all night sitting. Nurse at one moment raised the tone, by making to the Marshall and Snelgrove contingent, a literary allusion to the clammy hands of Uriah Heep, - "The others wouldn't have known to what we referred, Miss." They seemed to be differentiated by special songs, one recalcitrant young woman being besought at frequent intervals through the watches of the night to sing "Joanna in her Shroud," which turned out to be "Joe in the Copper," and the Sweep coming to Nurse, to tell her that a young woman was about to sing one of her songs, and what could he do about it, as if there were a vocal copyright. Over the evolutions of the carter and a gallon of beer we must sadly draw a veil, but the ploughboy, pitted with small-pox, with features fashioned in one of the least kindly moods of Providence, seemed the rarest flower of benignancy. So preoccupied was he with the welfare of the guests, and making the occasion "go off," that Nurse thought he must be related to the hosts - the last note of a song had hardly died, before he would exclaim: "If no one else is going to sing, I know another"; and perched on his stool, his eyes tight shut, clenched hands, and heels tucked under him, he would drone out, by the yard, ditties to the refrain of "My Comryde died for me," and the like. Think of the joy in life of this lowly lad, his soul rapturous with song, all instinct and fluid with the grace of hospitality, as compared, for instance, with Lord Wharncliffe, whose ancestral exigencies are such that he turns his back upon his guests however fair they be, and takes his own sister, without a grimace, in to dinner, four days in succession. A lady staying with this unfortunate bondman, pathetically remarked that "having no title, I had to go in to dinner every day with the same gentleman, and that gentleman, Mr. Smalley, too." <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Diary of Alice James</em>, ed. Leon Edel, 1964 (Boston: Northwestern University Press, 1999): 168-71.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4nlsblSiIrFfB-9zU8VHNoV0FZ1N5xYsVA7ggu5XVccaILB6h0YdauZS0lTtJZ5QtjA0uneGTJc1awTZ9uG5wAec8gMB7Tp-T95V2o8h0kIlcS2qhyphenhyphenVGDz9LmG-zm0xa0-AEQ9G0nBCQ/s1600-h/sodhouse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4nlsblSiIrFfB-9zU8VHNoV0FZ1N5xYsVA7ggu5XVccaILB6h0YdauZS0lTtJZ5QtjA0uneGTJc1awTZ9uG5wAec8gMB7Tp-T95V2o8h0kIlcS2qhyphenhyphenVGDz9LmG-zm0xa0-AEQ9G0nBCQ/s400/sodhouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221580958235955986" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www2.bc.edu/~wilsonc/amspace.html">Sod-house</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Significance of the Frontier in American History</span></strong><br /></div><br />Three ways of mythologising the American frontier:<br /><blockquote><br />We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads.<br /><br />Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disk rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles, the tongue, the share - black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.<br /><br />Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie.<br /><br />- Willa Cather, <span style="font-style: italic;">My Antonia</span>, Bk 2, Chapter XIV.<br /></blockquote><br />Frederick Turner's <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/22994/22994-8.txt">The Frontier in American History</a> (1920) included his landmark essay "The Significance of the Frontier in American History"(A paper read at the meeting of the American Historical Association in Chicago, July 12, 1893. It first appeared in the Proceedings of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, December 14, 1893):<br /><blockquote><br />From the conditions of frontier life came intellectual traits of profound importance. The works of travelers along each frontier from colonial days onward describe certain common traits, and these traits have, while softening down, still persisted as survivals in the place of their origin, even when a higher social organization succeeded. The result is that to the frontier the American intellect owes its striking characteristics. That coarseness and strength combined with acuteness and inquisitiveness; that practical, inventive turn of mind, quick to find expedients; that masterful grasp of material things, lacking in the artistic but powerful to effect great ends; that restless, nervous energy; that dominant individualism, working for good and for evil, and withal that buoyancy and exuberance which comes with freedom--these are traits of the frontier, or traits called out elsewhere because of the existence of the frontier. Since the days when the fleet of Columbus sailed into the waters of the New World, America has been another name for opportunity, and the people of the United States have taken their tone from the incessant expansion which has not only been open but has even been forced upon them. He would be a rash prophet who should assert that the expansive character of American life has now entirely ceased. Movement has been its dominant fact, and, unless this training has no effect upon a people, the American energy will continually demand a wider field for its exercise. But never again will such gifts of free land offer themselves. For a moment, at the frontier, the bonds of custom are broken and unrestraint is triumphant. There is no <span style="font-style: italic;">tabula rasa</span>. The stubborn American environment is there with its imperious summons to accept its conditions; the inherited ways of doing things are also there; and yet, in spite of environment, and in spite of custom, each frontier did indeed furnish a new field of opportunity, a gate of escape from the bondage of the past; and freshness, and confidence, and scorn of older society, impatience of its restraints and its ideas, and indifference to its lessons, have accompanied the frontier. What the Mediterranean Sea was to the Greeks, breaking the bond of custom, offering new experiences, calling out new institutions and activities, that, and more, the ever retreating frontier has been to the United States directly, and to the nations of Europe more remotely. And now, four centuries from the discovery of America, at the end of a hundred years of life under the Constitution, the frontier has gone, and with its going has closed the first period of American history.<br /></blockquote><br />F. Scott Fitzgerald, <a href="http://xroads.virginia.edu/%7EHYPER/Fitzgerald/gatsby/cover.html">The Great Gatsby</a> (1925):<br /><blockquote><br />Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes - a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.<br /><br />And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.<br /><br />Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning -<br /><br />So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.<br /></blockquote><br />Perhaps the most important things to note are:<br /><ol><br /><li>The elegiac tone.</li><li>The importance of the European / American dichtomy: Old World / New World; Paleface / Redskin ("Back in the ’30s, Philip Rahv memorably divided American fiction writers into redskins and palefaces — Mark Twain epitomized the wild men, Henry James the civilized — a chasm that today may be outmoded or politically indelicate ..." <a href="http://www.theartsfuse.com/2007/10/20/book-review-edmund-wilson-a-paleface-of-a-redskin-part-1/">Bill Marx</a>).</li><br /></ol><br />Compare this, then, with the following passage from Alice James's diary for January 1891:<br /><blockquote><br />The Parson is an unfailing emetic!<br /><br />From <span style="font-style:italic;">Truth</span>: <br /><div align="center"><br />Thou shalt Love thy Neighbour as Thyself.<br />S. Mark xii. 31.<br />_____</div><br /><blockquote>N.B. - Shopkeepers are affectionately recommended to you as being "a set of people" useful for supplying small articles on credit to suit your convenience. They also exhibit "showbills" in their windows; they help to pay the Rates and Taxes; their competition keeps down prices; they subscribe to the Church; and they always vote for the union of Church and State. But –</blockquote><div align="center">Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.<br />S. Matthew vi. 24."</div><br /><blockquote><br />"In constructing the earlier basis of a model, sculptors generally commence by moulding the form without drapery of any sort, and it was the Queen's incessant fear that her subjects should contemplate the Royal forms when undergoing this preliminary, imaginative 'building-up' that led her to insist upon a special studio being reserved exclusively for work connected with the Royal Family." (From <em>Truth</em>.)</blockquote><br />Isn't she the supreme grocer?<br /><br />When I was last here, in London, a friend who used very often to come to see me said one day: "I have just been to the 'Wild West,' and I do enjoy your country so, it's so free and fresh." As the female of the Cow Boy, my attractions were explained. <div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Diary of Alice James</em> (1999): 168.</div><br /></blockquote><br />How better to sum up the "international theme"? The stuffiness of a nation of shopkeepers contrasted with the Cow girl charms even of bedridden Alice?<br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc_sq1IjzKdt_n4HfDHFd5Aqvfc8DFrn6-fmt4A9OsmT2JaNSCVL9vLujIHemwsBZh-HvzV-56k7KZWUGWtkblA24jakYoEmmfQcwG2vXoTmfQlGsoOi6Lp-0RtYLJboZaidpae1uuFxW/s1600-h/AliceJ.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc_sq1IjzKdt_n4HfDHFd5Aqvfc8DFrn6-fmt4A9OsmT2JaNSCVL9vLujIHemwsBZh-HvzV-56k7KZWUGWtkblA24jakYoEmmfQcwG2vXoTmfQlGsoOi6Lp-0RtYLJboZaidpae1uuFxW/s400/AliceJ.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261216582521950978" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.mutanteggplant.com/vitro-nasu/category/books/susan-sontag/">Desperately Seeking Alice</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 5</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Alice in Bed</strong><br /></span><br />“An artist is someone who finishes something.”<br /><br />– Susan Sontag, <em>Alice in Bed: A Play in Eight scenes</em> (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1993): 20.<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 5:</span><br />Family Gatherings</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Families can be extremely complicated, especially now divorce is so common. At a wedding, there might be several sets of parents and grandparents. Ex-spouses size up one another’s new partners. You might feel most interested in the people you know least well – the black sheep of the family, or the legendary uncle from America. How do such characters match up to their image within the family?<br /><ul><br /><li>Visualise a family gathering. Remember everybody who’s there. You’ll know them in varying degrees of intimacy; Some you’ll know very well, others you’ll never have seen before. You could put them all around a table, in church pews or in an imaginary group photo. Imagine them in as much detail as you can, focusing on their behaviour together.</li><li>After taking notes on the group as a whole, choose one of these characters and describe them in detail, concentrating on their behaviour within this setting and what it reveals about them: their past, their future.</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NB:</span> This exercise was adapted from <em>The Creative Writing Handbook: Techniques for New Writers</em>, edited by John Singleton and Mary Luckhurst (London: Macmillan, 1996): 85-86.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 6:</strong> Travelling Hopefully <em>and Seminars on Mawson's <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-6.html"></em>Antarctic Diaries<em></a> are due; as well as the </em>Creative Response<em> (due in at the Department on Friday 22nd August).</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95xa7C5v2KtUf2ZTO6eARi29HLuSk1CgIIQdnMQ3Zvj1nijMVpvGBKyU7Ol2xZAORHZ8vg6-eTYnw_-k4ZPceGt7FyZYlcX1SF6Z_yq8bsPqlR5OZqHdLrlphSxVCKkOVIKWc2-EoIJSY/s1600-h/mawson0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95xa7C5v2KtUf2ZTO6eARi29HLuSk1CgIIQdnMQ3Zvj1nijMVpvGBKyU7Ol2xZAORHZ8vg6-eTYnw_-k4ZPceGt7FyZYlcX1SF6Z_yq8bsPqlR5OZqHdLrlphSxVCKkOVIKWc2-EoIJSY/s400/mawson0.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276879905926755842" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.sydneyobservatory.com.au/blog/?p=594">Mawson on the Moon</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-15426733759220489672008-10-22T08:22:00.017+13:002009-01-02T10:56:54.515+13:00Session 4<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wTpW3WhKYCCeXRmo-aR-MX7L4__1p0dPJfvRg4Djiq3JUR9T7LHC8dMZxYYqETlYmwsIN0rSTSWF7GitpBUcjRPGhcj7SqhSINofspgq4SV16r7etr8QHVPLldYtv9v9MTgczrgDYTZ8/s1600-h/Diary+from+Dixie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-wTpW3WhKYCCeXRmo-aR-MX7L4__1p0dPJfvRg4Djiq3JUR9T7LHC8dMZxYYqETlYmwsIN0rSTSWF7GitpBUcjRPGhcj7SqhSINofspgq4SV16r7etr8QHVPLldYtv9v9MTgczrgDYTZ8/s400/Diary+from+Dixie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261199407668146866" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.censusdiggins.com/prison_rock_island.html">Rock Island Prison</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 4</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/mary-chesnut.html">Mary Chesnut</a>:<br /><em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War</em> (1861-65 / 1905)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Mary Chesnut (1823-1886): from <em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War</em> (1905 / 1981)</li><li>Mary Chesnut: from <em>The Private Mary Chesnut: the Unpublished Civil War Diaries</em> (1861-65 / 1984)</li><li>Shelby Foote: from <em>The Civil War: A Narrative</em> (1958-74)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[April 11-15th, 1861]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Why did that green goose Anderson go into Fort Sumter? Then everything began to go wrong.<br /><br />Now they have intercepted a letter from him urging them to let him surrender. He paints the horrors likely to ensue if they will not.<br /><br />He ought to have thought of all that before he put his head in the hole.<br /><br /><strong>April 12, 1861</strong>. Anderson will not capitulate.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Yesterday's was the merriest, maddest dinner we have had yet. Men were more audaciously wise and witty. We had an unspoken foreboding that it was to be our last pleasant meeting. Mr. Miles dined with us to-day. Mrs. Henry King rushed in: "The news, I come for the latest news - all the men of the King family are on the island" - of which fact she seemed proud.<br /> <br />While she was here our peace negotiator - or envoy - came in. That is, Mr. Chesnut returned - his interview with Colonel Anderson had been deeply interesting - but was not inclined to be communicative, wanted his dinner. Felt for Anderson. Had telegraphed to President Davis for instructions.<br /><br />What answer to give Anderson, &c&c. He has gone back to Fort Sumter, with additional instructions.<br /><br />When they were about to leave the wharf A. H. Boykin sprang into the boat, in great excitement; thought himself ill-used. A likelihood of fighting and he to be left behind!<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div> <br />I do not pretend to go to sleep. How can I? If Anderson does not accept terms - at four - the orders are - he shall be fired upon.<br /><br />I count four - St. Michael chimes. I begin to hope. At half-past four, the heavy booming of a cannon.<br /><br />I sprang out of bed. And on my knees - prostrate - I prayed as I never prayed before.<br /> <br />There was a sound of stir all over the house - pattering of feet in the corridors - all seemed hurrying one way. I put on my double gown and a shawl and went, too. It was to the housetop.<br /><br />The shells were bursting. In the dark I heard a man say "waste of ammunition."<br /><br />I knew my husband was rowing about in a boat somewhere in that dark bay. And that the shells were roofing it over - bursting toward the fort. If Anderson was obstinate - he was to order the forts on our side to open fire. Certainly fire had begun. The regular roar of the cannon - there it was. And who could tell what each volley accomplished of death and destruction.<br /> <br />The women were wild there on the housetop. Prayers from the women and imprecations from the men, and then a shell would light up the scene. Tonight, they say, the forces are to attempt to land.<br /><br />The <em>Harriet Lane</em> had her wheelhouse smashed and put back to sea.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />We watched up there - everyone wondered. Fort Sumter did not fire a shot.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />To-day Miles and Manning, colonels now - aides to Beauregard - dined with us. The latter hoped I would keep the peace. I give him only good words, for he was to be under fire all day and night, down in the bay carrying orders, &c.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Last night - or this morning truly - up on the housetop I was so weak and weary I sat down on something that looked like a black stool.<br /><br />"Get up, you foolish woman - your dress is on fire," cried a man. And he put me out. It was a chimney, and the sparks caught my clothes. Susan Preston and Mr. Venable then came up. But my fire had been extinguished before it burst out into a regular blaze.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Do you know, after all that noise and our tears and prayers, nobody has been hurt. Sound and fury signifying nothing. A delusion and a snare.<br /> <br />Louisa Hamilton comes here now. This is a sort of news center. Jack Hamilton, her handsome young husband, has all the credit of a famous battery which is made of RR iron. Mr. Petigru calls it the boomerang because it throws the balls back the way they came - so Lou Hamilton tells us. She had no children during her first marriage. Hence the value of this lately achieved baby. To divert Louisa from the glories of "the battery," of which she raves, we asked if the baby could talk yet.<br /><br />"No - not exactly - but he imitates the big gun. When he hears that, he claps his hands and cries 'Boom, boom.'" Her mind is distinctly occupied by three things - Lieutenant Hamilton, whom she calls Randolph, the baby, and "the big gun" - and it refuses to hold more.<br /> <br />Pryor of Virginia spoke from the piazza of the Charleston hotel.<br /><br />I asked what he said, irreverent woman. "Oh, they all say the same thing, but he made great play with that long hair of his, which he is always tossing aside."<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Somebody came in just now and reported Colonel Chesnut asleep on the sofa in General Beauregard's room. After two such nights he must be so tired as to be able to sleep anywhere.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Just bade farewell to Langdon Cheves. He is forced to go home, to leave this interesting place. Says he feels like the man that was not killed at Thermopylae. I think he said that unfortunate had to hang himself when he got home for very shame. Maybe he fell on his sword, which was a strictly classic way of ending matters.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />I do not wonder at Louisa Hamilton's baby. We hear nothing, can listen to nothing. Boom, boom goes the cannon - all the time. The nervous strain is awful, alone in this darkened room.<br /><br />"Richmond and Washington ablaze," say the papers. Blazing with excitement. Why not? To us these last days' events seem frightfully great.<br /><br />We were all in that iron balcony. Women - men we only see at a distance now. Stark Means, marching under the piazza at the head of his regiment, held his cap in his hand all the time he was in sight.<br /><br />Mrs. Means leaning over, looking with tearful eyes.<br /><br />"Why did he take his hat off?" said an unknown creature. Mrs. Means stood straight up.<br /><br />"He did that in honor of his mother - he saw me." She is a proud mother - and at the same time most unhappy. Her lovely daughter Emma is dying in there, before her eyes - consumption. At that moment I am sure Mrs. Means had a spasm of the heart. At least, she looked as I feel sometimes. She took my arm and we came in.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br /><strong>April 13, 1861</strong>. Nobody hurt, after all. How gay we were last night.<br /><br />Reaction after the dread of all the slaughter we thought those dreadful cannon were making such a noise in doing.<br /><br />Not even a battery the worse for wear.<br /><br />Fort Sumter has been on fire. He has not yet silenced any of our guns. So the aides - still with swords and red sashes by way of uniform - tell us.<br /><br />But the sound of those guns makes regular meals impossible. None of us go to table. But tea-trays pervade the corridors, going everywhere.<br /><br />Some of the anxious hearts lie on their beds and moan in solitary misery. Mrs. Wigfall and I solace ourselves with tea in my room.<br /><br />These women have all a satisfying faith. "God is on our side," they cry. When we are shut in, we (Mrs. Wigfall and I) ask "Why?" We are told: "Of course He hates the Yankees."<br /><br />"You'll think that well of Him."<br /> <br />Not by one word or look can we detect any change in the demeanor of these negro servants. Laurence sits at our door, as sleepy and as respectful and as profoundly indifferent. So are they all. They carry it too far. You could not tell that they hear even the awful roar that is going on in the bay, though it is dinning in their ears night and day. People talk before them as if they were chairs and tables. And they make no sign. Are they stolidly stupid or wiser than we are, silent and strong, biding their time?<br /> <br />So tea and toast come. Also came Colonel Manning, A. D. C. - red sash and sword - to announce that he has been under fire and didn't mind. He said gaily: "It is one of those things - a fellow never knows how he will come out of it until he has been tried. Now I know. I am a worthy descendant of my old Irish hero of an ancestor who held the British officer before him as a shield in the Revolution. And backed out of danger gracefully." [Everybody laughs at John Manning's brag.] We talked of <em>St. Valentine's Eve; or, The Maid of Perth</em> and the drop of the white doe's blood that sometimes spoiled all.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />The war steamers are still there, outside the bar. And there were people who thought the Charleston bar "no good" to Charleston. The bar is our silent partner, sleeping partner, and yet in this fray he is doing us yeoman service.<br /> <br /><strong>April 15, 1861</strong>. I did not know that one could live such days of excitement.<br /><br />They called: "Come out - there is a crowd coming."<br /><br />A mob indeed, but it was headed by Colonels Chesnut and Manning.<br /><br />The crowd was shouting and showing these two as messengers of good news. They were escorted to Beauregard's headquarters. Fort Sumter had surrendered.<br /><br />Those up on the housetops shouted to us, "The fort is on fire." That had been the story once or twice before.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />When we had calmed down, Colonel Chesnut, who had taken it all quietly enough - if anything, more unruffled than usual in his serenity - told us how the surrender came about.<br /><br />Wigfall was with them on Morris Island when he saw the fire in the fort, jumped in a little boat, and with his handkerchief as a white flag, rowed over to Fort Sumter. Wigfall went in through a porthole.<br /><br />When Colonel Chesnut arrived shortly after and was received by the regular entrance, Colonel Anderson told him he had need to pick his way warily, for it was all mined.<br /><br />As far as I can make out, the fort surrendered to Wigfall.<br /><br />But it is all confusion. Our flag is flying there. Fire engines have been sent to put out the fire.<br /><br />Everybody tells you half of something and then rushes off to tell something else or to hear the last news. [Manning, Wigfall. John Preston, &c, men without limit, beset us at night.]<br /> <br />In the afternoon, Mrs. Preston, Mrs. Joe Heyward, and I drove around the Battery. We were in an open carriage. What a changed scene. The very liveliest crowd I think I ever saw. Everybody talking at once. All glasses still turned on the grim old fort.<br /><br />[Saw William Gilmore Simms, and did not recognize him in his white beard. Trescot is here with his glasses on top of the house.]<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Russell, the English reporter for the <em>Times</em>, was there. They took him everywhere. One man got out Thackeray, to converse with him on equal terms. Poor Russell was awfully bored, they say. He only wanted to see the fort &c&c, and news that was suitable to make an interesting article. Thackeray was stale news over the water.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />Mrs. Frank Hampton and I went to see the camp of the Richland troops. South Carolina College had volunteered to a boy. Professor Venable (the Mathematical) intends to raise a company from among them for the war, a permanent company. This is a grand frolic. No more. For the students, at least.<br /><br />Even the staid and severe-of-aspect, Clingman, is here. He says Virginia and North Carolina are arming to come to our rescue - for now U.S.A. will swoop down on us. Of that we may be sure.<br /><br />We have burned our ships - we are obliged to go on now. He calls us a poor little hot-blooded, headlong, rash, and troublesome sister state.<br /><br />General McQueen is in a rage because we are to send troops to Virginia.<br /><br />There is a frightful yellow flag story. A distinguished potentate and militia power looked out upon the bloody field of battle, happening to stand always under the waving of the hospital flag. To his numerous other titles they now add Y.F.<br /> <br />Preston Hampton in all the flush of his youth and beauty, his six feet in stature - and after all, only in his teens - appeared in lemon-colored kid gloves to grace the scene. The camp, in a fit of horseplay, seized him and rubbed them in the mud. He fought manfully but took it all naturally as a good joke.<br /> <br />Mrs. Frank Hampton knows already what civil war means. Her brother was in the New York Seventh Regiment, so roughly received in Baltimore. Frank will be in the opposite camp.<br /><div align="center"><br />- <em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War</em>, ed. C. Vann Woodward, 1981 (New Haven, Conn: Yale University Press, 1993): 45-50.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDE3S3FZdzLcUVjELu48Mf6aOuWh-Vf9CfaDKdtCST6Qhvtvf0uI1VcuiEQ6qoa9NkhjD5MFRypdp7XEMPso0wnj_eQHu2Kprk6gwx3yFeEwPxUWIlK-C0gE5SmEkaf-G5ZNIzdmsDMXt/s1600-h/walk1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDE3S3FZdzLcUVjELu48Mf6aOuWh-Vf9CfaDKdtCST6Qhvtvf0uI1VcuiEQ6qoa9NkhjD5MFRypdp7XEMPso0wnj_eQHu2Kprk6gwx3yFeEwPxUWIlK-C0gE5SmEkaf-G5ZNIzdmsDMXt/s400/walk1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279091851994626226" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://plus.maths.org/issue22/news/blind/index.html">Pedestrian Crossing</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Pedestrian Crossing</span></strong><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[12th June]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />The pedestrian crossing is beside a beach, at the bottom of a steep hill. There’s a dairy on one side, a set of public toilets on the other.<br /><br />“Don’t go in there,” my friend warns me. “That place is notorious all over town.”<br /><br />“You mean I’ll get arrested by an undercover cop?” I ask.<br /><br />She laughs; doesn’t answer.<br /><br />The cars keep zooming by. Too fast, I’m thinking, for a suburban area.<br /><br />“Yeah, it’s terrible. Every morning we have to wait till the way’s clear before we can let the kids cross.”<br /><br />My friend holds up her hand. The small red car nearest to us stops – somewhat reluctantly, it seems. We begin to walk across.<br /><br />Two cars whip through on the other side. We pause, irresolute.<br /><br />A station-wagon draws up with a screech of brakes, straddling the painted lines.<br />My friend walks behind him, I in front. I suppose I’m glaring because he starts to shout at me. I can see him foaming and gesticulating behind the wheel, small children crouching behind him in the back seat. I can’t hear a single word.<br /><br />I shout back: “I’m taking down your number. I’m going to report you.”<br /><br />He rants on. I don’t know what about. The accident we’d almost caused by daring to cross the road, I suppose.<br /><br />Later, when I’m driving back down that road myself, I’ll realise that he might have been blinded by the afternoon sun in his eyes.<br /><br />Reason enough, I suppose, to drive at full speed through a pedestrian crossing with a cargo of kids in your car.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />As we continue up the hill towards my friend’s place, she gestures towards the first few houses on her left. The ones she’s singling out are built out of brick and tile, on straggling, brushy sections.<br /><br />“Those are the Housing Corp tenants. They’re selling them off, but not all of them have gone yet. Some of our friends were quite shocked when they heard we were moving in here.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />It seems a prosperous, leafy kind of suburb, in a good part of town. The homes get larger and more luxurious as we mount the twining road.<br /><br />“Notorious for crims and dole-bludgers. We told them we felt quite safe, though. Nobody’s going to rob a house in a cul-de-sac, especially not in their own street. They only go for places with easy escape routes.”<br /><br />A few of the tenants are leaning across their fences, staring at us.<br /><br />We keep on walking. I don’t wave because my friend doesn’t. Further up the hill it’s a different story – cheery nods and hellos to each new dog-walker or jogger.<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />“I heard about a guy who was suffering from low self-esteem …”<br /><br />Is she trying to reassure me?<br /><br />“At any rate that’s what they told him was wrong.”<br /><br />Maybe not.<br /><br />“He was the father of a friend of mine. Anyway, he went to therapy, and did all sort of confidence-building exercises – told himself that he didn’t care what other people thought of him, stopped tailoring all his comments to what he thought people wanted to hear.<br /><br />And it was successful! After years and years of groups and one-on-one sessions, he was cured! He didn’t give a stuff what people thought of him.<br /><br />He was a nudist. They all were. Spent every summer vacation at a Naturist’s retreat …”<br /><br />I can see the backs of the little family group ahead of us on the path stiffen a little. At the use of the word “nude,” I suppose. They don’t want their children overhearing any such filth. The kids – a little boy and a girl – prance on, undisturbed.<br /><br />“So one day he was out swimming. It must have been early in the season, because the water was quite cold. He came out of the water and looked down, and – voilà, significant … what do you call it?”<br /><br />“Shrinkage.”<br /><br />“Shrinkage! Yeah, that’s right. And that was that! All those years wasted. He found out that he cared desperately what all the people on the beach thought of him – wanted to reassure them that it really wasn’t …”<br /><br />“Especially the girls.”<br /><br />“I guess. The men, too – in case they wrote him off because of it.”<br /><br />The family in front pick up their pace. It’s too late now, the high, carrying voice of my companion has already conveyed the fatal information. All they can hope is that their children are still too young to make sense of all that rigmarole. Why would they pay attention to another set of adults babbling away? They never have before. Hard enough to make them listen to the simplest instructions from their elders and betters.<br /><br />As we overtake them I feel a sudden impulse to turn and apologise. For what? My companion? My own shortcomings as a man? Theirs, as insufficiently vigilant parents?<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />“It’s like before the war,” I say.<br /><br />“What is?”<br /><br />“In the 1930s, that kind of time. When everyone can see that something’s coming, but nobody knows quite what. They know it’s going got be bad, though.”<br /><br />“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”<br /><br />“All this – these people, their lives. The things we do and talk about.”<br /><br />“What things?”<br /><br />“The way the street’s cut in two – them down there, you up here.”<br /><br />“Are you calling me a snob? Saying I think I’m better than them?”<br /><br />“Well, you do, don’t you?”<br /><br />“We’ve worked for what we have, worked really hard. I don’t think you could understand just how hard we’ve worked.”<br /><br />“I’m not denying that – it’s not about you. I’m not trying to accuse you …”<br /><br />“It sounds like you are. You’ve been weird all day. Is there something on your mind, something else, I mean?”<br /><br />“Nothing in particular, I don’t think. It’s not about us, if that’s what you mean.”<br /><br />“What ‘us’? You know it’s not a good time …”<br /><br />“Yeah, yeah. I know you don’t want to upset the applecart, how important your family are to you – we’ve talked about that before. No, it’s something else, something bigger.”<br /><br />“Bigger than you, you mean.”<br /><br />She starts to snigger at her own joke.<br /><br />But yes, bigger than me …<br /><div align="center"><br />___________________________</div><br />On the way home the other cars seem relentless in their desire to cut you off. They barge into queues like wild dogs, ignoring all your attempts to keep a safe two-second distance clear in front of you.<br /><br />You can see their hungry faces behind the wheel, tongues lolling, mouths slack.<br /><br />Eager for blood, you think, eager for prey.<br /><br />When the ice-cream truck draws up in front of you, there’s hardly time to brake.<br /><br />“What does he want?” you think, as the men and boys boil out of the back.<br /><br />“Are they trying to sell me something?” as the bats and crowbars start to rise and fall.<br /></blockquote><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lMVPsmBFC0ZGSE2GFfRKX3dA9hoZLY9HJt49M5l3CF1yUjN85Lr2oaWl2MKEi8jhJ5h6QRde_bUShDkJBcSoeKEJWJWEaWEvPYSdfcD5tEQmD4TPBhDk4oXXAc4lPi0PWdt-ypGVovF3/s1600-h/Mr+%26+Mrs+Chesnut.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lMVPsmBFC0ZGSE2GFfRKX3dA9hoZLY9HJt49M5l3CF1yUjN85Lr2oaWl2MKEi8jhJ5h6QRde_bUShDkJBcSoeKEJWJWEaWEvPYSdfcD5tEQmD4TPBhDk4oXXAc4lPi0PWdt-ypGVovF3/s400/Mr+%26+Mrs+Chesnut.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261200014033896834" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=8574">Find a Grave</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 4</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>A Diary from Dixie</em></strong><br /></span><br /><em>gizzera fifty or twenny fer fuggsay<br />mister a tellya<br />savvy dis noosepaper see?<br />sonly bed we gotter nigh</em><br /><br />– Peter Reading, <em>Perduta Gente</em> (1989)<br /></div><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 4:</span><br />Content vs. Form</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />In Peter Reading’s book <em>Perduta Gente</em> [= Lost People], some of the poems echo the sound as well as the content of what his characters are saying.<br /><ul><br /><li>Imagine someone you know making an angry / drunken / tearful speech.</li><li>Try to write it down as exactly as possible – sound, slurring, EMPHASIS.</li><li>The emotion of the words should come across in the way they’re written down.</li><br /></ul></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 5:</strong> Family Gatherings <em>and Seminars on <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-5.html"></em>The Diary of Alice James<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AeaLlV_2P4cLYwgsi4R344jholGXFRsMpwlzgJ-RkdnxdhLnbOi4Lo9Iby8YpA8ZbkOXio0eI1AsZ2VapaUyJ9NFqHqvBOZ1-H0UuF9X3PL-S1Z87cqzY3u1DIBXFUaYxTGVMIpkufZJ/s1600-h/alice_in_bed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AeaLlV_2P4cLYwgsi4R344jholGXFRsMpwlzgJ-RkdnxdhLnbOi4Lo9Iby8YpA8ZbkOXio0eI1AsZ2VapaUyJ9NFqHqvBOZ1-H0UuF9X3PL-S1Z87cqzY3u1DIBXFUaYxTGVMIpkufZJ/s400/alice_in_bed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276878828995139954" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Susan Sontag: <a href="http://www.dadosite.com/press/index.htm">Alice in Bed</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-39601351474610717182008-10-22T08:20:00.020+13:002009-01-02T12:22:48.380+13:00Session 3<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsQR2iOZDPr4dsNVwlQ_0WqVeR7jDbV4vcZal0KX_VsbOgw5ZqiI_SlKd7eK0rm4QHpm5xS-pBOgeOblemuHk2ZAXKlrk9qQBEYct6_1aT_0u37oFCVpXLG00yI_fnMdG7qKu7zV9cQFf/s1600-h/Defoe_Journal_of_the_Plague_Year.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 224px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsQR2iOZDPr4dsNVwlQ_0WqVeR7jDbV4vcZal0KX_VsbOgw5ZqiI_SlKd7eK0rm4QHpm5xS-pBOgeOblemuHk2ZAXKlrk9qQBEYct6_1aT_0u37oFCVpXLG00yI_fnMdG7qKu7zV9cQFf/s400/Defoe_Journal_of_the_Plague_Year.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261194021974777042" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Daniel Defoe: <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Defoe_Journal_of_the_Plague_Year.jpg">A Journal of the Plague Year</a> (1722)]</span><br /><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 3</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/daniel-defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a>:<br /><em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em> (1665 / 1722)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Daniel Defoe (1660-1731): from <em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em> (1722)</li><li>Samuel Pepys: from <em>The Diary</em> (1665-66)</li><li>Richard West: from <em>The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Daniel Defoe, Writer</em> (1998)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[March 1665]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />The apprehensions of the people were likewise strangely increased by the error of the times; in which, I think, the people, from what principle I cannot imagine, were more addicted to prophecies and astrological conjurations, dreams, and old wives' tales than ever they were before or since. Whether this unhappy temper was originally raised by the follies of some people who got money by it – that is to say, by printing predictions and prognostications – I know not; but certain it is, books frighted them terribly, such as Lilly's Almanack, Gadbury's Astrological Predictions, Poor Robin's Almanack, and the like; also several pretended religious books, one entitled, Come out of her, my People, lest you be Partaker of her Plagues; another called, Fair Warning; another, Britain's Remembrancer; and many such, all, or most part of which, foretold, directly or covertly, the ruin of the city. Nay, some were so enthusiastically bold as to run about the streets with their oral predictions, pretending they were sent to preach to the city; and one in particular, who, like Jonah to Nineveh, cried in the streets, 'Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed.' I will not be positive whether he said yet forty days or yet a few days. Another ran about naked, except a pair of drawers about his waist, crying day and night, like a man that Josephus mentions, who cried, 'Woe to Jerusalem!' a little before the destruction of that city. So this poor naked creature cried, 'Oh, the great and the dreadful God!' and said no more, but repeated those words continually, with a voice and countenance full of horror, a swift pace; and nobody could ever find him to stop or rest, or take any sustenance, at least that ever I could hear of. I met this poor creature several times in the streets, and would have spoken to him, but he would not enter into speech with me or any one else, but held on his dismal cries continually.<br /><br />These things terrified the people to the last degree, and especially when two or three times, as I have mentioned already, they found one or two in the bills dead of the plague at St Giles's.<br /><br />Next to these public things were the dreams of old women, or, I should say, the interpretation of old women upon other people's dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of their wits. Some heard voices warning them to be gone, for that there would be such a plague in London, so that the living would not be able to bury the dead. Others saw apparitions in the air; and I must be allowed to say of both, I hope without breach of charity, that they heard voices that never spake, and saw sights that never appeared; but the imagination of the people was really turned wayward and possessed. And no wonder, if they who were poring continually at the clouds saw shapes and figures, representations and appearances, which had nothing in them but air, and vapour. Here they told us they saw a flaming sword held in a hand coming out of a cloud, with a point hanging directly over the city; there they saw hearses and coffins in the air carrying to be buried; and there again, heaps of dead bodies lying unburied, and the like, just as the imagination of the poor terrified people furnished them with matter to work upon. So hypochondriac fancies represent Ships, armies, battles in the firmament; Till steady eyes the exhalations solve, And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve.<br /><br /> I could fill this account with the strange relations such people gave every day of what they had seen; and every one was so positive of their having seen what they pretended to see, that there was no contradicting them without breach of friendship, or being accounted rude and unmannerly on the one hand, and profane and impenetrable on the other. One time before the plague was begun (otherwise than as I have said in St Giles's), I think it was in March, seeing a crowd of people in the street, I joined with them to satisfy my curiosity, and found them all staring up into the air to see what a woman told them appeared plain to her, which was an angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in his hand, waving it or brandishing it over his head. She described every part of the figure to the life, showed them the motion and the form, and the poor people came into it so eagerly, and with so much readiness; 'Yes, I see it all plainly,' says one; 'there's the sword as plain as can be.' Another saw the angel. One saw his very face, and cried out what a glorious creature he was! One saw one thing, and one another. I looked as earnestly as the rest, but perhaps not with so much willingness to be imposed upon; and I said, indeed, that I could see nothing but a white cloud, bright on one side by the shining of the sun upon the other part. The woman endeavoured to show it me, but could not make me confess that I saw it, which, indeed, if I had I must have lied. But the woman, turning upon me, looked in my face, and fancied I laughed, in which her imagination deceived her too, for I really did not laugh, but was very seriously reflecting how the poor people were terrified by the force of their own imagination. However, she turned from me, called me profane fellow, and a scoffer; told me that it was a time of God's anger, and dreadful judgements were approaching, and that despisers such as I should wander and perish.<br /><br />The people about her seemed disgusted as well as she; and I found there was no persuading them that I did not laugh at them, and that I should be rather mobbed by them than be able to undeceive them. So I left them; and this appearance passed for as real as the blazing star itself.<br /><br />Another encounter I had in the open day also; and this was in going through a narrow passage from Petty France into Bishopsgate Churchyard, by a row of alms-houses. There are two churchyards to Bishopsgate church or parish; one we go over to pass from the place called Petty France into Bishopsgate Street, coming out just by the church door; the other is on the side of the narrow passage where the alms-houses are on the left; and a dwarf-wall with a palisado on it on the right hand, and the city wall on the other side more to the right.<br /><br />In this narrow passage stands a man looking through between the palisadoes into the burying-place, and as many people as the narrowness of the passage would admit to stop, without hindering the passage of others, and he was talking mightily eagerly to them, and pointing now to one place, then to another, and affirming that he saw a ghost walking upon such a gravestone there. He described the shape, the posture, and the movement of it so exactly that it was the greatest matter of amazement to him in the world that everybody did not see it as well as he. On a sudden he would cry, 'There it is; now it comes this way.' Then, 'Tis turned back'; till at length he persuaded the people into so firm a belief of it, that one fancied he saw it, and another fancied he saw it; and thus he came every day making a strange hubbub, considering it was in so narrow a passage, till Bishopsgate clock struck eleven, and then the ghost would seem to start, and, as if he were called away, disappeared on a sudden.<br /><br />I looked earnestly every way, and at the very moment that this man directed, but could not see the least appearance of anything; but so positive was this poor man, that he gave the people the vapours in abundance, and sent them away trembling and frighted, till at length few people that knew of it cared to go through that passage, and hardly anybody by night on any account whatever.<br /><br />This ghost, as the poor man affirmed, made signs to the houses, and to the ground, and to the people, plainly intimating, or else they so understanding it, that abundance of the people should come to be buried in that churchyard, as indeed happened; but that he saw such aspects I must acknowledge I never believed, nor could I see anything of it myself, though I looked most earnestly to see it, if possible.<br /><br />These things serve to show how far the people were really overcome with delusions; and as they had a notion of the approach of a visitation, all their predictions ran upon a most dreadful plague, which should lay the whole city, and even the kingdom, waste, and should destroy almost all the nation, both man and beast.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- Daniel Defoe: <em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em>, ed. Anthony Burgess (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978): 43-45.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzgeyvjPPP-ioatgaBdBRIrngUZKjpo_UZv7UUMhDDMk4BRBEDYfymTloKJ7b7tQGZQX79BWPODxZF_TQLWxEzWunrM3Kk4_IvbBXyws_DFLHdMULvLF_Hjroom3_ALcGBIdF-uJf7YS9/s1600-h/critics.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzgeyvjPPP-ioatgaBdBRIrngUZKjpo_UZv7UUMhDDMk4BRBEDYfymTloKJ7b7tQGZQX79BWPODxZF_TQLWxEzWunrM3Kk4_IvbBXyws_DFLHdMULvLF_Hjroom3_ALcGBIdF-uJf7YS9/s400/critics.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286469127456266530" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Rob Waller: <a href="http://www.robwaller.org/blog/robsblog.html">8 Types of Critics</a> (2008)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Critical Methodologies</span></strong><br /></div><br />What <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> a "reading" (so-called)?<br /><br />Perhaps the best analogy is with modelling (in scientific terms). A reading is a kind of computer model of a work of art, not incorporating everything that's in the original -- since if it did it would simply <em>be</em> that original -- but accounting for as many aspects as possible.<br /><br />We can therefore talk about rich readings, or reductionist readings, or ideological readings without committing ourselves to a belief in the truth and/or falsity of any reading of, say, a novel. It's a good reading insofar as we find it useful in accounting for the individual features and oddities of that particular work of art.<br /><br />Another prevalent distinction is between <em>clean</em> readings and <em>dirty</em> readings.<br /><br />A "clean" reading (and the term is, intentionally, a loaded one) is - for the purposes of this argument - one which confines itself to the formal features of a work of art, without straying outside it into the fields of biography, history or cultural politics. New Critics, Structuralists (and even certain post-structuralists) have an ideological predisposition for this type of reading. It's principal practical device is the "Close reading," pioneered by I. A Richards in England and the Southern Agrarian critics in the United States. Many teachers still find this intentional self-limiting a useful pedagogical aid, particularly in junior classes.<br /><br />A "dirty" reading, by contrast, is one which concerns itself with historical and cultural agency. It depends on a certain amount of knowledge of a number of fields on the part of the critic, and is therefore a somewhat less popular means of instruction at undergraduate level.<br /><br />You'll perceive, on my part, a tendency to prefer dirty readings over clean readings throughout the body of this course. This is not so much because I like showing off the fact that I've read some history, as because I have certain difficulties with the basic postulates of the confined, ahistorical reading.<br /><br />Take the simple matter of textual integrity, for instance. One of the early critical reading of Herman Melville's autobiographical novel <em>White-Jacket</em> (1850) made great play with a scene where the hero falls from the mast of a ship at sea and, as he sinks beneath the waves, is touched by "some soiled fish of the deep."<br /><br />But then it turned out that "soiled" was in fact a misprint for the far less resonant "coiled."<br /><br />What can you do about things like that? Misprints, errors of punctuation or spacing, editorial intrusions on the author's original intentions? You have to get dirty, I'm afraid. There's no choice but to enter the complex and vexed arena of textual criticism.<br /><br />Some texts are (relatively) stable and reliable. Does one really have to know which are which before beginning to scrutinise their more minute and telling details? I can't myself see much alternative, I'm afraid.<br /><br />But of course it doesn't stop there. Can one read (say) Daniel Defoe's fiction with no knowledge of the cultural history of the early eighteenth century? Quite possibly so - many people do, at any rate. Because we're not really conscious of the weight of cultural baggage which enables us to make sense of his fusion of the strands of historical and confessional prose which would eventually lead to the bourgeois novel (so-called).<br /><br />Such information recedes, inexorably, with the passage of time. Some can be recovered or recreated by adroit inquiry. Some is no longer accessible to us.<br /><br />What <em>is</em> the difference between a hoax and a fiction? We're certainly not going to find a definitive answer to this question, but that doesn't mean it's not worth asking.<br /><br />It's a bit difficult to see how one could read this particular book <em>without</em> asking it, in fact.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfzkG7gtw8JUkBKqZ4zIBQsqJlyg1cpryP-kZoHqRGb7RdbWr3caSa81YpP5__-j4H9j7BmM_Z5h1b78H7oUvvMua3xEHJPV-7pei-gD09OUBuYptngHB6WTX005FVpSXvRoq9App6iPy/s1600-h/defoe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfzkG7gtw8JUkBKqZ4zIBQsqJlyg1cpryP-kZoHqRGb7RdbWr3caSa81YpP5__-j4H9j7BmM_Z5h1b78H7oUvvMua3xEHJPV-7pei-gD09OUBuYptngHB6WTX005FVpSXvRoq9App6iPy/s400/defoe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261192622581733682" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.bpears.org.uk/Misc/Gateshead_Plaques/">Gateshead Plaques</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 3</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Plague</strong></span><br /></div><br /><blockquote>“<span style="font-weight:bold;">Plague,</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">n</span>. In ancient times a general punishment of the innocent for admonition of their ruler, as in the familiar instance of Pharaoh the Immune. The plague as we have it to-day is merely Nature's fortuitous manifestation of her purposeless objectionableness.”</blockquote><div align="center">– Ambrose Bierce, <em>The Enlarged Devil's Dictionary</em>. 1911. Ed. E. J. Hopkins. 1967 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971): 245-46.<br /></div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 3:</span><br />Writing a Journal Entry</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Everything we see, or hear, or read is a source of cultural information. It just needs to be decoded according to some set of conventions: aesthetic, anthropological, economic or psychological. You can organise these observations into an essay or article. Alternatively, you can record them in a choppier, more immediate form in a journal / diary / logbook. Think of it as a quarry for future use.<br /><ul><br /><li>Cut out a photo, or a short piece of text, from any newspaper or magazine you’ve been reading (or photocopy it, if it comes from a book).</li><li>Attach it to a sheet of paper, then write down a short description of the cutting, as well as why it interested you, underneath.</li><li>Go on to describe exactly what you were doing when you came across it. How was your day, in fact?</li><li>How did you feel while you were doing the exercise? Interested? Resigned? Bored? Puzzled? Write that down also.</li><li>Does this exercise seem to you to relate to other things we’ve been reading or discussing in the course so far? If so, how? If not, why not?</li><br /></ul><br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 4:</strong> Content vs. Form <em>and Seminars on <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-4.html"></em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWG5fAracYNV3pyc1rQWxZ6qNqnJz4E9YkM-7FUl_s8GXmHMhyphenhyphenrMUOWZIkMbpTRWuGvcXoCDNxMCV5Bj2GDnhbzRDPVOYLPFd-2io2EGRU3pzsAukhGxFUTBlgLDKYT3VVPSmWYGK_qLaS/s1600-h/antietam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWG5fAracYNV3pyc1rQWxZ6qNqnJz4E9YkM-7FUl_s8GXmHMhyphenhyphenrMUOWZIkMbpTRWuGvcXoCDNxMCV5Bj2GDnhbzRDPVOYLPFd-2io2EGRU3pzsAukhGxFUTBlgLDKYT3VVPSmWYGK_qLaS/s400/antietam.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276852216904282290" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Matthew Brady: <a href="http://www.ghostofaflea.com/archives/010828.html">The Dead of Antietam</a> (1862)]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-25462472533897046432008-10-22T08:19:00.023+13:002009-01-03T10:17:54.923+13:00Session 2<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pUV_kVc-Wh7cGtpxk8bGT6brHKyzacimhWV1ugD7NeH7z0XnGA3NJ9fSVe_JK_rSDakuBEkMtMWqciyukYZUmtLB_0FWjUyLnPunLzCxgJGyhnZwXy5hwu2QF5Fj6kRZYdex0ZeTeqfU/s1600-h/heike_shirabyoshi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pUV_kVc-Wh7cGtpxk8bGT6brHKyzacimhWV1ugD7NeH7z0XnGA3NJ9fSVe_JK_rSDakuBEkMtMWqciyukYZUmtLB_0FWjUyLnPunLzCxgJGyhnZwXy5hwu2QF5Fj6kRZYdex0ZeTeqfU/s400/heike_shirabyoshi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261218868496845954" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://nkilkenny.wordpress.com/2007/05/03/tales-of-the-heike-i-search/">Shirabyoshi</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 2</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lady-daibu.html">Lady Daibu</a>:<br /><em>Poetic Memoirs</em> (c. 1174-1232 / c. 1260)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Lady Daibu (c.1157-1235): from <em>Poetic Memoirs</em> (1980)</li><li>from <em>As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams</em> (1971)</li><li>Murasaki Shikibu: from <em>The Diary of Lady Murasaki</em> (1982)</li><li>Murasaki Shikibu: from <em>The Tale of Genji</em> (1976)</li><li>Sei Shōnagon: from <em>The Pillow Book</em> (1967)</li><li>from <em>The Gossamer Years (Kagerō Nikki)</em> (1964)</li><li>from <em>Heike Monogatari</em> (1180-85 / 1371 / 1988)</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[1182-85]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Such was the upheaval in our world at the time of Jūei and Genryaku that whatever I may call it – dream. illusion, tragedy – no words can possibly describe it. It was so confused that I cannot even say exactly what occurred, and in fact right up till now I have repressed all thought of it. What can I say, what am I to feel about that autumn when 1 heard that those whom I knew were soon to be leaving the capital? No words, no emotions can do it justice. None of us had known when it might happen, and faced with the actual event, we were all stunned, those of us who saw it with our own eyes and those who heard about it from afar. We could only feel that it was just some indescribable dream. <br /><br />At that time, when all was in uproar and such disquieting rumors were reaching us, Sukemori was a First Secretary to the Emperor and seemed to have little time away from his duties. Moreover, those about me insisted that it was a hopeless, even scandalous affair, so we became more cautious than we had been earlier, and it was with a great deal of hesitation that we met. <br /><br />On these occasions he would tell me, just as though it were a normal thing to say: <br /><br />"These troubles have now reached the point where there can be no doubt that I, too, shall number among the dead. Then, surely, you will spare me just a little pity? Though you may not feel much for me, yet out of regard for the many years that we have been together, do not fail to pray that I may find light on the dark path that awaits me. Even if, perchance, my life is spared for a while longer, I am resolved in my heart not to think of myself as the person I once was. For if I once begin to feel emotion, to think with longing of time past, or to yearn for a particular person, there would never be an end to it. <br /><br />"I cannot know how weak my spirit might be in spite of my determination, so I have renounced all attachments to this world. I have made up my mind not to send you even the briefest of messages from whatever distant shore I find myself upon. Don't think, however, that my love for you is weak merely because I send no word. In all that concerns this world , I have come to think of myself as one already dead. And yet, in spite of all, my former feelings will surely overcome me – to my intense regret!"<br /><br />As I listened to him I knew how right he was, but what could I say? Tears were my only reply. <br /><br />At the beginning of autumn news came at last of that dream within a dream – the flight from the capital. To what can I compare my feelings? Of course, there was not one person of sensibility who did not talk of and reflect upon this tragedy. But for me, among all the people that I knew, there was no friend to whom I could open my heart. So I spoke of it to no one, I brooded constantly, and when my feelings were more than my heart could bear, I could only turn to the Buddha and spend my days in tears, <br /><br />Our lives, however, must go on for their allotted span; we cannot end them as we wish; and even my desire to enter holy orders was frustrated. since I could not flee the house by myself. How much it pained me that I had to go on living as I was! <br /><blockquote><br />Now that I have seen <br />Such miseries that I cannot know<br />Their like or their example, <br />A hateful destiny is this <br />That keeps me living as of yore!</blockquote><br />My anxiety was indescribable as I watched the autumn draw on, and I felt more than ever that I could no longer endure this life. One bright, moonlit night as I gazed out, musing on the sadness of the scene – the sky, the shapes of the clouds, the sound of the wind – I could think only of what Sukemori must feeling as he journeyed to his unknown destination beneath a traveler's sky. I was overcome with tears of despair: <br /><blockquote><br />In what far place, <br />With thoughts of what sad things, <br />Will he be gazing <br />At the moon this night <br />And wringing out his tear-drenched sleeves?</blockquote><br />At dawn, at dusk, no matter what I looked at, no matter what I listened to, how could I cease to think of him even for a moment? How I wanted, just one more time at least, to tell him how I felt! How sad that my wish was unlikely to be granted! It was too frightful for words to hear of him straggling from place to place: <br /><blockquote><br />Many, so many<br />Are the things <br />I wish I could say to him. <br />And now am I to die like this, <br />My longings vain and unfulfilled?</blockquote><br />Large numbers of fierce warriors were leaving the capital for the west. Whenever I heard any rumors, I wondered in agitation what news would come next, and when. One night after I had cried myself to sleep with these gloomy thoughts, Sukemori appeared to me in a dream. He was as I had always seen him, wearing informal court dress. He gazed into the distance, as though lost in thought, while the wind raged violently about him. I awoke with a throbbing heart; I cannot even begin to describe my feelings. I wondered if he really was at that very moment exactly as he had appeared in my dream: <br /><blockquote><br />Adrift in the turmoil <br />Of wild winds and waves,<br />He is surely <br />Just as I saw him now, <br />No peace for his troubled mind.</blockquote><br />Perhaps because I was so distraught, I fell ill with a fever for some time. I felt so wretched that I wanted to die: <br /><blockquote><br />Before I hear <br />Of yet more misery <br />To add to the misery I know,<br />Would that I might become<br />No longer of this world!</blockquote><br />So I desired, but it was not to be; and as my life went on unchanged I felt crushed with grief: <br /><blockquote><br />Though I do not feel<br />That I can go on living,<br />Still I do not die. <br />What misery it brings <br />To have survived until this day!</blockquote><br />The following spring a relative of mine invited me to accompany her on a pilgrimage. I was in no mood for any activity, but this outing had a religious intent, so I roused myself from my depression and went with her. On our way back she pointed out a place where the plum blossoms were unusually fine. She then entered the grounds, so of course I followed her, and the blossoms did indeed look far lovelier than the ordinary. <br /><br />I listened as my companion talked with the hermit who owned the place. "Every year," he said, " a certain person used to come and ask to have the place roped off, so that he could enjoy the blossoms without being disturbed. But this year he hasn't come. What a shame, for now they will have bloomed and scattered all for nothing!" <br /><br />My companion must have asked who the person was, for he distinctly mentioned Sukemori's name, and at that my heart was thrown into a turmoil of painful emotions: <br /><blockquote><br />All that I feel,<br />Everything in my heart;<br />I shall confess to you, <br />O blossoms, if you too<br />But long for him I loved.</blockquote><br />Among the ghastly and terrifying rumors J heard that spring came the painful and unspeakable news that great numbers of my close friends had been killed, and that their heads were being paraded through the streets of the capital. To hear people naming the dead was the most dreadful thing I had ever known: <br /><blockquote><br />Alas! Alas!<br />Can it be true?<br />I ask myself. <br />Or can it after all <br />Be no more than a dream?</blockquote><br />When I heard that Captain Shigehira had been taken prisoner and had been brought back to the capital for a while, I thought dejectedly of how among all those I had known he had been especially close to me. He would say such amusing things, and even in the most trivial matters he used to be so considerate towards other people, He was indeed an exceptional person: what could he have done in a previous life to bring this upon himself? Those who saw him said that his countenance was unchanged, and they could not bear to look at him, I cannot describe how painful, how grievous it was to hear this: <br /><blockquote><br />By day, by night, <br />How often we would meet<br />In those days now long ago: <br />Never did I imagine <br />That it would come to this.</blockquote><br />Over and over I imagined what was in his heart: <br /><blockquote><br />While yet not dead,<br />Still of this world, <br />But in how changed a state! <br />With what thoughts in your heart<br />Do you pass your days, your nights?</blockquote><br />People were deeply distressed to hear that Koremori had drowned himself at Kumano. Whenever I meet anyone these days, I can only think what truly superior figures the Taira were. But Koremori was exceptional to a degree, both in appearance and in thoughtfulness; indeed among all the people have ever known, of old or in recent times, no one can compare with him. Who could fail to praise him whenever he appeared? <br /><br />At the celebration in the Hōjūji Palace, when Koremori danced "The Blue Waves of the Sea," people remarked that they could not help being reminded of the Shining Prince Genji. I even heard them say that "the beauty of the cherry blossom itself must be eclipsed." Of course, I was bound to have fond recollections of him as he had been on such occasions, but I knew him so well that, distressed though I was at the deaths of all my friends who had perished, his death was a particularly heavy blow. <br /><br />"Think of me as you do of Sukemori," he would say to me from time to time. "Oh, but I do!," I would reply. Then he would say, "That's what you say, but I'm not so sure!" I cannot describe the many pangs of grief that these memories aroused: <br /><blockquote><br />The vision of that face,<br />Which was once compared <br />To the beauty of spring blossoms,<br />Is withered now <br />Beneath the empty waves. <br /><br />How wretched the dismal fate<br />That he has met! <br />Under the waves that wind<br />About the bay of holy Kumano<br />He has laid himself forever.</blockquote><br />The news of Koremori's death particularly affected me because of my anxiety for his brother Sukemori. Naturally the news was distressing in itself. But when it was widely rumored that Koremori and his brother Kiyotsune had sought their own deaths, I could imagine how much more depressed Sukemori must have felt, alone as he now was. However, because of what he had said to me before leaving the capital, or perhaps for some other reason, he sent me not a single word. In the winter of the year he had left the capital, there had been the briefest of messages. All he had said was: "As I told you, I regard myself as no longer of this world, and I trust that everyone will think of me that way. Please pray for the good of my soul in the life to come." ...<br /><div align="center"><br />- <em>The Poetic Memoirs of Lady Daibu</em>, trans. Phillip Tudor Harries (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1980): 189-201.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Images of Feminine Empowerment?</span><br />Discussion Points</strong><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVz1F5NDrvFqi9cSiNhd0Tn71125VX1h_VIQ_p0yoah_s9RjdZskjXW1oOeQetze0lbgD0sOI57YA-4KrYcUn-Kl9p-LzlMoXz-xws-lxcY6D7jC_TGb09gKGbOEFkZ6Qb_JTmZ1HjniO/s1600-h/Anais+Nin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVz1F5NDrvFqi9cSiNhd0Tn71125VX1h_VIQ_p0yoah_s9RjdZskjXW1oOeQetze0lbgD0sOI57YA-4KrYcUn-Kl9p-LzlMoXz-xws-lxcY6D7jC_TGb09gKGbOEFkZ6Qb_JTmZ1HjniO/s320/Anais+Nin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285790050153524210" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Bonni Reid: <a href="http://bonnireid.com/ExhibitB/?p=95">Anais Nin: Come As Your Madness</a>]</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwynQCi-PHmoMuIxqprYYeNxax8sKBGwXY2cLNtTLSS_u9PMcPAycjPkJKKyeGZTGTGtm5RuEXWfDPsXzj8UogHnSdaapfV1N4aryABg_fD5vQssl8M7kLGZ0kJDPqScSVrQnr4zHj6iFR/s1600-h/dark+angel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwynQCi-PHmoMuIxqprYYeNxax8sKBGwXY2cLNtTLSS_u9PMcPAycjPkJKKyeGZTGTGtm5RuEXWfDPsXzj8UogHnSdaapfV1N4aryABg_fD5vQssl8M7kLGZ0kJDPqScSVrQnr4zHj6iFR/s400/dark+angel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285791261845075474" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://sharedmp3.net/dark_angel_-_soundtrack.html">Dark Angel</a> (Jessica Alba)]</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpg98ZLmlwaiXOWtvu7ZEHygMXhAOMS7Rwi7ub-5_0EpdrbD5OM3qs8f-v0SHKzyQGI9zGOb7JEiQYM2b5hwEwgLVl8S83UQ7U7ClAKAPhmRAt9LHSlifROSI-Qdf_cH_Th5Z88l2mpW45/s1600-h/frida+kahlo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpg98ZLmlwaiXOWtvu7ZEHygMXhAOMS7Rwi7ub-5_0EpdrbD5OM3qs8f-v0SHKzyQGI9zGOb7JEiQYM2b5hwEwgLVl8S83UQ7U7ClAKAPhmRAt9LHSlifROSI-Qdf_cH_Th5Z88l2mpW45/s400/frida+kahlo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285789015163971650" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.bookrags.com/essay-2004/11/22/172317/37">Frida Kahlo</a>]</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiVgWWNPNyYiN7I0ZDyErompNekfvd6JXOAxrGCGjhupzkg2okOZ1rsYveODo6_3_6522o5yDZDtyyjduVKTDbuIeXLLA9rPzU7bDtnJO5CFAIs_nYEyCdq4jmS1Bnoap0HWCHHwXO8_5/s1600-h/pussycat+dolls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiVgWWNPNyYiN7I0ZDyErompNekfvd6JXOAxrGCGjhupzkg2okOZ1rsYveODo6_3_6522o5yDZDtyyjduVKTDbuIeXLLA9rPzU7bDtnJO5CFAIs_nYEyCdq4jmS1Bnoap0HWCHHwXO8_5/s320/pussycat+dolls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285788156761183266" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://galleries.elitedollars.com/ggc/1028btd/index.html">Pussycat Dolls</a>]</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNSWK-5fbmswjYdMAoMwnWMo5RRX65cTvetizZFg6dxYPL6FiuSRvMKfGHRd1eGk4FHL9ZTwgF7R6VnTFr5yXpC0wTmV43fcILX_LLlIIq6CtDG_YSuatPjO64ARX3mLq3JYKcogD9e9m/s1600-h/Simone_de_Beauvoir_in_Chicago_8-08_67.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNSWK-5fbmswjYdMAoMwnWMo5RRX65cTvetizZFg6dxYPL6FiuSRvMKfGHRd1eGk4FHL9ZTwgF7R6VnTFr5yXpC0wTmV43fcILX_LLlIIq6CtDG_YSuatPjO64ARX3mLq3JYKcogD9e9m/s400/Simone_de_Beauvoir_in_Chicago_8-08_67.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285792408074855858" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://whormhole.wordpress.com/2008/01/14/os-outros/">Simone de Beauvoir</a> (Chicago, 1968)]</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLi47TdX1mwmk1rNc8ABjaiYRci-9YpWn1TXQWyLRwekYeGi0CsHQhFJfrTQEcDm76TEaFaENcYscxRNmL34vhzKSrB80EGi3JPoy-PNPzL_PLyjatCd3ypb8K9UJ04KYpAuqSuWDH_TOu/s1600-h/Heike.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLi47TdX1mwmk1rNc8ABjaiYRci-9YpWn1TXQWyLRwekYeGi0CsHQhFJfrTQEcDm76TEaFaENcYscxRNmL34vhzKSrB80EGi3JPoy-PNPzL_PLyjatCd3ypb8K9UJ04KYpAuqSuWDH_TOu/s400/Heike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261218266617601522" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/special/burke/111.L.htm">The Tale of the Heike</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 2</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>The Tale of the Heike</em></span></strong><br /></div><br /><blockquote>“When they looked at the scattered blossoms of a spring morning; when they listened of an autumn evening to the falling of the leaves; when they sighed over the snow and waves reflected with each passing year by their looking glasses; when they were startled into thoughts on the brevity of life by seeing the dew on the grass or the foam on the water; when yesterday all proud and splendid, they have fallen from fortune into loneliness; or when, having been dearly loved, they are neglected ...”</blockquote><div align="center">– Ki no Tsurayuki, Preface to <em>Kokinshu: Collection of Ancient and Modern Poems</em> (905 A.D.).</div><br /><br />After a brief discussion of the prescribed texts, followed by any seminars which have been scheduled for this week, we'll move onto your responses to the writing exercise below:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 2:</span><br />Get on the Waka</strong> [<em>take-home</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Medieval Japanese poets wrote almost exclusively in the form then known as “waka” (now “tanka”). Most tanka compare or contrast the speaker's emotion to a seasonal phenomenon:<br /><blockquote><br />Although I am sure <br />That he will not be coming, <br />In the evening light <br />When the locusts shrilly call <br />I go to the door and wait. <br /><br />- from <em>Kokinshu</em> (905 A.D.)</blockquote><br />In English the lines are generally constructed as follows: <br /><blockquote><br />5 syllables<br />7 syllables<br />5 syllables<br />7 syllables<br />7 syllables</blockquote><br />Roughly, a haiku-like image in 3-lines, then a couplet which turns the feeling in some way: literal or metaphorical.<br /><br />Many modern English tanka poets in English have discarded the syllable count, which (in any case) only imperfectly reflects the original patterning of the Japanese verse-form. Some have replaced it with a pattern of stresses: 2-stress / 3-stress / 2-stress / 3-stress / 3-stress. Fopr the purposes of this exercise, only the five-line patterning needs to be kept, though you can observe syllable or stress counts if you wish.<br /><ul><br /><li>Go outside your house for ten minutes.</li><li>In that time, you must find three images.</li><li>Come back and record them as baldly and directly as possible.</li><li>Turn each one into a 5-line tanka, trying to portray the image itself as vividly as you can.</li><li>Each poem should convey a particular feeling: joy, sadness, humour – something you want to communicate <em>through</em> the image.</li><li>Now write a short paragraph above each one, describing its context and making any further remarks you feel are necessary to understand it.</li><br /></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NB:</span> You can find further information on the tanka form <a href="http://thewordshop.tripod.com/asian/Japan/tankadef.html">here</a>.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 3:</strong> Writing a Journal Entry <em>and Seminars on Daniel Defoe's <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-3.html"></em>Journal of the Plague Year<em></a> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRob37MkV-Cw6oVoJdQAh_m94ql_us4F2ylb2KmjuXjrq0_CnGlvdL6udiYZ0yKU9xDUjzlINR0-sXnDfzaJJYiR5RBPk-HSKPS9JOjU4aGvd5eWCGiiXG2_eI1gTev4AE3laWJ_c1T36/s1600-h/Venice+plague.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRob37MkV-Cw6oVoJdQAh_m94ql_us4F2ylb2KmjuXjrq0_CnGlvdL6udiYZ0yKU9xDUjzlINR0-sXnDfzaJJYiR5RBPk-HSKPS9JOjU4aGvd5eWCGiiXG2_eI1gTev4AE3laWJ_c1T36/s400/Venice+plague.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276850933218401394" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/bigphotos/39979606.html">Mass graves for plague victims in Venice</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-11461600955365001572008-10-22T08:17:00.023+13:002009-01-02T12:16:09.603+13:00Session 1<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8KACIOYaeN-JSBR-yItaY-H1vgtwlm7b4egXpcVne5c6odpFAZQN5lM-RF_Fe9p19-O8SWOkgkoy2EVCQEi9hb2aE12c8B6eAIgl2Wk6UnqqkwaXkuf_MnNB63DIq7ogN0gr3PJ6BmjA/s1600-h/civil_war_diary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8KACIOYaeN-JSBR-yItaY-H1vgtwlm7b4egXpcVne5c6odpFAZQN5lM-RF_Fe9p19-O8SWOkgkoy2EVCQEi9hb2aE12c8B6eAIgl2Wk6UnqqkwaXkuf_MnNB63DIq7ogN0gr3PJ6BmjA/s400/civil_war_diary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261276320907508978" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.myoops.org/twocw/mit/History/21H-931Spring2002/CourseHome/index.htm">Blood-stained Diary of a US Civil War Soldier</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lecture 1</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Introduction:<br /><em>Questions of Genre</em></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br />Anthology texts to read:<br /><ul><br /><li>Walter Benjamin: from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Arcades Project</span> (1929-40 / 1999)</li><li>Donald Keene: from <em>Travelers of a Hundred Ages</em> (1999)</li><li>Thomas Mallon: from <span style="font-style:italic;">A Book of One’s Own: People and Their Diaries</span> (1984)</li><li>Sylvia Plath: from <em>The Journals</em> (1983 / 2001)</li><br /></ul><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdHiR9yfJQELINspcbFEdjg9BAt7HZaI2gcM297WQY9p1WljtdDs2fGloExe4-ZGxIarJKMqZuxUxwYX8WfWUqHXCZDeOV1uIQYrMTH5uqjwbPZ7DVYmriQMbqQ6BZgoTYNjn4kGJ9mHK/s1600-h/tripier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdHiR9yfJQELINspcbFEdjg9BAt7HZaI2gcM297WQY9p1WljtdDs2fGloExe4-ZGxIarJKMqZuxUxwYX8WfWUqHXCZDeOV1uIQYrMTH5uqjwbPZ7DVYmriQMbqQ6BZgoTYNjn4kGJ9mHK/s400/tripier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279089578596412002" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.amazon.fr/rememoirer-Jeanne-Tripier-Lise-Maurer/dp/2865867358/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1229133595&sr=8-1">Le remémoirer de Jeanne Tripier</a>]<br /></span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[28th July, 1936]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br />[<em>From Maison-Blanche lunatic asylum</em>]<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Open letter to M. the Procurator General of the French Republic, Argentine</span></strong><br /></div><br />Joan of Arc, Medium of first necessity, Chief Justiciary of the barbarous people and of the universe as a whole, wishes to remind you that certain remarkable antique Mediums have evaded their primary missions, on the pretext that they will be locked up if they reveal themselves. They prefer to act on their own; and we must bring to your notice that St. Cecilia is also locked up in Maison-Blanche, under her original private Initials obdqgxyz-abdqrgstuwaïz oubdqjasitgapdqaïrstuxwaïz honorific.<br />Is it also necessary to remind you that St. Theresia of the Infant-Jesus has gone herself to find M. the Doctor of the R.8. Armenian, 34 Quai des Orfèvres, who, in her absence, had given the sovereign order to evacuate the Asylums of Maison-Blanche, of Ville-Evrard, of Ville-juif, St. Anne, as well as all the district asylums? In collaboration with St. Anne and la petite Roquette, la Grande Roquette holds at this moment Mme J. T. J of Arc!<br /><br />Do not fear, we shall provide henceforth for all your needs, in our common cause. We will train you, and we will have Exercises in Metallurgy done, in order to avoid falling back on Freemasonic Metallurgy, for it will be necessary to make that cease for the 1st definitive Last Judgment.<br /><br />We shall also enter into an Astronomic period of incoherent principles, because nothing is hidden from the new personnel who have had themselves inscribed under their real pseudonyms; now, it has appeared to us that Morpheus of the Catacombs had forgotten to have herself recorded on our perfumed register of the most extravagant sects.<br /><br />Do not be surprised to learn that between her and you there is no difference.<br /><br />Listen to her!<br /><br />– My very dear Joan of Arc J. T. I would be grateful, when you’re feeling tired of your destiny, as you did all last week, not to hesitate to call on us yourself. Why do you hesitate?<br /><br />– Denise de Pégui and Germanie du Lac have been persecuted to such a point that they can’t contain themselves any more. This morning I went to Dufayel’s; I stationed myself there like a policeman, and attracted the attention of my friends, who recognized me as once. And, on principle, I began to argue with the others. All of them reproached me for still being interned in Maison-Blanche, which was not logical. They all reiterated their intention of extracting you by liquid means. Because they too feel for us; they suffer Martyrdom, it’s thus that Jupiter the 1st, in agreement with Rose, had themselves inscribed on our first registers.<br /><br />They arrived last night, the night was as dark and black as ink …<br /><br />– Jeanne, do you wish to tell me the principal Elements of your pure and healthy immaculate nature?<br /><br />Jeanne, we have managed to penetrate the Grande Roquette and also St. Lazare; these hidden prisons are in the vicinity of Maison-Blanche; we have made certain reports, intended to determine certain divine astrological causes; It has appeared to us that Christine was employed as a nurse at Grande Roquette; the Senegalese are at the door of Maison-Blanche; and soon we shall see appear the Annamites of the Grande and the Petite Roquette!<br /><br />All the prisons of the State are full of unnatural Monsters. Now, the important thing is to Rule over their domains. Jeanne we watch over you as well as over our very dear son and I beg you to believe that in the absence of Solferino, who is a secondary Master-at-Arms from the retreating army, we shall make him reveal who he is.<br /><br />He knows it now, he has been warned of it, last trimester we recalled to him his treacheries towards us and we are disposed to put him at the foot of the wall, of the Great Wall, which will collapse at the Last Judgement, definitive this time. So do not be anxious; at present, because the acts of barbarism revolting in treachery will make and will give proof that Lucifer the 1st, Satan and Mercury the 1st will be the directors in so far as our appeals are concerned!<br /><br />The 1st definitive L. J. is predicted for the 11 September 1936. A great worldly review will take place; and those interned in the Maison-Blanche will have to make proof of what they have heard and seen above all! Jeanne. I reply to the thought, I will have you take them yourself, as well as your geographical snapshots.<br /><br />They must be terminated, because very soon a new Era will be at the door. <br /><br />– Yes, it’s true; but that has been delayed because the exigencies of the barbarous peoples, at the last hour we will make you know that Our Rocchi, the Master at arms, will carry the arms of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Rocchi.<br /><div align="center"><br />- Jeanne Tripier<br />from Lise Aurer: <span style="font-style:italic;">Le remémoirer de Jeanne Tripier</span> (Paris: Erès, 1999): 202-27.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LTlDHbsyyOstNxviSYzAMcaFtsyInyfQaTvFqCpbJ4y0o2P2XSiQx-v1Ctegqf2rzfzcZyvsEKEgkiEFiWcstZhj0pBiESoUlZmurYbzRPrkN32jfrbnLARxa7o26a66gh3m3aNm85RI/s1600-h/voynich.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LTlDHbsyyOstNxviSYzAMcaFtsyInyfQaTvFqCpbJ4y0o2P2XSiQx-v1Ctegqf2rzfzcZyvsEKEgkiEFiWcstZhj0pBiESoUlZmurYbzRPrkN32jfrbnLARxa7o26a66gh3m3aNm85RI/s400/voynich.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286467240529399778" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Gerry Kennedy & Rob Churchill: <em>The Voynich Manuscript</em> (2005)]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Questions of Genre</span><br /></strong><br /></div><br />First of all comes the question, is it <span style="font-style:italic;">fiction</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">non-fiction</span>? One might put it slightly differently. Is it a lie (deliberately <span style="font-style:italic;">feigned</span>) or is it true (purportedly <span style="font-style:italic;">factual</span>)?<br /><br />Let's take the following three examples:<br /><blockquote><br />The scout-boat, struck rather than propelled by the shock-wave, tumbled bow over stern down towards the grey and brown planet, with Adam Reith and Paul Waunder bumping from bulkhead to bulkhead in the control cabin.<br /><div align="center"><br />– Jack Vance, <span style="font-style:italic;">Planet of Adventure</span> (1968)<br /></div><br />Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze<br />That blows from the green fields and from the clouds<br />And from the sky; it beats against my cheek,<br />And seems half conscious of the joy it gives.<br /><div align="center"><br />– William Wordsworth, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Prelude</span> (1805)<br /></div><br /><ol><li>The world is all that is the case.<br />The world is the totality of facts, not of things.</li><br /><ol><li>The world is determined by the facts, and by their being all the facts.</li></ol></ol><div align="center">– Ludwig Wittgenstein, <span style="font-style:italic;">Tractatus Logico-philosophicus</span> (1921)</div><br /></blockquote><br />On the level of non-fiction, at least, the question seems quite easy to answer. If you go into most libraries, you'll find some variation on the following system in force:<br /><blockquote> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Dewey Decimal System:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">000</span> Generalities <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">100</span> Philosophy & psychology <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">200</span> Religion <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">300</span> Social sciences <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">400</span> Language <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">500</span> Natural sciences & mathematics <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">600</span> Technology (Applied sciences) <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">700</span> The arts <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">800</span> Literature & rhetoric <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">900</span> Geography & history</blockquote><br />As far as fiction goes, classifications are a little more historically contingent:<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Nine Muses from Greek Mythology:</span><br /><ol><br /><li>Calliope (epic poetry)</li><li>Euterpe (music)</li><li>Clio (history)</li><li>Erato (love poetry)</li><li>Melpomene (tragedy)</li><li>Polyhymnia (sacred poetry and geometry)</li><li>Terpsichore (dancing)</li><li>Thalia (comedy)</li><li>Urania (astronomy and astrology)</li></ol></blockquote><br />Or else some variant on the following:<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Prose Fiction<br /></span><br />Novels – Novellas – Short Stories - Graphic Novels<br /><ul><li>Realist</li><li>Regional</li><li>Magic Realist</li><li>Postmodern</li><li>Feminist</li></ul><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Genre Fiction</span><br /><ul><li>Science Fiction / Fantasy<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Cyberpunk, Alternate History, Epic Fantasy</span>)</li><li>Romance<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Harlequin, Mills & Boon, True Romance</span>)</li><li>Detective<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Country-House, Noir, Hardbitten, Chandleresque</span>)</li><li>Thriller<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Spy, Supernatural, Horror, Ghost</span>)</li><li>Historical<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Bodice-ripper, Napoleonic Navy, Ancient World</span>)</li></ul></blockquote><br />But how does all that help us when it comes to diaries?<br /><br />A diary is (at least in theory) a set of daily writings about the diarist's experiences which hopefully, despite being episodic by their very nature, will come to add up to more than the sum of their parts.<br /><br />It truthfully records the day-to-day in order to perceive a large pattern of events without <span style="font-style:italic;">imposing such a structure</span> deliberately.<br /><br />It should, then, presumably be classified as <span style="font-weight:bold;">non-fiction</span>: Dewey 900, in fact: autobiography, history.<br /><br />Some diaries do indeed record responses to significant historical events. <br /><ul><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/lady-daibu.html">Lady Daibu</a> reports (albeit indirectly and largely at second-hand) on the war between the Taira and Minamoto Clans in late Heian Japan. Her <span style="font-style:italic;">own</span> focus, however, is on her own attempts at poetry and the various romantic entanglements which inspired particular poetic exchanges. How day to day these jottings are, and how much they've been tidied up and polished subsequently is a matter for speculation. Dewey 800 might seem a better number for her.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/daniel-defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a> does indeed relate interesting historical details of the plague year (1665) in London, but this is definitely a fictional imposture: an historical novel, in fact. He writes in the character of someone who lived through the experience, even though he can have been no more than five years old at the time. You could call it a hoax (which in a sense it is) or a novel, but the significance of the latter term largely postdates his work - which indeed it helped create.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/mary-chesnut.html">Mary Chesnut</a>'s Civil War diary is a still more complex case. It has indeed been described as a "fake" by K. K. Ruthven in his <em>Falsifying Literature</em> (1999). Chesnut did indeed keep a diary during the years of the American Civil War (1861-65). She was indeed close to the Confederate centres of power, and privy to much gossip and official information. The diary as we have it, though, was written up and greatly fleshed out and expanded in the 1880s as a partial solution to her dilemma of how to write a connected account of her experiences in the war. The separate entries were not, then, actually written thus at the time, but they're mostly based on existing notebooks together with her subsequent recollections and reflections. Like Defoe, though, she keeps up the fiction of having <span style="font-style:italic;">written thus at the time</span> (or near after it - a frequent practice for most diarists, who go back to fill in entries for missed days).</li><br />One could go on to describe in similar detail the generic problems raised by each of our diaries:<br /><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/alice-james.html">Alice James</a> constructs (or might be seen to construct) her illness as a kind of metaphor for the society she inhabits - patriarchal and imperialist. Hence her constantly reiterated concern with invalidism, femininity and Irish nationalism. Hence the insightful (or anacrhronistic - the choice is yours) readings of her text which came out from Feminist critics from the 80s onwards.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/douglas-mawson.html">Douglas Mawson</a> is writing in a more conventional genre, the explorer's journal, with its own agreed-upon rules and expectations. Technical. "scientific" observations (geological, meteorological and zoological) alternate with pieces of narrative and description intended to be worked up for the - financially inevitable - eventual "popular" account of the expedition. No criticism of other members of the team can be included in the written-up version of the journal, though it may be freely indulged in the manuscript jottings.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/jean-cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a>, as a professional literary man, sees the account of his battle with drug addiction as potentially bestselling copy. More to the point, though, it accords with a surrealist aesthetic of attempting to obtain access to the unconscious, uncensored regions of the mind: hence the strange drawings and poetic automatisms which accompany his text.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/vaslav-nijinsky.html">Vaslav Nijinsky</a>, though also a great artist in the field of dance and choreography, had no such deliberate intentions in producing this strange masterpiece. Its publication could be seen as more of a contribution to the field of psychiatry - being written while he was in the grip of the first waves of (incurable) mental illness - than as a piece of literature. The form in which we have it, too, is due at least as much to the editorial interventions of his widow Romola as it is to his own design in writing it.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/lydia-ginzburg.html">Lydia Ginzburg</a> set out consciously to record a piece of history as it happened. In that sense, her aim was clearly to produce a kind of <em>un-feigned</em> "Journal of the Plague Year". Like Defoe, she editorializes and analyzes what she sees around her more than most diarists (she was, after all, by profession a literary critic), and clearly (like Chesnut) pondered her text for a long time before its eventual publication forty years after the events it describes.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/alice-james.html">Arthur Koestler</a>, too, is writing about a war. His diary comes from another fascinatingly complex genre: teh prison diary. Boethius, John Bunyan, Miguel de Cervantes, Antonio Gramsci, Adolf Hitler, Wole Soyinka - even the egregious Jeffrey Archer - have all made (or attempted to make) significant contributions to this field of writing. In Koestler's case, the immediacy and honesty of his diary entries, written in prison in Franco's Spain under the very real threat of imminent execution, have led him to retain only this portion of the book he wrote at the time: <span style="font-style:italic;">Spanish Testament</span> (1937), as the rest began to seem to him more and more like dated (and largely inaccurate) communist propaganda.</li><br /><li><a href="http://crisisdiaries/2008/10/denton-welch.html">Denton Welch</a>, finally, uses his diary more conventionally as a vehicle for autobiography, but turns his focus in most entries on intense evocations of past events suggested by trivial happenings in the present. His is the most Proustian of these diaries, the most preoccupied with "recollection in tranquillity" rather than the immediacy of the day to day.</li><br /></ul><br />I suppose the message here is to beware of too-facile categories. What <em>all</em> our diarists have in common is that they wrote well about interesting events. In other words, they produced artful versions of experience which are capable of conveying at least <em>some</em> aspects of that experience to their readers. Some wrote for publication, others not. Some wrote at the time, and were faithful to that first inspiration (or found subsequent editors who were); others re-shaped and "feigned" their texts over time.<br /><br />We began with the problem of raw, "art brut" texts such as that produced by Jeanne Tripier or Henry Darger. She, it seems, was writing for an audience of angels and demogorgons which existed mainly in her head. He was writing for a kind of idealised version of the common reader, the audience for the magazines and popular novels he read. Can we find meaning in these texts without patronising or exploiting them, or reading them deliberately against the grain?<br /><br />Even more challenging examples could be multiplied without too much difficulty: Alchemical or Rosicrucian texts intended for (real of imaginary) groups of illuminati; Hermetic or hieroglyphic texts interpreted in close (and historically most influential) detail by readers who remained in complete ignorance of their original cultural contexts; documents such as the fabled <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voynich_Manuscript">Voynich Manuscript</a> which has defied all attempts to read, interpret, analyze or even describe it since its (re)discovery by rare-books dealer Wilfrid Voynich in 1912 ...<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bu4pFXmTaMP3H1S8kbRsaeII6AyA1LVSpxIR2MerpL57aB3MxgYIzJQbtIwBQbg5fO8OA4r_-D6OS9X2XBW9-udUPohvNfZanO4YOXFmeo2WqrFZGNoRKru8ocHoPxMbrkCB4Mnfgc73/s1600-h/keene1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bu4pFXmTaMP3H1S8kbRsaeII6AyA1LVSpxIR2MerpL57aB3MxgYIzJQbtIwBQbg5fO8OA4r_-D6OS9X2XBW9-udUPohvNfZanO4YOXFmeo2WqrFZGNoRKru8ocHoPxMbrkCB4Mnfgc73/s400/keene1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264543651215816066" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Travelers-Hundred-Ages-Japanese-Revealed/dp/0231114370">Travelers of a Hundred Ages</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Workshop 1</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Fellow Travellers</strong></span><br /></div><br /><blockquote>“... as far as I know, only in Japan did the diary acquire the status of a literary genre comparable in importance to novels, essays, and other branches of literature that elsewhere are esteemed more highly than diaries.”</blockquote><div align="center">– Donald Keene, <em>Travelers of a Hundred Ages</em> (1999): 1.</div><br /><br />Discussion of the course structure, assessment & nature of the assignments.<br /><br />How we’ll be conducting the workshops – beginning (generally) with discussion of the prescribed texts, then any seminars which have been scheduled for that week, and finally moving on to your responses to the take-home writing exercises.<br /><br />On this occasion, though, we'll be doing the following in-class exercise in pairs or threes, before reporting back to the whole group:<br /><div align="center"><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Exercise 1:</span><br />Journal-Keeping</strong> [<em>in-class</em>]</div><br /><blockquote><br />Discuss the following questions:<br /><ul><br /><li>What types of diary or journal have you yourself kept in the past?</li><li>Travel? Course-related? Work-related? Engagements? Literary? Documentary?</li><li>What would you, personally, be interested in writing about in your journal-writing in the future?</li><br /></ul><br /></blockquote><br /><strong>Next week:</strong><br /><div align="center"><br /><strong>Exercise 2:</strong> Get on the Waka<em> and Seminars on</em> <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-2.html">The Poetic Memoirs of Lady Daibu</a><em> due.</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaev50oM0zwyPgCo7CkdYnqBmL2iVQ2v6e2HN5MaPYVtHtu7uXNGQZ6HfC_i-BumJ7X2MDAKGa5mAFNDfzU1gV1Jpcq289dsMUa3S_e0HNI6fYmy2rdzSrF2qbRyKjJMYsdwxRGlMplBe/s1600-h/heian+gown.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 358px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaev50oM0zwyPgCo7CkdYnqBmL2iVQ2v6e2HN5MaPYVtHtu7uXNGQZ6HfC_i-BumJ7X2MDAKGa5mAFNDfzU1gV1Jpcq289dsMUa3S_e0HNI6fYmy2rdzSrF2qbRyKjJMYsdwxRGlMplBe/s400/heian+gown.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276849935120771218" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://joechip.net/liana/archives/cat_paperdolls.html">Heian gown</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-85966066527685897512008-10-21T09:35:00.015+13:002008-12-31T10:12:11.549+13:00Lady Daibu<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYybHp6c7Tdni3z_Q__VimjO8HjWMfH15ePjIHjdxTmsKcOHrZUaC3hHqyJStbzFZp7oUNmgwe6OBXk8rMDqhM5UqdVSxIej6aB30nsAHCyTnnxL3MJMzDdOHmSYua5Wu5oEHl2hNvoM9/s1600-h/Lady+Daibu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 164px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYybHp6c7Tdni3z_Q__VimjO8HjWMfH15ePjIHjdxTmsKcOHrZUaC3hHqyJStbzFZp7oUNmgwe6OBXk8rMDqhM5UqdVSxIej6aB30nsAHCyTnnxL3MJMzDdOHmSYua5Wu5oEHl2hNvoM9/s400/Lady+Daibu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261184922046148098" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[Hiroshige ga: <a href="http://www.kunisada.de/Kunisada-series72-Ogura/series72-ogura-1.htm">Lady Kenreimon-in Ukyo no Daibu taking Buddhist vows after her lover Taira no Sukemori was killed at the battle of Dannoura)</a> (1847)]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Lady Kenreimon-in Ukyo no Daibu</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(c.1157-c.1235)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Harries, Phillip Tudor, trans. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-2.html"><em>The Poetic Memoirs of Lady Daibu</em></a>. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1980.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFCSJjSWtYBkabNwP8xBo5hEzNLybcXzfwamcvVEzVz5ph7MSB7ZOynsmjRCedu0PPGsjrN1oXyqiw1RzYrVcxSIcg9ZEDyuIFyRpElMN-ypkuYZ5ZAbu7jK_j_dGGsJlhImZopgXmino/s1600-h/daibu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFCSJjSWtYBkabNwP8xBo5hEzNLybcXzfwamcvVEzVz5ph7MSB7ZOynsmjRCedu0PPGsjrN1oXyqiw1RzYrVcxSIcg9ZEDyuIFyRpElMN-ypkuYZ5ZAbu7jK_j_dGGsJlhImZopgXmino/s400/daibu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263907348024595458" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[Jan 3. 1176]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />One year a fire broke out near the palace at the time of the Gosechi Celebrations, and in view of the imminent danger, sedan chairs were made ready for us at the South Hall. From the commanders downwards, the members of the guards looked very striking, each dressed in his own style; and I shall never forget how even amidst the general uproar, I could not help thinking that this was a sight I would hardly see in the outside world. Word came that Her Majesty was to leave in a hand-drawn carriage. The Komatsu Grand Minister made a particularly vivid impression when, as a guards commander, he came to the Empress's quarters wearing a quiver of arrows over his ordinary clothes. <br /><blockquote><br />Here above the clouds, <br />Even the sight of people<br />Scrambling in chaos<br />Through the fire and smoke, <br />How it entrances me!</blockquote><br /><div align="center">- <em>The Poetic Memoirs of Lady Daibu</em> (1980): 109.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFu-VB8BZBfmeT_5rRRWMThlPCwdvV3yrjOzHaLkFlwdbUygOkNv2b62lQ9lFxyczkLZ5cklp0vewFWJAwOuF1upHWShiE6UXjjU_VXdgcprsQhTqfLKZSu6bB5-lTuvGHnbXB4BT3WW0L/s1600-h/daibu2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFu-VB8BZBfmeT_5rRRWMThlPCwdvV3yrjOzHaLkFlwdbUygOkNv2b62lQ9lFxyczkLZ5cklp0vewFWJAwOuF1upHWShiE6UXjjU_VXdgcprsQhTqfLKZSu6bB5-lTuvGHnbXB4BT3WW0L/s400/daibu2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263907576579230626" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>other Japanese diaries:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Bashō, Matsuo. <span style="font-style:italic;">A Haiku Journey: Bashō’s Narrow Journey to a Far Province</span>. Trans. Dorothy Bretton. Tokyo & New York: Kodansha International, 1981.<br /><br />Bashō, Matsuo. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches</span>. Trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa. Penguin Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960.<br /><br />Bowring, Richard, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Diary of Lady Murasaki</span>. 1982. Penguin Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1996.<br /><br />Brazell, Karen, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Confessions of Lady Nijō</span>. 1975. London: Zenith, 1983.<br /><br />Morris, Ivan, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams: Recollections of a Woman in Eleventh Century Japan</span>. 1971. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975.<br /><br />Morris, Ivan, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</span>. 2 vols. 1967. Penguin Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971.<br /><br />Omori, Annie Shepley & Kochi Doi, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan: The Sarashina Diary; Diary of Murasaki Shikibu & Diary of Izumi Shikibu</span>. Introduction by Amy Lowell. 1935. Tokyo: Kenkyushu Ltd., 1961.<br /><br />Seidensticker, Edward, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Gossamer Years (Kagerō Nikki): The Diary of a Noblewoman of Heian Japan</span>. 1964. Tokyo & Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1981.<br /><br />Shōnagon, Sei. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Pillow Book</span>. Trans. Meredith McKinney. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2006.<br /><br />Waley, Arthur, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</span>. 1928. London: Unwin Books, 1960.</blockquote><br /><strong>chronicles & histories:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Aston, W. G., trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nihongi: Chronicles of Japan from the Earliest Times to A. D. 697</span>. Translated from the Original Chinese and Japanese by W. G. Aston. 1896. Tokyo & Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1988.<br /><br />Chamberlain, Basil Hall, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Kojiki: Records of Ancient Matters</span>. 1882. Tokyo & Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1988.<br /><br />Philippi, Donald L., trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">Kojiki</span>. Princeton & Tokyo: University of Princeton and University of Tokyo Press, 1969.</blockquote><br /><strong>Heian fiction:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Kitagawa, Hiroshi & Bruce T. Tsuchida, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of the Heike: Heike Monogatari</span>. Foreword by Edward Seidensticker. 2 vols. 1973. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1978.<br /><br />McCullough, Helen Craig, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of the Heike</span>. 1988. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002.<br /><br />Murasaki, Lady. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of Genji: A Novel in Six Parts</span>. Trans. Arthur Waley. 1935. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1957.<br /><br />Sadler, A. L., trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Ten Foot Square Hut and Tales of the Heike: Being Two Thirteenth-Century Japanese Classics, The “Hōjōki”and Selections from the “Heike Monogatari.”</span> 1928. Tokyo & Rutland, Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1972.<br /><br />Shikibu, Murasaki. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of Genji</span>. Trans. Edward Seidensticker. 1976. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981.<br /><br />Shikibu, Murasaki. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of Genji</span>. Trans. Royall Tyler. 2 vols. New York: Viking, 2001.<br /><br />Whitehouse, Wilfrid, & Eizo Yanagisawa, trans. <span style="font-style:italic;">Ochikubo Monogatari: The Tale of the Lady Ochikubo. A Tenth-Century Japanese Novel</span>. 1934. London: Arena, 1985.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnuAhWbocaTPeUQxzCHuK-TjCprhLZDwsL6xc-RBPya52OrCMJAlp6jyoDZFU3_Fokjgmus0w3OZVrTqIuQyMLPPYAspJnKrmOW84aE833GvsROwF7Ve2h30sEs9RZDlJLreev_xqMOij/s1600-h/genjidays1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 244px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnuAhWbocaTPeUQxzCHuK-TjCprhLZDwsL6xc-RBPya52OrCMJAlp6jyoDZFU3_Fokjgmus0w3OZVrTqIuQyMLPPYAspJnKrmOW84aE833GvsROwF7Ve2h30sEs9RZDlJLreev_xqMOij/s400/genjidays1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264542586090330178" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Bowring, Richard. <span style="font-style:italic;">Murasaki Shikibu: The Tale of Genji</span>. Landmarks of World Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988.<br /><br />Dalby, Liza. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tale of Murasaki</span>. 2000. London: Vintage, 2001.<br /><br />Keene, Donald, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">Anthology of Japanese Literature to the Mid-Nineteenth Century</span>. 1955. Penguin Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968.<br /><br />Keene, Donald, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">Modern Japanese Literature: From 1868 to Present Day. An Anthology</span>. 1956. New York: Grove Press, 1960.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Seeds in the Heart: Japanese Literature from the Earliest Times to the Late Sixteenth Century. A History of Japanese Literature</span>. Volume 1 of 4. 1993. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">World Within Walls: Japanese Literature of the Pre-Modern Era 1600-1867. A History of Japanese Literature</span>. Volume 2 of 4. 1976. New York: Grove Press, 1978.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era – Poetry, Drama, Criticism. A History of Japanese Literature</span>. Volume 3 of 4. 1984. New York: Henry Holt, 1987.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era – Fiction. A History of Japanese Literature</span>. Volume 4 of 4. 1993. New York: Henry Holt, 1999.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Travelers of a Hundred Ages: The Japanese as Revealed Through 1,000 Years of Diaries</span>. 1989. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999.<br /><br />Keene, Donald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Modern Japanese Diaries: The Japanese at Home and Abroad as Revealed through Their Diaries</span>. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999.<br /><br />Morris, Ivan. <span style="font-style:italic;">The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan</span>. 1964. Peregrine Books. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969.<br /><br />Seidensticker, Edward G. <span style="font-style:italic;">Genji Days</span>. 1977. Tokyo & New York: Kodansha International, 1983.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYqSmUcNyLNJRnPYQuww9vZTo8AXm5UMjYKfbAsmhailXB09BPfyIf4F9u9hO3XLEbPQHXFZycyP0zKEEsNDAIXh9FhlirJ9h7OxEsss9Pzve5wWHmb5fiMdtQpRG708KfyH4dXoHZk4z/s1600-h/genjidays2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYqSmUcNyLNJRnPYQuww9vZTo8AXm5UMjYKfbAsmhailXB09BPfyIf4F9u9hO3XLEbPQHXFZycyP0zKEEsNDAIXh9FhlirJ9h7OxEsss9Pzve5wWHmb5fiMdtQpRG708KfyH4dXoHZk4z/s400/genjidays2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264543109529578658" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://www.everything2.com/e2node/Lady%2520Daibu">Lady Daibu</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.pikle.demon.co.uk/diaryjunction/data/daibu.html">The Diary Junction</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0rotovjUrlU0qyLaldBDP-Ax9AdrVvXK3YkX9EM0OqPgBFpunvm9QFcWqPQ6kY9629DalOnpB88z1j1FG_6fPh_tHkNa7YY5DRCCbrihHB6-7rZY2h7no-EM_LU1notFN43P4j07qhqU/s1600-h/june.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0rotovjUrlU0qyLaldBDP-Ax9AdrVvXK3YkX9EM0OqPgBFpunvm9QFcWqPQ6kY9629DalOnpB88z1j1FG_6fPh_tHkNa7YY5DRCCbrihHB6-7rZY2h7no-EM_LU1notFN43P4j07qhqU/s400/june.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264542131640305218" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.arespress.com/AresPages/LiamFolder/Venus/Venus.html">Ares Press</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-39681857763271567082008-10-21T09:34:00.027+13:002009-01-02T11:22:07.950+13:00Daniel Defoe<div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicm0dQZ-pS63vRpwNIRXPm0flwyDj34roZo21DsdMrCSS6sNn1MlIid-5ke1KDapqOdujKC7cUAfrvjLRn1QY0nfl6aTQ6d56tlQm3zQ9Ch652vbvagy7h4SmtUXEFb0HVcSMk1_Tn06s2/s1600-h/Defoe1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicm0dQZ-pS63vRpwNIRXPm0flwyDj34roZo21DsdMrCSS6sNn1MlIid-5ke1KDapqOdujKC7cUAfrvjLRn1QY0nfl6aTQ6d56tlQm3zQ9Ch652vbvagy7h4SmtUXEFb0HVcSMk1_Tn06s2/s400/Defoe1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261193255058915682" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.daviddarling.info/encyclopedia/D/Defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a>]</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Daniel Defoe</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1660-1731)</span></strong><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Defoe, Daniel. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-3.html"><em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em></a>. 1722. Ed. Anthony Burgess. 1966. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9m70Ay6dku9fxorT5VT0xaS7rtJevY95_AA7OrFNLDtUEQueOCVuoGumauF0FUSZEI36RnPz34varolgBuv8NLcoSkXq8A2Zi0eXEzNGGduhDIkG7XpxNeD3SCx4JPbNjCslPubS3H1D/s1600-h/defoe+a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 244px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9m70Ay6dku9fxorT5VT0xaS7rtJevY95_AA7OrFNLDtUEQueOCVuoGumauF0FUSZEI36RnPz34varolgBuv8NLcoSkXq8A2Zi0eXEzNGGduhDIkG7XpxNeD3SCx4JPbNjCslPubS3H1D/s400/defoe+a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264170063547839634" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">[September, 1665]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />I think it ought to be recorded to the honour of such men, as well clergy as physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, magistrates, and officers of every kind, as also all useful people who ventured their lives in discharge of their duty, as most certainly all such as stayed did to the last degree; and several of all these kinds did not only venture but lose their lives on that sad occasion.<br /><br />I was once making a list of all such, I mean of all those professions and employments who thus died, as I call it, in the way of their duty; but it was impossible for a private man to come at a certainty in the particulars. I only remember that there died sixteen clergymen, two aldermen, five physicians, thirteen surgeons, within the city and liberties before the beginning of September. But this being, as I said before, the great crisis and extremity of the infection, it can be no complete list. As to inferior people, I think there died six-and-forty constables and head-boroughs in the two parishes of Stepney and Whitechappel; but I could not carry my list oil, for when the violent rage of the distemper in September came upon us, it drove us out of all measures. Men did then no more die by tale and by number. They might put out a weekly bill, and call them seven or eight thousand, or what they pleased; 'tis certain they died by heaps, and were buried by heaps, that is to say, without account. And if I might believe some people, who were more abroad and more conversant with those things than I though I was public enough for one that had no more business to do than I had, - I say, if I may believe them, there was not many less buried those first three weeks in September than 20,000 per week. However, the others aver the truth of it; yet I rather choose to keep to the public account; seven and eight thousand per week is enough to make good all that I have said of the terror of those times; - and it is much to the satisfaction of me that write, as well as those that read, to be able to say that everything is set down with moderation, and rather within compass than beyond it.<br /><div align="center"><br />- <em>A Journal of the Plague Year</em> (1978): 245-46.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyduthi_eaxxBUQ-dhFzGJSqjjL3HnRc09iFIC-yQTY62aBzg1ezOEzwbQcihkYQqlp3m-fRZHZr78luWN3pl6jWaOkU0CO3LUZt5tRXXkallWp1G2Ro5fJpIDpu-uo07MP20C98nM34q1/s1600-h/defoe+b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyduthi_eaxxBUQ-dhFzGJSqjjL3HnRc09iFIC-yQTY62aBzg1ezOEzwbQcihkYQqlp3m-fRZHZr78luWN3pl6jWaOkU0CO3LUZt5tRXXkallWp1G2Ro5fJpIDpu-uo07MP20C98nM34q1/s400/defoe+b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264170298242011362" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>novels:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York, Mariner</span> (1719)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe</span> (1719)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Serious Reflections occasioned by the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe</span> (1720)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Captain Singleton</span> (1720)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Memoirs of a Cavalier</span> (1720)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Moll Flanders</span> (1722)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Captain Jack</span> (1722) <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Roxana, or The Fortunate Mistress</span> (1724)</blockquote><br /><strong>poems:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The True born Englishman</span> (1701)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hymn To The Pillory</span> (1703)</blockquote><br /><strong>pamphlets & essays:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Shortest Way With Dissenters</span> (1702)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Storm</span> (1704)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Religious Courtship</span> (1722)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A General History of the Pyrates</span> (1724)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Great Law of Subordination Considered</span> (1724)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain</span> (1724-27)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Everybody's Business is Nobody's Business</span> (1725)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Complete English Tradesman</span> (1726)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Political History of the Devil</span> (1726)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A System of Magick</span> (1726)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">An Essay on the History and Reality of Apparitions</span> (1727)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A General History of Discoveries and Improvements</span> (1727)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The New Family Instructor</span> (1727)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Atlas Maritimus and Commercialis</span> (1728)<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Hassan, Nawal Muhammad. <span style="font-style:italic;">Hayy bin Yaqzan and Robinson Crusoe: A study of an early Arabic impact on English literature</span>. Cairo: Al-Rashid House for Publication, 1980.<br /><br />Richetti, John J. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Life of Daniel Defoe</span>. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005.<br /><br />West, Richard. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Life and Strange, Surprising Adventures of Daniel Defoe, Writer</span>. New York: Carroll & Graf Publishers, 1998.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Daniel Defoe: <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/376">A Journal of the Plague Year</a> (1722)<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Defoe">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiL0x-75QuVHDGB_G3bu0jtNs65jGoIgZsyrLigDMaA_W-YDWUGVfLPrmoMtxxfFmLVH8TvAxGoayQ2g7IOF00ytLUjDiTs5URIYzd0C-nCyPbF7KAm94ouCzgUmcT5xZV_tgcoe2nGgn/s1600-h/defoe2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 336px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxiL0x-75QuVHDGB_G3bu0jtNs65jGoIgZsyrLigDMaA_W-YDWUGVfLPrmoMtxxfFmLVH8TvAxGoayQ2g7IOF00ytLUjDiTs5URIYzd0C-nCyPbF7KAm94ouCzgUmcT5xZV_tgcoe2nGgn/s400/defoe2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264544991851924242" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.epsomandewellhistoryexplorer.org.uk/Defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-70388339353952729262008-10-21T09:34:00.026+13:002009-01-02T11:21:41.968+13:00Mary Chesnut<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDe91zMRDpTqr5zkQrPyn95pGhLgCJIbZbLWuRGnA9TsmwGoI2Fo7rk1QW4FqW3UW8xZPjFqO790dmknNm-o-Sesu-zEqVMzJSZQWRPqk0aZbTbWW0o7eFV8uxPo2ogzS4_3JI-G9zYgqB/s1600-h/Mary+Chesnut.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDe91zMRDpTqr5zkQrPyn95pGhLgCJIbZbLWuRGnA9TsmwGoI2Fo7rk1QW4FqW3UW8xZPjFqO790dmknNm-o-Sesu-zEqVMzJSZQWRPqk0aZbTbWW0o7eFV8uxPo2ogzS4_3JI-G9zYgqB/s400/Mary+Chesnut.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261198398893640722" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://oha.alexandriava.gov/fortward/special-sections/refugees/">Alexandria, Virginia</a>]</span><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Mary Boykin Miller Chesnut</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1823-1886)</span><br /></strong><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Woodward, C. Vann, ed. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-4.html"><em>Mary Chesnut’s Civil War</em></a>. 1981. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1993.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzmuzd0uyLcJoLqVs381wkCgE_wyeNwf7xR7cZ-YoIOrHLWDsv5ZYH7O8eqg78xQM55kmzcDkHVIr7XwqQ6g1fCfU6BlNOwLb4P8EWuE96pjOIpp_djwdMlY5Z53ytNkFgJl2yQx3rLxH/s1600-h/chesnut3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzmuzd0uyLcJoLqVs381wkCgE_wyeNwf7xR7cZ-YoIOrHLWDsv5ZYH7O8eqg78xQM55kmzcDkHVIr7XwqQ6g1fCfU6BlNOwLb4P8EWuE96pjOIpp_djwdMlY5Z53ytNkFgJl2yQx3rLxH/s400/chesnut3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264167928339625010" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[July 26th, 1865]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />I do not write often now - not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear. Why dwell upon it?<br /><br />I even feel a repugnance toward making mention of the wedding.<br /><br />Colonel C., poor old man, was worse. More restless. He seems to be wild with "homesickness." He wants to be at Mulberry. He cannot see the mighty giants of the forest, the huge old wide-spreading oaks. He says he feels that he is there as soon as he hears the carriage rattling across the bridge at the beaver dam.<br />...<br /><br />I am reading French with Johnny. Anything to keep him quiet. We gave a dinner to his company, the small remnant of them, at Mulberry house. About twenty idle negroes, trained servants, came without leave or license and assisted. So there was no expense. They gave their time and labor for a good day's feeding. And I think they love to be at the old place.<br />...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_______________________________</div><br />Then I went up to nurse Kate Withers. That lovely girl, barely eighteen - she is dead, died of typhoid fever. Tanny wanted his sweet little sister to have a dress for Mary Boykin's wedding. Kate was to be one of the bridesmaids. So Tanny took his horses, rode one, led one thirty miles in this broiling sun to Columbia - sold the led horse - came back with a roll of Swiss muslin. As he entered the door he saw her lying there, dying.<br /><br />She died praying that she might die. She was weary of earth. She wanted to be at peace. I saw her die. I saw her put in her coffin. No words of mine can tell how unhappy I am.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_______________________________</div><br />Six young soldiers, her friends, were her pallbearers. As they marched out with that burden sad were their faces.<br /><br />And yet, that night all save one danced at a ball given by Mrs. Courtney from Charleston!<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_______________________________<br /><br />"Time's dull deadening,<br />The world's tiring;<br />Life's settled cloudy <em>afternoon</em>" - evening -<br />Night -</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_______________________________</div><br />Forgiveness is indifference. Forgiveness is impossible while <em>love lasts.</em><br />...<br />And - and the weight that hangs upon our eyelids - is of lead.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>Mary Chesnut's Civil War</em> (1981): 834-36.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAa7r1gyGPAM54jOud-BnuU5V-HOzmuXc3g2B9z0j6EUB2cv8-jUQHt6AljrlckfTNXqkAi4VrCf-Pa78Ir6hLBbmt47vQp1dy-NRPK1RLD5LpFZqJGXvWnAtBaDFi_tst_pQgDT_L915u/s1600-h/chesnut4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAa7r1gyGPAM54jOud-BnuU5V-HOzmuXc3g2B9z0j6EUB2cv8-jUQHt6AljrlckfTNXqkAi4VrCf-Pa78Ir6hLBbmt47vQp1dy-NRPK1RLD5LpFZqJGXvWnAtBaDFi_tst_pQgDT_L915u/s400/chesnut4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264168109852329426" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>diary:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Martin, Isabella D. & Myrta Lockett Avary, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">A Diary from Dixie, as Written by Mary Boykin Chesnut, Wife of James Chesnut, Jr., United States Senator From South Carolina, 1859-1861, and Afterward an Aide to Jefferson Davis and a Brigadier-General in the Confederate Army </span> (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1905)<br /><br />Williams, Ben Ames, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">A Diary from Dixie</span>. 1949. New York: Gramercy, 1997.<br /><br />Woodward, C. Vann, ed. <em>Mary Chesnut’s Civil War</em>. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1981.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbQP3yjEwsPmeQXfSnpe4UQzgxWC7ysfWBJAYFzVErq5QXaVk5nbnZjucAommaCL6fJm0BN6CAYA9tpeyRUCK9r1NkVbank7IY5r3tVd9K9OBCxwlM_dtwjtAuYv-xdH3U9_b37g__Zz8/s1600-h/chesnut1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFbQP3yjEwsPmeQXfSnpe4UQzgxWC7ysfWBJAYFzVErq5QXaVk5nbnZjucAommaCL6fJm0BN6CAYA9tpeyRUCK9r1NkVbank7IY5r3tVd9K9OBCxwlM_dtwjtAuYv-xdH3U9_b37g__Zz8/s400/chesnut1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264169102318479346" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Woodward, C. Vann & Elisabeth Muhlenfeld. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Private Mary Chesnut: the Unpublished Civil War Diaries</span>. New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eGPsUS-lnY_cRNSlhI_npfJjoVjiRnWHLBTflPO4r7E8jZO7ndabixi464TBLvahc4vXBNyrVUGS8o32zoOG-_nHZRkVH6KJNkPCsRmfu5guV8vd6lJA1FBE5NaX5HWFkuOf9VmoOfoP/s1600-h/chesnut2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eGPsUS-lnY_cRNSlhI_npfJjoVjiRnWHLBTflPO4r7E8jZO7ndabixi464TBLvahc4vXBNyrVUGS8o32zoOG-_nHZRkVH6KJNkPCsRmfu5guV8vd6lJA1FBE5NaX5HWFkuOf9VmoOfoP/s400/chesnut2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264169716873448514" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><br />Mary Chesnut: <a href="http://docsouth.unc.edu/southlit/chesnut/maryches.html">A Diary from Dixie</a> (1905)<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Chesnut">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpqGyjvmVtm2MfTklLaGGKT3Sd3P6uI2mgNnuUODOMEMSjvxKUAS0rdnUtMLkYntvEkZji6d-Mb422-xThGZRBppmOTnoBtnrBCQhrzpefbxQEWg1JhFJCVhRstEnJ-QMJqqBkJJkm4K9/s1600-h/chesnut.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpqGyjvmVtm2MfTklLaGGKT3Sd3P6uI2mgNnuUODOMEMSjvxKUAS0rdnUtMLkYntvEkZji6d-Mb422-xThGZRBppmOTnoBtnrBCQhrzpefbxQEWg1JhFJCVhRstEnJ-QMJqqBkJJkm4K9/s400/chesnut.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264539565936597330" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://docsouth.unc.edu/southlit/chesnut/maryches.html">Mary Boykin Miller Chesnut</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-57780306957224262692008-10-21T09:33:00.030+13:002009-01-03T11:37:32.200+13:00Alice James<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyvAyR-Vo9osdv7wAdMF7GsImPnbKiO5Xp5AIw13G691SEL9zPYqeX6Fx-ZvWShhCe_rHHNeoRepMELqzYfw9UC96Opxiw9Q0p4DUIbZdxOsVKjy4Wc4oUd2lHVsIw26yljJ3zjZP2F6z/s1600-h/AliceJames.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyvAyR-Vo9osdv7wAdMF7GsImPnbKiO5Xp5AIw13G691SEL9zPYqeX6Fx-ZvWShhCe_rHHNeoRepMELqzYfw9UC96Opxiw9Q0p4DUIbZdxOsVKjy4Wc4oUd2lHVsIw26yljJ3zjZP2F6z/s400/AliceJames.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261215902008172130" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.alicejamesbooks.org/alice_james.html">Alice James</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Alice James</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1848-1892)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Edel, Leon, ed. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-5.html"><em>The Diary of Alice James</em></a>. 1964. Introduction by Linda Simon. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1999.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1NzUnOOdBhxPHN1s2qo_VuO1v0nUzkNuIL5kd0kdcjzGFWFsprl1AkhgQBZ-4KajYvCirHKgXyUNQBN3gdPrPd4iGApPUtDlb_DHuF-oQ3JRpcXl-vze_Svma4ryqk_Ag2QsWBwlG_q_/s1600-h/jamesdiary1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1NzUnOOdBhxPHN1s2qo_VuO1v0nUzkNuIL5kd0kdcjzGFWFsprl1AkhgQBZ-4KajYvCirHKgXyUNQBN3gdPrPd4iGApPUtDlb_DHuF-oQ3JRpcXl-vze_Svma4ryqk_Ag2QsWBwlG_q_/s400/jamesdiary1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264536649254007602" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[July 18th, 1890]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Leamington</em>.<br /><br />How well one has to be, to be ill! These confidences reveal to you, dear Inconnu, so much mental debility that I don't want to rehearse herein my physical collapses in detail as well, altho' I am unable to escape a general tone of lamentation. But this last prostration was rather excessive and comic in its combination, consisting of one of my usual attacks of rheumatic gout in that dissipated organ known in the family as "Alice's turn," in conjunction with an ulcerated tooth, and a very bad crick in my neck. By taking a very small dose of morphia, the first in three years, I was able to steady my nerves and experience the pain without distraction, for there is something very exhilarating in shivering whacks of crude pain which seem to lift you out of the present and its sophistications (great Men unable to have a tooth out without gas!) and ally you to long gone generations rent and torn with tooth-ache such as we can't dream of. I didn't succumb and send for my Primrose Knight, having no faith in anything but that time-honoured nostrum Patience, with its simple ingredients of refraining from muscular contractions and vocal exclamations lest you find yourself in a worse fix than you are already in! <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Diary of Alice James</em> (1999): 129.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D6dX2GpJ0kHEjNNLOagD8GKWhZLN2oDhXZ6zmFJpmx9JgPRi6IdobJsjHe2KjXQbFqW2H2hBDIbdUFebPmETXYS0MdlbdljT8p85dhVSqKGP1wgPsB26e5fgKUPG9Z2G74-BrodFPfU6/s1600-h/jamesdiary2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5D6dX2GpJ0kHEjNNLOagD8GKWhZLN2oDhXZ6zmFJpmx9JgPRi6IdobJsjHe2KjXQbFqW2H2hBDIbdUFebPmETXYS0MdlbdljT8p85dhVSqKGP1wgPsB26e5fgKUPG9Z2G74-BrodFPfU6/s400/jamesdiary2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264536751200898290" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>diary:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Loring, Katherine Peabody, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Diary of Alice James</span> (1894)<br /><br />Burr, Anna Robeson, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">Alice James: Her Brothers - Her Journal</span> (1934)<br /><br />Edel, Leon, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Diary of Alice James</span> (1964)</blockquote><br /><strong>letters:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Yeazell, Ruth Bernard, ed. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Death and Letters of Alice James</span>. 1981. Boston: Exact Change Books, 1997.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCu48Bnnn336CyQHCXYB80nDDWFspE16XbalGPpVAbdlmVXAwE_rNJOGlWRuLHHATy6yELndyoW4JsIGEl6_kiUpfuD6clhQr25wFjFpdCAFQ_ShBRTPuKuDpEegrF8tl6-fbPOs1H8i0L/s1600-h/AliceJames1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCu48Bnnn336CyQHCXYB80nDDWFspE16XbalGPpVAbdlmVXAwE_rNJOGlWRuLHHATy6yELndyoW4JsIGEl6_kiUpfuD6clhQr25wFjFpdCAFQ_ShBRTPuKuDpEegrF8tl6-fbPOs1H8i0L/s400/AliceJames1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5266002873151220674" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Sontag, Susan. <em>Alice in Bed: A Play in Eight Scenes</em>. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1993.<br /><br />Strouse, Jean. <em>Alice James: a Biography</em>. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1980.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_James">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLPGq8Nl3D-sz3Bk66Gewl7IQAun33Vk0udY-KtpBW7Kx80ixCZZh5o-3dkFB_i4pG89CDaKtmTjcoxuFkd4vWyw1fKPx5gCNYshl4A8IVg2-7-wj2zahyphenhyphen2KZ8D_iDP-K1DNhEQtHYMXZ/s1600-h/alice+james.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLPGq8Nl3D-sz3Bk66Gewl7IQAun33Vk0udY-KtpBW7Kx80ixCZZh5o-3dkFB_i4pG89CDaKtmTjcoxuFkd4vWyw1fKPx5gCNYshl4A8IVg2-7-wj2zahyphenhyphen2KZ8D_iDP-K1DNhEQtHYMXZ/s400/alice+james.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261215330428916354" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.bookforum.com/inprint/014_04/1374">Alice James before her illness</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-83354850089566709732008-10-21T09:33:00.029+13:002009-01-03T11:35:36.965+13:00Douglas Mawson<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIoQzec0-8TLUuH_guAi5EWRnEwkz8JzAEsDJGjgR0vKx1xf2DbwhH-711RY-B0TgqcgXkg0NE3QcsBvl1TUuQYlmPGJ5i-8zBrv6KKxOhKmhEwC3n0RFZjlIF32sJ2VWVmwdP-4lXvim/s1600-h/Mawson2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIoQzec0-8TLUuH_guAi5EWRnEwkz8JzAEsDJGjgR0vKx1xf2DbwhH-711RY-B0TgqcgXkg0NE3QcsBvl1TUuQYlmPGJ5i-8zBrv6KKxOhKmhEwC3n0RFZjlIF32sJ2VWVmwdP-4lXvim/s400/Mawson2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261213628684207474" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.aad.gov.au/default.asp?casid=27065">Australian Antarctic Division</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Sir Douglas Mawson</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1882-1958)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Mawson, Douglas. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-6.html"><em>Mawson’s Antarctic Diaries</em></a>. Ed. Fred Jacka & Eleanor Jacka. 1988. North Sydney: Susan Haynes / Allen & Unwin, 1991.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMOF-ABf7a2nC1sJSH21sWv0kJ3Er1iOpVjhw-Gg4Sy4UfM1rSpD-EotA3aNLqRGHBjN-MnyfUfeQNrLIlOjzmXvPsHDXPfhmWxVjTbhfiLC_CvqstwFV3JIK0VXZBc45u2zi1yUAbku4/s1600-h/mawson+c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMOF-ABf7a2nC1sJSH21sWv0kJ3Er1iOpVjhw-Gg4Sy4UfM1rSpD-EotA3aNLqRGHBjN-MnyfUfeQNrLIlOjzmXvPsHDXPfhmWxVjTbhfiLC_CvqstwFV3JIK0VXZBc45u2zi1yUAbku4/s400/mawson+c.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264163026343020626" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[14 December, 1912]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Up 9 am. Temp + 15°, 10 mph breeze from ESE. (It blew from 2-6 am about 20 mph.) Sky for most part clear - a little altostratus, especially near N horizon. a few rolls of cumulus near N horizon. <br /><br />Took latitude at noon ¼ m beyond night camp. <br /><br />[Latitude 68° 53'53", Longitude 151° 39'46" - from computations at end of notehook.] <br /><br />12 noon: temp + 21°, hypsometer 206.9°. <br /><br />A terrible catastrophe happened soon after taking latitude. My sledge crossed a crevasse obliquely & I called back to Ninnis, who had rear sledge, to watch it. then went on. not thinking to look back again as it had no specially dangerous features. After ¼ mile I noted Mertz halt ahead and look enquiringly back. I looked behind & saw no sign of Ninnis & his team. I stopped & wondered, then bethought myself of the crevasse and hurried hack to find a great gaping hole in the ground. I called down but could get no answer. I signalled Mertz who was on skis ahead & he brought my team up to the scene. We hung over the edge but could see nothing nor get any answer. It was about 11 ft wide where broken through & straight ice-walled. From the other side, by hanging over on an alpine rope, we caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a food bag and one dog partially alive moaning, and part of another dog & dark object, apparently the tent, caught on a ledge. We sounded to the ledge with furlong line 150 ft sheer, ice ledge. No sign of Ninnis - must have struck it & been killed instantly, then gone on down. Our ropes not long enough to go down, or the sledge to span crevasse. Dog ceased to moan shortly. We called and sounded for three hours, then went on a few miles to a hill and took position observations. Came back, called & sounded for an hour. <br /><br />Read the Burial Service. <br /><br />Reviewed our position: practically all the food had gone down - spade, pick, tent, Mertz's burberry trousers & helmet, cups, spoons, mast, sail etc. We had our sleeping bags, a week and a half food, the spare tent without poles, & our private bags & cooker & kerosene. The dogs in my team were very poorly & the worst, & no feed for them the other team comprised the picked dogs, all dog food, & almost all man food. We considered it a possibility to get through to Winter Quarters by eating dogs, so 9 hours after the accident started back, but terribly handicapped. <br /><br />The accident happened 15 miles to ESE of the spot recorded for 12th December on the chart & about 300 miles from the Winter Quarters - <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />___________________________________</div><br />May God Help us. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />___________________________________</div><br />9 pm temp + 10°. <br /><br />We leave Ninnis' grave. <br /><br />Sky clear except stratocumulus along N horizon from ENE to W up to 12°. Arrived at camp of evening 12th Dec at 2.30 am. Did today 24 miles in all. Got into bags 3.30 am. At 3 am sky clear except for bank stratocumulus along N horizon. Wind 15 mph from SSE.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>Mawson's Antarctic Diaries</em> (1991): 147-48.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgoWxEmacleNoxCrOcPvdB2oqLOlbZPLDIZFRpg2iBeqgkuUecmzsFgEJWp_MSRqbC6godU2cdVnlHLTi23RMsPqaDLbJQpR1X4IkBiWD1bWY9-ahOUUhUls8W1yzdeixTSGacDntS9Wh/s1600-h/mawson+d.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgoWxEmacleNoxCrOcPvdB2oqLOlbZPLDIZFRpg2iBeqgkuUecmzsFgEJWp_MSRqbC6godU2cdVnlHLTi23RMsPqaDLbJQpR1X4IkBiWD1bWY9-ahOUUhUls8W1yzdeixTSGacDntS9Wh/s400/mawson+d.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264162930097000706" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:<br /></span><br /></strong><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibncgBtbNslS_KgxnUmmcrQEC2B0zcg3mRpVvVQLKlxjipCJW45dmJtKbndlp_jkLwJpguhTnbhYk_s1ZdAc1QFg5mE76FTwOXCaB87rT8ViewfNJjaKqT3ogZMWx1EDrDAd5z3xY2YV0G/s1600-h/mawson+b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibncgBtbNslS_KgxnUmmcrQEC2B0zcg3mRpVvVQLKlxjipCJW45dmJtKbndlp_jkLwJpguhTnbhYk_s1ZdAc1QFg5mE76FTwOXCaB87rT8ViewfNJjaKqT3ogZMWx1EDrDAd5z3xY2YV0G/s400/mawson+b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264163121943323762" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">expedition journal:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Mawson, Sir Douglas. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Home of the Blizzard: The Story of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition, 1911-1914</span>. 2 vols. London: William Heinemann, 1915.<br /><br />Mawson, Douglas. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Home of the Blizzard: The Story of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition, 1911-1914</span>. 1915. Abridged Popular Edition, 1930. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1996.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-A7Gu6kPMxYhl8EUXcCujEW94qLO8yTmfEr_BkRd6RnZTW9HULs985AxtBw-8DAnsgEqPV9mynvezkiNW-m09KjrGyl9n9D4bGqeVLmiIPBG5BJrHUJK1kuPNiFYqmfn6PPJZRX1W1HTu/s1600-h/mawson+a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-A7Gu6kPMxYhl8EUXcCujEW94qLO8yTmfEr_BkRd6RnZTW9HULs985AxtBw-8DAnsgEqPV9mynvezkiNW-m09KjrGyl9n9D4bGqeVLmiIPBG5BJrHUJK1kuPNiFYqmfn6PPJZRX1W1HTu/s400/mawson+a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264163234995469234" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Bickel, Lennard. <em>Mawson's Will: The Greatest Polar Survival Story Ever Written</em>. Introduction by Sir Edmund Hillary. 1977. Hanover, New Hampshire: Steerforth Press, 2000.<br /><br />Bredeson, Carmen. <em>After the Last Dog Died : The True-Life, Hair-Raising Adventure of Douglas Mawson's 1912 Antarctic Expedition</em>. Washington, DC: National Geographic Children's Books, 2003.<br /><br />Flannery, Nancy Robinson, ed. <em>This Everlasting Silence: The Love Letters of Paquita Delprat and Douglas Mawson 1911-1914</em>. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing, 2000.<br /><br />Hall, Lincoln. <em>Douglas Mawson: The Life of an Explorer</em>. Sydney: Reed Natural History Australia, 2000.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><br />Douglas Mawson: <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/6137">The Home of the Blizzard</a> (1915)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mawson.sa.gov.au/netscape.htm">In the Footsteps of Sir Douglas Mawson</a><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Mawson">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5H6WJF5Lif-B54defF4wuKWlYgIqX1kWpes3IRwJrWB0wsLcIem6YD79lLuSdRNTeZqfjvh7fW4RV7WzoCq3-uQ0WprfPQLE0fTc3NPXCkMzNPwHtx9iAWYa0mCio4eA0Er3zDDFBU-Om/s1600-h/Mawson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5H6WJF5Lif-B54defF4wuKWlYgIqX1kWpes3IRwJrWB0wsLcIem6YD79lLuSdRNTeZqfjvh7fW4RV7WzoCq3-uQ0WprfPQLE0fTc3NPXCkMzNPwHtx9iAWYa0mCio4eA0Er3zDDFBU-Om/s400/Mawson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261211437050846050" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.theage.com.au/news/tv-reviews/mawson-life-and-death-in-antarctica/2008/05/09/1210131240676.html">The Age</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-25583688521142653392008-10-21T09:32:00.010+13:002008-12-31T10:05:48.620+13:00Jean Cocteau<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ8kNtojzLqdIWJdXlBZn6Mg-l-1gz0u64Vg7uskOBvDhyphenhyphenACZWYQWBJ86B6WAaqUoHTl9bJysM5t_7JBryBsU8ynENVPSdLgrhT7nGTTWFnKmxs0CrK2o-14wMEfW6Plpy_Iu_IUg5EVV/s1600-h/cocteau.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 345px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ8kNtojzLqdIWJdXlBZn6Mg-l-1gz0u64Vg7uskOBvDhyphenhyphenACZWYQWBJ86B6WAaqUoHTl9bJysM5t_7JBryBsU8ynENVPSdLgrhT7nGTTWFnKmxs0CrK2o-14wMEfW6Plpy_Iu_IUg5EVV/s400/cocteau.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261207241699768050" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.philipcoppens.com/cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1889-1963)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-8.html"><span style="font-style:italic;">Opium: The Diary of a Cure</span></a>. 1930. Trans. Margaret Crosland and Sinclair Road. 1958. New York: Grove Press, 1980.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0m6NfcUtqkPxVhJv-ZFB5_8ESRCfkzVgcji6DNAWb3hC0OGqRcU1SnJFXJ2Izr1V2HUakoWcL_aEjgSlBm9kaOsZlnYzUMcLhCdOtDOO3V1NNwPRtUWnt50HN7sa_L9LVwIl5hU2xq7A/s1600-h/cocteau+a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0m6NfcUtqkPxVhJv-ZFB5_8ESRCfkzVgcji6DNAWb3hC0OGqRcU1SnJFXJ2Izr1V2HUakoWcL_aEjgSlBm9kaOsZlnYzUMcLhCdOtDOO3V1NNwPRtUWnt50HN7sa_L9LVwIl5hU2xq7A/s400/cocteau+a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264160431043676450" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[1930]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />Those small hotel rooms in which I have camped for so many years, rooms to make love in, but where I make friends unceasingly, an occupation a thousand times more exhausting than making love. <br /><br />On leaving Saint-Cloud, I repeated to myself: it is April. I am strong. I have a book which I did not expect. Any room in any hotel will be good. But my death-like room in the rue Bonaparte became a room for death. I had forgotten that opium transfigures the world and that, without opium, a sinister room remains a sinister room. <br /><br />• <br /><br />One of the wonders of opium is to transform instantaneously an unknown room into a room so familiar, so full of memories, that one thinks one has always occupied it. When addicts go away they suffer no hurt because of the certainty that the delicate mechanism will function in one minute, anywhere. <br /><br />• <br /><br />After five pipes an idea would become distorted, diffused slowly in the water of the body with all the noble whims of Chinese ink, fore-shortened like a black diver. <br /><br />• <br /><br />A dressing-gown in holes, stained and burnt by cigarettes, gives the addict away. <br /><br />An extraordinary photograph in a sensational magazine: the beheading of a Chinese rebel. The execution and the sword are still blurred like an electric fan as it stops. A spray of blood shoots out of the trunk, quite straight. The head, smiling, has fallen on to the rebel's knees, like the smoker's cigarette, without his noticing it. <br /><br />He will notice it tomorrow by the blood stain, like the addict by the burn. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>Opium: The Diary of a Cure</em> (1980): 44-45.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yTiL4v2ws-VMfNqUkKfUhSLr3wMrICPckwbvVsqDi6S_EtP3GukJw7q5a4bnl_eVD8uYiq0STBTCNapncpsm4i6DLI8wm3ECg37LxZZmuGIrJUXO9fNmZRjD4iJ4NvFRRaH6ZzE3No8h/s1600-h/cocteau+b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yTiL4v2ws-VMfNqUkKfUhSLr3wMrICPckwbvVsqDi6S_EtP3GukJw7q5a4bnl_eVD8uYiq0STBTCNapncpsm4i6DLI8wm3ECg37LxZZmuGIrJUXO9fNmZRjD4iJ4NvFRRaH6ZzE3No8h/s400/cocteau+b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264160641163039938" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>films:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Le sang d'un poète</span> (The Blood of a Poet) (1930)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">L'Eternel Retour</span> (The Eternal Return) (1943)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">La belle et la bête</span> (Beauty and the Beast) (1946)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">L'aigle à deux têtes</span> (The Eagle Has Two Heads) (1947)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Les parents terribles</span> (The Storm Within) (1948)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Coriolan</span> (1950) [Never Released]<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Orphée</span> (Orpheus) (1950)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">La villa Santo-Sospir</span> (1952)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">8 X 8: A Chess Sonata in 8 Movements</span> (1957) [Co-director, Experimental]<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Le testament d'Orphée</span> (The Testament of Orpheus) (1960)</blockquote><br /><strong>books:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Le coq et l'arlequin: Notes autour de la musique - avec un portrait de l'Auteur et deux monogrammes par P. Picasso</span>. Paris: Éditions de la Sirène, 1918.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Le Grand écart</span>. 1923, his first novel<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Le Numéro Barbette</span>. an influential essay on the nature of art inspired by the performer Barbette, 1926<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Human Voice</span>. translated by Carl Wildman, Vision Press Ltd., Great Britain, 1947.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Eagle Has Two Heads</span>. adapted by Ronald Duncan, Vision Press Ltd., Great Britain, 1947<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Holy Terrors (Les enfants terribles)</span>. translated by Rosamond Lehmann, New Directions Publishing Corp., New York, 1957<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Infernal Machine And Other Plays</span>. translated by W.A. Auden, E.E. Cummings, Dudley Fitts, Albert Bermel, Mary C. Hoeck, and John K. Savacool, New Directions Books, New York, 1963<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Toros Muertos</span>. along with Lucien Clergue and Jean Petit, Brussel & Brussel,1966<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Art of Cinema</span>. edited by André Bernard and Claude Gauteur, translated by Robin Buss, Marion Boyars, London, 1988<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Diary of an Unknown</span>. translated by Jesse Browner, Paragon House Publishers, New York, 1988<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The White Book</span> (Le livre blanc), sometimes translated as The White Paper, translated by Margaret Crosland, City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1989.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Les parents terribles</span>. new translation by Jeremy Sams, Nick Hern Books, London, 1994.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Brown, Frederick. <span style="font-style:italic;">An Impersonation of Angels: A Biography of Jean Cocteau</span>. New York: The Viking Press, 1968.<br /><br />Steegmuller, Francis. <span style="font-style:italic;">Cocteau: A Biography</span>. Boston: Atlantic-Little, Brown, 1970.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Cocteau">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3Wvdp1SRJZIhrfEIRLizLWrohL9kGCtS6jDoX3hloZCKqW7gI_ybrVbH7WO4AlGR6JGA7bDLLe15o53mdk8p_2YhVFo7rXJhvrH1vwLxbCNHHU8m-oZW7mVXR9H6DPRBauwQ6VWBMEDY/s1600-h/cocteau2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3Wvdp1SRJZIhrfEIRLizLWrohL9kGCtS6jDoX3hloZCKqW7gI_ybrVbH7WO4AlGR6JGA7bDLLe15o53mdk8p_2YhVFo7rXJhvrH1vwLxbCNHHU8m-oZW7mVXR9H6DPRBauwQ6VWBMEDY/s400/cocteau2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264531134921979042" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://powdersofgold.blogspot.com/2008/06/jean-cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-70412361205387368402008-10-21T09:31:00.010+13:002008-12-31T10:00:58.548+13:00Vaslav Nijinsky<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr2EU_qmbpAlaYuMVD_sBcb3yNOnuoZw8Jmqj8hCvNo09BcNfayeo7k1e3qROrhy0w5oJn0UJ21LpSVmaveFPW53VepQLyeyaL-Z1ahA1qZerdYGFr006nk2xX9PnNIv7NXKLGXX_bYiS/s1600-h/nijinsky_vaslav.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr2EU_qmbpAlaYuMVD_sBcb3yNOnuoZw8Jmqj8hCvNo09BcNfayeo7k1e3qROrhy0w5oJn0UJ21LpSVmaveFPW53VepQLyeyaL-Z1ahA1qZerdYGFr006nk2xX9PnNIv7NXKLGXX_bYiS/s400/nijinsky_vaslav.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261203694090823874" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://michaelminn.net/andros/index.php?nijinsky_vaslav">L'Apres-midi d'un faune</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Vaslav Fomich Nijinsky</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1888-1950)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXYOtSycc7xYmVjc5HCv1y23jSBSxhFwQCX0GwAZm5cW9qRsChEzIKPhxUV9ngWnI14iv3GbPuHwzdtNjT2gveTVCLwMtfwT2undTg-JVu25dGVDJuLArRrslcnfJsB4cHuc8QkxAXwGo/s1600-h/nijinsky3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXYOtSycc7xYmVjc5HCv1y23jSBSxhFwQCX0GwAZm5cW9qRsChEzIKPhxUV9ngWnI14iv3GbPuHwzdtNjT2gveTVCLwMtfwT2undTg-JVu25dGVDJuLArRrslcnfJsB4cHuc8QkxAXwGo/s400/nijinsky3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264157375105736418" /></a><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Nijinsky, Romola, ed. <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-7.html"><em>The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky</em></a>. 1936. Berkeley & LA: University of California Press, 1973.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUuoI7CVV9oS5ZaL3xCOhW62UORZjjJausrsS2n8u_v8r4klbp9U0tGVUMJiZImg8wyCt4M0r4rwZO8h5_0IID0f9VHr9-hbwM28gCc4lEEhnocaMEt1YNzm31QXxbF9P0F-yNSRuENi6/s1600-h/nijinsky.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUuoI7CVV9oS5ZaL3xCOhW62UORZjjJausrsS2n8u_v8r4klbp9U0tGVUMJiZImg8wyCt4M0r4rwZO8h5_0IID0f9VHr9-hbwM28gCc4lEEhnocaMEt1YNzm31QXxbF9P0F-yNSRuENi6/s400/nijinsky.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264156954187451666" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[1918-19]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Feelings</em>.<br /><br />Many will say that Nijinsky pretends to be like Christ. I do not pretend - I love His deeds. I am not afraid of being attacked. I say everything I have to. <br /><br />I used to go out on the street. I deceived my wife, I had so much semen that I had to throw it away. I did not waste it on a cocotte. I threw it on the bed in order to protect myself from catching a venereal disease. I am not erotic and therefore will not deceive my wife any more. My seed I will save for another child - I hope I will some day have a son. I love my wife, I do not want anything bad to happen to her. She is sensitive. She thinks that I do everything on purpose, in order to frighten her. Everything I do is for the purpose of making her well and happy. She eats meat - that causes her nervousness; it does not matter if one eats meat - to lead a good life is important. My wife knows that it is good to lead a regular life, but she does not realize what this mode of life consists of. "<em>To listen to God - and obey Him - that is a good regular mode of life</em>." People do not understand God, and ask themselves who is this God who must be obeyed. I know God and His wishes. I love God. <br /><br />I do not know what to write about, because I have suddenly thought of the doctors and my wife-who are talking in the next room. I know they do not like my actions but I will continue in the same way while God wishes it. I am not afraid of any complications. I will ask everybody to help me and will not be afraid if I am told this, for instance: "Your wife became insane because you have tortured her; for this you will be imprisoned for the rest of your life." I am not afraid of prison and there I will find life, but I will die there if I am put there for life. I do not wish my wife ill, I love her too much to harm her. I like to hide from people; I am used to living alone. <br /><br />Maupassant was terrified of being lonely. The Count of Monte Cristo liked loneliness because he wanted time to prepare for his revenge. Maupassant was frightened of solitude; he loved people. I am afraid of loneliness but will not cry; God loves me and so I am not alone. If God leaves me I will die. As I do not want to, I will live like other people, in order to be understood by others. God is mankind, and does not like those who interfere with His plans. I do not; on the contrary I help Him. I am the weapon of God, a man of God. I like God's people. I am not a beggar. I will take money if a rich man will leave it to me. I like a rich man. The rich man has a lot of money and I have none. When everyone finds out that I have no money, they will get frightened and turn away from me. That is why I want to get richer every hour. <br /><br />I will hire a horse and will make him take me home without paying him. My wife will pay.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky</em> (1973): 176-78.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeApO9q1qTBSbOjAnNfdjrY8In9k2Ogi-o07BpmCzmjxToItKblXobPHag_tG8tX-_ohVjAJ9Piqtk1rav_0WRP5YQJ8KEy_Ec_HmkusuOnwJ3XI1jS1ogkSOZb-31IK7yK3uDI3jWGtbl/s1600-h/nijinsky2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeApO9q1qTBSbOjAnNfdjrY8In9k2Ogi-o07BpmCzmjxToItKblXobPHag_tG8tX-_ohVjAJ9Piqtk1rav_0WRP5YQJ8KEy_Ec_HmkusuOnwJ3XI1jS1ogkSOZb-31IK7yK3uDI3jWGtbl/s400/nijinsky2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264157189765227842" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>diary:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />Acocella, Joan, ed. <em>The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky: Unexpurgated Edition</em>. Trans. Kyril Fitzlyon. 1999. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1999.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi0VcrAx0Zv60F4o_t93RciBdwPal4ojF8ygcIovs768SbWncExvtPGoAsvSRJx0YC6_h_SAXfE4ubxybc99t0nM32R3rkRtcRFRuE7uxJmRws-ajQb4RwbAEbhv2lMdUQ1nnMOcLdaai/s1600-h/nijinsky4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 244px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi0VcrAx0Zv60F4o_t93RciBdwPal4ojF8ygcIovs768SbWncExvtPGoAsvSRJx0YC6_h_SAXfE4ubxybc99t0nM32R3rkRtcRFRuE7uxJmRws-ajQb4RwbAEbhv2lMdUQ1nnMOcLdaai/s400/nijinsky4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264157559257901314" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Buckle, Richard. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nijinsky</span>. 1971. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1980.<br /><br />Nijinsky, Romola. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nijinsky</span>. 1933. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1960.<br /><br />Nijinsky, Romola. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Years of Nijinsky</span>. London: Gollancz, 1952.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3hDS40Vy2msW0rIXWq8LJyUI2UoBYN_qVTz5N-VYBS6ycbr8zgs_SX_XLGvkSxROVDlew0jL-xerIFGuKiUFrXIcXtW_Fwuh2P1j1ry6FjlgYZKQDJn8NfA3Y7Hpt2B9ab_W8dBJxqQa/s1600-h/nijinsky5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3hDS40Vy2msW0rIXWq8LJyUI2UoBYN_qVTz5N-VYBS6ycbr8zgs_SX_XLGvkSxROVDlew0jL-xerIFGuKiUFrXIcXtW_Fwuh2P1j1ry6FjlgYZKQDJn8NfA3Y7Hpt2B9ab_W8dBJxqQa/s400/nijinsky5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264157462210988482" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vaslav_Nijinsky">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_6lumMSACWqSipCV41bY30WEJze66EPJhyi_QXPJCuQgT0tAiLDP4sikmaof5bHjRXL1sNAlBcQcW5aLJEasxJ6DyF0UXFHK-_u-twCBGJHUC79E6K6ZOtfNkl4QCKoJRjjuxIl_zvTG/s1600-h/vaslav2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_6lumMSACWqSipCV41bY30WEJze66EPJhyi_QXPJCuQgT0tAiLDP4sikmaof5bHjRXL1sNAlBcQcW5aLJEasxJ6DyF0UXFHK-_u-twCBGJHUC79E6K6ZOtfNkl4QCKoJRjjuxIl_zvTG/s400/vaslav2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264530308452322082" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://home.btconnect.com/geffers/color.htm">Vaslav Nijinsky</a> (1911)]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-72103449625614425052008-10-21T09:30:00.014+13:002008-12-31T09:56:41.998+13:00Lydia Ginzburg<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm6h-wZPwgRdRF_ifn1bDW73AOCP6ueAfx8o0nNap2ktahnjzXS2kMn_7r_SfwzmQFP7cBcWPxJo9gv33It7I79ETzAPKnfWan6QJoQQjLbLgagIvQ8GImdi3_3lyLnV-1IYo7SR9hvHj/s1600-h/blockade.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvm6h-wZPwgRdRF_ifn1bDW73AOCP6ueAfx8o0nNap2ktahnjzXS2kMn_7r_SfwzmQFP7cBcWPxJo9gv33It7I79ETzAPKnfWan6QJoQQjLbLgagIvQ8GImdi3_3lyLnV-1IYo7SR9hvHj/s400/blockade.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261202986711607554" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.film-forward.com/blockade.html">Blockade</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Lydia Ginzburg</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1902-1990)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">set text:</span><br /><blockquote><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-10.html"><em>Blockade Diary</em></a>. 1984. Trans. Alan Myers. London: Collins Harvill, 1995.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfPmaesriNFFBO96XWIT0f0lQu5MP4FK4wHeSuvfq3-lYlpHubFxvPbWRzEQi_qkgsi_gqi3ZYlNhtVBIxThDn9yi9QmdHcR0Pu4QSb5RISr8ONpPxM8pnI3-f-riD44Ac_kBLmgpKUdI/s1600-h/Ginzburg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfPmaesriNFFBO96XWIT0f0lQu5MP4FK4wHeSuvfq3-lYlpHubFxvPbWRzEQi_qkgsi_gqi3ZYlNhtVBIxThDn9yi9QmdHcR0Pu4QSb5RISr8ONpPxM8pnI3-f-riD44Ac_kBLmgpKUdI/s400/Ginzburg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263908829975621442" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[1941-42]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><em>After Dinner</em>.<br /><br />Gloom over the empty plate, greasy from the porridge, signals the end of the pre-lunch rush. Here begins the lull of the siege day. This phenomenon of the post-lunch lull is something unprecedented. Real lunch (not what a man grabs during his lunch break) was always a break. Late dinner at seven o’clock was always the direct transition to an evening's relaxation. The earlier lunches cut across the day. Chekhov affirmed that it was only possible to work before lunch. Lunch brings with it not only indolence and drowsiness, but also a sense of the onset of decrepitude, old age, exhaustion, the dying of the day. For many, these were the empty hours dragging on somehow, until the evening eventually took shape with its own conventions and goals. <br /><br />Now that people were in primitive dependence on the length of the day, the temperature and the light - the feeling of the dying day was especially concrete. In the middle of the white nights - there existed this winter trauma, terribly tenacious, like all traumas that winter. In the post-lunch depression the sense of over-satiety was now replaced by disappointment, and an exasperation brought on by the swiftness of lunch. <br /><br />The siege circle consists of repeated renewed segments. Postlunch depression occurs with the same regularity as everything else, the shelling for instance. The mind is not allowed the liberty to be depressed for long, and suddenly everything, which at other times is shrouded in mist, comes crowding in. The pointlessness of goals dawns with poignant pain, especially the repetition of the gestures accompanying the relentless hurry. And especially the feeling of being cut on. Cut off from those who have left the city for unoccupied Russia. They are unpicturable, their existence is unreal. Cut off from those running alongside ... <br /><br />N slowly walks back from the canteen to the office. On his right is the Neva at the far end of a side street. At the hour of depression one had to walk round that, not touch it. This summer it is only when his tram crosses bridges that he sees the mighty Neva with its warships. He never once touched the granite warmed by the sun, never sat on the semicircular benches, never descended the steps down to the water, unexpectedly intimate, palpable - with sand on the bottom and the smell of fish, suddenly revealed amid the decorative riverine view. <br /><br />The corner of Fontanka with an old house. Here N used to go visiting. The people he visited had been evacuated. He always used to arrive very late, getting ready to come much later than people went to bed nowadays. There was always vodka and light refreshments there. Strange ... People sat and talked and talked. Read things to one another. Casually enquired: "Shall we have tea now or finish the reading?" "Finish, of course ... " <br /><br />Visiting friends, with supper delayed by conversations. Or this wind and the constant rush of foliage along the branches - that was all part of the former life. But depression has another card to play. It doesn't want it to return. Either because that other life is quite other, utterly inconceivable, or because there is too much resemblance - like a mirage. <br /><br />Engrossed in his own thoughts, N walks on from the canteen to his office without looking about him. Suddenly a familiar, heavy, shuddering sound penetrates his consciousness. He realizes at once that this is not the first such sound, there have been several, one after another. A bombardment; in another district for the moment, apparently. Now N looks about him. If it hadn't been for the noise, you wouldn't have guessed what was going on. Passersby went about their business with the Leningrad sang-froid which had begun to dominate normal behaviour completely. They walk along the street (until driven into an entrance) carrying their briefcases, lunch pails and string bags, stand in queues, chat and light up one another's cigarettes. You hear the repartee …<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>Blockade Diary</em> (1995): 106-07.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg40fBEmaghATImS_5t-w_92DzV9X7WtAWzjydcqFy-OOLutbDgbT0VdUfvT5eW_3FKBVvVg8WiBdI7LgancNRXfLTU7khjpQTZ1anM7AtC2DccwZuaXp3k2VmY8mxpJOKQ2LUkv8i7LvJ/s1600-h/Ginzburg2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg40fBEmaghATImS_5t-w_92DzV9X7WtAWzjydcqFy-OOLutbDgbT0VdUfvT5eW_3FKBVvVg8WiBdI7LgancNRXfLTU7khjpQTZ1anM7AtC2DccwZuaXp3k2VmY8mxpJOKQ2LUkv8i7LvJ/s400/Ginzburg2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263909005963772738" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>diary:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Dnevnik pisatelya</em> [Blockade diary] (<em>Neva</em>, 1984)<br /><br /><em>Chelovek za pismennym stolom</em> [Behind the Lines: Notes, Memoirs, Narratives 1920-1990] (1989)</blockquote><br /><strong>criticism:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Tvorcheskiy put Lermontova</em> (1940)<br /><br /><em>Byloe i dumy</em> (1957)<br /><br /><em>O lirike</em> (1964)<br />[<em>On the Lyric</em>, trans. Edward G. Brown (1974)]<br /><br /><em>O psikhologicheskoy proze</em> (1979)<br />[<em>On Psychological Prose</em>, trans. Judson Rosengrant (1991)]<br /><br /><em>O starom i novom</em> (1982)<br /><br /><em>Literatura v poiskakh realnosti</em> (1987)</blockquote><br /><strong>edited:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />P. A. Vyamevksy. <span style="font-style:italic;">Staraya zapisnaya knizhka</span> (1929)<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />Salisbury, Harrison E. <em>The 900 Days: The Siege of Leningrad</em>. New York: Henry Holt, 1969.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lydia_Ginzburg">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkk51L_CZhBTUhSxIvwaE1A8PMWJqAuMvPsuySHCD8P9uOck2M-l7raqIxOmIR0svVP0_NXpOSVfthUhWQDticgvXRjJn8W9DGjhCm0qCVv6aII8DO8DHkBsLNiSx2FT38KPGdtxnL6Gx/s1600-h/ginzburgN.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkk51L_CZhBTUhSxIvwaE1A8PMWJqAuMvPsuySHCD8P9uOck2M-l7raqIxOmIR0svVP0_NXpOSVfthUhWQDticgvXRjJn8W9DGjhCm0qCVv6aII8DO8DHkBsLNiSx2FT38KPGdtxnL6Gx/s400/ginzburgN.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264529499716921730" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://kinkanon.blogspot.com/2007/09/edmund-spenser.html">Lydia Ginzburg</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-20367279968894749232008-10-21T09:29:00.012+13:002008-12-31T09:52:26.797+13:00Arthur Koestler<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ahrAvsEDaCUJuKYWfAx2qPlSF7Z-ylX7geA1OMaSh66UBAn9fAzgFTuBjGrpFAOjjR0LjlvlzK_WzRXfrEzu3Z4N0ohgnctWkCn_hirlVqkZBeYkgf4ocTfpkW2ZPiuzpvWlaQkQJQYq/s1600-h/ArthurKoestler.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ahrAvsEDaCUJuKYWfAx2qPlSF7Z-ylX7geA1OMaSh66UBAn9fAzgFTuBjGrpFAOjjR0LjlvlzK_WzRXfrEzu3Z4N0ohgnctWkCn_hirlVqkZBeYkgf4ocTfpkW2ZPiuzpvWlaQkQJQYq/s400/ArthurKoestler.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260862586092176146" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.koestlertrust.org.uk/homeAK.html">The Koestler Trust</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Arthur Koestler</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1905-1983)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-9.html"><em>Dialogue with Death</em></a>. Trans. Trevor & Phyllis Blewitt. 1937. Abridged ed., 1942. Rev. Danube ed., 1966. London: Papermac, 1983.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrETZlW0dieIF4DEiC4kQd2XbGnkKfh0i955ymizG8l7VnLGGDo35mOUYcS1N_H7_n1misnsImpIZKPDtSK0_rM1RTScs7iHGfAK0HdTiLBRBxkwnWfTQYigvELppldrw-R4NjRrd0pxGg/s1600-h/koestler3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrETZlW0dieIF4DEiC4kQd2XbGnkKfh0i955ymizG8l7VnLGGDo35mOUYcS1N_H7_n1misnsImpIZKPDtSK0_rM1RTScs7iHGfAK0HdTiLBRBxkwnWfTQYigvELppldrw-R4NjRrd0pxGg/s400/koestler3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264155750623460258" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[Monday, March 15, 1937]:</span><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Night</em>. <br /><br />Despite all my feelings of self-respect I cannot help looking on the warders as superior beings. The consciousness of being confined acts like a slow poison, transforming the entire character. This is more than a mere psychological change, it is not an inferiority complex - it is, rather, an inevitable natural process. When I was writing my novel about the gladiators I always wondered why the Roman slaves, who were twice, three times as numerous as the freemen, did not turn the tables on their masters. Now it is beginning gradually to dawn on me what the slave mentality really is. I could wish that everyone who talks of mass psychology should experience a year of prison. <br /><br />I had never believed the saying that a dictatorship or a single person or a minority can maintain its ascendancy by the sword alone. But I had not known how living and real were those atavistic forces that paralyse the majority from within. <br /><br />I did not know how quickly one comes to regard a privileged stratum of men as beings of a higher biological species and to take their privileges for granted as though they were natural endowments. Don Ramón has the key and I am in the cage; Don Ramón, as well as I, looks upon this state of things as entirely natural and is far from regarding it as in any way an anomaly. <br /><br />And if a crazy agitator were to come and preach to us that all men are equal, we should both laugh him to scorn; Don Ramón with all his heart, I, it is true, only half-heartedly but all the same I should laugh. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>Dialogue with Death</em> (1983): 136-37.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixo6x2pzDKdgZ8DOzWcotBLSXdTtdlO44jH1V38gaJ7Idc7xltt7KzMeTa9oBA0Glm7FTMx-zWpIYRcgoXsSbKtT528YiEjysm3A_hh0WSB5CFQwWTvaO0HmQfCZSBNCqJIH-3X__q_-ma/s1600-h/koestler4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixo6x2pzDKdgZ8DOzWcotBLSXdTtdlO44jH1V38gaJ7Idc7xltt7KzMeTa9oBA0Glm7FTMx-zWpIYRcgoXsSbKtT528YiEjysm3A_hh0WSB5CFQwWTvaO0HmQfCZSBNCqJIH-3X__q_-ma/s400/koestler4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264155663692013266" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>autobiography:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpvVFbS9BR0-9_VB9zKdSS4ODihWU_BWQ1D0wGc0KtlAXdkzVIP5kji-27JrkYNbdQ_GWfI1Yt81h3N2vFpCRbYf_BXHSUK_AQy0urtFJmrMeQRD-X7dmEn-UCEG0Ks9X_8HraT5AzfZw/s1600-h/koestler1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpvVFbS9BR0-9_VB9zKdSS4ODihWU_BWQ1D0wGc0KtlAXdkzVIP5kji-27JrkYNbdQ_GWfI1Yt81h3N2vFpCRbYf_BXHSUK_AQy0urtFJmrMeQRD-X7dmEn-UCEG0Ks9X_8HraT5AzfZw/s400/koestler1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264156068207644386" /></a><br /><br /><em>Spanish Testament</em> (1937)<br /><br /><em>Scum of the Earth</em> (1941)<br /><br /><em>Dialogue with Death</em> (1942)<br /><br />[with others] <em>The God That Failed</em> (1950)<br /><br /><em>Arrow In The Blue: The First Volume Of An Autobiography, 1905-31</em> (1952)<br /><br /><em>The Invisible Writing: The Second Volume Of An Autobiography, 1932-40</em> (1954)<br /><br /><em>Stranger on the Square</em> (1984)</blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgH8uft0TcejWYchQMi6QE1V4nMqc9HtQA3Dy5yyxPoJ5cb2uSC3cFuYnrv1qixbQieiKLI5fu68T9sZWd4oKbCaAXS4Z7D91lVwPhUl9C_JjMFv9lpRv3UDujB4fqSi707zk2EV7jHm3/s1600-h/koestler2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgH8uft0TcejWYchQMi6QE1V4nMqc9HtQA3Dy5yyxPoJ5cb2uSC3cFuYnrv1qixbQieiKLI5fu68T9sZWd4oKbCaAXS4Z7D91lVwPhUl9C_JjMFv9lpRv3UDujB4fqSi707zk2EV7jHm3/s400/koestler2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264156156713817666" /></a><br /><strong>drama:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Twilight Bar</em> (1945)</blockquote><br /><strong>novels:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>The Gladiators</em> (1939)<br /><br /><em>Darkness at Noon</em> (1940)<br /><br /><em>Arrival and Departure</em> (1943)<br /><br /><em>Thieves in the Night</em> (1946)<br /><br /><em>The Age of Longing</em> (1951)<br /><br /><em>The Call Girls: A Tragicomedy with a Prologue and Epilogue</em> (1972)</blockquote><br /><strong>essays & non-fiction:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Von weissen Nächten und roten Tagen</em> (1934)<br /><br /><em>The Yogi and the Commissar and other essays</em> (1945)<br /><br /><em>The Challenge of our Time</em> (1949)<br /><br /><em>Promise and Fulfilment: Palestine 1917-1949</em> (1949)<br /><br /><em>Insight and Outlook</em> (1949)<br /><br /><em>The Trail of the Dinosaur and other essays</em> (1955)<br /><br /><em>Reflections on Hanging</em> (1956)<br /><br /><em>The Sleepwalkers: A History of Man's Changing Vision of the Universe</em> (1959)<br /><br /><em>The Watershed: A Biography of Johannes Kepler</em> (1960)<br /><br /><em>The Lotus and the Robot</em> (1960)<br /><br /><em>Control of the Mind</em> (1961)<br /><br /><em>Hanged by the Neck</em> (1961)<br /><br /><em>Suicide of a Nation</em> (1963)<br /><br /><em>The Act of Creation</em> (1964)<br /><br /><em>The Ghost in the Machine</em> (1967)<br /><br /><em>Drinkers of Infinity: Essays 1955-1967</em> (1968)<br /><br /><em>The Case of the Midwife Toad</em> (1971)<br /><br /><em>The Roots of Coincidence</em> (1972)<br /><br /><em>The Lion and the Ostrich</em> (1973)<br /><br /><em>The Heel of Achilles: Essays 1968-1973</em> (1974)<br /><br /><em>The Thirteenth Tribe: The Khazar Empire and Its Heritage</em> (1976)<br /><br /><em>Janus: A Summing Up</em> (1978)<br /><br /><em>Bricks to Babel</em> (1980)<br /><br /><em>Kaleidoscope</em> (1981)</blockquote><br /><strong>edited:</strong><br /><blockquote><br />[with J. R. Smythies] <em>Beyond Reductionism: The Alpbach Symposium. New Perspectives in the Life Sciences</em> (1969)<br /><br />[co-editor] <em>The Challenge of Chance: A Mass Experiment in Telepathy and Its Unexpected Outcome</em> (1973)<br /><br /><em>The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art</em> (1976)<br /><br />[co-editor] <em>Life After Death</em> (co-editor, 1976)<br /></blockquote><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Astride the Two Cultures: Arthur Koestler at 70</em> (1976)<br /><br />Atkins, J. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler</span> (1956)<br /><br />Buckard, Christian G. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler: Ein extremes Leben 1905-1983</span> (1984)<br /><br />Cesarani, David. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler: The Homeless Mind</span> (1998)<br /><br />Hamilton, Iain. <span style="font-style:italic;">Koestler: A Biography</span> (1982)<br /><br />Koestler, Mamaine. <span style="font-style:italic;">Living with Koestler</span> (1985)<br /><br />Levene, M. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler</span> (1984)<br /><br />Mikes, George. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler: The Story of a Friendship</span> (1983)<br /><br />Pearson, S. A. <span style="font-style:italic;">Arthur Koestler</span> (1978)<br /><br /><em>Twentieth Century Views: A Collection of Critical Essays</em> (1977)<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://www.draken.com/ahellas/koestler.html">Arthur Koestler Project</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.koestler-parapsychology.psy.ed.ac.uk/">Koestler Parapsychology Unit</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.koestlertrust.org.uk/">The Koestler Trust: Arts by Offenders</a><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Koestler">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5tXZoOwvmJkxNGVrx-hEwCLkle6gVpicK57Q3eDd5Wu28-WZ-8C_LiJI7ut0DBYyrc8576088tzsJ3VorkOZqrhYNnSErjCSdUmWeZNJMctOmlVkA0UtGbv2kOx1kB70rB05AUq4cLts/s1600-h/arthur-koestler.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5tXZoOwvmJkxNGVrx-hEwCLkle6gVpicK57Q3eDd5Wu28-WZ-8C_LiJI7ut0DBYyrc8576088tzsJ3VorkOZqrhYNnSErjCSdUmWeZNJMctOmlVkA0UtGbv2kOx1kB70rB05AUq4cLts/s400/arthur-koestler.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264528338464538034" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[David Cesarani: <a href="http://kinchendavid.wordpress.com/2006/08/">Arthur Koestler: The Homeless Mind</a> (1998)]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-50700065373891585262008-10-21T09:28:00.015+13:002009-01-02T17:00:06.377+13:00Denton Welch<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQplYJwzuO1ytLplwNApS2kiTe4Ankqla0XWc9DW6cYueT6_d9Zu7QQ_9JTGFQ5X4NJPxSHJnZ4KY7ZzoAIMcoMQJAF98c_w8cy5Ug7VBuPM3mSBmnbHMBDiORJVuuXiFcKeYY7HV0YGc/s1600-h/dentonwelch-statue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQplYJwzuO1ytLplwNApS2kiTe4Ankqla0XWc9DW6cYueT6_d9Zu7QQ_9JTGFQ5X4NJPxSHJnZ4KY7ZzoAIMcoMQJAF98c_w8cy5Ug7VBuPM3mSBmnbHMBDiORJVuuXiFcKeYY7HV0YGc/s400/dentonwelch-statue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260858017302959266" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://listverse.com/people/10-great-writers-who-died-young/">The List Universe</a>]</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Maurice Denton Welch</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(1915-1948)<br /></span><br /></div><br /><strong>set text:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/session-11.html"><em>Journals</em></a>. 1952. Edited by Michael De-la-Noy. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984.<br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDVHaVGIC-TefpH9fMEL71EiowuUoVqO32dRol0ho-89eFMdcSWdj-6hoLbh4g5FbHtcCOE6bwLDZ6vb7SWX30gPlKh05RGb-KoBBEi-ZJUlnd20zdin77PcFhl9jdZ5IGdeJUumBjlrd/s1600-h/welch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDVHaVGIC-TefpH9fMEL71EiowuUoVqO32dRol0ho-89eFMdcSWdj-6hoLbh4g5FbHtcCOE6bwLDZ6vb7SWX30gPlKh05RGb-KoBBEi-ZJUlnd20zdin77PcFhl9jdZ5IGdeJUumBjlrd/s400/welch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264155021497217858" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />[7 December, 1942]:</span><br /><blockquote><br />I have just heard that my father is dead. He died on 9 November, I don't know where. I suppose in Shanghai.<br /><br />I said, "Oh Lord," and 9 November seemed to leave the paper and enlarge as it came towards me, but it was really only the slightest shock and there was hardly any grief with it at all. <br /><br />I thought of the happiest times; when I had been a little boy, sitting by the library fire in my thick, quilted kimono, eating bread and butter and drinking hot milk, while he read to me, as I have described before.<br /><br />I thought of his dull life dedicated to making money; and the thought of money made something churn and stir inside me. What would happen! Would I be richer or poorer? Would all sources of supply be cut off, at least for the time being, because of the war with Japan! Would the London office cease paying me his allowance because my father was dead and consequently no longer a director of their company? What was my stepmother going to do - and my eldest brother? Were they all seizing as much money as possible?<br /><br />I had always looked upon my father as a rich man and a bulwark in some measure between me and the future. And now I wished that if he had to die he had died in England or America, not in far away China. <br /><br />I am asking myself all these questions still. I cannot help it if they are nearly all to do with money. All that is left of my father is what he has left. <br /><br />Will my stepmother Ada ever send me, or be able to send me, anything of his - a cigarette case, cuff-links or a watch? I should like them chiefly for what they are and only a very little because they were his.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />- <em>The Journals of Denton Welch</em> (1984): 36.</div><br /></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBiqGoBfXyaZ0Az6QTJa7WvWUPQ1rc5DXhKx8wrLdk04wq-pGb5FeM_-vRL7Q_kCLicSBRyJLqbEZdatVBjifJkNb5dNXYUl8_Byp8HrEficbPviyrW2lB068gTr1qLM0CO9YTGavDUG8/s1600-h/welchb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBiqGoBfXyaZ0Az6QTJa7WvWUPQ1rc5DXhKx8wrLdk04wq-pGb5FeM_-vRL7Q_kCLicSBRyJLqbEZdatVBjifJkNb5dNXYUl8_Byp8HrEficbPviyrW2lB068gTr1qLM0CO9YTGavDUG8/s400/welchb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264155112114183266" /></a><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Select Bibliography:</span><br /></strong><br /><strong>novels:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Maiden Voyage</em> (1935)<br /><br /><em>In Youth is Pleasure</em> (1943)<br /><br /><em>A Voice Through a Cloud</em> (1950)</blockquote><br /><strong>short stories:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Brave and Cruel</em> (1949)<br /><br /><em>A Last Sheaf</em> (1951)<br /><br /><em>The Stories of Denton Welch</em> (1985)<br /><br /><em>Fragments of a Life Story: The Collected Short Writings</em> (1987)</blockquote><br /><strong>autobiography:</strong><br /><blockquote><br /><em>Journals</em> (1952)<br /><br /><em>I Left My Grandfather's House</em> (1958)<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Biography & Secondary Literature:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br />De-la-Noy, Michael. <em>Denton Welch: The Making of a Writer</em>. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984.<br /><br />Methuen-Campbell, James. <em>Denton Welch, Writer and Artist</em>. 1994. London: Tauris Parke, 2004.<br /></blockquote><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Homepages & Online Information:</span></strong><br /><blockquote><br /><a href="http://alex.edfac.usyd.edu.au/BLP/websites/LOUTTIT%20WEBSITE/index.HTM">A Short Guide to Denton Welch</a><br /><br /><a href="http://maxpages.com/dentonwelch">The Denton Welch Admiration Site</a><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denton_Welch">Wikipedia entry</a><br /></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoW6NefiA3PiPN19UDrykGtEmsRmtZSm9_PmtuatN3W0ZK44JAlmZ3qK5rm_xRKmImlpzzlFepjyHqzUAhmpjdaGLQPaoJrnTgv1R8M5N3fAEaN92ye-tU52eGm0sCFmM8dZH6sH4gqHO/s1600-h/denton+welch.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoW6NefiA3PiPN19UDrykGtEmsRmtZSm9_PmtuatN3W0ZK44JAlmZ3qK5rm_xRKmImlpzzlFepjyHqzUAhmpjdaGLQPaoJrnTgv1R8M5N3fAEaN92ye-tU52eGm0sCFmM8dZH6sH4gqHO/s400/denton+welch.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264527242370746930" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">[<a href="http://www.sover.net/~elysium/elysiumpub.html">Self-portrait</a>]</span><br /></div>Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227564714956740227.post-70824631052547224082008-10-20T14:26:00.010+13:002012-10-09T10:50:49.856+13:00Course Description<div align="center">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKZOe6XQjp_G7Yr8tyupMV3nvMDoC_2HbDGkniK5avKGv7CPDlDdM26yf8wbHssXmRCgfi_K3zcIkDrrvKoegkO-2_VJpTlZVHb7_kHSnCIOfOlEa8bE6PSKFa540KvBQQqkYHGuKNnsP/s1600-h/girl_writing_diary_on_bed.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261280334553107506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKZOe6XQjp_G7Yr8tyupMV3nvMDoC_2HbDGkniK5avKGv7CPDlDdM26yf8wbHssXmRCgfi_K3zcIkDrrvKoegkO-2_VJpTlZVHb7_kHSnCIOfOlEa8bE6PSKFa540KvBQQqkYHGuKNnsP/s400/girl_writing_diary_on_bed.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">[<a href="http://newsblaze.com/story/2006071411010200001.ew/topstory.html">News Blaze</a>]</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What is this course about?</span><br />
<blockquote>
<br />
In this paper you will study a series of diaries, journals and daybooks kept by a range of writers over a period of almost a thousand years. What all these texts have in common is that they're all concerned with crises of various kinds: civil war, drug addiction, famine, imprisonment, madness, physical hardship, plague ...<br />
<br />
How <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> people cope with such traumatic events, day by day?<br />
<ul><br />
<li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lady-daibu.html">Lady Daibu</a> and <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/mary-chesnut.html">Mary Chesnut</a> were both non-combatants in a time of Civil War. We'll discuss what unites them and what sets them apart from each other.</li>
<li><a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/lydia-ginzburg.html">Lydia Ginzburg</a> and <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/arthur-koestler.html">Arthur Koestler</a> were each imprisoned, in different ways, during the devastating wars of the early-to-mid twentieth century.</li>
<li>Both <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/denton-welch.html">Denton Welch</a> and <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/alice-james.html">Alice James</a> were invalids. We'll talk about the psychopathology of invalidism: its worldly uses as well as its obvious drawbacks.</li>
<li>Born in the same year, 1889, the omnitalented <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/jean-cocteau.html">Jean Cocteau</a> was an Opium addict, the great dancer <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/vaslav-nijinsky.html">Vaslav Nijinsky</a> (at least latterly) a paranoid schizophrenic. Is this somehow in tune with the history of twentieth-century extremism in art?</li>
<li>Last but not least, <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/douglas-mawson.html">Douglas Mawson</a> was a fearless Antarctic explorer who's been somewhat unfairly overshadowed by his contemporaries Shackleton and Scott, <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/daniel-defoe.html">Daniel Defoe</a> a jobbing journalist who might be said to have almost singlehandedly invented the English novel. They have in common a brusque, no-nonsense fondness for raw facts, combined with a surprisingly poetic temperament</li>
</ul>
<br />
It is important to emphasise that this course covers both theoretical <i>and</i> practical aspects of Diary Writing. The emphasis will be on the study of a set of texts, but this will be conducted with the pragmatic end of improving your own work within this genre.</blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What are our learning objectives?</span><br />
The paper aims to:<br />
<ul><br />
<li>introduce you to a variety of diaries published over a variety of epochs;</li>
<li>introduce you to some of the literary issues and critical vocabulary germane to the interpretation of these texts;</li>
<li>introduce you to some of the ideological issues involved in the representation of your own and other cultures; </li>
<li>encourage you to integrate your critical awareness of the various genres subsumed under the general heading "journal-keeping" into your own creative practice;</li>
<li>enhance your creativity and skill as a writer working in this genre.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What am I expected to do each week?</span><br />
<blockquote>
<br />
You will attend one hour-long lecture and one two-hour workshop every week.<br />
<br />
To prepare for the lecture, you must read the texts in the Course Anthology prescribed for that particular session (for further details, see the <a href="http://crisisdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/timetable.html">Course Timetable</a>). There will be further discussion of these readings in the workshop.<br />
<br />
You are also expected to complete as many as possible of the writing exercises set for each week's workshop. A failure to read out and discuss <i>any</i> of these short assignments with the class may affect your final grade. On the other hand, you don't need to share your work <i>every</i> week, without fail. We won't always have time to go right round the class for each exercise. You'll have the chance to select your favorite pieces to go in your Course Journal at the end of the semester.<br />
<br />
<i>Attendance at both lectures and workshops is compulsory</i>. A roll will be taken at each workshop. More than four unexplained absences may lead to failure in the course.</blockquote>
<br />
<b>What is good lecture etiquette?</b><br />
<ul><br />
<li>All lectures & workshops begin at on the hour and continue till ten to the hour.</li>
<li>Please be punctual. If you arrive late, try to take a seat as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.</li>
<li>If you know you will have to leave early (for whatever reason), try to inform your lecturer of this in advance. Avoid disruption to other students by sitting at the end of a row. Try to close the door quietly as you go out.</li>
<li>If you are expecting an urgent phonecall and need to keep your cellphone on, you must clear this with your lecturer in advance. Otherwise, all cellphones should be turned off at all times. If you forget, and it rings by mistake, don't answer it.</li>
<li>Don't talk unless there's a class discussion underway. Make sure your remarks are addressed to the group as a whole, not your immediate neighbour.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What are the protocols of a writing workshop?</span><br />
<ol><br />
<li>Be courteous and supportive of each other – constructively critical, not negative.</li>
<li>Be honest. Don’t give out praise or blame if you don’t really mean it.</li>
<li>Make no introductions to or apologies for the piece of work you are reading out. Let it speak for itself.</li>
<li>Don’t refuse to read your work out too often, or it will become an increasingly frightening prospect.</li>
</ol>
Dr Jack Rosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01077200107415470747noreply@blogger.com0