Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „Silverio Rivas“

While NauFM goes from strength-to-strength, its establishment rival Radio Kalang has been on the verge of collapse. However, clouding NauFM's silver lining are serious questions about the quality and style of its news and information programs.

SummaryBackround/Aim: The purpose of this in vitro study is to evaluate the antibiofilm and antimicrobial activities of 5 different restorative materials that release fluoride.Material and Methods: Five different fluoride releasing restorative materials [Riva Self Cure (SDI, Australia), Riva Light Cure (SDI, Australia), Riva Silver (SDI, Australia), Dyract® XP (DENTSPLY, Germany) and Beautifil II (SHOFU, Japan)] and one composite resin material (Grandio, VOCO, Germany) were selected for this study. A total of 48 specimens (8 of each) were prepared using Teflon molds (4.0 mm-diameter and 2.0 mm-thickness). The antibacterial and antibiofilm activities of the mentioned restorative materials on Streptococcus mutans were evaluated. The data obtained were evaluated by One-Way analysis and Tukey’s Test (p<0.05).Results: As a result, no correlation was found in terms of antibacterial and antibiofilm activities of the restorative materials evaluated in the study. While the dental plaque (matrix) accumulation was detected at least on the Grandio resin, the materials with the least cell adhesion were Light Cure and Riva Self Cure since it showed antiadhesive properties for S. mutans.Conclusions: Although the highest antibacterial activity against S. mutans was detected in resin-modified glass ionomers, biofilm matrix (dental plaque) accumulation was mostly detected on these material surface in our study.

Clinical Relevance The new formulations of nano-silver fluoride caused less dentin staining than the already available commercial agents 35% silver fluoride and silver diamine fluoride at 30% and 38%. SUMMARY The objective of this study was to evaluate the dentin staining potential of nano-silver fluoride (NSF 600 and 1500 ppm) compared with the following commercially available cariostatic agents: Advantage Arrest (Elevate Oral Care, West Palm Beach, FL, USA), Riva Star (SDI, Victoria, Australia), and Cariestop (Biodinâmica, Paraná, Brazil). Seventy-five extracted human molars were sectioned at the cementoenamel junction, and the occlusal enamel was removed for exposure of coronary dentin. The samples were divided among the five agents tested (n=15). The dentin staining (ΔE/ΔL) was analyzed with a digital spectrophotometer (VITA Easyshade, VITA Zahnfabrik, Bad Säckingen, Germany) at three different time points (before application, after two weeks, and after four weeks). Photographic images were also performed. The Kruskal-Wallis and Mann-Whitney tests compared the mean ΔE and ΔL values between groups. The NSF 600 and 1500 ppm resulted in the smallest color change (ΔE=1.02 and 1.53) and dentin staining after four weeks (ΔL=−0.76 and −1.2). The new formulations differed significantly from the commercial cariostatic agents (p&lt;0.001). NSF might be an alternative to silver diamine fluoride since it does not compromise esthetics.

Because of the USA’s relative decline of national power and the rapid emergence of China, the Indo-Pacific lacks a regional order as existed during the latter half of the twentieth century. The USA and China have had strained relations since the 2010s as economic and hegemonic rivals. Furthermore, at the cusp of the 2020s, a blame game is unfolding over COVID-19. Neither nation can be expected to serve a role as an order manager of peace and stability in the Indo-Pacific. Under such international situations, Japan and India should cooperate to initiate consideration of the regional order now. To establish such an order for the future, ends and means carry an importance. The ends should be the creation of a free, open, inclusive and democratic Indo-Pacific. The means should be some mechanisms based on principles of multilateralism, for example, Quad-Plus, not only involving the four countries: like-minded countries should also be included. In this way, we can find a silver lining beyond COVID-19. JEL Codes: F5, I19

O ensino de Física pode ser associado a atividades que levam à memorização de informações, fórmulas, estruturas e conhecimentos que limitam a aprendizagem, desmotivando o aluno quanto à Física. Os recursos didáticos são considerados elementos essenciais no trabalho dos conteúdos escolares com os alunos, pois permite o contato com diversas formas de aprendizagem, cuja aplicação permeia aspectos motivacionais, estimulantes, desafiadores e colaboradores. Nesse sentido, objetiva-se no trabalho relatar a utilização de paródias como estratégia de ensino e aprendizagem para abordagem de conteúdos de Física, dando enfoque ao uso da contextualização. “Para Ribas e Guimarães (2004, p. 2), quando o aluno sente prazer na atividade proposta pelo professor, a aprendizagem e o processo cognitivo de construção do conhecimento são estimulados”. Segundo os autores, a construção de conhecimentos significativos está ligado a algo que chama atenção e que revela coisas com as quais o indivíduo identifica-se e que pode despertar sensações ou emoções. Para eles, a base de tal reflexão está associada ao estímulo da crítica e a vivência de cada um. Assim, “...o uso da música na forma de paródias tem a possibilidade de quebrar a rotina escolar baseada no modelo tradicional de ensino, possibilitando momentos de alegria e descontração durante a aula, estimulando a atenção e a responsabilidade necessárias à aprendizagem” (SILVEIRA; KIOURANIS, 2008, p. 29).

AbstractHow can institutional corruption be combatted? While recent years have seen a growth in anti-corruption literature, examples of countries rooting out systemic corruption remain few. The lack of success stories has sparked an academic debate about the theoretical foundations of anti-corruption frameworks: primarily between proponents of the principal-agent framework and those seeing systemic corruption as the result of collective-action problems. Through an analysis of current principal-agent and collective action anti-corruption literature, this article adds two additional arguments to the debate: (a) the need to specify what one talks about when talking about systemic corruption and (b) the necessity to move beyond the principal-agent versus collective action frameworks dichotomy towards a policy-centered approach for how to combat institutional corruption. Having outlined how institutional corruption can be seen as one type of systemic corruption, this article shows how a policy-centered approach such as strengthening the appearance standard through an independent public commission can address theoretical mechanisms emphasized in each anti-corruption framework–thus arguing that the frameworks complement rather than rival each other. The article ends by arguing for an anti-corruption discourse acknowledging that a multifaceted problem such as corruption requires multiple frameworks rather than attempts for silver-bullet explanations.

The years 1289–1313 witnessed particularly prolific minting activities at different southern and central Greek mints on behalf of different polities. The coin issues are of great economic and political relevance, and therefore of interest to modern historians. Our understanding of these is based on traditional sources, either numismatic (types and finds), or historical. This paper aims to investigate the possibilities of adding further details to the picture through archaeometry. Specifically, tournois pennies of the three main mints of the region (Clarentza, Thebes, Naupaktos) excavated at Ancient Corinth were analysed according to two different non-destructive methods, X-ray fluorescence spectrometry (XRF) and laser-induced breakdown spectroscopy (LIBS). The resulting relative silver percentages and the fingerprints of the trace elements have supported our attempts to put the different coin types in chronological order and to add detail to the context and intent for each one of these. A vivid picture of monetary production emerges. The different issuing authorities were usually intent on maintaining a decent standard while variously trying to put pressure on rivals or to harmonise their productions with their allies. All the analysed mints were commercial in character, though they were subject to the great political changes affecting Greece in this period, the ambitions of the Angevin dynasty, the various challenges which it faced in Athens, the Peloponnese and the western Mainland, and finally the destructive arrival of the Catalans. In times of need, specifically military, these same mints could therefore rely on further bullion which reached them through internal or external political channels.

Hardly had the Spaniards and Portuguese established their first footholds in the newly discovered Americas they claimed as their exclusive preserves than their European rivals and enemies were on the scene. In what came to be known as the Spanish Indies they endeavoured to obtain some of the continent's staggering wealth in precious metals. In Brazil they were after the logwood that could be more or less had for the taking. It produced dyes far superior to those then in use in Europe and in great demand in an expanding textile industry, of which that of England was a considerable part. Besides which there was the pleasing prospect that Brazil's great rivers might give access to the silver mining regions of Spanish South America. Such predatory urges were sharpened as Protestantism took root in Western Europe. Convinced that the military strength of Spain, the continent's leading Catholic power, stemmed from American bullion, zealous Protestants believed that could this wealth only be diverted into the right hands the true faith would be saved, its adherents duly rewarded and Spain, deprived of its lifeblood, ruined. But the implementation of this godly strategy was no obstacle to conducting a lucrative commerce with the arch-enemy. Sugar and tobacco, of which the Iberian Americas were soon substantial producers, could be purchased for sale in a growing European market. Equally appealing was the opportunity to sell to Portuguese and Spanish colonists the African slaves their plantation economies demanded. And no less attractive or rewarding was the chance to supply them with those European goods, both luxuries and necessities, which they were forbidden to produce for themselves and which Iberian industries were increasingly unable to provide, or which, through the inadequacies of the Spanish and Portuguese imperial commercial monopoly, were usually in short supply and invariably grossly over-priced.

INDICADORES DE VIABILIDADE ECONÔMICA DE PRODUÇÃO IRRIGADA DE SORGO FORRAGEIRO PARA BOVINOCULTURA DE CORTE1 JARDEL HENRIQUE KIRCHNER2; ADROALDO DIAS ROBAINA3; MARCIA XAVIER PEITER4; ROGÉRIO RICALDE TORRES5; WELLINGTON MEZZOMO6; LUIS HUMBERTO BAHÚ BEN7 ¹ Trabalho retirado da tese intitulada: “Aspectos produtivos e viabilidade econômico-financeira da irrigação em sorgo forrageiro”, do autor Jardel Henrique Kirchner 2 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor do Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia do Rio Grande do Sul, Rua Nelsi Ribas Fritsch, nº 1111, bairro Esperança, Ibirubá, RS, Brasil, CEP: 98200-000, jardel.kirchner@ibiruba.ifrs.edu.br 3 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor Titular do Departamento de Engenharia Rural, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, diasrobaina@gmail.com 4 Eng. Agrônoma, Doutora, Professora Associada do Departamento de Engenharia Rural, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, mpeiter@gmail.com 5 Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Professor do Instituto Federal de Educação, Ciência e Tecnologia do Rio Grande do Sul, Rua Eng. João Viterbo de Oliveira, nº 3061, Zona Rural, Vacaria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 95219-899, rogerio.torres@vacaria.ifrs.edu.br 6 Eng. Agrônomo, Mestre, Doutorando no Programa de Pós-Graduação em Engenharia Agrícola, UFSM, Avenida Roraima, nº 1000, bairro Camobi, Santa Maria, RS, Brasil, CEP: 97195-000, wmezzomo@hotmail.com 7Eng. Agrônomo, Doutor, Madruga Consultoria Agronômica, Rua Silveira Martins, nº 967, bairro Centro, Santiago, RS, CEP: 97700-000, luishumbertoben@gmail.com 1 RESUMO A bovinocultura de corte é uma das principais atividades agropecuárias no Rio Grande do Sul. Contudo, os produtores preocupam-se com a alimentação dos animais, pois irregularidades das chuvas causam falta de alimento. As pastagens cultivadas são amplamente utilizadas, principalmente o sorgo forrageiro, usando a irrigação para suprir as necessidades hídricas. Porém, necessita-se determinar a viabilidade econômica da irrigação da pastagem através de indicadores econômicos. O trabalho objetivou avaliar a viabilidade econômica da irrigação em sorgo forrageiro através de indicadores (Valor Presente Líquido (VPL), Taxa Interna de Retorno (TIR) e relação Benefício/Custo (B/C)) para a bovinocultura de corte. Conduziram-se dois experimentos em 2015/2016 e 2016/2017 em Santa Maria (RS) e avaliaram-se as produtividades com lâmina de 100 % da ETo. Determinou-se a carga animal possível de ser alimentada com a produção, simularam-se três cenários de ganho de peso diário por animal (0,5, 1 e 1,5 kg x animal x dia-1) e determinaram-se os custos e a viabilidade econômica. Verificou-se que há viabilidade econômica da irrigação em todos os indicadores avaliados: VPL entre 2.421,00 e 82.105,00 R$ ha-1, TIR entre 9 e 82% e relação B/C entre 1,21 e 4,74 atrelando os resultados à rentabilidade dos diferentes cenários de ganho de peso diário animal. Palavras chave: Sorghum bicolor L. (Moench), irrigação de pastagem, indicadores econômicos. KIRCHNER, J. H.; ROBAINA, A. D.; PEITER, M. X.; TORRES, R. R.; MEZZOMO, W.; BEN, L. H. B. ECONOMIC FEASIBILITY INDICATORS OF IRRIGATED PRODUCTION OF FORAGE SORGHUM 2 ABSTRACT Beef cattle raising is one of the main agricultural activities in Rio Grande do Sul. However, producers are concerned with feeding the animals, as rainfall irregularities cause lack of food. Cultivated pastures are widely used, especially forage sorghum, using irrigation to meet water needs. However, it is necessary to determine the economic viability of pasture irrigation through economic indicators. The objective of this study was to evaluate the economic viability of forage sorghum irrigation through indicators (Net Present Value (NPV), Internal Rate of Return (IRR) and Benefit / Cost ratio (B / C)) for beef cattle. Two experiments were conducted in 2015/2016 and 2016/2017 in Santa Maria/RS and the 100% productivity of ETo was evaluated. The animal feedable feedstock was determined, three scenarios of daily weight gain per animal (0.5, 1 and 1.5 kg x animal x day-1) were simulated and costs and economic viability were determined. It was verified that there is economic viability of irrigation in all indicators evaluated: NPV between 2,421.00 and 82,105.00 R$ ha-1, IRR between 9 and 82% and B/C ratio between 1.21 and 4.74 the profitability results from the different scenarios of daily animal weight gain. Keywords: Sorghum bicolor L. (Moench), pasture irrigation, economic viability.

Previous literature in cognitive psychology has provided data involving differences in language processing between men and women. It has been found that women are usually more proficient with certain semantic categories such as fruit, vegetables and furniture. Men are reported to be better at other categories semantic, e.g. tools and transport. The aim of this article is to provide an inquiry about possible differences in semantic category processing of living things (LT) and inanimate objects (IO) by Argentinian Spanish-speakers school-aged children. The group of 86 children between 8 and 12 years old (51.16% boys) has been assessed on a semantic fluency task. Six semantic categories have been tested, three of them from the LT domain (animals, fruit/vegetables, and body parts) and three from the IO domain (transport, clothes and musical instruments). Results showed differences in semantic processing between boys and girls. Girls retrieved more items from the LT domain and activated more animals and fruit/vegetables. These findings appear to support an innate conceptual organization of the mind, which is presumably influenced by cultural factors and/or schooling. References Albanese, E., Capitani, E., Barbarotto, R., & Laiacona, M. (2000). Semantic categorydissociations, familiarity and gender. Cortex, 36, 733–746. Barbarotto, R., Laiacona, M., & Capitani, E. (2008). Does sex influence the age of acquisitionof common names? A contrast of different semantic categories. Cortex, 44(9), 1161–1170. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cortex.2007.08.016 Capitani, E., Laiacona, M., & Barbarotto, R. (1999). Gender affects Word retrieval of certaincategories in semantic fluency tasks. Cortex, 35, 273–278. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/S0010-9452(08)70800-1 Capitani, E., Laiacona, M., Mahon, B. Z., & Caramazza, A. (2003). What are the facts ofsemantic category-specific deficits? 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Introdução: As alterações vasculares são anomalias de desenvolvimento dos vasos que proporcionam acúmulo de sangue e são de etiologia desconhecida. Fazem parte deste grupo de lesões as malformações arteriovenosas, hemangiomas, linfoangiomas e varicosidades. Embora não raras, as lesões vasculares que ocorrem nos lábios, por vezes, interferem na estética e apresentam dificuldades quanto ao seu diagnóstico e tratamento. Objetivo: Descrever um caso clínico realizado com laser de diodo de alta potência para a fotocoagulação de uma lesão vascular, abordando suas vantagens e limitações em comparação ao tratamento cirúrgico. Material e Método: O procedimento foi realizado em um paciente de 53 anos, sexo feminino, branca, com queixa de aparecimento de uma bolha de sangue no lábio com evolução de aproximadamente oito anos. Ao exame físico intraoral, observou-se nódulo em vermelhão do lábio inferior, do lado direito, próxima à comissura labial, medindo aproximadamente 1,0 cm de diâmetro, de base séssil, superfície lisa, limites bem definidos, coloração violácea, consistência macia e sem sintomatologia dolorosa à palpação. Após a diascopia e diagnóstico clínico de lesão vascular, optou-se pela fotocoalulação com laser de diodo de alta potência. Resultados: Houve regressão total da lesão, após uma única aplicação, sem complicações trans e pós-operatórias, sem sangramento durante a cirurgia, o que proporcionou melhor visão do campo operatório e resultou em um procedimento minimamente invasivo. A paciente encontra-se em proservação, sem recidiva da lesão. Conclusão: A fotocoagulação pode ser considerada como uma alternativa segura e eficiente para o tratamento de lesões vasculares. Descritores: Lesões do Sistema Vascular; Fotocoagulação; Laser; Mucosa Bucal. 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Rezende KMP, Corrêa FNP, Corrêa JPNP, Bönecker M, Corrêa MSNP. Hemangioma: descrição de um caso clínico e sua importância no diagnóstico diferencial. Rev Assoc Paul Cir Dent. 2016;70(1):19-23. Passas MA, Teixeira M. Hemangioma da infância. Nascer e Crescer. 2016;25(2):83-9. Chen W, Zhang B, Li J, Yang Z, Wang Y, Huang Z et al. Liquid nitrogen cryotherapy of lip mucosa hemangiomas under inhalation general anesthesia with sevoflurane in early infancy. Ann Plast Surg. 2009;62(2):154-57. Mandu ALC, Lira CRS, Barbosa LM, Silva VCR, Cardoso AJO. Escleroterapia de Hemangioma: relato de caso. Rev Cir Traumatol Buco-Maxilo-fac. 2013;13(1):71-6. Silva AJDD, Dos Santos RV, Amato SJTA, Amato ACM. Malformação venosa associada à hiperelasticidade cutânea e atrofia do tecido subcutâneo. J Vasc Bras. 2016;15(1):66-9. Gupta A, Verma A, Dhua A, Bhatnagar V. Vascular anomalies: a pediatric surgeon’s perspective. Indian J 2017;84(8):612-17. 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Resumo: Autor de uma obra filosófica abrangente, Alasdair MacIntyre manifesta um interesse profundo pelo tema da educação, tendo refletido, em particular, seriamente sobre a universidade. Sua concepção de universidade é fortemente influenciada por aquela defendida por John Henry Newman no século XIX, e se relaciona intimamente, tanto quanto para Newman, com a sua compreensão sobre a filosofia. Partindo de tal concepção, é possível refletir sistematicamente sobre a questão do ensino de filosofia, tanto no interior da vida universitária quanto nas relações desta última com a sociedade e a cultura em geral, inclusive com um foco particular sobre a realidade brasileira. Palavras-chave: Alasdair MacIntyre (1929-). John Henry Newman (1801-1890). Universidade. Ensino de filosofia. Abstract: Authoring a comprehensive philosophical oeuvre, Alasdair MacIntyre manifests a profound interest on the subject of education, having produced in particular a serious reflection on the theme of the university. His conception of a university is strongly influenced by that of John Henry Newman in the 19th century, and is intimately related, as much as with Newman’s, to his understanding of philosophy. Beginning with such a conception, it is possible to systematically meditate on the matter of the teaching of philosophy, within the university walls as well as at its general cultural and social boundaries, including a particular focus on Brazilian reality. Keywords: Alasdair MacIntyre (1929-). John Henry Newman (1801-1890). University. Philosophy teaching. REFERÊNCIAS ARRIOLA, Claudia Ruiz. Tradición, Universidad y Virtud: Filosofia de la Educacion Superior en Alasdair MacIntyre. Pamplona: EUNSA, 2000. ARISTÓTELES. Ethica Nicomachea. In: MCKEON, Richard (Org.). The Basic Works of Aristotle. New York: The Modern Library, 2001. ARTIGAS, Mariano. Mind of the Universe: Understanding Science and Religion. Philadelphia: Templeton Foundation, 1999. BISHOP, Jeffrey P. Waiting for St. Benedict among the Ruins: MacIntyre and Medical Practice. Journal of Medicine and Philosophy, 36 (2011), p. 107-113. BRASIL. Lei de Diretrizes e Bases da Educação Nacional. Lei nº 9.394, 20 dez. 1996. Brasília: Diário Oficial da União, 1996. BRASIL. Lei nº 13.415, 16 fev. 2017. Brasília: Diário Oficial da União, 2017. BREWER, Kathryn Balstad. Management as a Practice: A Response to Alasdair MacIntyre. Journal of Business Ethics, 16 (1997), p. 825-833. CAVANAUGH, William T. The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. CERLETTI, Alejandro. O ensino de filosofia como problema filosófico. Trad. Ingrid Müller Xavier. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2009. CROSS, Bryan R. MacIntyre on the Practice of Philosophy and the University. American Catholic Philosophical Quaterly, 88, 4 (2014), p. 751-766. CUNHA, Luiz Antonio. A universidade temporã: o ensino superior, da Colônia à era Vargas. 3. ed. São Paulo: Ed. UNESP, 2007. DUNNE, Joseph. Arguing for Teaching as a Practice: A Reply to Alasdair MacIntyre. Journal of Philosophy of Education, 37, 2 (2003), p. 353-369. DUNNE, Joseph. Newman Now: Re-Examining the Concepts of ‘Philosophical’ and ‘Liberal’ in The Idea of a University. British Journal of Educational Studies, 54, 4 (2006), p. 412-428. DEINA, Wanderley José. Filosofia no ensino médio: considerações sobre a reforma educacional brasileira a partir do pensamento de Theodor Adorno. Sofia, 6, 3 (2017), pp. 5-25. FÓRUM NACIONAL PERMANENTE DO ENSINO RELIGIOSO. Parâmetros Curriculares Nacionais para o Ensino Religioso. 3. ed. São Paulo: Ave Maria, 1997. GALLO, Sílvio. A filosofia e seu ensino: conceito e transversalidade. Ethica, 13, 1 (2006), p. 17-35. GOMES, Laécio de Almeida. Filosofia como educação moral: a filosofia da educação em Alasdair MacIntyre. Saberes, 1, 6 (2011), p. 65-76. GOMES, Roberto. Crítica da razão tupiniquim. 11. ed. São Paulo: FTD, 1994. GONTIJO, Pedro. O ensino da filosofia no Brasil: algumas notas sobre avanços e desafios. Perspectivas, 2, 1 (2017), p. 3-17. GOVERNO DO ESTADO DO PARANÁ. Diretrizes Curriculares da Educação Básica – Ensino Religioso. Curitiba: Secretaria de Estado da Educação do Paraná, 2008. HALDANE, John. MacIntyre’s Thomist revival: What’s next? In: HALDANE, John. Faithful Reason: Essays Catholic and Philosophical. London: Routledge, 2004, p. 15-30. KERR, Clark. The Uses of a University. 5. ed. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001. LAMBETH, Edmond B. Waiting for a New St. Benedict: Alasdair MacIntyre and the Theory and Practice of Journalism. Journal of Mass Media Ethics, 5, 2 (1990), p. 75-87. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. The Idea of an Educated Public. In: HAYDON, Graham (Org.). Education and Values: The Richard Peters Lectures. London: University of London Press, 1987, p. 15-35. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry: Encyclopaedia, Genealogy, and Tradition. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 1990a. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. First Principles, Final Ends and Contemporary Philosophical Issues. Milwaukee: Marquette University, 1990b. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. Justiça de quem? Qual racionalidade? Trad. Marcelo Pimenta Marques. São Paulo: Loyola, 1991. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. Dependent Rational Animals: Why Human Beings Need the Virtues. Peru (Il): Open Court, 1999. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. Depois da virtude: um estudo em teoria moral. Trad. Jussara Simões. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. Moral Philosophy and Contemporary Social Practice: What Holds Them Apart? In: MACINTYRE, Alasdair. The Tasks of Philosophy: Selected Essays, Volume I. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006, p. 104-122. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. God, Philosophy, Universities: A Selective History of the Catholic Philosophical Tradition. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefields, 2009a. MACINTYRE, Alasdair. The Very Idea of a University: Aristotle, Newman and Us. The New Blackfriars, 91, 1031 (2010), p. 4-19 (2010a) MACINTYRE, Alasdair. On Not Knowing Where You Are Going. Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association, 84, 2 (2010), p. 61-74. (2010b) MACINTYRE, Alasdair; DUNNE, Joseph. Alasdair MacIntyre on Education: In Dialogue with Joseph Dunne. Journal of Philosophy of Education, 36, 1 (2002), p. 1-19. MADARIAGA CÉZAR, Manuel García de. La educación en Alasdair MacIntyre: contextos y proyectos. Tese de doutorado. 2009. Pamplona. Facultad Eclesiástica de Filosofía. Universidad de Navarra. MICHEL, Andrew A. Psychiatry After Virtue: A Modern Practice in the Ruins. Journal of Medicine and Philosophy, 36 (2011), p. 170-186. NEWMAN, John Henry. Prefácio. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001a, p. 59-71. NEWMAN, John Henry. Introdutório. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001b, p. 59-71. NEWMAN, John Henry. Teologia, ramo do conhecimento. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001c, p. 73-89. NEWMAN, John Henry. Relação da teologia com outros ramos do conhecimento. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001d, p. 91-110. NEWMAN, John Henry. Relação dos outros ramos do conhecimento com a teologia. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001e, p. 111-130. NEWMAN, John Henry. Conhecimento, fim em si mesmo. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001f, p. 131-148. NEWMAN, John Henry. O conhecimento em relação à capacidade profissional. In: TURNER, Frank M. (Org.). Newman e a idéia de uma universidade. Trad. Gilson César Cardoso de Sousa. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001g, 169-188. OLIVE, Arabela Campos. Histórico da educação superior no Brasil. In: SOARES, Maria Susana Arrosa (Org.). A educação superior no Brasil. Brasília: Coordenação de Aperfeiçoamento de Pessoal de Nível Superior, 2002, pp. 31-42. PAVIANI, Jayme. Interdisciplinaridade: conceitos e distinções. 2. ed. Caxias do Sul (RS): Educs, 2008. PINHO, Rozana Isabel Brázio Valente. O ensino de filosofia no Brasil: considerações históricas e político-legislativas. Educação e Filosofia Uberlândia, 28, 56, (2014), p. 757-771. ROHDEN, Valerio (Org.). Idéias de universidade. Canoas: Ed. ULBRA, 2002. ROSSI, Paolo. O Nascimento da Ciência Moderna na Europa. Trad. Antonio Angonese. Bauru (SP): EDUSC, 2001. 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This article is born from the results of a larger research that aimed to identify the relationship that the teacher establishes between his personal dimensions (identity) and the professional dimensions (teacher identity) in his formation and his practice, through reflection on his daily action. At this moment of the research the objective was to identify and describe the reflexive processes observed on the practical action of the teacher, as well as the paths covered in the formation and constitution of the professional identity. For this, the methodology of writing class diaries was used, mainly based on Zabalza's theoretical framework. The journals were developed by five teachers during three months in a semester, with subsequent reflection of the reports from a script presented to them by the researchers. The data, analyzed by the technique of Content Analysis, according to Bardin, revealed five categories that made explicit on the knowledge of teaching practice, reflexive processes, teacher training and the constitution of their professional identity. The results showed that the methodology used (class diaries) was efficient in order to allow a space for reflection, as a way to build an effective practice that is consistent with the personal issues of the professional. The reflections made by the teachers indicate that they live the complexities of the profession as a great burden to bear having unfinished ideas on coping strategies.ResumoEste artigo nasce dos resultados de uma pesquisa maior que objetivou identificar a relação que o professor estabelece entre suas dimensões pessoais (identidade) e as dimensões profissionais (identidade docente) na sua formação e na sua prática, através da reflexão sobre sua ação diária. Neste momento da pesquisa, o objetivo era identificar e descrever os processos reflexivos observados sobre a ação prática do professor, bem como os caminhos percorridos na formação e constituição da identidade profissional. Para tal foi utilizada a metodologia de redação de diários de aula, embasados, primordialmente, no referencial teórico da Zabalza. Os diários foram desenvolvidos por cinco docentes durante três meses em um semestre letivo, com posterior reflexão dos relatos a partir de um roteiro apresentado a eles pelos pesquisadores. Os dados, analisados pela técnica de Análise de Conteúdo, segundo Bardin, revelaram cinco categorias que explicitaram sobre os saberes da prática docente, os processos reflexivos, a formação do professor e a constituição de sua identidade profissional. Os resultados mostraram que a metodologia utilizada (diários de aula) foi eficiente no sentido de permitir um espaço destinado à reflexão, como forma de construir uma prática eficaz e condizente com as questões pessoais do profissional. As reflexões feitas pelos professores indicam que vivem as complexidades da profissão como uma grande carga a se carregar tendo ideias inacabadas sobre estratégias de enfrentamento das mesmas.ResumenEste artículo nace de los resultados de una investigación mayor que objetivó identificar la relación que el profesor establece entre sus dimensiones personales (identidad) y las dimensiones profesionales (identidad docente) en su formación y en su práctica, a través de la reflexión sobre su acción diaria. En este momento de la investigación el objetivo era identificar y describir los procesos reflexivos observados sobre la acción práctica del profesor, así como los caminos recorridos en la formación y constitución de la identidad profesional. Para ello se utilizó la metodología de redacción de diarios de clase, fundamentados, primordialmente, en el referencial teórico de Zabalza. Los diarios fueron desarrollados por cinco docentes durante tres meses en un semestre lectivo, con posterior reflexión de los relatos a partir de un guión presentado a ellos por los investigadores. Los datos, analizados por la técnica de Análisis de Contenido, según Bardin, revelaron cinco categorías que explicitaron sobre los saberes de la práctica docente, los procesos reflexivos, la formación del profesor y la constitución de su identidad profesional. Los resultados mostraron que la metodología utilizada (diarios de clase) fue eficiente en el sentido de permitir un espacio destinado a la reflexión, como forma de construir una práctica eficaz y acorde con las cuestiones personales del profesional. 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Glass ionomer cements (GICs) are currently the first-choice materials in minimally invasive dentistry and are widely used in paediatric dentistry. The objective of this study was to evaluate the influence of viscosity and mixing on porosity and the relationship between the porosity and microhardness of GICs. Nine GICs were used: EQUIA® Forte Fil, Ionostar®Plus, 3MTMKetacTM Universal AplicapTM, Riva Light Cure HV®, Riva Silver®, Riva Protect®, VitremerTM, VitrebondTM Plus and Activa BioActive RestorativeTM. Samples were prepared from each material and images were obtained by scanning electron microscopy (SEM). Using software, the number and diameter of pores, area, and percentage of area they occupied were measured. After SEM analysis, the samples were used to make surface microhardness (SMH) measurements. Ionostar® Plus, EQUIA® Forte Fil and Riva Light Cure HV® had the highest number of pores. Riva Protect® had the largest pores and the highest percentage of pore-occupied area, while Activa BioActive RestorativeTM and VitrebondTM Plus had a smaller pore size and a smaller percentage by area. Riva Silver® and EQUIA® Forte Fil showed the highest microhardness values and VitrebondTM Plus and VitremerTM the lowest. In conclusion, when the cement viscosity is low, the type of mixture determines the degree of porosity, but has less influence when viscosity is high. There was no correlation between microhardness and the porosity of GICs.

IntroductionThis paper argues that the industrial contexts of re-imagining, or transforming, literary icons deploy the promotional strategies that are associated with what are usually seen as lesser, or purely commercial, genres. Promotional paratexts (Genette Paratexts; Gray; Hills) reveal transformations of content that position audiences to receive them as creative innovations, superior in many senses to their literary precursors due to the distinctive expertise of creative professionals. This interpretation leverages Matt Hills’ argument that certain kinds of “quality” screened drama are discursively framed as possessing the cultural capital associated with auterist cinema, despite their participation in the marketing logics of media franchising (Johnson). Adaptation theorist Linda Hutcheon proposes that when audiences receive literary adaptations, their pleasure inheres in a mixture of “repetition and difference”, “familiarity and novelty” (114). The difference can take many forms, but may be framed as guaranteed by the “distinction”, or—in Bourdieu’s terms—the cultural capital, of talented individuals and companies. Gerard Genette (Palimpsests) argued that “proximations” or updatings of classic literature involve acknowledging historical shifts in ideological norms as well as aesthetic techniques and tastes. When literary brands are made over using different media, there are economic lures to participation in currently fashionable technologies, as well as current political values. Linda Hutcheon also underlines the pragmatic constraints on the re-imagining of literary brands. “Expensive collaborative art forms” (87) such as films and large stage productions look for safe bets, seeking properties that have the potential to increase the audience for their franchise. Thus the marketplace influences both production and the experience of audiences. While this paper does not attempt a thoroughgoing analysis of audience reception appropriate to a fan studies approach, it borrows concepts from Matt Hills’s theorisation of marketing communication associated with screen “makeovers”. It shows that literary fiction and cinematic texts associated with celebrated authors or auteurist producer-directors share branding discourses characteristic of contemporary consumer culture. Strategies include marketing “reveals” of transformed content (Hills 319). Transformed content is presented not only as demonstrating originality and novelty; these promotional paratexts also perform displays of cultural capital on the part of production teams or of auteurist creatives (321). Case Study 1: Steven Spielberg, The Adventures of Tintin (2011) The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn is itself an adaptation of a literary brand that reimagines earlier transmedia genres. According to Spielberg’s biographer, the Tintin series of bandes dessinée (comics or graphic novels) by Belgian artist Hergé (Georges Remi), has affinities with “boys’ adventure yarns” referencing and paying homage to the “silent filmmaking and the movie serials of the 1930s and ‘40s” (McBride 530). The three comics adapted by Spielberg belong to the more escapist and less “political” phase of Hergé’s career (531). As a fast-paced action movie, building to a dramatic and spectacular closure, the major plot lines of Spielberg’s film centre on Tintin’s search for clues to the secret of a model ship he buys at a street market. Teaming up with an alcoholic sea captain, Tintin solves the mystery while bullying Captain Haddock into regaining his sobriety, his family seat, and his eagerness to partner in further heroic adventures. Spielberg’s industry stature allowed him the autonomy to combine the commercial motivations of contemporary “tentpole” cinema adaptations with aspirations towards personal reputation as an auteurist director. Many of the promotional paratexts associated with the film stress the aesthetic distinction of the director’s practice alongside the blockbuster spectacle of an action film. Reinventing the Literary Brand as FranchiseComic books constitute the “mother lode of franchises” (Balio 26) in a industry that has become increasingly global and risk-adverse (see also Burke). The fan base for comic book movies is substantial and studios pre-promote their investments at events such as the four-day Comic-Con festival held annually in San Diego (Balio 26). Described as “tentpole” films, these adaptations—often of superhero genres—are considered conservative investments by the Hollywood studios because they “constitute media events; […] lend themselves to promotional tie-ins”; are “easy sells in world markets and […] have the ability to spin off sequels to create a franchise” (Balio 26). However, Spielberg chose to adapt a brand little known in the primary market (the US), thus lacking the huge fan-based to which pre-release promotional paratexts might normally be targeted. While this might seem a risky undertaking, it does reflect “changed industry realities” that seek to leverage important international markets (McBride 531). As a producer Spielberg pursued his own strategies to minimise economic risk while allowing him creative choices. This facilitated the pursuit of professional reputation alongside commercial success. The dual release of both War Horse and Tintin exemplify the director-producer’s career practice of bracketing an “entertainment” film with a “more serious work” (McBride 530). The Adventures of Tintin was promoted largely as technical tour de force and spectacle. Conversely War Horse—also adapted from a children’s text—was conceived as a heritage/nostalgia film, marked with the attention to period detail and lyric cinematography of what Matt Hills describes as “aestheticized fiction”. Nevertheless, promotional paratexts stress the discourse of auteurist transformation even in the case of the designedly more commercial Tintin film, as I discuss further below. These pre-release promotions emphasise Spielberg’s “painterly” directorial hand, as well as the professional partnership with Peter Jackson that enabled cutting edge innovation in animation. As McBride explains, the “dual release of the two films in the US was an unusual marketing move” seemingly designed to “showcase Spielberg’s artistic versatility” (McBride 530).Promotional Paratexts and Pre-Recruitment of FansAs Jonathan Gray and Jason Mittell have explained, marketing paratexts predate screen adaptations (Gray; Mittell). As part of the commercial logic of franchise development, selective release of information about a literary brand’s transformation are designed to bring fans of the “original,” or of genre communities such as fantasy or comics audiences, on board with the adaptation. Analysing Steven Moffat’s revelations about the process of adapting and creating a modern TV series from Conan Doyle’s canon (Sherlock), Matt Hills draws attention to the focus on the literary, rather than the many screen reinventions. Moffat’s focus on his childhood passion for the Holmes stories thus grounds the team’s adaptation in a period prior to any “knowledge of rival adaptations […] and any detailed awareness of canon” (326). Spielberg (unlike Jackson) denied any such childhood affective investment, claiming to have been unaware of the similarities between Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) and the Tintin series until alerted by a French reviewer of Raiders (McBride 530). In discussing the paradoxical fidelity of his and Jackson’s reimagining of Tintin, Spielberg performed homage to the literary brand while emphasising the aesthetic limitations within the canon of prior adaptations:‘We want Tintin’s adventures to have the reality of a live-action film’, Spielberg explained during preproduction, ‘and yet Peter and I felt that shooting them in a traditional live-action format would simply not honor the distinctive look of the characters and world that Hergé created. Hergé’s characters have been reborn as living beings, expressing emotion and a soul that goes far beyond anything we’ve been able to create with computer-animated characters.’ (McBride 531)In these “reveals”, the discourse positions Spielberg and Jackson as both fans and auteurs, demonstrating affective investment in Hergé’s concepts and world-building while displaying the ingenuity of the partners as cinematic innovators.The Branded Reveal of Transformed ContentAccording to Hills, “quality TV drama” no less than “makeover TV,” is subject to branding practices such as the “reveal” of innovations attributed to creative professionals. Marketing paratexts discursively frame the “professional and creative distinction” of the teams that share and expand the narrative universe of the show’s screen or literary precursors (319–20). Distinction here refers to the cultural capital of the creative teams, as well as to the essential differences between what adaptation theorists refer to as the “hypotext” (source/original) and “hypertext” (adaptation) (Genette Paratexts; Hutcheon). The adaptation’s individualism is fore-grounded, as are the rights of creative teams to inherit, transform, and add richness to the textual universe of the precursor texts. Spielberg denied the “anxiety of influence” (Bloom) linking Tintin and Raiders, though he is reported to have enthusiastically acknowledged the similarities once alerted to them. Nevertheless, Spielberg first optioned Hergé’s series only two years later (1983). Paratexts “reveal” Hergé’s passing of the mantle from author to director, quoting his: “ ‘Yes, I think this guy can make this film. Of course it will not be my Tintin, but it can be a great Tintin’” (McBride 531).Promotional reveals in preproduction show both Spielberg and Jackson performing mutually admiring displays of distinction. Much of this is focused on the choice of motion capture animation, involving attachment of motion sensors to an actor’s body during performance, permitting mapping of realistic motion onto the animated figure. While Spielberg paid tribute to Jackson’s industry pre-eminence in this technical field, the discourse also underlines Spielberg’s own status as auteur. He claimed that Tintin allowed him to feel more like a painter than any prior film. Jackson also underlines the theme of direct imaginative control:The process of operating the small motion-capture virtual camera […] enabled Spielberg to return to the simplicity and fluidity of his 8mm amateur films […] [The small motion-capture camera] enabled Spielberg to put himself literally in the spaces occupied by the actors […] He could walk around with them […] and improvise movements for a film Jackson said they decided should have a handheld feel as much as possible […] All the production was from the imagination right to the computer. (McBride 532)Along with cinematic innovation, pre-release promotions thus rehearse the imaginative pre-eminence of Spielberg’s vision, alongside Jackson and his WETA company’s fantasy credentials, their reputation for meticulous detail, and their innovation in the use of performance capture in live-action features. This rehearsal of professional capital showcases the difference and superiority of The Adventures of Tintin to previous animated adaptations.Case Study 2: Andrew Motion: Silver, Return to Treasure Island (2012)At first glance, literary fiction would seem to be a far-cry from the commercial logics of tentpole cinema. The first work of pure fiction by a former Poet Laureate of Great Britain, updating a children’s classic, Silver: Return to Treasure Island signals itself as an exemplar of quality fiction. Yet the commercial logics of the publishing industry, no less than other media franchises, routinise practices such as author interviews at bookshop visits and festivals, generating paratexts that serve its promotional cycle. Motion’s choice of this classic for adaptation is a step further towards a popular readership than his poetry—or the memoirs, literary criticism, or creative non-fiction (“fabricated” or speculative biographies) (see Mars-Jones)—that constitute his earlier prose output. Treasure Island’s cultural status as boy’s adventure, its exotic setting, its dramatic characters long available in the public domain through earlier screen adaptations, make it a shrewd choice for appropriation in the niche market of literary fiction. Michael Cathcart’s introduction to his ABC Radio National interview with the author hones in on this:Treasure Island is one of those books that you feel as if you’ve read, event if you haven’t. Long John Silver, young Jim Hawkins, Blind Pew, Israel Hands […], these are people who stalk our collective unconscious, and they’re back. (Cathcart)Motion agrees with Cathcart that Treasure Island constitutes literary and common cultural heritage. In both interviews I analyse in the discussion here, Motion states that he “absorbed” the book, “almost by osmosis” as a child, yet returned to it with the mature, critical, evaluative appreciation of the young adult and budding poet (Darragh 27). Stevenson’s original is a “bloody good book”; the implication is that it would not otherwise have met the standards of a literary doyen, possessing a deep knowledge of, and affect for, the canon of English literature. Commercial Logic and Cultural UpdatingSilver is an unauthorised sequel—in Genette’s taxonomy, a “continuation”. However, in promotional interviews on the book and broadcast circuit, Motion claimed a kind of license from the practice of Stevenson, a fellow writer. Stevenson himself notes that a significant portion of the “bar silver” remained on the island, leaving room for a sequel to be generated. In Silver, Jim, the son of Stevenson’s Jim Hawkins, and Natty, daughter of Long John Silver and the “woman of colour”, take off to complete and confront the consequences of their parents’ adventures. In interviews, Motion identifies structural gaps in the precursor text that are discursively positioned to demand completion from, in effect, Stevenson’s literary heir: [Stevenson] was a person who was interested in sequels himself, indeed he wrote a sequel to Kidnapped [which is] proof he was interested in these things. (Cathcart)He does leave lots of doors and windows open at the end of Treasure Island […] perhaps most bewitchingly for me, as the Hispaniola sails away, they leave behind three maroons. So what happened to them? (Darragh)These promotional paratexts drop references to Great Expectations, Heart of Darkness, Lord of the Flies, Wild Sargasso Sea, the plays of Shakespeare and Tom Stoppard, the poetry of Auden and John Clare, and Stevenson’s own “self-conscious” sources: Defoe, Marryat. Discursively, they evidence “double coding” (Hills) as both homage for the canon and the literary “brand” of Stevenson’s popular original, while implicated in the commercial logic of the book industry’s marketing practices.Displays of DistinctionMotion’s interview with Sarah Darragh, for the National Association of Teachers of English, performs the role of man of letters; Motion “professes” and embodies the expertise to speak authoritatively on literature, its criticism, and its teaching. Literature in general, and Silver in particular, he claims, is not “just polemic”, that is “not how it works”, but it does has the ability to recruit readers to moral perspectives, to convey “ new ideas[s] of the self.” Silver’s distinction from Treasure Island lies in its ability to position “deep” readers to develop what is often labelled “theory of mind” (Wolf and Barzillai): “what good literature does, whether you know it or not, is to allow you to be someone else for a bit,” giving us “imaginative projection into another person’s experience” (Darragh 29). A discourse of difference and superiority is also associated with the transformed “brand.” Motion is emphatic that Silver is not a children’s book—“I wouldn’t know how to do that” (Darragh 28)—a “lesser” genre in canonical hierarchies. It is a writerly and morally purposeful fiction, “haunted” by greats of the canon and grounded in expertise in philosophical and literary heritage. In addition, he stresses the embedded seriousness of his reinvention: it is “about how to be a modern person and about greed and imperialism” (Darragh 27), as well as a deliberatively transformed artefact:The road to literary damnation is […] paved with bad sequels and prequels, and the reason that they fail […] is that they take the original on at its own game too precisely […] so I thought, casting my mind around those that work [such as] Tom Stoppard’s play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead […] or Jean Rhys’ wonderful novel Wide Sargasso Sea which is about the first Mrs Rochester in Jane Eyre […] that if I took a big step away from the original book I would solve this problem of competing with something I was likely to lose in competition with and to create something that was a sort of homage […] towards it, but that stood at a significant distance from it […]. (Cathcart) Motion thus rehearses homage and humility, while implicitly defending the transformative imagination of his “sequel” against the practice of lesser, failed, clonings.Motion’s narrative expansion of Stevenson’s fictional universe is an example of “overwriting continuity” established by his predecessor, and thus allowing him to make “meaningful claims to creative and professional distinction” while demonstrating his own “creative viewpoint” (Hills 320). The novel boldly recapitulates incidental details, settings, and dramatic embedded character-narrations from Treasure Island. Distinctively, though, its opening sequence is a paean to romantic sensibility in the tradition of Wordsworth’s The Prelude (1799–1850).The Branded Reveal of Transformed ContentSilver’s paratexts discursively construct its transformation and, by implication, improvement, from Stevenson’s original. Motion reveals the sequel’s change of zeitgeist, its ideological complexity and proximity to contemporary environmental and postcolonial values. These are represented through the superior perspective of romanticism and the scientific lens on the natural world:Treasure Island is a pre-Enlightenment story, it is pre-French Revolution, it’s the bad old world […] where people have a different ideas of democracy […] Also […] Jim is beginning to be aware of nature in a new way […] [The romantic poet, John Clare] was publishing in the 1820s but a child in the early 1800s, I rather had him in mind for Jim as somebody who was seeing the world in the same sort of way […] paying attention to the little things in nature, and feeling a sort of kinship with the natural world that we of course want to put an environmental spin on these days, but [at] the beginning of the 1800s was a new and important thing, a romantic preoccupation. (Cathcart)Motion’s allusion to Wild Sargasso Sea discursively appropriates Rhys’s feminist and postcolonial reimagination of Rochester’s creole wife, to validate his portrayal of Long John Silver’s wife, the “woman of colour.” As Christian Moraru has shown, this rewriting of race is part of a book industry trend in contemporary American adaptations of nineteenth-century texts. Interviews position readers of Silver to receive the novel in terms of increased moral complexity, sharing its awareness of the evils of slavery and violence silenced in prior adaptations.Two streams of influence [come] out of Treasure Island […] one is Pirates of the Caribbean and all that jolly jape type stuff, pirates who are essentially comic [or pantomime] characters […] And the other stream, which is the other face of Long John Silver in the original is a real menace […] What we are talking about is Somalia. Piracy is essentially a profoundly serious and repellent thing […]. (Cathcart)Motion’s transformation of Treasure Island, thus, improves on Stevenson by taking some of the menace that is “latent in the original”, yet downplayed by the genre reinvented as “jolly jape” or “gorefest.” In contrast, Silver is “a book about serious things” (Cathcart), about “greed and imperialism” and “how to be a modern person,” ideologically reconstructed as “philosophical history” by a consummate man of letters (Darragh).ConclusionWhen iconic literary brands are reimagined across media, genres and modes, creative professionals frequently need to balance various affective and commercial investments in the precursor text or property. Updatings of classic texts require interpretation and the negotiation of subtle changes in values that have occurred since the creation of the “original.” Producers in risk-averse industries such as screen and publishing media practice a certain pragmatism to ensure that fans’ nostalgia for a popular brand is not too violently scandalised, while taking care to reproduce currently popular technologies and generic conventions in the interest of maximising audience. As my analysis shows, promotional circuits associated with “quality” fiction and cinema mirror the commercial logics associated with less valorised genres. Promotional paratexts reveal transformations of content that position audiences to receive them as creative innovations, superior in many senses to their literary precursors due to the distinctive expertise of creative professionals. Paying lip-service the sophisticated reading practices of contemporary fans of both cinema and literary fiction, their discourse shows the conflicting impulses to homage, critique, originality, and recruitment of audiences.ReferencesBalio, Tino. Hollywood in the New Millennium. London: Palgrave Macmillan/British Film Institute, 2013.Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1997.Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Trans. Richard Nice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1987. Burke, Liam. The Comic Book Film Adaptation: Exploring Modern Hollywood's Leading Genre. Jackson, MS: UP of Mississippi, 2015. Cathcart, Michael (Interviewer). Andrew Motion's Silver: Return to Treasure Island. 2013. Transcript of Radio Interview. Prod. Kate Evans. 26 Jan. 2013. 10 Apr. 2013 ‹http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/booksplus/silver/4293244#transcript›.Darragh, Sarah. "In Conversation with Andrew Motion." NATE Classroom 17 (2012): 27–30.Genette, Gérard. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, 1997. ———. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997. Gray, Jonathan. Show Sold Separately: Promos, Spoilers, and Other Media Paratexts. New York: New York UP, 2010.Hills, Matt. "Rebranding Dr Who and Reimagining Sherlock: 'Quality' Television as 'Makeover TV Drama'." International Journal of Cultural Studies 18.3 (2015): 317–31.Johnson, Derek. Media Franchising: Creative License and Collaboration in the Culture Industries. Postmillennial Pop. New York: New York UP, 2013.Mars-Jones, Adam. "A Thin Slice of Cake." The Guardian, 16 Feb. 2003. 5 Oct. 2015 ‹http://www.theguardian.com/books/2003/feb/16/andrewmotion.fiction›.McBride, Joseph. Steven Spielberg: A Biography. 3rd ed. London: Faber & Faber, 2012.Mittell, Jason. Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling. New York: New York UP, 2015.Moraru, Christian. Rewriting: Postmodern Narrative and Cultural Critique in the Age of Cloning. Herndon, VA: State U of New York P, 2001. Motion, Andrew. Silver: Return to Treasure Island. London: Jonathan Cape, 2012.Raiders of the Lost Ark. Dir. Steven Spielberg. Paramount/Columbia Pictures, 1981.Wolf, Maryanne, and Mirit Barzillai. "The Importance of Deep Reading." Educational Leadership. March (2009): 32–36.Wordsworth, William. The Prelude, or, Growth of a Poet's Mind: An Autobiographical Poem. London: Edward Moxon, 1850.

Precious metals are to mercantile capitalism what paper is to industrial capitalism and what plastic and electronics are to post-industrial capitalism—which is to say, the different materials and their specific textual forms become the dominant, if not always preferred, means of transferring and storing value or wealth in their respective capitalist phases. As a distinct “text,” what separates the precious metals from the materials that follow them is that they are seen as “natural money.” In Capital, for example, Karl Marx endorses Galiani’s view that “although gold and silver are not by Nature money, money is by Nature gold and silver”(92-3). Common enough even among contemporary economists, this view relies upon a conception of “Nature” and money that paper began to unsettle and that the new forms of plastic and electronic money altogether erase. Thus Marshall McLuhan early on proclaimed that the new electronic technologies put “the very concept of money [ . . . ] in jeopardy . . .” (138-9). Even if this is in part true—and I think it is—how does one explain the current proliferation of money thanks to plastic cards and electronic money? Georg Simmel, in his monumental The Philosophy of Money, provides one possible answer. Discussing the war between Spain and the Netherlands, Simmel generalizes “ . . . and one might say paradoxically that, the more it is really money in its essential significance, the less need there is for it to be money in a material sense”(171). Plastic and electronic technologies, far from threatening the “very concept of money,” have worked to free the “essential significance” of money from its previous material forms. Certain forms of money may indeed be in jeopardy but, precisely because of this, the concept of money is all the more necessary to the ideological harmony of post-industrial capitalism. It would even be going too far to say that the new plastic and electronic forms of exchange threaten the aura of money. Instead, it is more advantageous to see these differing materials and their textual forms as representing competing mythologies. As a starting point, consider the de a ocho reales (pieces-of-eight) often referred to as the Spanish or pillar dollar. Minted from silver that came from the Spanish Empire’s silver mines in the New World, it represents the peak of mercantile capitalism. On its obverse side is the image of two worlds between two columns, representing the Pillars of Hercules. Winding around the columns is a banner with the inscription “plus ultra” (more beyond). On one level, this promise was frighteningly true—estimates range from a staggering 145,000 to 165,000 tons of silver extracted from the New World by Europeans (Weatherford 100). And yet, the promise of infinite wealth is belied, ultimately, by the finite nature of the material being used to fashion this text. In contrast, consider the inscription found on the first coin minted in 1787 by the newly established United States of America. The one-cent copper coin bears the motto “Fugio MIND YOUR BUSINESS” and shows the sun above a sundial. The references to time (fugio or I fly) are clearly indebted to the axiom “time is money”, which comes from a founding father of the new nation, Benjamin Franklin, who, perhaps more than any other, lived out and popularized its revolutionary ideology. “Mind your business” is equally Franklinesque and equally expressive of the spirit necessary for the emergence of industrial capitalism. Nonetheless, the coin’s advice, like the Spanish dollar’s promise, contains its own instability. The relatively congenial warning that wasting your time will cost you money is undercut by the pugnacious double entendre contained in “mind your business”, which can also mean stay out of other people’s affairs. The double meaning of “mind your business” encapsulates a rationalist utopia of individual citizens who serve the common good simply by tending to their own gardens or minding their own businesses. In less than seventy-five years, America’s Civil War violently exposed the internal contradictions of such an aspiration. Switching the motto of the Spanish silver dollar with that of the American copper penny results in a jarring confusion that illustrates the ideological divide between mercantile and industrial capital that the two coins represent. The Spanish dollar promises infinite wealth based upon trade, an individual’s appetite for “more,” and access to scarce commodities (gold and silver). The American penny promises endless work based upon production, self-interest, and access to cheap commodities, such as copper. This American work ethic fueled a pathological amassing of wealth that is similar to and yet distinct from the mercantile period preceding it. The differences and similarities are like those that Marx finds between the miser and the capitalist: “This boundless greed after riches, this passionate chase after exchange-value, is common to the capitalist and the miser; but while the miser is merely a capitalist gone mad, the capitalist is a rational miser”(151). Adapting Marx’s comparison, then, it would be more accurate to say the mercantile capitalist is an unfinished capitalist, distracted from his purpose by the maddening allure of the miser’s horde. While the industrial capitalist, on the other hand, may be the truer capitalist, he is still a miser, albeit a rational one. If capitalists are going to realize their full potential as “rational misers” the history of America shows they can only achieve this with a medium of exchange that is cheaper, more accessible, and more disposable than copper or any other metal. Through paper currency, America not only financed its revolution, making it the first nation in the history of the world to do so, it also financed its westward expansion, the North’s victory in the Civil War, and it unleashed the productive capacities necessary for an industrial revolution that would surpass its European rivals. The design found on America’s modern one-dollar bill—which except for minor changes has remained the same since 1935—reveals a textual indeterminacy, like that found in the Spanish dollar and America’s revolutionary copper penny. The first aspect of its indeterminacy is in the nature of all paper currencies. Their cheap materials, relatively easy production, and fiat value make them attractive to counterfeiters as well as governments. To a degree unmatched by coins, paper money’s text is driven by anxieties over counterfeiting. For example, the signatures of the U.S. Treasurer and Secretary of the Treasury on the front of America’s paper currency are motivated in part by this anxiety. But the signing of an official’s name holds a deeper significance, one that separates paper currency from metal. Paper currency seems to call for a signature the way metal coins call for heads in profile. Metal coins, even when machine made, still evoke the artisan and his mode of production—circumscribed, organic, and coherent. The very real artisanship that goes into paper currency is lost in a surreal sea of printed signs—open, fragmented, and dreamlike. The signature, although mechanically reproduced, leaves the trace of a human hand and the individual to which it belongs. In a world where exchange value is created by artificial means that are essentially limitless, the signature is a reassuring reminder of human limits and authority. A different sort of tension is on the back of the dollar bill. Here the front and back of the Great Seal of the United States are on either side of a “ONE” in large letters at the center of the rectangular design. The contraries contained in the Great Seal—war and peace represented by the olive branch and arrows the eagle holds in its talons and the material and the spiritual aspects of life represented by the unfinished pyramid and the eye of the Deity that shines above it—draw the viewer into a web of triangular sight lines. The back of the Seal encircles an apparent triangle formed by the pyramid and the eye above it. The encircled triangle in the Seal’s front is subtler. It is made by the number thirteen which appears in the thirteen stars above the eagle’s head and the thirteen olive leaves and arrows held in the eagle’s talons. This triangular symmetry is reinforced by the four numeral 1s with “one” written across them that appear one in each corner of the bill’s design. These 1s create bisecting diagonal sight lines that connect with and pass through the “ONE” at the center of the rectangle, thereby cutting the rectangle into four symmetrical triangles. At the very least, all this (in)visible triangular symmetry could be called overdetermined—an excessive attempt to impress order on a chaotic world and to naturalize the text’s claim as “legal tender.” If, as Simmel maintains, “all money is credit” (Ingham 24), then by one line of reasoning, it would be easy for credit cards to acknowledge this truth. Instead, like the other monetary forms we have examined, their texts work to obfuscate the social character of exchange value and naturalize or mythologize their authority. Like paper money’s connection to the printing press, credit cards are also connected to a revolutionary technology, the petroleum industry. It is fitting that credit cards are made of plastic, a by-product of oil refineries, since they originated in the 1930s as a convenience to drivers provided by the major oil companies. Even as different businesses extended the use of credit cards, they have retained their early association with the world of travel and the pleasures of mobility—both physical and social. With the company’s origin in the travel business, the American Express credit card is uniquely positioned to exploit the pleasures of mobility, and the history of its credit card designs helps to illustrate some of the ideological shifting required of post-industrial capitalism. As Jack Weatherford points out in his History of Money, American Express made effective use of a card class system. Starting in 1958 with their purple card, the color of royalty, they sought to attract consumers with a feeling of exclusivity. Some years later, they switched to the famous green card, the color of American money. In 1966, they added the distinction of the gold card for elite members. As the numbers of gold card members swelled, they sought further distinctions, such as the black card that was quickly replaced by the platinum card (229). A striking aspect of these textual permutations, given the focus of this paper, is the credit company’s reliance on the security of older monetary forms, such as precious metals and American paper currency, to attract consumers. Now that credit cards rule supreme, it is hard to recall consumers’ earlier antipathy towards them. In 1971, after credit cards were well established, one study found that almost one-third of the families interviewed thought it was “bad business to use credit cards,” and even among credit card users, nearly one-fifth felt it was “bad” (Moore and Russell 78). In contrast, the design of the latest card by American Express, its blue card, boldly proclaims the apotheosis of credit—a blue hologram suspended in transparent plastic. Here is the ultimate medium: a transparency that promises to take its possessor at the speed of light into the depths of hyperspace. Beneath these specific historical texts, lies a deeper and more general ontological association between plastic and movement, which Roland Barthes uncovers in his ruminations upon the substance in Mythologies. In its protean ability to imitate life, plastic is “less a thing than the trace of a movement”(97). And Barthes maintains our new plastic mobility revolutionizes our relationship to life itself. The finite character of metal and paper for storing and transferring wealth were always more or less apparent. Precious metals were limited by the natural laws of scarcity—first come, first served. Paper promised a world of infinite wealth, but it always threatened to hyperinflate, collapsing into worthless piles. Sometimes implicitly or sometimes explicitly, paper still relied on nature’s scarcity in order to justify its claim to value. Plastic needs no such justification. As Barthes puts it, with plastic, “the hierarchy of substances is abolished: a single one replaces them all: the whole world can be plasticized . . .”(99). In a plastic world, there are no limits on what or how much we can produce. And in such a world, only an abstract and infinite medium of exchange, such as credit, can promise to return our alienated labor to us through the plasticized commodities it purchases. Works Cited Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. Trans. Anette Lavers. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1990. Ingham, Geoffry. “’Babylonian Madness’: On the Historical and Sociological Origins of Money.” What Is Money? Ed. John Smithin. London: Routledge, 2000. 16-41. Marx, Karl. Capital Volume One. Ed. Frederick Engels. New York: International, 1987. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1995. Moore, Carl H. and Alvin E. Russell. Money: Its Origin, Development and Modern Use. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1987. Simmel, Georg. The Philosophy of Money. Ed. David Frisby. Trans. Tom Bottomore and David Frisby. New York: Routledge, 1990. Weatherford, Jack. The History of Money. New York: Crown, 1997. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Rizzo, Sergio. "'Show Me the Money!'" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/09-rizzo.php>. APA Style Rizzo, S. (2004, Jan 12). 'Show Me the Money!'. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 7, <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/09-rizzo.php>

Despite the now-traditional tendency of noir scholarship to call attention to the retrospective and constructed nature of this genre— James Naremore argues that film noir is best regarded as a “mythology”— one feature that has rarely come under question is its association with the city (2). Despite the existence of numerous rural noirs, the depiction of urban space is associated with this genre more consistently than any other element. Even in critical accounts that attempt to deconstruct the solidity of the noir genre, the city is left as an implicit inclusion, and the country, an implict exclusion. Naremore, for example, does not include the urban environment in a list of the central tenets of film noir that he calls into question: “nothing links together all the things described as noir—not the theme of crime, not a cinematographic technique, not even a resistance to Aristotelian narratives or happy endings” (10). Elizabeth Cowie identifies film noir a “fantasy,” whose “tenuous critical status” has been compensated for “by a tenacity of critical use” (121). As part of Cowie’s project, to revise the assumption that noirs are almost exclusively male-centered, she cites character types, visual style, and narrative tendencies, but never urban spaces, as familiar elements of noir that ought to be reconsidered. If the city is rarely tackled as an unnecessary or part-time element of film noir in discursive studies, it is often the first trait identified by critics in the kind of formative, characteristic-compiling studies that Cowie and Naremore work against.Andrew Dickos opens Street with No Name: A History of the Classic American Film Noir with a list of noir’s key attributes. The first item is “an urban setting or at least an urban influence” (6). Nicholas Christopher maintains that “the city is the seedbed of film noir. […] However one tries to define or explain noir, the common denominator must always be the city. The two are inseparable” (37). Though the tendencies of noir scholars— both constructive and deconstructive— might lead readers to believe otherwise, rural locations figure prominently in a number of noir films. I will show that the noir genre is, indeed, flexible enough to encompass many films set predominantly or partly in rural locations. Steve Neale, who encourages scholars to work with genre terms familiar to original audiences, would point out that the rural noir is an academic discovery not an industry term, or one with much popular currency (166). Still, this does not lessen the critical usefulness of this subgenre, or its implications for noir scholarship.While structuralist and post-structuralist modes of criticism dominated film genre criticism in the 1970s and 80s, as Thomas Schatz has pointed out, these approaches often sacrifice close attention to film texts, for more abstract, high-stakes observations: “while there is certainly a degree to which virtually every mass-mediated cultural artifact can be examined from [a mythical or ideological] perspective, there appears to be a point at which we tend to lose sight of the initial object of inquiry” (100). Though my reading of these films sidesteps attention to social and political concerns, this article performs the no-less-important task of clarifying the textual features of this sub-genre. To this end, I will survey the tendencies of the rural noir more generally, mentioning more than ten films that fit this subgenre, before narrowing my analysis to a reading of Moonrise (Frank Borzage, 1948), Thieves’ Highway (Jules Dassin, 1949), They Live By Night (Nicholas Ray, 1949) and On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray, 1952). Robert Mitchum tries to escape his criminal life by settling in a small, mountain-side town in Out of the Past (Jacques Tourneur, 1947). A foggy marsh provides a dramatic setting for the Bonnie and Clyde-like demise of lovers on the run in Gun Crazy (Joseph Lewis, 1950). In The Asphalt Jungle (John Huston, 1950), Sterling Hayden longs to return home after he is forced to abandon his childhood horse farm for a life of organised crime in the city. Rob Ryan plays a cop unable to control his violent impulses in On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray, 1952). He is re-assigned from New York City to a rural community up-state in hopes that a less chaotic environment will have a curative effect. The apple orchards of Thieves’ Highway are no refuge from networks of criminal corruption. In They Live By Night, a pair of young lovers, try to leave their criminal lives behind, hiding out in farmhouses, cabins, and other pastoral locations in the American South. Finally, the location of prisons explains a number of sequences set in spare, road-side locations such as those in The Killer is Loose (Budd Boetticher, 1956), The Hitch-Hiker (Ida Lupino, 1953), and Raw Deal (Anthony Mann, 1948). What are some common tendencies of the rural noir? First, they usually feature both rural and urban settings, which allows the portrayal of one to be measured against the other. What we see of the city structures the definition of the country, and vice versa. Second, the lead character moves between these two locations by driving. For criminals, the car is more essential for survival in the country than in the city, so nearly all rural noirs are also road movies. Third, nature often figures as a redemptive force for urbanites steeped in lives of crime. Fourth, the curative quality of the country is usually tied to a love interest in this location: the “nurturing woman” as defined by Janey Place, who encourages the protagonist to forsake his criminal life (60). Fifth, the country is never fully crime-free. In The Killer is Loose, for example, an escaped convict’s first victim is a farmer, whom he clubs before stealing his truck. The convict (Wendell Corey), then, easily slips through a motorcade with the farmer’s identification. Here, the sprawling countryside provides an effective cover for the killer. This farmland is not an innocent locale, but the criminal’s safety-net. In films where a well-intentioned lead attempts to put his criminal life behind him by moving to a remote location, urban associates have little trouble tracking him down. While the country often appears, to protagonists like Jeff in Out of the Past or Bowie in They Live By Night, as an ideal place to escape from crime, as these films unfold, violence reaches the countryside. If these are similar points, what are some differences among rural noirs? First, there are many differences by degree among the common elements listed above. For instance, some rural noirs present their location with unabashed romanticism, while others critique the idealisation of these locations; some “nurturing women” are complicit with criminal activity, while others are entirely innocent. Second, while noir films are commonly known for treating similar urban locations, Los Angeles in particular, these films feature a wide variety of locations: Out of the Past and Thieves’ Highway take place in California, the most common setting for rural noirs, but On Dangerous Ground is set in northern New England, They Live by Night takes place in the Depression-era South, Moonrise in Southern swampland, and the most dynamic scene of The Asphalt Jungle is in rural Kentucky. Third, these films also vary considerably in the balance of settings. If the three typical locations of the rural noir are the country, the city, and the road, the distribution of these three locations varies widely across these films. The location of The Asphalt Jungle matches the title until its dramatic conclusion. The Hitch-hiker, arguably a rural noir, is set in travelling cars, with just brief stops in the barren landscape outside. Two of the films I analyse, They Live By Night and Moonrise are set entirely in the country; a remarkable exception to the majority of films in this subgenre. There are only two other critical essays on the rural noir. In “Shadows in the Hinterland: Rural Noir,” Jonathan F. Bell contextualises the rural noir in terms of post-war transformations of the American landscape. He argues that these films express a forlorn faith in the agrarian myth while the U.S. was becoming increasingly developed and suburbanised. That is to say, the rural noir simultaneously reflects anxiety over the loss of rural land, but also the stubborn belief that the countryside will always exist, if the urbanite needs it as a refuge. Garry Morris suggests the following equation as the shortest way to state the thematic interest of this genre: “Noir = industrialisation + (thwarted) spirituality.” He attributes much of the malaise of noir protagonists to the inhospitable urban environment, “far from [society’s] pastoral and romantic and spiritual origins.” Where Bell focuses on nine films— Detour (1945), The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946), Out of the Past (1947), Key Largo (1948), Gun Crazy (1949), On Dangerous Ground (1952), The Hitch-Hiker (1953), Split Second (1953), and Killer’s Kiss (1955)— Morris’s much shorter article includes just The Asphalt Jungle (1950) and Gun Crazy. Of the four films I discuss, only On Dangerous Ground has previously been treated as part of this subgenre, though it has never been discussed alongside Nicholas Ray’s other rural noir. To further the development of the project that these authors have started— the formation of a rural noir corpus— I propose the inclusion of three additional films in this subgenre: Moonrise (1948), They Live by Night (1949), and Thieves’ Highway (1949). With both On Dangerous Ground and They Live by Night to his credit, Nicholas Ray has the distinction of being the most prolific director of rural noirs. In They Live by Night, two young lovers, Bowie (Farley Granger) and Keechie (Cathy O’Donnell), attempt to escape from their established criminal lives. Twenty-three year old Bowie has just been released from juvenile prison and finds rural Texas refreshing: “Out here, the air smells different,” he says. He meets Keechie through her father, a small time criminal organiser who would be happy to keep her secluded for life. When one of Bowie’s accomplices, Chicamaw (Howard DaSilva), shoots a policeman after a robbing a bank with Bowie, the young couple is forced to run. Foster Hirsch calls They Live by Night “a genre rarity, a sentimental noir” (34). The naïve blissfulness of their affection is associated with the primitive settings they navigate. Though Bowie and Keechie are the most sympathetic protagonists of any rural noir, this is no safeguard against an inevitable, characteristically noir demise. Janey Place writes, “the young lovers are doomed, but the possibility of their love transcends and redeems them both, and its failure criticises the urbanised world that will not let them live” (63). As indicated here, the country offers the young lovers refuge for some time, and their bond is depicted as wonderfully strong, but it is doomed by the stronger force of the law.Raymond Williams discusses how different characteristics are associated with urban and rural spaces:On the country has gathered the idea of a natural way of life: of peace, innocence, and simple virtue. On the city has gathered the idea of an achieved center: of learning, communication, light. Powerful hostile associations have also developed: on the city as a place of noise, worldliness and ambition; on the country as a place of backwardness, ignorance, limitation. (1) They Live By Night breaks down these dichotomies, showing the persistence of crime rooted in rural areas.Bowie desires to “get squared around” and live a more natural life with Keechie. Williams’ country adjectives— “peace, innocence, and simple virtue”— describe the nature of this relationship perfectly. Yet, criminal activity, usually associated with the city, has an overwhelmingly strong presence in this region and their lives. Bowie, following the doomed logic of many a crime film character, plans to launch a new, more honest life with cash raised in a heist. Keechie recognises the contradictions in this plan: “Fine way to get squared around, teaming with them. Stealing money and robbing banks. You’ll get in so deep trying to get squared, they’ll have enough to keep you in for two life times.” For Bowie, crime and the pursuit of love are inseparably bound, refuting the illusion of the pure and innocent countryside personified by characters like Mary Malden in On Dangerous Ground and Ann Miller in Out of the Past.In Ray’s other rural noir, On Dangerous Ground, a lonely, angry, and otherwise burned out cop, Wilson (Rob Ryan), finds both love and peace in his time away from the city. While on his up-state assignment, Wilson meets Mary Walden (Ida Lupino), a blind woman who lives a secluded life miles away from this already desolate, rural community. Mary has a calming influence on Wilson, and fits well within Janey Place’s notion of the archetypal nurturing woman in film noir: “The redemptive woman often represents or is part of a primal connection with nature and/or with the past, which are safe, static states rather than active, exciting ones, but she can sometimes offer the only transcendence possible in film noir” (63).If, as Colin McArthur observes, Ray’s characters frequently seek redemption in rural locales— “[protagonists] may reject progress and modernity; they may choose to go or are sent into primitive areas. […] The journeys which bring them closer to nature may also offer them hope of salvation” (124) — the conclusions of On Dangerous Ground versus They Live By Night offer two markedly different resolutions to this narrative. Where Bowie and Keechie’s life on the lam cannot be sustained, On Dangerous Ground, against the wishes of its director, portrays a much more romanticised version of pastoral life. According to Andrew Dickos, “Ray wanted to end the film on the ambivalent image of Jim Wilson returning to the bleak city,” after he had restored order up-state (132). The actual ending is more sentimental. Jim rushes back north to be with Mary. They passionately kiss in close-up, cueing an exuberant orchestral score as The End appears over a slow tracking shot of the majestic, snow covered landscape. In this way, On Dangerous Ground overturns the usual temporal associations of rural versus urban spaces. As Raymond Williams identifies, “The common image of the country is now an image of the past, and the common image of the city an image of the future” (297). For Wilson, by contrast, city life was no longer sustainable and rurality offers his best means for a future. Leo Marx noted in a variety of American pop culture, from Mark Twain to TV westerns and magazine advertising, a “yearning for a simpler, more harmonious style of life, and existence ‘closer to nature,’ that is the psychic root of all pastoralism— genuine and spurious” (Marx 6). Where most rural noirs expose the agrarian myth as a fantasy and a sham, On Dangerous Ground, exceptionally, perpetuates it as actual and effectual. Here, a bad cop is made good with a few days spent in a sparsely populated area and with a woman shaped by her rural upbringing.As opposed to On Dangerous Ground, where the protagonist’s movement from city to country matches his split identity as a formerly corrupt man wishing to be pure, Frank Borzage’s B-film Moonrise (1948) is located entirely in rural or small-town locations. Set in the fictional Southern town of Woodville, which spans swamps, lushly wooded streets and aging Antebellum mansions, the lead character finds good and bad within the same rural location and himself. Dan (Dane Clark) struggles to escape his legacy as the son of a murderer. This conflict is irreparably heightened when Dan kills a man (who had repeatedly teased and bullied him) in self-defence. The instability of Dan’s moral compass is expressed in the way he treats innocent elements of the natural world: flies, dogs, and, recalling Out of the Past, a local deaf boy. He is alternately cruel and kind. Dan is finally redeemed after seeking the advice of a black hermit, Mose (Rex Ingram), who lives in a ramshackle cabin by the swamp. He counsels Dan with the advice that men turn evil from “being lonesome,” not for having “bad blood.” When Dan, eventually, decides to confess to his crime, the sheriff finds him tenderly holding a search hound against a bucolic, rural backdrop. His complete comfortability with the landscape and its creatures finally allows Dan to reconcile the film’s opening opposition. He is no longer torturously in between good and evil, but openly recognises his wrongs and commits to do good in the future. If I had to select just a single shot to illustrate that noirs are set in rural locations more often than most scholarship would have us believe, it would be the opening sequence of Moonrise. From the first shot, this film associates rural locations with criminal elements. The credit sequence juxtaposes pooling water with an ominous brass score. In this disorienting opening, the camera travels from an image of water, to a group of men framed from the knees down. The camera dollies out and pans left, showing that these men, trudging solemnly, are another’s legal executioners. The frame tilts upward and we see a man hung in silhouette. This dense shot is followed by an image of a baby in a crib, also shadowed, the water again, and finally the execution scene. If this sequence is a thematic montage, it can also be discussed, more simply, as a series of establishing shots: a series of images that, seemingly, could not be more opposed— a baby, a universal symbol of innocence, set against the ominous execution, cruel experience— are paired together by virtue of their common location. The montage continues, showing that the baby is the son of the condemned man. As Dan struggles with the legacy of his father throughout the film, this opening shot continues to inform our reading of this character, split between the potential for good or evil.What a baby is to Moonrise, or, to cite a more familiar reference, what the insurance business is to many a James M. Cain roman noir, produce distribution is to Jules Dassin’s Thieves’ Highway (1949). The apple, often a part of wholesome American myths, is at the centre of this story about corruption. Here, a distribution network that brings Americans this hearty, simple product is connected with criminal activity and violent abuses of power more commonly portrayed in connection with cinematic staples of organised crime such as bootlegging or robbery. This film portrays bad apples in the apple business, showing that no profit driven enterprise— no matter how traditional or rural— is beyond the reach of corruption.Fitting the nature of this subject, numerous scenes in the Dassin film take place in the daylight (in addition to darkness), and in the countryside (in addition to the city) as we move between wine and apple country to the market districts of San Francisco. But if the subject and setting of Thieves’ Highway are unusual for a noir, the behaviour of its characters is not. Spare, bright country landscapes form the backdrop for prototypical noir behaviour: predatory competition for money and power.As one would expect of a film noir, the subject of apple distribution is portrayed with dynamic violence. In the most exciting scene of the film, a truck careens off the road after a long pursuit from rival sellers. Apples scatter across a hillside as the truck bursts into flames. This scene is held in a long-shot, as unscrupulous thugs gather the produce for sale while the unfortunate driver burns to death. Here, the reputedly innocent American apple is subject to cold-blooded, profit-maximizing calculations as much as the more typical topics of noir such as blackmail, fraud, or murder. Passages on desolate roads and at apple orchards qualify Thieves’ Highway as a rural noir; the dark, cynical manner in which capitalist enterprise is treated is resonant with nearly all film noirs. Thieves’ Highway follows a common narrative pattern amongst rural noirs to gradually reveal rural spaces as connected to criminality in urban locations. Typically, this disillusioning fact is narrated from the perspective of a lead character who first has a greater sense of safety in rural settings but learns, over the course of the story, to be more wary in all locations. In Thieves’, Nick’s hope that apple-delivery might earn an honest dollar (he is the only driver to treat the orchard owners fairly) gradually gives way to an awareness of the inevitable corruption that has taken over this enterprise at all levels of production, from farmer, to trucker, to wholesaler, and thus, at all locations, the country, the road, and the city.Between this essay, and the previous work of Morris and Bell on the subject, we are developing a more complete survey of the rural noir. Where Bell’s and Morris’s essays focus more resolutely on rural noirs that relied on the contrast of the city versus the country— which, significantly, was the first tendency of this subgenre that I observed— Moonrise and They Live By Night demonstrate that this genre can work entirely apart from the city. From start to finish, these films take place in small towns and rural locations. As opposed to Out of the Past, On Dangerous Ground, or The Asphalt Jungle, characters are never pulled back to, nor flee from, an urban life of crime. Instead, vices that are commonly associated with the city have a free-standing life in the rural locations that are often thought of as a refuge from these harsh elements. If both Bell and Morris study the way that rural noirs draw differences between the city and country, two of the three films I add to the subgenre constitute more complete rural noirs, films that work wholly outside urban locations, not just in contrast with it. Bell, like me, notes considerable variety in rural noirs locations, “desert landscapes, farms, mountains, and forests all qualify as settings for consideration,” but he also notes that “Diverse as these landscapes are, this set of films uses them in surprisingly like-minded fashion to achieve a counterpoint to the ubiquitous noir city” (219). In Bell’s analysis, all nine films he studies, feature significant urban segments. He is, in fact, so inclusive as to discuss Stanley Kubrick’s Killer’s Kiss as a rural noir even though it does not contain a single frame shot or set outside of New York City. Rurality is evoked only as a possibility, as alienated urbanite Davy (Jamie Smith) receives letters from his horse-farm-running relatives. Reading these letters offers Davy brief moments of respite from drudgerous city spaces such as the subway and his cramped apartment. In its emphasis on the centrality of rural locations, my project is more similar to David Bell’s work on the rural in horror films than to Jonathan F. Bell’s work on the rural noir. David Bell analyses the way that contemporary horror films work against a “long tradition” of the “idyllic rural” in many Western texts (95). As opposed to works “from Henry David Thoreau and Walt Whitman to contemporary television shows like Northern Exposure and films such as A River Runs Through It or Grand Canyon” in which the rural is positioned as “a restorative to urban anomie,” David Bell analyses films such as Deliverance and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre that depict “a series of anti-idyllic visions of the rural” (95). Moonrise and They Live By Night, like these horror films, portray the crime and the country as coexistent spheres at the same time that the majority of other popular culture, including noirs like Killer’s Kiss or On Dangerous Ground, portray them as mutually exclusive.To use a mode of generic analysis developed by Rick Altman, the rural noir, while preserving the dominant syntax of other noirs, presents a remarkably different semantic element (31). Consider the following description of the genre, from the introduction to Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference Guide: “The darkness that fills the mirror of the past, which lurks in a dark corner or obscures a dark passage out of the oppressively dark city, is not merely the key adjective of so many film noir titles but the obvious metaphor for the condition of the protagonist’s mind” (Silver and Ward, 4). In this instance, the narrative elements, or syntax, of film noir outlined by Silver and Ward do not require revision, but the urban location, a semantic element, does. Moonrise and They Live By Night demonstrate the sustainability of the aforementioned syntactic elements— the dark, psychological experience of the leads and their inescapable criminal past— apart from the familiar semantic element of the city.The rural noir must also cause us to reconsider— beyond rural representations or film noir— more generally pitched genre theories. Consider the importance of place to film genre, the majority of which are defined by a typical setting: for melodramas, it is the family home, for Westerns, the American west, and for musicals, the stage. Thomas Schatz separates American genres according to their setting, between genres which deal with “determinate” versus “indeterminate” space:There is a vital distinction between kinds of generic settings and conflicts. Certain genres […] have conflicts that, indigenous to the environment, reflect the physical and ideological struggle for its control. […] Other genres have conflicts that are not indigenous to the locale but are the results of the conflict between the values, attitudes, and actions of its principal characters and the ‘civilised’ setting they inhabit. (26) Schatz discusses noirs, along with detective films, as films which trade in “determinate” settings, limited to the space of the city. The rural noir slips between Schatz’s dichotomy, moving past the space of the city, but not into the civilised, tame settings of the genres of “indeterminate spaces.” It is only fitting that a genre whose very definition lies in its disruption of Hollywood norms— trading high- for low-key lighting, effectual male protagonists for helpless ones, and a confident, coherent worldview for a more paranoid, unstable one would, finally, be able to accommodate a variation— the rural noir— that would seem to upset one of its central tenets, an urban locale. Considering the long list of Hollywood standards that film noirs violated, according to two of its original explicators, Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton— “a logical action, an evident distinction between good and evil, well-defined characters with clear motives, scenes that are more spectacular than brutal, a heroine who is exquisitely feminine and a hero who is honest”— it should, perhaps, not be so surprising that the genre is flexible enough to accommodate the existence of the rural noir after all (14). AcknowledgmentsIn addition to M/C Journal's anonymous readers, the author would like to thank Corey Creekmur, Mike Slowik, Barbara Steinson, and Andrew Gorman-Murray for their helpful suggestions. ReferencesAltman, Rick. “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 27-41.The Asphalt Jungle. Dir. John Huston. MGM/UA, 1950.Bell, David. “Anti-Idyll: Rural Horror.” Contested Countryside Cultures. Eds. Paul Cloke and Jo Little. London, Routledge, 1997. 94-108.Bell, Jonathan F. “Shadows in the Hinterland: Rural Noir.” Architecture and Film. Ed. Mark Lamster. New York: Princeton Architectural P, 2000. 217-230.Borde, Raymond and Etienne Chaumeton. A Panorama of American Film Noir. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2002.Christopher, Nicholas. Somewhere in the Night: Film Noir and the American City. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997.Cowie, Elizabeth. “Film Noir and Women.” Shades of Noir. Ed. Joan Copjec. New York: Verso, 1993. 121-166.Dickos, Andrew. Street with No Name: A History of the Classic American Film Noir. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2002.Hirsch, Foster. Detours and Lost Highways: A Map of Neo-Noir. New York: Limelight Editions, 1999.Marx, Leo. The Machine in the Garden. New York: Oxford UP, 1964.McArthur, Colin. Underworld U.S.A. London: BFI, 1972.Moonrise. Dir. Frank Borzage. Republic, 1948.Morris, Gary. “Noir Country: Alien Nation.” Bright Lights Film Journal Nov. 2006. 13. Jun. 2008 http://www.brightlightsfilm.com/54/noircountry.htm Muller, Eddie. Dark City: The Lost World of Film Noir. New York: St. Martin’s P, 1998.Naremore, James. More Than Night: Film Noir in its Contexts. Berkeley, C.A.: U of California P, 2008.Neale, Steve. “Questions of Genre.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 160-184.On Dangerous Ground. Dir. Nicholas Ray. RKO, 1951.Out of the Past. Dir. Jacques Tourneur. RKO, 1947.Place, Janey. “Women in Film Noir.” Women in Film Noir. Ed. E. Ann Kaplan. London: BFI, 1999. 47-68.Schatz, Thomas. Hollywood Genres. New York: Random House, 1981.Schatz, Thomas. “The Structural Influence: New Directions in Film Genre Study.” Film Genre Reader III. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin: U of Texas P, 2003. 92-102.Silver, Alain and Elizabeth Ward. Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference Guide. London: Bloomsbury, 1980.They Live by Night. Dir. Nicholas Ray. RKO, 1949.Thieves’ Highway. Dir. Jules Dassin. Fox, 1949.Williams, Raymond. The Country and the City. New York: Oxford UP, 1973.

Since the late 1990s, W. G. Sebald’s innovative contribution to the genre of prose fiction has been the source of much academic scrutiny. His books Vertigo, The Rings of Saturn, The Emigrants and Austerlitz have provoked interest from diverse fields of inquiry: visual communication (Kilbourn; Patt; Zadokerski), trauma studies (Denham and McCulloh; Schmitz), and travel writing (Blackler; Zisselsberger). His work is also claimed to be a bastion for both modernist and postmodernist approaches to literature and history writing (Bere; Fuchs and Long; Long). This is in addition to numerous “guide to” type books, such as Mark McCulloh’s Understanding Sebald, Long and Whitehead’s W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion, and the comprehensive Saturn’s Moons: A W. G. Sebald Handbook. Here I have only mentioned works available in English. I should point out that Sebald wrote in German, the country of his birth, and as one would expect much scholarship dealing with his work is confined to this language. In this article I focus on what is perhaps Sebald’s prototypical work, The Rings of Saturn. Of all Sebald’s prose fictional works The Rings of Saturn seems the example that best exhibits his innovative literary forms, including the use of lists. This book is the work of an author who is purposefully and imaginatively concerned with the nature of his vocation: what is it to be a writer? Crucially, he addresses this question not only from the perspective of a subject facing an existential crisis, but from the perspective of the documents created by writers. His works demonstrate a concern with the enabling role documents play in the thinking and writing process; how, for example, pen and paper are looped in with our capacity to reason in certain ways. Despite taking the form of fictional narratives, his books are as much motivated by a historical interest in how ideas and forms of organisation are transmitted, and how they evolve as part of an ecology; how humans become articulate within their surrounds, according to the contingencies of specific epochs and places. The Sebald critic J. J. Long accounts for this in some part in his description “archival consciousness,” which recommends that conscious experience is not simply located in the mind of a knowing, human subject, but is rather distributed between the subject and different technologies (among which writing and archives are exemplary).The most notable peculiarity of Sebald’s books lies in their abundant use of “non-syntactical” kinds of writing or inscription. My use of the term “non-syntactical” has its origins in the anthropological work of Jack Goody, who emphasises the importance of list making and tabulation in pre-literate or barely literate cultures. In Sebald’s texts, kinds of non-syntactical writing include lists, photographic images, tables, signatures, diagrams, maps, stamps, dockets and sketches. As I stress throughout this article, Sebald’s shifts between syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing allows him to build up highly complex schemes of internal reference. Massimo Leone identifies something similar, when he notes that Sebald “orchestrates a multiplicity of voices and text-types in order to produce his own coherent discourse” (91). The play between multiplicity and coherence is at once a thematic and poetic concern for Sebald. This is to say, his texts are formal experiments with these contrasting tendencies, in addition to discussing specific historical situations in which they feature. The list is perhaps Sebald’s most widely used and variable form of non-syntactical writing, a key part of his formal and stylistic peculiarity. His lengthy sentences frequently spill over into catalogues and inventories, and the entire structure of his narratives is list-like. Discrete episodes accumulate alongside each other, rather than following a narrative arc where episodes of suspenseful gravity overshadow the significance of minor events. The Rings of Saturn details the travels of Sebald’s trademark, nameless, first person narrator, who recounts his trek along the Suffolk coastline, from Lowestoft to Ditchingham, about two years after the event. From the beginning, the narrative is framed as an effort to organise a period of time that lacks a coherent and durable form, a period of time that is in pieces, fading from the narrator’s memory. However, the movement from the chaos of forgetting to the comparatively distinct and stable details of the remembered present does not follow a continuum. Rather, the past and present are both constituted by the force of memory, which is continually crystallising and dissolving. Each event operates according to its own specific arrangement of emphasis and forgetting. Our experience of memory in the present, or recollective memory, is only one kind of memory. Sebald is concerned with a more pervasive kind of remembering, which includes the vectorial existence of non-conscious, non-human perceptual events; memory as expressed by crystals, tree roots, glaciers, and the nested relationship of fuel, fire, smoke, and ash. The Rings of Saturn is composed of ten chapters, each of which is outlined in table form at the book’s beginning. The first chapter appears as: “In hospital—Obituary—Odyssey of Thomas Browne’s skull—Anatomy lecture—Levitation—Quincunx—Fabled creatures—Urn burial.” The Rings of Saturn is of course hardly exceptional in its use of this device. Rather, it is exemplary concerning the repeated emphasis on the tension between syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing, among which this chapter breakdown is included. Sebald continually uses the conventions of bookmaking in subtle though innovative ways. Each of these horizontally linked and divided indices might put the reader in mind of Thomas Browne’s urns, time capsules from the past, the unearthing of which is discussed in the book’s first chapter (25). The chapter outlines (and the urns) are containers that preserve a fragmentary and suggestive history. Each is a perspective on the narrator’s travels that abstracts, arranges, and uniquely refers to the narrative elaborations to come.As I have already stressed, Sebald is a writer concerned with forms of organisation. His works account for a diverse range of organisational forms, some of which instance an overt, chronological, geometric, or metrical manipulation of space and time, such as grids, star shapes, and Greenwich Mean Time. This contrasts with comparatively suggestive, insubstantial, mutable forms, including various meteorological phenomena such as cloudbanks and fog, dust and sand, and as exemplified in narrative form by the haphazard, distracted assemblage of events featured in dreams or dream logic. The relationship between these supposedly opposing tendencies is, however, more complex and paradoxical than might at first glance appear. As Sebald warily reminds us in his essay “A Little Excursion to Ajaccio,” despite our wishes to inhabit periods of complete freedom, where we follow our distractions to the fullest possible extent, we nonetheless “must all have some more or less significant design in view” (Sebald, Campo 4). It is not so much that we must choose, absolutely, between form and formlessness. Rather, the point is to understand that some seemingly inevitable forms are in fact subject to contingencies, which certain uses deliberately or ignorantly mask, and that simplicity and intricacy are often co-dependent. Richard T. Gray is a Sebald critic who has picked up on the element in Sebald’s work that suggests a tension between different forms of organisation. In his article “Writing at the Roche Limit,” Gray notes that Sebald’s tendency to emphasise the decadent aspects of human and natural history “is continually counterbalanced by an insistence on order and by often extremely subtle forms of organization” (40). Rather than advancing the thesis that Sebald is exclusively against the idea of systematisation or order, Gray argues that The Rings of Saturn models in its own textual make-up an alternative approach to the cognitive order(ing) of things, one that seeks to counter the natural tendency toward entropic decline and a fall into chaos by introducing constructive forces that inject a modicum of balance and equilibrium into the system as a whole. (Gray 41)Sebald’s concern with the contrasting energies exemplified by different forms extends to his play with syntactical and non-syntactical forms of writing. He uses lists to add contrast to his flowing, syntactically intricate sentences. The achievement of his work is not the exclusive privileging of either the list form or the well-composed sentence, but in providing contexts whereby the reader can appreciate subtle modulations between the two, thus experiencing a more dynamic and complex kind of narrative time. His works exhibit an astute awareness of the fact that different textual devices command different experiences of temporality, and our experience of temporality in good part determines our metaphysics. Here I consider two lists featured in The Rings of Saturn, one from the first chapter, and one from the last. Each shows contrasting tendencies concerning systems of organisation. Both are attributable to the work of Thomas Browne, “who practiced as a doctor in Norwich in the seventeenth century and had left a number of writings that defy all comparison” (Sebald, Rings 9). The Rings of Saturn is in part a dialogue across epochs with the sentiments expressed in Browne’s works, which, according to Bianca Theisen, preserve a kind of reasoning that is lost in “the rationalist and scientific embrace of a devalued world of facts” (Theisen 563).The first list names the varied “animate and inanimate matter” in which Browne identifies the quincuncial structure, a lattice like arrangement of five points and intersecting lines. The following phenomena are enumerated in the text:certain crystalline forms, in starfish and sea urchins, in the vertebrae of mammals and the backbones of birds and fish, in the skins of various species of snake, in the crosswise prints left by quadrupeds, in the physical shapes of caterpillars, butterflies, silkworms and moths, in the root of the water fern, in the seed husks of the sunflower and the Caledonian pine, within young oak shoots or the stem of the horse tail; and in the creations of mankind, in the pyramids of Egypt and the mausoleum of Augustus as in the garden of King Solomon, which was planted with mathematical precision with pomegranate trees and white lilies. (Sebald, Rings 20-21)Ostensibly quoting from Browne, Sebald begins the next sentence, “Examples might be multiplied without end” (21). The compulsion to list, or the compulsiveness expressed by listing, is expressed here in a relationship of dual utility with another, dominant or overt, kind of organisational form: the quincunx. It is not the utility or expressiveness of the list itself that is at issue—at least in the version of Browne’s work preserved here by Sebald. In W. G. Sebald: Image, Archive, Modernity, Long notes the historical correspondences and divergences between Sebald and Michel Foucault (2007). Long interprets Browne’s quincunx as exemplifying a “hermeneutics of resemblance,” whereby similarities among diverse phenomena are seen as providing proof of “the universal oneness of all things” (33). This contrasts with the idea of a “pathological nature, autonomous from God,” which, according to Long, informs Sebald’s transformation of Browne into “an avatar of distinctly modern epistemology” (38). Long follows Foucault in noting the distinction between Renaissance and modern epistemology, a distinction in good part due to the experimental, inductive method, the availability of statistical data, and probabilistic reasoning championed in the latter epoch (Whitehead; Hacking). In the book’s final chapter, Sebald includes a list from Browne’s imaginary library, the “Musæum Clausium.” In contrast to the above list, here Sebald seems to deliberately problematise any efforts to suggest an abstract uniting principle. There is no evident reason for the togetherness of the discrete things, beyond the mere fact that they happen to be gathered, hypothetically, in the text (Sebald, Rings 271-273). Among the library’s supposed contents are:an account by the ancient traveller Pytheas of Marseilles, referred to in Strabo, according to which all the air beyond thule is thick, condensed and gellied, looking just like sea lungs […] a dream image showing a prairie or sea meadow at the bottom of the Mediterranean, off the coat of Provence […] and a glass of spirits made of æthereal salt, hermetically sealed up, of so volatile a nature that it will not endure by daylight, and therefore shown only in winter or by the light of a carbuncle or Bononian stone. (Sebald, Rings 272-73)Unlike the previous example attributed to Browne, here the list coheres according to the tensions of its own coincidences. Sebald uses the list to create spontaneous organisations in which history is exhibited as a complex mix of fact and fantasy. More important than the distinction between the imaginary and the real is the effort to account for the way things uniquely incorporate aspects of the world in order to be what they are. Human knowledge is a perspective that is implicated in, rather than excluded from, this process.Lists move us to puzzle over the criteria that their togetherness implies. They might be used inthe service of a specific paradigm, or they might suggest an imaginable but as yet unknown kind of systematisation; a specific kind of relationship, or simply the possibility of a relationship. Take, for example, the list-like accumulation of architectural details in the following description of the decadent Sommerleyton Hall, featured in chapter II: There were drawing rooms and winter gardens, spacious halls and verandas. A corridor might end in a ferny grotto where fountains ceaselessly plashed, and bowered passages criss-crossed beneath the dome of a fantastic mosque. Windows could be lowered to open the interior onto the outside, and inside the landscape was replicated on the mirror walls. Palm houses and orangeries, the lawn like green velvet, the baize on the billiard tables, the bouquets of flowers in the morning and retiring rooms and in the majolica vases on the terrace, the birds of paradise and the golden peasants on the silken tapestries, the goldfinches in the aviaries and the nightingales in the garden, the arabesques in the carpets and the box-edged flower beds—all of it interacted in such a way that one had the illusion of complete harmony between the natural and the manufactured. (Sebald, Rings 33-34)This list shifts emphasis away from preconceived distinctions between the natural and the manufactured through the creation of its own unlikely harmony. It tells us something important about the way perception and knowledge is ordered in Sebald’s prose. Each encounter, or historically specific situation, is considered as though it were its own microworld, its own discrete, synecdochic realisation of history. Rather than starting from the universal or the meta-level and scaling down to the local, Sebald arranges historically peculiar examples that suggest a variable, contrasting and dynamic metaphysics, a motley arrangement of ordering systems that each aspire to but do not command universal applicability. In a comparable sense, Browne’s sepulchral urns of his 1658 work Urn Burial, which feature in chapter I, are time capsules that seem to create their own internally specific kind of organisation:The cremated remains in the urns are examined closely: the ash, the loose teeth, some long roots of quitch, or dog’s grass wreathed about the bones, and the coin intended for the Elysian ferryman. Browne records other objects known to have been placed with the dead, whether as ornament or utensil. His catalogue includes a variety of curiosities: the circumcision knives of Joshua, the ring which belonged to the mistress of Propertius, an ape of agate, a grasshopper, three-hundred golden bees, a blue opal, silver belt buckles and clasps, combs, iron pins, brass plates and brazen nippers to pull away hair, and a brass Jews harp that last sounded on the crossing over black water. (Sebald, Rings 25-26)Regardless of our beliefs concerning the afterlife, these items, preserved across epochs, solicit a sense of wonder as we consider what we might choose for company on our “last journey” (25). In death, the human body is reduced to a condition of an object or thing, while the objects that accompany the corpse seem to acquire a degree of potency as remnants that transcend living time. Life is no longer the paradigm through which to understand purpose. In their very difference from living things these objects command our fascination. Eric Santner coins the term “undeadness” to name the significance of this non-living agency in Sebald’s prose (Santner xx). Santner’s study places Sebald in a linage of German-Jewish writers, including Walter Benjamin, Franz Kafka, and Paul Celan, whose understanding of “the human” depends crucially on the concept of “the creature” or “creatureliness” (Santner 38-41). Like the list of items contained within Sommerleyton Hall, the above list accounts for a context in which ornament and utensil, nature and culture, are read according to their differentiated togetherness, rather than opposition. Death, it seems, is a universal leveller, or at least a different dimension in which symbol and function appear to coincide. Perhaps it is the unassuming and convenient nature of lists that make them enduring objects of historical interest. Lists are a form of writing to which we appeal for immediate mnemonic assistance. They lack the artifice of a sentence. While perhaps not as interesting in the present that is contemporary with their usefulness (a trip to the supermarket), with time lists acquire credibility due to the intimacy they share with mundane, diurnal concerns—due to the fact that they were, once upon a time, so useful. The significance of lists arrives anachronistically, when we look back and wonder what people were really up to, or what our own concerns were, relatively free from fanciful, stylistic adornment. Sebald’s democratic approach to different forms of writing means that lists sit alongside the esteemed poetic and literary efforts of Joseph Conrad, Algernon Swinburne, Edward Fitzgerald, and François René de Chateaubriand, all of whom feature in The Rings of Saturn. His books make the exclusive differences between literary and non-literary kinds of writing less important than the sense of dynamism that is elicited through a play of contrasting kinds of syntactical and non-syntactical writing. The book’s closing chapter includes a revealing example that expresses these sentiments. After tracing over a natural history of silk, with a particular focus on human greed and naivety, the narrative arrives at a “pattern book” that features strips of colourful silk kept in “the small museum of Strangers Hall” (Sebald, Rings 283). The narrator notes that the silks arranged in this book “were of a truly fabulous variety, and of an iridescent, quite indescribable beauty as if they had been produced by Nature itself, like the plumage of birds” (283). This effervescent declamation continues after a double page photograph of the pattern book, which is described as a “catalogue of samples” and “leaves from the only true book which none of our textual and pictorial works can even begin to rival” (286). Here we witness Sebald’s inclusive and variable understanding as to the kinds of thing a book, and writing, can be. The fraying strips of silk featured in the photograph are arranged one below the other, in the form of a list. They are surrounded by ornate handwriting that, like the strips of silk, seems to fray at the edges, suggesting the specific gestural event that occasioned the moment of their inscription—something which tends to be excluded in printed prose. Sebald’s remarks here are not without a characteristic irony (“the only true book”). However, in the greatercontext of the narrative, this comment suggests an important inclination. Namely, that there is much scope yet for innovative literary forms that capture the nuances and complexity of collective and individual histories. And that writing always includes, though to varying degrees obscures, contrasting tensions shared among syntactical and non-syntactical elements, including material and gestural contingencies. Sebald’s works remind us of what potentials might lay ahead for books if the question of what writing can be is asked continually as part of a writer’s enterprise.ReferencesBere, Carol. “The Book of Memory: W. G. Sebald’s The Emigrants and Austerlitz.” Literary Review, 46.1 (2002): 184-92.Blackler, Deane. Reading W. G. Sebald: Adventure and Disobedience. Rochester, New York: Camden House, 2007. Catling Jo, and Richard Hibbitt, eds. Saturn’s Moons: A W. G. Sebald Handbook. Oxford: Legenda, 2011.Denham, Scott and Mark McCulloh, eds. W. G. Sebald: History, Memory, Trauma. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2006. Fuchs, Anne and J. J. Long, eds. W. G. Sebald and the Writing of History. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2007. Goody, Jack. The Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. Gray, Richard T. “Writing at the Roche Limit: Order and Entropy in W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn.” The German Quarterly 83.1 (2010): 38-57. Hacking, Ian. The Emergence of Probability: A Philosophical Study of Early Ideas about Probability, Induction and Statistical Inference. London: Cambridge UP, 1977.Kilbourn, Russell J. A. “Architecture and Cinema: The Representation of Memory in W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz.” W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Ed. J. J. Long and Anne Whitehead. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.Leone, Massimo. “Textual Wanderings: A Vertiginous Reading of W. G. Sebald.” W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Ed. J. J. Long and A. Whitehead. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.Long, J. J. W. G. Sebald: Image, Archive, Modernity. New York: Columbia UP, 2007.Long, J. J., and Anne Whitehead, eds. W. G. Sebald—A Critical Companion. Edinburgh: Edinburgh U P, 2004. McCulloh, Mark. Understanding W. G. Sebald. Columbia, S. C.: U of South Carolina P, 2003.Patt, Lise, ed. Searching for Sebald: Photography After W. G. Sebald. Los Angeles: The Institute of Critical Inquiry and ICI Press, 2007. Sadokierski, Zoe. “Visual Writing: A Critique of Graphic Devices in Hybrid Novels from a Visual Communication Design Perspective.” Diss. University of Technology Sydney, 2010. Santner, Eric. On Creaturely Life: Rilke, Benjamin, Sebald. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2006. Schmitz, Helmut. “Catastrophic History, Trauma and Mourning in W. G. Sebald and Jörg Friedrich.” The German Monitor 72 (2010): 27-50.Sebald, W. G. The Rings of Saturn. Trans. Michael Hulse. London: Harvill Press, 1998.---. Vertigo. Trans. Michael Hulse. London: Harvill Press, 1999.---. Campo Santo. Trans. Anthea Bell. London: Penguin Books, 2005. Print. Theisen, Bianca. “A Natural History of Destruction: W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn.” MLN, 121. The John Hopkins U P (2006): 563-81.Whitehead, Alfred North. Science and The Modern World. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1932.Zisselsberger, Markus. The Undiscover’d Country: W. G. Sebald and the Poetics of Travel. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2010.