Journal articles on the topic '1894-1963 Criticism and interpretation'

AbstractPWI Jambi City is one of the organizations formed to provide services in the form of information in the mass media. Journalists are an important part of PWI's existence which can make important contributions to the development of information in the community in Jambi. The research in this paper aims to explain the history and development of the Jambi City PWI from 1963-1974 and the role of the Jambi City PWI. The research method used is the historical method, including heuristic stages, source criticism, interpretation, and historiography. Data sources were obtained from books and archives relating to PWI Jambi City, as well as interviews with management who were directly involved in the PWI of Jambi City. In this study using system theory in which system theory provides a very strong description model of organizational processes. The results showed that the PWI in Jambi City was formed based on the wishes and initiative of local Jambi journalists. Long before the formation of PWI in Jambi City, a local Jambi journalist organization or organization called IWD (Djambi Journalists Association) was formed. The role of PWI in providing mass media services can be seen from the activities in providing all public information descriptions. While its role is in providing protection for journalists who are members of it, PWI in Jambi City provides assistance and legal protection for journalists who are members of PWI.Keywords: Journalists, Indonesian Journalists Association, Press, Mass Media AbstrakPWI Kota Jambi merupakan salah satu organisasi yang dibentuk untuk memberikan jasa berupa informasi dalam media massa. Wartawan menjadi bagian penting dari keberadaan PWI yang dapat memberikan kontribusi penting bagi perkembangan informasi di masyarakat di Jambi. Penelitian dalam tulisan ini bertujuan untuk menjelaskan sejarah dan perkembangan PWI Kota Jambi dari tahun 1963-1974 serta peranan PWI Kota Jambi. Metode penelitian yang digunakan adalah metode sejarah, meliputi tahapan heuristik, kritik sumber, interpretasi, dan historiografi. Sumber data didapat dari buku-buku dan arsip yang berkaitan dengan PWI Kota Jambi, serta wawancara dengan pengurus yang terlibat langsung dalam PWI Kota Jambi. Di dalam penelitian ini menggunakan teori sistem yang di mana teori sistem memberikan suatu model deskripsi yang sangat kuat mengenai proses organisasi. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa PWI di Kota Jambi terbentuk atas keinginan dan inisiatif wartawan lokal Jambi. Jauh sebelum terbentuknya PWI di Kota Jambi, telah terbentuk lembaga atau organisasi kewartawanan lokal Jambi yang bernama IWD (Ikatan Wartawan Djambi). Peranan PWI dalam memberikan pelayanan media massa terlihat dari kegiatan dalam memberikan semua uraian informasi publik. Sedangkan peranannya dalam memberikan perlindungan terhadap wartawan yang tergabung didalamnya, PWI di Kota Jambi memberikan bantuan dan perlindungan hukum terhadap para wartawan-wartawan yang tergabung didalam PWI.Kata Kunci : Wartawan, Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia, Pers, Media Massa

Abstract: The paper aims to study the anti-Chinese incident in West Java. The research used the historiography method from Kuntowijoyo with the steps including topic selection, heuristic, source criticism, interpretation, and historiography. Ever since Indonesia's independence, the relationship between Pribumi and Chinese people is in social and economic discrepancy as they were experiencing an economic crisis. The strays of PRRI/Permesta and DI/TII still hold their grudge within the tough situation. What comes after is the riot between March and May 1963 that put Chinese people as the main target. On March 27, 1963, a raid happened in Cirebon initiated by the Pribumi. They attack the shops and houses of the Chinese people. The riot spread to Bandung on May 10, 1963, started with a fistfight between Chinese and Pribumi students in Bandung Institute of Technology. A day after, another riot is happening in Sumedang. From May 14 until 16, 1963, a series of property assaults are carried out by youngsters, students, and citizens in Bogor and Tasikmalaya. In Garut, vandalism happened on May 17 and 18, 1963, when the shops, houses, and factories were assaulted. From May 18 until 19, 1963, another riot started in Sukabumi when the mob began attacking the merchandise, properties, food supply, and Sukabumi market. This Chinese attacking incident involving Pribumi youngsters, college and high school students, and citizens. The incident was originally planned to be carried out throughout cities in West Java, but it did not turn out well. The initiators are scattered in every part of the cities in West Java, mostly dominated by college and school students and some residents. The impact of this incident is the spike in commodity prices and further social discrepancy. Abstrak: Artikel ini bertujuan mengkaji peristiwa anti Cina di Jawa Barat. Metode yang digunakan adalah metode sejarah Kuntowijoyo dengan langkah-langkah pemilihan topik, heuristik, kritik sumber, interpretasi dan historiografi. Sejak Indonesia merdeka hubungan Pribumi dan golongan Cina mempunyai kesenjangan hubungan sosial dengan ditambah keadaan krisis ekonomi. Sisa-sisa dari PRRI/Permesta dan DI/TII masih mempunyai reaksi ketidak puasan ditengah situasi yang sedang tidak menentukan. Akibatnya pada bulan Maret-Mei terjadi tindak kerusuhan yang merugikan golongan Cina. Pada tanggal 27 Maret 1963 pecah kerusuhan di Cirebon yang digerakan oleh kalangan Pribumi yang menyerang golongan Cina dengan merusak toko-toko dan rumah-rumah. Kerusuhan tersebut menjalar ke Bandung pada tanggal 10 Mei 1963 diawali oleh perkelahian di kampus ITB antara mahasiswa Cina dengan mahasiswa Pribumi. Pada 11 Mei 1963 pengrusakan kembali terjadi di Sumedang. Pada 14-16 Mei 1963 di Bogor dan Tasikmalaya terjadi pengrusakan yang dilakukan pemuda, pelajar dan rakyat. Di Garut aksi pengrusakan pecah pada 17-18 Mei 1963 dengan merusak rumah-rumah dan toko-toko serta pabrik-pabrik. Pada 18-19 Mei 1963 dimulai aksi di Sukabumi dengan merusak dagangan, perabotan rumah, persedian makanan dan pasar Sukabumi. Peristiwa kerusuhan yang terjadi merusak barang-barang golongan Cina yang dilakukan oleh mahasiswa, pelajar dan rakyat. Peristiwa tersebut sudah direncanakan diberbagai kota di Jawa Barat, namun tidak berjalan dengan baik. Dampak yang dirasakan adalah kenaikan harga barang dan kesenjangan sosial yang semakin parah.     Cite this article: Pangestu, D.A., Kumalasari, D., Aman. (2021). Anti-Chinese Incident in West Java in 1963. Paramita: Historical Studies Journal, 31(1), 93-103. http://dx.doi.org/10.15294/paramita.v31i1.23428Â

AbstractCivil rights protests at white churches, dubbed “kneel-ins,” laid bare the racial logic that structured Christianity in the American South. Scholars have investigated segregationist religion, but such studies tend to focus on biblical interpretation rather than religious practice. A series of kneel-ins at Atlanta's First Baptist Church, the largest Southern Baptist church in the Southeast, shows how religious activities and religious spaces became sites of intense racial conflict. Beginning in 1960, then more forcefully in 1963, African American students attempted to integrate First Baptist's sanctuary. When they were alternately barred from entering, shown to a basement auditorium, or carried out bodily, their efforts sparked a wide-ranging debate over racial politics and spiritual authenticity, a debate carried on both inside and outside the church. Segregationists tended to avoid a theological defense of Jim Crow, attacking instead the sincerity and comportment of their unwanted visitors. Yet while many church leaders were opposed to open seating, a vibrant student contingent favored it. Meanwhile, mass media—local, national, and international—shaped interpretations of the crisis and possibilities for resolving it. Roy McClain, the congregation's popular minister, attempted to navigate a middle course but faced criticism from all sides. The conflict came to a head when Ashton Jones, a white minister, was arrested, tried, and imprisoned for protesting outside the church. In the wake of the controversy, the members of First Baptist voted to end segregation in the sanctuary. This action brought formal desegregation—but little meaningful integration—to the congregation.

This review essay brings a closer look at two books about Serbian saint and theologian Justin Popović, both were published in 2019 in Serbian. The first one, presented and analysed in this review, is the international thematic conference proceedings Mission and thought of St Justin Popović, edited by Vladimir Cvetković and Bogdan Lubardić from the Orthodox Theological Faculty in Belgrade (Serbia). The second one, presented in the next review, is Justin of Ćelije and England: Ways of Reception of British Theology, Literature and Science, written by Bogdan Lubardić. There is no need to introduce the life and work of Justin Popović (1894–1979) to the readers of this journal as it is generally known: monk and saint of the Orthodox Church (St Justin the New of Ćelije), professor at the University of Belgrade, co-founder of the Serbian Philosophical Society, one of the most prominent and important Orthodox theologians of the twentieth century. In my modest opinion, these two books open a new chapter in the research of Justin Popović’s legacy, in contrast to revival-apologetic and descriptive approach that previously dominated the reception of Justin Popović’s thoughts. This new approach is characterized by a non-ideological approach to Justin’s work and balances between two extremes, in a certain sense it proposes a middle path. The first extreme, pietistic and defensive-panegyric, considers any criticism of Justin’s work to be a direct attack on his holiness. The second extreme finds in Justin’s work a justification to reject the Serbian Church and all Orthodoxy due to their anti-modern and retrograde nature. Both extremes had fed each other for years and insist on the objectivity and complete truthfulness of their own interpretation of Justin’s work. The proposed middle ground no longer has as the starting point of whether Justin’s views are correct or not, but it considers the reasons and circumstances in which Justin’s work occurs.

Kaj Thaning 4.6. 1904 - 6.6. 1994By Kim Arne Pedersen.A few days after his ninetieth birthday, Kaj Thaning died peacefully in his home in Båring, where he had been a clergyman for a generation, and where his monumental work, the thesis .Man First.... was made ready for publication in 1963. Kaj Thaning was bom into a family with roots in influential circles of Grundtvigianism, but as a young undergraduate he came into contact with the Danish Tidehverv movement which introduced the dialectic theology in Denmark. Together with a number of other young theologians Kaj Thaning was connected with both Tidehverv and Grundtvigian circles, and the group was consequently termed .Tidehverv Grundtvigianism.. Thaning became the Grundtvig interpreter within this group, and published his interpretations in a number of books and articles, and a precis of the main thoughts in his thesis was translated into a number of foreign languages in connection with Grundtvig’s anniversary in 1972. Thaning was a vicar through the greater part of his life, but was also deeply engaged in numerous other activities: establishing a folk high school, participating in debates on topical issues, and, in co-operation with the pioneers of the Grundtvig Society, working out the register of Grundtvig’s unprinted manuscripts, a work amply demonstrating his impressive abilities as a research historian. Thaning was a member of the Grundtvig Society Committee from 1948. As early as 1949 he wrote his first major article in Grundtvig Studies, and until recent years he contributed a large number of long or short papers to the yearbook, always impressive in their profundity and perspicacity. As an interpreter of Grundtvig, Thaning has reached far beyond the academic circles to which scientific research is usually restricted. Thaning’s thesis - that the modem relevance of Grundtvig’s writings is closely bound up with his struggle with his personal mixture of the human and the Christian - has had a decisive influence on the Danish cultural and theological debate in the years after World War II, in that it matches with Denmark’s development from an agricultural to an industrial and urban society, and with the decreasing influence of the religious revival movements. Thaning’s secular-theological emphasis on the separation of the human and the Christian as the essential theme in Grundtvig’s writings legitimized this development, but at the same time Thaning’s thesis bore evidence of a profound personal struggle and of a theologically thoroughly contemplated interpretation of Grundtvig, encompassing his entire work. All the same, it seems fair today to view Thaning’s thesis in the light of the theological currents he met on his way, a theological-historical view which may be understood in continuation of the criticism of Thaning’s thesis, raised by recent Grundtvig research, seeking its arguments in incarnation theology. In recent years, this criticism has paved the way for a renewed occupation with Grundtvig’s liturgical theology, and has been able to fertilize Grundtvig’s thoughts in an international, ecumenical-theological context. Thaning, however, was unaffected by this criticism; he remained forever prepared to raise objections to his critics. Thus, from recent years, the present writer remembers Thaning’s unremitting and unyielding defence of his thesis, but also his kindness and helpfulness in connection with the present writer’s first attempts in Grundtvig research.The fact that Thaning’s position has been abandoned in modem research does not weaken the greatness of his work. Thaning’s critics, too, have been - if adversely - influenced by his thesis, whose definition of the relationship between the human and the Christian has left an indelible trace in Danish theology.

Abstrak: Ditetapkan sebagai Pahlawan Nasional oleh Presiden Soekarno di tahun 1963, Tan Malaka hingga saat ini masih menjadi pahlawan yang “redup”. Keterlibatannya dalam tubuh Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI) di masa Hindia Belanda telah menempatkan Tan Malaka pada posisi sulit, mengingat keberadaan PKI yang telah mengukir sejarah kelam di era kemerdekaan. Padahal, jika memperhatikan ide dan gagasan Tan Malaka yang tertuang dalam banyak karyanya, maka selayaknya ia dijuluki sebagai Bapak Republik. Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk menelaah kiprah Tan Malaka dalam pergerakan nasional dah mengekplorasi titik kontroversi Tan Malaka. Metode dalam penelitian ini menggunakan metode sejarah yang terdiri dari tahap heuristik, kritik sumber, interpretasi, dan historiografi. Temuan penelitian ini menunjukkan bahwa titik kontroversial Tan Malaka terletak pada keterlibatannya di tubuh PKI masa Hindia Belanda, namun demikian Tan Malaka adalah seorang nasionalis yang konsisten memperjuangkan cita-cita kemerdekaan Indonesia melalui ideologi yang diyakininya. Adanya larangan ajaran Marxisme-Komunisme pasca pemberontakan PKI di tahun 1965 membuat Tan Malaka semakin terpinggirkan sebagai pahlawan nasional, selama Orde Baru namanya tidak terdapat dalam buku-buku pelajaran di sekolah maupun dalam Album Pahlawan Nasional, hal ini menjadi kontroversi atas keterlibatnnya di tubuh PKI. Namun, Era Reformasi menunjukkan sebuah kemajuan, buku-buku karangan Tan Malaka kembali dicetak dan banyak ilmuan mulai serius menyelami sosok Tan Malaka, terutama berkenaan dengan pemikiran dan gagasannya.Kata Kunci: Tan Malaka, Kontroversi, RevolusiAbstract: Defined as a National Hero by President Soekarno in 1963, Tan Malaka is still a "dim" hero. His involvement in the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) during the Dutch East Indies had put Tan Malaka in a difficult position, given the existence of the PKI which had carved a dark history in the era of independence. In fact, if you pay attention to Tan Malaka's ideas and ideas contained in many of his works, then he should be called the Father of the Republic. This research aims to examine Tan Malaka's progress in the national movement and to explore the points of controversy of Tan Malaka. The method in this study uses the historical method which consists of 4 (four) stages, namely hauristics, source criticism, interpretation, and historiography. The findings of this study indicate that Tan Malaka's controversial point lies in his involvement in the PKI during the Dutch East Indies, however, Tan Malaka was a nationalist who consistently fought for the ideals of Indonesian independence through the ideology he believed in. The prohibition against the teachings of Marxism-Communism after the PKI rebellion in 1965 made Tan Malaka even more marginalized as a national hero, during the New Order his name was not included in school textbooks or in the National Hero Album, this became a controversy over his involvement in the PKI. However, the Reformation Era showed progress, Tan Malaka's books were again printed and many scientists began to seriously delve into the figure of Tan Malaka, especially with regard to his thoughts and ideas.Keywords: Tan Malaka, Controversy, Revolution

Konfrontasi Indonesia-Malaysia merupakan peristiwa sejarah yang disebabkan karena pemerintahan Republik Indonesia di bawah Presiden Soekarno menolak pembentukan negara federasi Malaysia pada 31 Agustus 1963. Bagi Soekarno hal tersebut merupakan penghinaan terhadap cita cita revolusi Indonesia sebagaimana Federasi Malaysia merupakan bentukan Inggris dan produk dari paham Neo-Kolonialisme Imperialisme yang Bung Karno sangat tentang. Oleh karenanya, Soekarno menyerukan “Ganyang Malaysia” dan mengerahkan kekuatan militer Indonesia untuk menggempur Malaysia dengan cara membuka pendaftaran calon sukarelawan. Salah satu di antara orang yang mendaftarkan diri adalah Harun Tohir. Kelak, beliau akan melaksanakan operasi bersifat klandestin yang akan membawa dampak besar terhadap Singapura. Tujuan penelitian ini adalah untuk memahami peran Harun dalam operasi klandestin pada konfrontasi Indonesia-Malaysia dan dampak dari operasi Harun Tohir di Singapura pada masa konfrontasi. Selain itu, penelitian ini akan menggunakan pendekatan sejarah dan akan memakai metode sejarah yang terdiri dari empat tahapan, yakni heuristik, kritik, interpretasi, dan historiografi. Untuk tahap heuristik, sumber yang diperoleh merupakan sumber primer yang berupa dokumen dari Pusat Penerangan Marinir, sedangkan sumber sekunder diperoleh dari buku dan jurnal dengan topik serupa serta wawancara. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa Harun Tohir melakukan operasi klandestin dengan cara menyusup ke wilayah Singapura dan melakukan peledakkan terhadap gedung Macdonald House. Hal tersebut dilakukan dalam rangka membuat Malaysia dan sekutunya menjadi geger. Akibat aksinya, beliau tertangkap dan dihukum oleh Pemerintah Singapura berupa hukuman mati. Hal inilah yang membuat pemerintah Indonesia sampai bernegosiasi dengan pemerintah Singapura dalam rangka membebaskan Harun Tohir bersama rekannya Usman Janatin dari jeratan hukuman mati.Kata Kunci : Harun Tohir; konfrontasi Indonesia-Malaysia; operasi Klandestin; Abtract Indonesia-Malaysia confrontation was a historical event that caused by Republic of Indonesia’s government under President Soekarno reject the formation of Federal State of Malaysia on 31st August 1963. For Soekarno, such thing was an insult towards the dream of Indonesian revolution as Malaysian Federation was formed by the British and a product of Neo-colonialism and imperialism that Soekarno against. Therefore, Soekarno exclaims “Destroy Malaysia” and deploy Indonesian military power in order to defeat Malaysia by opening a recruitment for volunteer’s candidate. One of the people that registered himself was Harun Tohir. Later, he would conduct a clandestine operation that brought big effect towards Singapore. The purpose of this research is to understand Harun's role in clandestine operation during the Indonesia-Malaysia confrontation and the impact of Harun Tohir's operation in Singapore during the confrontation. In addition, this study will use a historical approach and will use historical method that consist of four steps which are heuristics, criticism, interpretation, and historiography. For the heuristic step, the sources obtained are primary sources in the form of documents from the Marine Corps Information Center, while secondary sources are obtained from books and journals with similar topics and interviews. The research results showed that Harun Tohir carried out a clandestine operation by infiltrating to Singapore territory and exploding the Macdonald House building. This was done in order to make Malaysia and its allies become agitated. As a result of his actions, he was arrested and sentenced by the Government of Singapore in form of death penalty. This is what prompted the Indonesian government to negotiate with the Singaporean government in order to save Harun Tohir and his colleague Usman Janatin from the death penalty.Keywords: Harun Tohir; Indonesia-Malaysia confrontation; Clandestine operation

“And now the new system of government came into being. For the first time since the accession of the House of Hanover, the Tory party was in the ascendant.” So wrote Lord Macaulay concerning the early years of George III's reign. In Macaulay's essay on the earl of Chatham one can find all the elements of the Whig myth of the reign of George III. Most of these ideas have been safely laid to rest by Sir Lewis Namier and modern research; we now know that there was neither a new system of government at the accession of the king nor anything resembling a Tory party. George III was not the tyrant depicted in the Declaration of Independence, there was no plot in the imagined cabinet of “king's friends” to overthrow the constitution, and when, with respect to the colonies, the king declared that he would abide by the decision of his Parliament, he was taking a stand on the side of Whig principles and the Revolution Settlement.One element in the putative resurgence of Toryism that Macaulay and other Whig historians emphasized was High-Anglican political theology. G. H. Guttridge, for example, in his English Whiggism and the American Revolution (1942) well understood the differences between the Toryism of the period of the American Revolution and that of the earlier century. Tories had come to accept the Revolution Settlement, the Hanoverian succession, and even “a modicum of religious toleration.” But if they had lost the bloom of monarchical sentiment, they retained the concept of a state unified above sectional and party interests. Guttridge's formulas were admittedly too simplistic and they justly invited criticism, but one of the overlooked merits of his work was that he located the continuity of conservative thought in its religious aspect. He observed that, “Standing for the two great Tory principles, national unity and a religious sanction for the established order, the Church of England was the central institution of Toryism—the state in its religious aspect, and the divine principle in monarchical government.” The demolition of the Whig interpretation, however, has resulted in a thorough-going neglect of political discourse, and several notable examples of this deconstruction bear directly upon Anglican political thought. In his introduction to the History of Parliament John Brooke wrote that during the American Revolution the Anglican clergy in England had no specific attitude toward the war or any other aspect of government policy. When the reprint of G. H. Guttridge's essay appeared in 1963, Ian Christie wrote a vigorous rebuttal to the idea of a revival of Toryism in the early part of George III's reign without a single reference to the Anglican Church.

Uffe Hansen 14.12. 1894 - 11.9. 1994By Henning HøirupThe obituary begins with a description of Uffe Hansen’s background as an Independent Congregation clergyman (from 1925) to the Grundtvigian Independent Congregation (Danish valgmenighed, i.e. a congregation within the National Church, claiming the right to employ their own minister) of Ubberup, where the prominent clergymen V.J.Hoff and Carl Koch were his predecessors. Carl Koch’s extensive writings, theologically erudite, but .popular. in their language, and thus accessible to the layman, were to become the model for Uffe Hansen’s studies in Grundtvig’s hymnwriting. Through his membership of the Hymn Book Commission of the free Grundtvigian congregations (HYMNS. Independent Congregations and Free Church Congregations, 1935), Uffe Hansen was motivated to realize his plan of a complete account of the whole of Grundtvig’s hymn writing in the book Grundtvig’s Hymn Writing. Its History and Content I. 1810-1837, published in 1937. In the following years Uffe Hansen was absorbed in organizational work (Grundtvigian Convent, the »No More War« organization) and by his membership of the Grundtvigian Hymn Book Committee (The Danish Hymn Book. A Grundtvigian Proposal, 1944). In the 1940s efforts were made to unite the hymn tradition of the re-united Southern Jutland with the traditions of the Kingdom, i.e. the old Danish treasury of hymns and the Grundtvigian hymns. Uffe Hansen became a member of the Hymn Book Commission which published the proposal The Danish Hymn Book in 1951. More than anybody else, Uffe Hansen is responsible for the large number of Grundtvig hymns in this proposal, often with verses from the original versions of the hymns added to them. In spite of vehement criticism on this point The Danish Hymn Book was authorized in 1953. Grundtvig remained the predominant contributor, even though significant Grundtvig hymns, expressing his church view, were omitted, much to Uffe Hansen’s regret. The Hymn Book includes Uffe Hansen’s own translation of the Latin antiphone Oh, Grant Us Peace, Our Lord. While this debate was going on, the continuation of Uffe Hansen’s work, Grundtvig9s Hymn Writing II. 1837-1850 appeared in 1951, an important contribution to a comprehensive interpretation of Grundtvig’s work to renew the Danish hymnody. However, Uffe Hansen’s main achievement as a hymn researcher was his work as a co-editor of Grundtvig’s Song-Work I-VI, 1944-1964. This new edition was worked out on scientific principles, and the hymns were brought in chronological order, as far as it was possible. The edition included a critical variant apparatus, compiled by Uffe Hansen. Concurrently with this work, Uffe Hansen participated in the compilation of a Register of Grundtvig’s Posthumous Papers 1-IXXX, 1956-1964, and, while engaged on this, found several hitherto unknown hymns, which were included in the new edition of the Song-Work.Here Uffe Hansen’s abilities as a researcher and scholar were amply demonstrated. Then, in 1966, came his finalwork, Grundtvig’s Hymn Writing III. 1851-1872, which, like the other volumes, testify to Uffe Hansen’s talent for combining erudition with easy comprehensibility. In his last years Uffe Hansen lived in Holland; he was laid to rest from the Independent Congregation Church of Ubberup.

This article examines the reaction of Dragisa Stojadinovic to the feuilleton ?Serbian themes? done by the writer Miroslav Krleza. Krleza?s feuilleton was being published in newspaper Politika during April, May and June of 1963. It consisted of fragments from his earlier writings organized in thematic units and concerning different topics from Serbian history. Dragisa Stojadinovic, former soldier, chief of Cinematographic section of Serbian army on Salonica front during the First World War and politician in interwar Yugoslavia, responded to Krleza?s feuilleton by writting an Open letter to the Yugoslav Academy of Sciences and Arts (Zagreb), the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts (Belgrade) and the Matica Srpska (Novi Sad). Stojadinovic?s Open letter was sent on June 28th, 1963. It focused on scrutinizing Krleza?s article Pasic about the Salonika trial published in Politika on June 9th. Both informations stated by Krleza and criticism put forward by Stojadinovic are analyzed in the light of contemporary historiographical knowledge. Different interpretations presented by Krleza and Stojadinovic have their roots in opposed views on causes and results of Salonika trial. Stojadinovic defended the legitimacy of trial started by his father-in-law Ljuba Jovanovic Patak, he was involved in its organisation and later accused of witness tampering. Krleza saw trial in the light of ?counter-revolutionary? Yugoslav unification in 1918 and as an act of ?political and judicial murder?. Article also contains original documents from National Library of Serbia.

In 2016 during the inventory and transportation of the archaeological finds from temporary archaeological storage at Pheophania to the present-day storage facility of the Institute of Archaeology, the materials of the excavations of the expeditions of 1980 and 1985 were selected and processed. The excavations and surveys were conducted by expeditions under the lead of O. G. Shaposhnikova and D. Ya. Telehin on the territory of the Starobilsk district of the Luhansk region. The surveys in 1980 were conducted at only two locations located close to each other — the settlements of Aidar-Bila and Pidhorivka. Aydar-Bila. Because the location plan is missing (it is also missing from the 1986 report), it was not possible to locate the settlement on the map. However, it can be assumed that the multilayered settlement of Aydar-Bila is located in the eastern part of the village Pidhorivka of the Starobilsk district of the Lugansk region, on the low floodplain terrace of the right bank of the river Bila (the right tributary of the Aydar river). At the location of the settlement, the width of the valley of both rivers is 2.23 km. In 1986, additional research was conducted and the site was named Hyrlo Biloyi. In fact, this name is more common and widely used in the scientific literature. The settlement is multilayered, as indicated by the code on the finds. The largest number of finds is associated with layer 4. Given the vertical distribution of the finds, it can be assumed that there are at least three episodes of occupation in the history of the settlement, two of which, given the peculiarities of the finds, occurred in the Neolithic Period and one in the Late Bronze Age. Pidhorivka. The multilayered settlement of Pidhorivka is located on the off-shore terrace of the right bank of the Aydar River, at the point where the coast recedes to the west, thus forming a sufficiently wide floodplain, on which the depressions of the old-aged lakes are noticeable. In total, about 10 different settlements were found within the specified floodplain, 5 of which are known from the research of S. O. Loktushev in 1939. In 1963, the Pidhorivka settlement was investigated by V. M. Gladilin, however, no report or publication on the results of the research appeared, as correctly pointed out by Y. G. Gurin in 1998. It is only known that the expedition V. M. Gladilin cleaned up the coastline of the Aydar River, where the Neolithic materials were discovered. Some findings revealed by the expedition led by V. M. Gladilin appear in the monograph V. M. Danilenko as an example of the material culture of the Azov culture he identified. In 1980, the expedition of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR under the direction of O. G. Shaposhnikova laid out an excavation area on the Pidhorivka settlement. The results of these studies are unknown (missing report, field documentation, and findings). In the same year an expedition led by D. Y. Telegin excavated a trench with a total area of 5 m2. Later (in 1984), the site was explored by an expedition under the general guidance of K. I. Krasilnikov and Y. G. Gurin. The total number of findings revealed as a result of the research by O. G. Shaposhnikova reached 295 units. The material analysis demonstrates the settlement is multi-layered. The upper horizons with the Middle and Late Bronze Age materials being the latest. In the conditional horizon of 0.8/0.9 m, a rather informative fragment of the Late Copper Age vessel was found, and at the same time, it is accompanied by a flint complex, which has the appearance of the Early Copper Age or Neolithic. The artifacts found in the conditional horizons of 0.9/1.0—1.1/1.2 m appear to be relatively «pure» in that the cultural and chronological terms clearly define their affiliation with the Early Neolithic Period and allow them to be associated with the Lower Don culture/Nizhnedonska culture of the Mariupol Cultural and Historical Area. At the same time, the presence of earlier artifacts, such as a conical single-platform core and multiple-truncated burin, makes one more cautious to interpret the complexes. Both the core and the burin look more logical in the flint complexes of the lower horizons of the site. In this sense, it is important to pay attention to the description of the stratigraphic section of the excavation area 2 of the settlement Pidhorivka, presented by Y. G. Gurin in a monograph about the Early Copper age sites of the Siversky Donets Basin. It states that, at a depth of 1.7/2.0 m and below, the layer of floodplain alluvium contains «Mesolithic materials». Y. G. Gurin did not publish the materials themselves that he claimed were from the Mesolithic era. In 2006, O. F. Gorelik issued a publication dedicated to the interpretation of the materials of the lower layer of Pidhorivka. In this work, he linked the affiliation of the flint complex with the early stage of Donetsk culture, and considered the site one of the centers of the Mesolithic industries with the yanishlavitsa type of projectile points. This conclusion is based on the similarity of the materials of the lower layer of Pidhoryvka with the flint complex of the site Shevchenko hamlet, one of the features of which is the presence of a yanislavitsa type of projectile point. In 1999, the materials of the site Zelena Hornitsa 5 were published, which is located on the second floodplain terrace of the lake on the left bank of the Siversky Donets River. In the material culture of this site, even if there are multiple elements, they in no way affect the overall situation. The complex of projectile points of the site consists of trapezes, a yanislavitsa type, points with truncated edges, and so on. The presence of the collapse of the stucco vessel along with these flint products, gave rise to criticism of the idea of O. F. Gorelik about the Mesolithic character of complexes with a yanislavitsa type of projectile points. Later V. O. Manko, in a more detailed form, questioned the theory of O. F. Gorelik. To the present day we can state that there has been some stagnation in this issue. The surveys in 1985 were conducted at the valley of Aidar river from v. Lyman to v. Losovivka. In this area, sites lots have been found, which in chronological terms date back to the Paleolithic—Medieval times. For this reason, we believe that the introduction into scientific circulation of even a small amount of archaeological materials, allows the creation of a more complete picture of the processes that took place in the basin of the middle stream of the Siversky Donets River during the Neolithic—Copper Age.

The train that appeared in Dutch East Indies in the mid 19th century was originally used for plantation product transport. However, the train was also used as transportation for the public. In 1894, between Batavia and Surabaya was connected with the railway line. Both cities can be reached by train in two days. To reduce travel time between those two cities, the Dutch East Indies railway company, Staatsspoorwegen was launched two high-speed trains, Eendaagsche Express in 1929 and Java Nacht Express in 1936. These two high-speed trains brought changes for railways condition in Dutch East Indies, especially in Java. During operation, these two high-speed trains also had interesting stories to write about. To write this problem, historical methods are used which consisting of heuristics, criticism, interpretation, and historiography. Based on the research conducted, these two high-speed trains made the travel time of Batavia – Surabaya 12 hours and made railways technology in the Dutch East Indies develop.

AbstractThe topic of this essay is the concept of experience which, in the field of literary studies, is often used as if it were divided into an objective and a subjective aspect. Advocates of so-called ›empirical‹ approaches to the study of texts and minds tend to proceed from experience only to abstract impersonal (or objective) ›data‹ from it. By contrast, phenomenological and hermeneutic methods are frequently said to work through more immediately personal (or subjective) responses to, and engagements with, literary works. Thus experience, it seems, must either be read in terms of statistical diagrams and brain images, or else remain caught up in an activityDrawing on the radical empiricism of William James, this essay seeks to reintegrate the experience of reading and the reading of experience, both of which are ambiguously condensed in my title. The main argument of the piece therefore hinges on James’s and John Dewey’s claim that experience is »double-barrelled« (James 1977, 172), which is to say that it refers to »the entire process of phenomena«, to quote James’s own definition, »before reflective thought has analysed them into subjective and objective aspects or ingredients« (James 1978, 95). Made up of both perceptions and conceptions, experience, as James views it, is the medium through which everything must have passed before it can be named, and without (or outside of) which nothing, therefore, can be said to exist. With this radical account of empiricism in mind, I revisit some of the assumptions underpinning cognitive literary criticism, before turning to an interpretation of the dramatic poetry of Robert Browning, which has been described as a version of »empiricism in literature« because it is concerned with »the pursuit of experience in all its remotest extensions« (Langbaum 1963, 96).More specifically, my article engages with »Fra Lippo Lippi« and »An Epistle Containing the Strange Medical Experience of Karshish, the Arab Physician« in order to show that Browning’s dramatic monologues make experience legible as an activity by means of which perceptions come to be turned into conceptions while conceptions, conversely, are continuously reaffirmed, altered, or enriched by whatever perceptions are added to them as life goes on. As I argue, Browning’s

Аполлон Григорьев и Бахтин затрагивали достаточно разные вопросы творчества Достоевского, но корреляция между их работами очевидна на уровне их металогики, их философии, их культур-философских оснований. Григорьев, вместе с Достоевским, находился у истоков почвенничества, хотя отзывы Григорьева о творчестве Достоевского эпизодичны и довольно инвективны. Григорьев, в основном, отказывал Достоевскому в том, что его искусство соответствует «правде жизни». Но и первый вариант книги Бахтина о Достоевском не был апологетическим. Григорьев и Бахтин реализуют свою философию через эстетику (философию искусства). Искус-ство, согласно Григорьеву, имеет истоки в самой жизни, а жизнь через искусство реализует себя и сама себя понимает; поэтому критик – также «художник». Бахтин также исходит из принципа корреляции искусства и жизни, выводя отсюда свое понятие «творческий хронотоп». У Григорьева, Бахтина, Достоевского дело идет об онтологии искусства, как и об искусстве онтологии. Искусство онтологии подразумевает самую широкую эстетизацию жизни: ее вдвижение в горизонт искусства. Данная установка – предмодернистская и модернистская. В генезисе понятия «органическая критика» отозвались уроки Канта как автора трех философ-ских «Критик». Идеи Канта были значимы также для Достоевского и Бахтина. Григорьева могло за-интересовать философское измерение, приданное Кантом понятию «критика». Поэтому «органиче-ская критика» относится преимущественно к философии, поднимая объемный перечень вопросов, превышающих собственно эстетические. Согласно Бахтину, полифония Достоевского заключается в том, что автор выступает «медиумом», «пропускающим» через себя различные идеи («голоса» персонажей, различные «точки зрения» и т. п.) Автор-медиум «проводит» «через себя» и «из себя» массу различных идей без сущностного отвержения какой-либо из них. «Автор-медиум» пытается говорить от лица жизни, но также и даже «вместо жизни», что ведет к логической и смысловой подмене «мира» – «картиной мира». Отвер-жение сущностное вовсе не означает отсутствия у автора отвержения формального, т. е. просто констатированного. Однако сущностное неотвержение означает гораздо больше, чем то или иное формальное отвержение. Жизнь, историческое бытие в таком случае оказывается для Достоевского практически «хаосом». В развитие идей Бахтина следует, что при внедрении в свой художественный мир карнавального начала Достоевский утверждает «связку» чувствительность / физиологизм. Ее истоки – в сентимен-тализме XVIII в. Данная «связка» находит религиозную проекцию в феномене юродства. Поэтому итоговой бахтинской трактовкой Достоевского (1963) движет пафос «оправдания» писателя, полно-та художественного мира которого в главном реализована через религиозно трактованную Досто-евским «картину мира» (все-таки «картину мира», но не сам «мир»). Apollon Grigoriev and Bakhtin touched upon quite different issues of Dostoevsky’s work but the correlation between their works is obvious at the level of their metalogic, their philosophy, and their cultural-philosophical foundations. Grigoriev, together with Dostoevsky, was at the origins of “pochvennichestvo” (a grassroots movement), although Grigoriev’s comments on Dostoevsky’s work are episodic and rather injective. Grigoriev basically denied Dostoevsky that his art corresponded to the “truth of life”. But even the first version of Bakhtin’s book about Dostoevsky was not apologetic. Grigoriev and Bakhtin realize their philosophy through aesthetics (philosophy of art). Art, according to Grigoriev, has its origins in life itself, and life through art realizes itself and understands itself; therefore the critic is also an “artist”. Bakhtin also proceeds from the principle of correlation between art and life, deriving from this his concept of “creative chronotope”. Grigoriev, Bakhtin, and Dostoevsky deal with the ontology of art as well as the art of ontology. The art of ontology implies the broadest aestheticization of life: its movement into the horizon of art. This attitude is pre-modern and modern. In the genesis of the concept of “organic criticism”, the lessons of Kant as the author of three philosophical “Critics” could be echoed. Kant’s ideas were also significant for Dostoevsky and Bakhtin. Grigoriev might have been interested in the philosophical dimension that Kant gave to the concept of “criticism”. Therefore, “organic criticism” refers primarily to philosophy, raising a voluminous list of issues that exceed the aesthetic ones themselves. According to Bakhtin, Dostoevsky’s polyphony consists in the fact that the author acts as a “medium”, “passing” various ideas through himself (“voices” of characters, different “points of view”, etc.). The author- medium “conducts” “through himself” and “out of myself” a lot of different ideas without the essential rejection of any of them. The “author-medium” tries to speak on behalf of life but also even “instead of life”, which leads to a logical and semantic substitution of “the world” – “an image of the world”. Essential rejection does not at all mean that the author has no formal rejection, i.e. just stated. Essential non-rejection, however, means much more than any formal rejection. Life, historical being in this case turns out to be practically “chaos” for Dostoevsky. In the development of Bakhtin’s ideas, it follows that, when introducing carnivalization into his artistic world, Dostoevsky affirms a “link” of sensitivity / physiology. The origins of this “link” are in the sentimentalism of the 18th century. This “link” finds a religious projection in the phenomenon of “yurodstvo” (foolishness). Therefore, Bakhtin’s final interpretation of Dostoevsky (1963) is driven by the pathos of the “justification” of the writer, whose integrity of the artistic world is mainly realized through the religious “image of the world” (aft er all, the “image of the world” and not the “world” itself).

AbstractIn the 1970s and 1980s, literary theorists, particularly in the German-speaking world, showed increasing interest in appropriating the distinctive methodologies of both the positivist social sciences and the natural sciences. Alongside empirical (e. g. Groeben 1982) and analytical approaches to literature (e. g. Fink/Schmidt 1984), the structuralist school shaped by Lotman’s narrative theory attempted a scientific turn in literary theory (cf. Köppe/Winko 2010), aiming for an exact science, or at least one more exact than the traditional ›art of interpretation‹ admitted by Staiger (1955). We trace the structuralist approach, or more precisely, the central aspect of structuralist narratology, the theory of boundary-crossing, first in Lotman (1979), and then criticise Renner’s remodelling based on formal logic (1983), and finally remodel boundary-crossing theory by means of modal logic. By doing this, we hope to demonstrate the potential of a methodologically self-aware, terminologically precise text analysis that is therefore capable of intersubjectivity.At the beginning of the 1970s, the Estonian literary scholar and cultural semiotician Jurij M. Lotman took as his starting point the strong human affinity for the replication of abstract systems (The most influential formulation of Lotman’s boundary-crossing theory – at least in the German speaking world – was that of Karl N. Renner in the early 1980s. Renner understood events to be disruptions of order, and disruptions of order in turn as logical contradictions. In addition to the formal logic representation of disruptions of order, Lotman and Renner differ in that Renner presupposes that the ›eventful situation‹ arisesThe consequences of the principle of non-contradiction do not occur to Renner. While Renner is, in fact, dissatisfied with his model, for him the problem lies in a different circumstance: his ordering statements lack the characteristics of postulates. It can be deduced from his writings that he wishes his ordering statements to be understood as normative statements. However, non-modal sentences, and these are precisely what Renner uses, do not describe, even in the case of subjunctions/implications, what should be, but merely whatThis problem, addressed but not explored by Renner, can be solved with the help of normative reasoning/deontic modal logic. Instead of an operator of necessity, here an operator of obligation is used. Using this operator, we can produce contradiction-free statements about how something should be, which can be placed in relation to selective statements about how things are. Our aim, however, is not exclusively or primarily to criticise Renner, but rather to develop the particular benefits which these consideration of formal logic bring to cross-boundary theory – namely the connection between the quality of the ordering statements, and the durative and non-durative aspect of events.We demonstrate this using Pierre Boulles’ 1963 novel

Literary history can be viewed alternately in a perspective of continuities or discontinuities. In the former perspective, what I perversely call postmodernism is simply an extension of modernism [which is], as everyone knows, a development of symbolism, which … is itself a specialisation of romanticismand who is there to say that the romantic concept of man does not find its origin in the great European Enlightenment? Etc. In the latter perspective, however, continuities [which are] maintained on a certain level of narrative abstraction (i.e., history [or aesthetic description]) are resisted in the interests of the quiddity and discreteness of art, the space that each work or action creates around itself. – Ihab Hassan Ihab Hassan’s words, published in 1975, continue to resonate today. How should we approach art? Can an artwork ever really fully be described by its critical review, or does its description only lead to an ever multiplying succession of terms? Michel Foucault spoke of the construction of modern sexuality as being seen as the hidden, irresolvable “truth” of our subjectivity, as that secret which we must constantly speak about, and hence as an “incitement to discourse” (Foucault, History of Sexuality). Since the Romantic period, the appreciation of aesthetics has been tied to the subjectivity of the individual and to the degree an art work appeals to the individual’s sense of self: to one’s personal refinement, emotions and so on. Art might be considered part of the truth of our subjectivity which we seem to be endlessly talking about – without, however, actually ever resolving the issue of what a great art work really is (anymore than we have resolved the issue of what natural sexuality is). It is not my aim to explicate the relationship between art and sex but to re-inject a strategic understanding of discourse, as Foucault understood it, back into commonplace, contemporary aesthetic criticism. The problems in rendering into words subjective, emotional experiences and formal aesthetic criteria continue to dog criticism today. The chief hindrances to contemporary criticism remain such institutional factors as the economic function of newspapers. Given their primary function as tools for the selling of advertising space, newspapers are inherently unsuited to sustaining detailed, informed dialogue on any topic – be it international politics or aesthetics. As it is, reviews remain short, quickly written pieces squeezed into already overloaded arts pages. This does not prevent skilled, caring writers and their editorial supporters from ensuring that fine reviews are published. In the meantime, we muddle through as best we can. I argue that criticism, like art, should operate self-consciously as an incitement to discourse, to engagement, and so to further discussion, poetry, et cetera. The possibility of an endless recession of theoretical terms and subjective responses should not dissuade us. Rather, one should provisionally accept the instrumentality of aesthetic discourse provided one is able always to bear in mind the nominalism which is required to prevent the description of art from becoming an instrument of repression. This is to say, aesthetic criticism is clearly authored in order to demonstrate something: to argue a point, to make a fruitful comparison, and so on. This does not mean that criticism should be composed so as to dictate aesthetic taste to the reader. Instead, it should act as an invitation to further responses – much as the art work itself does. Foucault has described discourse – language, terminologies, metaphorical conceits and those logical and poetic structures which underpin them – as a form of technology (Foucault, Archaeology of Knowledge and History of Sexuality). Different discursive forces arise in response to different cultural needs and contexts, including, indeed, those formulated not only by artists, but also by reviewers. As Hassan intimates, what is or is not “postmodernism”, for example, depends less on the art work itself – it is less a matter of an art work’s specific “quiddity” and its internal qualities – but is, rather, fundamentally dependent upon what one is trying to say about the piece. If one is trying to describe something novel in a work, something which relates it to a series of new or unusual forms which have become dominant within society since World War Two, then the term “postmodernism” most usefully applies. This, then, would entail breaking down the “the space that each work … creates around itself” in order to emphasise horizontal “continuities”. If, on the other hand, the critic wishes to describe the work from the perspective of historical developments, so as to trace the common features of various art works across a genealogical pattern running from Romanticism to the present day, one must de-emphasise the quiddity of the work in favour of vertical continuities. In both cases, however, the identification of common themes across various art works so as to aid in the description of wider historical or aesthetic conditions requires a certain “abstraction” of the qualities of the aesthetic works in question. The “postmodernism”, or any other quality, of a single art work thus remains in the eye of the beholder. No art work is definitively “postmodern” as such. It is only “postmodern” inasmuch as this description aids one in understanding a certain aspect of the piece and its relationship to other objects of analysis. In short, the more either an art work or its critical review elides full descriptive explication, the more useful reflections which might be voiced in its wake. What then is the instrumental purpose of the arts review as a genre of writing? For liberal humanist critics such as Matthew Arnold, F.R. Leavis and Harold Bloom, the role of the critic is straight forward and authoritative. Great art is said to be imbued with the spirit of humanity; with the very essence of our common subjectivity itself. Critics in this mode seek the truth of art and once it has been found, they generally construct it as unified, cohesive and of great value to all of humanity. The authors of the various avant-garde manifestoes which arose in Europe from the fin de siècle period onwards significantly complicated this ideal of universal value by arguing that such aesthetic values were necessarily abstract and so were not immediately visible within the content of the work per se. Such values were rather often present in the art work’s form and expression. Surrealism, Futurism, Supremacism, the Bauhaus and the other movements were founded upon the contention that these avant-garde art works revealed fundamental truths about the essence of human subjectivity: the imperious power of the dream at the heart of our emotional and psychic life, the geometric principles of colour and shape which provide the language for all experience of the sublime, and so on. The critic was still obliged to identify greatness and to isolate and disseminate those pieces of art which revealed the hidden truth of our shared human experience. Few influential art movements did not, in fact, have a chief theoretician to promote their ideals to the world, be it Ezra Pound and Leavis as the explicators of the works of T.S. Eliot, Martin Esslin for Beckett, or the artist her or himself, such as choreographers Martha Graham or Merce Cunningham, both of whom described in considerable detail their own methodologies to various scribes. The great challenge presented in the writings of Foucault, Derrida, Hassan and others, however, is to abandon such a sense of universal aesthetic and philosophical value. Like their fellow travellers within the New Left and soixante huit-ièmes (the agitators and cultural critics of 1968 Paris), these critics contend that the idea of a universal human subjectivity is problematic at best, if not a discursive fiction, which has been used to justify repression, colonialism, the unequal institutional hierarchies of bourgeois democratic systems, and so on. Art does not therefore speak of universal human truths. It is rather – like aesthetic criticism itself – a discursive product whose value should be considered instrumentally. The kind of a critical relationship which I am proposing here might provisionally be classified as discursive or archaeological criticism (in the Foucauldian sense of tracing discursive relationships and their distribution within any given cross-section or strata of cultural life). The role of the critic in such a situation is not one of acknowledging great art. Rather, the critic’s function becomes highly strategic, with interpretations and opinions regarding art works acting as invitations to engagement, consideration and, hence, also to rejection. From the point of view of the audience, too, the critic’s role is one of utility. If a critical description prompts useful, interesting or pleasurable reflections in the reader, then the review has been effective. If it has not, it has no role to play. The response to criticism thus becomes as subjective as the response to the art work itself. Similarly, just as Marcel Duchamp’s act of inverting a urinal and calling it art showed that anyone could be an artist provided they adopted a suitably creative vision of the objects which surrounded them, so anyone and everyone is a legitimate critic of any art work addressed to him or her as an audience. The institutional power accorded to critics by merit of the publications to which they are attached should not obfuscate the fact that anyone has the moral right to venture a critical judgement. It is not actually logically possible to be “right” or “wrong” in attributing qualities to an art work (although I have had artists assert the contrary to me). I like noise art, for example, and find much to stimulate my intellect and my affect in the chaotic feedback characteristic of the work of Merzbow and others. Many others however simply find such sounds to constitute unpleasant noise. Neither commentator is “right”. Both views co-exist. What is important is how these ideas are expressed, what propositions are marshalled to support either position, and how internally cohesive are the arguments supplied by supporters of either proposition. The merit of any particular critical intervention is therefore strictly formal or expressive, lying in its rhetorical construction, rather than in the subjective content of the criticism itself, per se. Clearly, such discursive criticism is of little value in describing works devised according to either an unequivocally liberal humanist or modernist avant-garde perspective. Aesthetic criticism authored in this spirit will not identify the universal, timeless truths of the work, nor will it act as an authoritative barometer of aesthetic value. By the same token though, a recognition of pluralism and instrumentality does not necessarily entail the rejection of categories of value altogether. Such a technique of aesthetic analysis functions primarily in the realm of superficial discursive qualities and formal features, rather than subterranean essences. It is in this sense both anti-Romantic and anti-Platonic. Discursive analysis has its own categories of truth and evaluation. Similarities between works, influences amongst artists and generic or affective precedents become the primary objects of analysis. Such a form of criticism is, in this sense, directly in accord with a similarly self-reflexive, historicised approach to art making itself. Where artists are consciously seeking to engage with their predecessors or peers, to find ways of situating their own work through the development of ideas visible in other cultural objects and historic aesthetic works, then the creation of art becomes itself a form of practical criticism or praxis. The distinction between criticism and its object is, therefore, one of formal expression, not one of nature or essence. Both practices engage with similar materials through a process of reflection (Marshall, “Vertigo”). Having described in philosophical and critical terms what constitutes an unfettered, democratic and strategic model of discursive criticism, it is perhaps useful to close with a more pragmatic description of how I myself attempt to proceed in authoring such criticism and, so, offer at least one possible (and, by definition, subjective) model for discursive criticism. Given that discursive analysis itself developed out of linguistic theory and Saussure’s discussion of the structural nature of signification, it is no surprise that the primary methodology underlying discursive analysis remains that of semiotics: namely how systems of representation and meaning mutually reinforce and support each other, and how they fail to do so. As a critic viewing an art work, it is, therefore, always my first goal to attempt to identify what it is that the artist appears to be trying to do in mounting a production. Is the art work intended as a cultural critique, a political protest, an avant-garde statement, a work of pure escapism, or some other kind of project – and hence one which can be judged according to the generic forms and values associated with such a style in comparison with those by other artists who work in this field? Having determined or intuited this, several related but nominally distinct critical reflections follow. Firstly, how effectively is this intent underpinning the art work achieved, how internally consistent are the tools, forms and themes utilised within the production, and do the affective and historic resonances evoked by the materials employed therein cohere into a logical (or a deliberately fragmented) whole? Secondly, how valid or aesthetically interesting is such a project in the first place, irrespective of whether it was successfully achieved or not? In short, how does the artist’s work compare with its own apparent generic rules, precedents and peers, and is the idea behind the work a contextually valid one or not? The questions of value which inevitably come into these judgements must be weighed according to explicit arguments regarding context, history and genre. It is the discursive transparency of the critique which enables readers to mentally contest the author. Implicitly transcendental models of universal emotional or aesthetic responses should not be invoked. Works of art should, therefore, be judged according to their own manifest terms, and, so, according to the values which appear to govern the relationships which organise materials within the art work. They should also, however, be viewed from a position definitively outside the work, placing the overall concept and its implicit, underlying theses within the context of other precedents, cultural values, political considerations and so on. In other words, one should attempt to heed Hassan’s caution that all art works may be seen both from the perspective of historico-genealogical continuities, as well as according to their own unique, self-defining characteristics and intentions. At the same time, the critical framework of the review itself – while remaining potentially dense and complex – should be as apparent to the reader as possible. The kind of criticism which I author is, therefore, based on a combination of art-historical, generic and socio-cultural comparisons. Critics are clearly able to elaborate more parallels between various artistic and cultural activities than many of their peers in the audience simply because it is the profession of the former to be as familiar with as wide a range of art-historical, cultural and political materials as is possible. This does not, however, make the opinions of the critic “correct”, it merely makes them more potentially dense. Other audiences nevertheless make their own connections, while spectators remain free to state that the particular parallels identified by the critic were not, to their minds, as significant as the critic would contend. The quantity of knowledge from which the critic can select does not verify the accuracy of his or her observations. It rather enables the potential richness of the description. In short, it is high time critics gave up all pretensions to closing off discourse by describing aesthetic works. On the contrary, arts reviewing, like arts production itself, should be seen as an invitation to further discourse, as a gift offered to those who might want it, rather than a Leavisite or Bloom-esque bludgeon to instruct the insensitive masses as to what is supposed to subjectively enlighten and uplift them. It is this sense of engagement – between critic, artist and audience – which provides the truly poetic quality to arts criticism, allowing readers to think creatively in their own right through their own interaction with a collaborative process of rumination on aesthetics and culture. In this way, artists, audiences and critics come to occupy the same terrain, exchanging views and constructing a community of shared ideas, debate and ever-multiplying discursive forms. Ideally, written criticism would come to occupy the same level of authority as an argument between an audience member and a critic at the bar following the staging of a production. I admit myself that even my best written compositions rarely achieve the level of playful interaction which such an environment often provokes. I nevertheless continue to strive for such a form of discursive exchange and bibulous poetry. References Apollonio, Umbro, ed. Futurist Manifestos. London: Thames and Hudson, 1973. Arnold, Matthew. Essays in Criticism. London: Macmillan, 1903-27, published as 2 series. Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. Trans. by Annette Lavers. London: Vintage, 1993. Bloom, Harold. Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human. New York: Riverhead, 1998. Benjamin, Walter. Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings. Trans. by Edmund Jephcott. New York: Harcourt, 1978. Breton, André. Manifestoes of Surrealism. Trans. by Richard Seaver and Helen Lane. Ann Arbor: Michigan UP, 1972. Eliot, T.S. Collected Poems 1909-1962. London: Faber, 1963. Esslin, Martin. Theatre of the Absurd. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968. Foucault, Michel. The Archaeology of Knowledge. Trans. by A.M. Sheridan Smith. London: Tavistock, 1972. ———. The History of Sexuality: Volume I: An Introduction. Trans. by Robert Hurley. London: Penguin, 1990. Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. London: Penguin, 1992. Graham, Martha. Blood Memory. New York: Doubleday, 1991. Hassan, Ihab. “Joyce, Beckett and the Postmodern Imagination.” Triquarterly 32.4 (1975): 192ff. Jameson, Fredric. “Postmodernism, or the Cultural Dominant of Late Capitalism,” New Left Review 146 (1984): 53-92. Leavis, F.R. F.R. Leavis: Essays and Documents. Eds. Ian MacKillop and Richard Storer. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995. Malevich, Kazimir. In Penny Guggenheim, ed. Art of This Century – Drawings – Photographs – Sculpture – Collages. New York: Art Aid, 1942. Marshall, Jonathan. “Documents in Australian Postmodern Dance: Two Interviews with Lucy Guerin,” in Adrian Kiernander, ed. Dance and Physical Theatre, special edition of Australasian Drama Studies 41 (October 2002): 102-33. ———. “Operatic Tradition and Ambivalence in Chamber Made Opera’s Recital (Chesworth, Horton, Noonan),” in Keith Gallasch and Laura Ginters, eds. Music Theatre in Australia, special edition of Australasian Drama Studies 45 (October 2004): 72-96. ———. “Vertigo: Between the Word and the Act,” Independent Performance Forums, series of essays commissioned by Not Yet It’s Difficult theatre company and published in RealTime Australia 35 (2000): 10. Merzbow. Venereology. Audio recording. USA: Relapse, 1994. Richards, Alison, Geoffrey Milne, et al., eds. Pearls before Swine: Australian Theatre Criticism, special edition of Meajin 53.3 (Spring 1994). Tzara, Tristan. Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries. Trans. by Barbara Wright. London: Calder, 1992. Vaughan, David. Merce Cunningham: Fifty Years. Ed. Melissa Harris. New York: Aperture, 1997. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Marshall, Jonathan. "Inciting Reflection: A Short Manifesto for and Introduction to the Discursive Reviewing of the Arts." M/C Journal 8.5 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0510/08-marshall.php>. APA Style Marshall, J. (Oct. 2005) "Inciting Reflection: A Short Manifesto for and Introduction to the Discursive Reviewing of the Arts," M/C Journal, 8(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0510/08-marshall.php>.

Photograph by Gonzalo Echeverria (2010)The Screen would light up. They would feel a thrill of satisfaction. But the colours had faded with age, the picture wobbled on the screen, the women were of another age; they would come out they would be sad. It was not the film they had dreamt of. It was not the total film each of them had inside himself, the perfect film they could have enjoyed forever and ever. The film they would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt, the film they would have liked to live. (Perec 57) Over the years that I have watched and thought about Jean-Luc Godard’s films I have been struck by the idea of him as an artist who works with the moving image and perhaps just as importantly the idea of cinema as an irresolvable series of problems. Most obviously this ‘problematic condition’ of Godard’s practice is evidenced in the series of crises and renunciations that pepper the historical trace of his work. A trace that is often characterised thus: criticism, the Nouvelle Vague, May 1968, the Dziga Vertov group, the adoption of video, the return to narrative form, etc. etc. Of all these events it is the rejection of both the dominant cinematic narrative form and its attendant models of production that so clearly indicated the depth and intensity of Godard’s doubt in the artistic viability of the institution of cinema. Historically and ideologically congruent with the events of May 1968, this turning away from tradition was foreshadowed by the closing titles of his 1967 opus Week End: fin de cinema (the end of cinema). Godard’s relentless application to the task of engaging a more discursive and politically informed mode of operation had implications not only for the films that were made in the wake of his disavowal of cinema but also for those that preceded it. In writing this paper it was my initial intention to selectively consider the vast oeuvre of the filmmaker as a type of conceptual project that has in some way been defined by the condition of doubt. While to certain degree I have followed this remit, I have found it necessary to focus on a small number of historically correspondent filmic instances to make my point. The sheer size and complexity of Godard’s output would effectively doom any other approach to deal in generalities. To this end I am interested in the ways that these films have embodied doubt as both an aesthetic and philosophical position. There is an enduring sense of contentiousness that surrounds both the work and perceived motives of the filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard that has never come at the cost of discourse. Through a period of activity that now stretches into its sixth decade Godard has shaped an oeuvre that is as stylistically diverse as it is theoretically challenging. This span of practice is noteworthy not only for its sheer length but for its enduring ability to polarise both audiences and critical opinion. Indeed these opposing critical positions are so well inscribed in our historical understanding of Godard’s practice that they function as a type of secondary narrative. It is a narrative that the artist himself has been more than happy to cultivate and at times even engage. One hardly needs to be reminded that Godard came to making films as a critic. He asserted in the pages of his former employer Cahiers du Cinema in 1962 that “As a critic, I thought of myself as a filmmaker. Today I still think of myself as a critic, and in a sense I am, more than ever before. Instead of writing criticism, I make a film, but the critical dimension is subsumed” (59). If Godard did at this point in time believe that the criticality of practice as a filmmaker was “subsumed”, the ensuing years would see a more overt sense of criticality emerge in his work. By 1968 he was to largely reject both traditional cinematic form and production models in a concerted effort to explore the possibilities of a revolutionary cinema. In the same interview the director went on to extol the virtues of the cine-literacy that to a large part defined the loose alignment of Nouvelle Vague directors (Chabrol, Godard, Rohmer, Rivette, Truffaut) referred to as the Cahiers group claiming that “We were the first directors to know that Griffiths exists” (Godard 60). It is a statement that is as persuasive as it is dramatic, foregrounding the hitherto obscured history of cinema while positioning the group firmly within its master narrative. However, given the benefit of hindsight one realises that perhaps the filmmaker’s motives were not as simple as historical posturing. For Godard what is at stake is not just the history of cinema but cinema itself. When he states that “We were thinking cinema and at a certain moment we felt the need to extend that thought” one is struck by how far and for how long he has continued to think about and through cinema. In spite of the hours of strict ideological orthodoxy that accompanied his most politically informed works of the late 1960s and early 1970s or the sustained sense of wilful obtuseness that permeates his most “difficult” work, there is a sense of commitment to extending “that thought” that is without peer. The name “Godard”, in the words of the late critic Serge Daney, “designates an auteur but it is also synonymous with a tenacious passion for that region of the world of images we call the cinema” (Daney 68). It is a passion that is both the crux of his practice as an artist and the source of a restless experimentation and interrogation of the moving image. For Godard the passion of cinema is one that verges on religiosity. This carries with it all the philosophical and spiritual implications that the term implies. Cinema functions here as a system of signs that at once allows us to make sense of and live in the world. But this is a faith for Godard that is nothing if not tested. From the radical formal experimentation of his first feature film À Bout de soufflé (Breathless) onwards Godard has sought to place the idea of cinema in doubt. In this sense doubt becomes a type of critical engine that at once informs the shape of individual works and animates the constantly shifting positions the artist has occupied. Serge Daney's characterisation of the Nouvelle Vague as possessed of a “lucidity tinged with nostalgia” (70) is especially pertinent in understanding the way in which doubt came to animate Godard’s practice across the 1960s and beyond. Daney’s contention that the movement was both essentially nostalgic and saturated with an acute awareness that the past could not be recreated, casts the cinema itself as type of irresolvable proposition. Across the dazzling arc of films (15 features in 8 years) that Godard produced prior to his renunciation of narrative cinematic form in 1967, one can trace an unravelling of faith. During this period we can consider Godard's work and its increasingly complex engagement with the political as being predicated by the condition of doubt. The idea of the cinema as an industrial and social force increasingly permeates this work. For Godard the cinema becomes a site of questioning and ultimately reinvention. In his 1963 short film Le Grand Escroc (The Great Rogue) a character asserts that “cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world”. Indeed it is this sense of the paradoxical that shadows much of his work. The binary of beauty and fraud, like that of faith and doubt, calls forth a questioning of the cinema that stands to this day. It is of no small consequence that so many of Godard’s 1960s works contain scenes of people watching films within the confines of a movie theatre. For Godard and his Nouvelle Vague peers the sale de cinema was both the hallowed site of cinematic reception and the terrain of the everyday. It is perhaps not surprising then he chooses the movie theatre as a site to play out some of his most profound engagements with the cinema. Considered in relation to each other these scenes of cinematic viewing trace a narrative in which an undeniable affection for the cinema is undercut by both a sense of loss and doubt. Perhaps the most famous of Godard’s ‘viewing’ scenes is from the film Vivre Sa Vie (My Life to Live). Essentially a tale of existential trauma, the film follows the downward spiral of a young woman Nana (played by Anna Karina) into prostitution and then death at the hands of ruthless pimps. Championed (with qualifications) by Susan Sontag as a “perfect film” (207), it garnered just as many detractors, including famously the director Roberto Rosellini, for what was perceived to be its nihilistic content and overly stylised form. Seeking refuge in a cinema after being cast out from her apartment for non payment of rent the increasingly desperate Nana is shown engrossed in the starkly silent images of Carl Dreyer’s 1928 film La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (The Passion of Joan of Arc). Godard cuts from the action of his film to quote at length from Dreyer’s classic, returning from the mute intensity of Maria Faloconetti’s portrayal of the condemned Joan of Arc to Karina’s enraptured face. As Falconetti’s tears swell and fall so do Karina’s, the emotional rawness of the performance on the screen mirrored and internalised by the doomed character of Nana. Nana’s identification with that of the screen heroine is at once total and immaculate as her own brutal death at the hands of men is foretold. There is an ominous silence to this sequence that serves not only to foreground the sheer visual intensity of what is being shown but also to separate it from the world outside this purely cinematic space. However, if we are to read this scene as a testament to the power of the cinematic we must also admit to the doubt that resides within it. Godard’s act of separation invites us to consider the scene not only as a meditation on the emotional and existential state of the character of Nana but also on the foreshortened possibilities of the cinema itself. As Godard’s shots mirror those of Dreyer we are presented with a consummate portrait of irrevocable loss. This is a complex system of imagery that places Dreyer’s faith against Godard’s doubt without care for the possibility of resolution. Of all Godard’s 1960s films that feature cinema spectatorship the sequence belonging to Masculin Féminin (Masculine Feminine) from 1966 is perhaps the most confounding and certainly the most digressive. A series of events largely driven by a single character’s inability or unwillingness to surrender to the projected image serve to frustrate, fracture and complexify the cinema-viewing experience. It is however, a viewing experience that articulates the depth of Godard’s doubt in the viability of the cinematic form. The sequence, like much of the film itself, centres on the trials of the character Paul played by Jean-Pierre Léaud. Locked in a struggle against the pop-cultural currents of the day and the attendant culture of consumption and appearances, Paul is positioned within the film as a somewhat conflicted and ultimately doomed romantic. His relationship with Madeleine played by real life yé-yé singer Chantal Goya is a source of constant anxiety. The world that he inhabits, however marginally, of nightclubs, pop records and publicity seems philosophically at odds with the classical music and literature that he avidly devours. If the cinema-viewing scene of Vivre Sa Vie is defined by the enraptured intensity of Anna Karina’s gaze, the corresponding scene in Masculin Féminin stands, at least initially, as the very model of distracted spectatorship. As the film in the theatre starts, Paul who has been squeezed out of his seat next to Madeleine by her jealous girlfriend, declares that he needs to go to the toilet. On entering the bathroom he is confronted by the sight of a pair of men locked in a passionate kiss. It is a strange and disarming turn of events that prompts his hastily composed graffiti response: down with the republic of cowards. For theorist Nicole Brenez the appearance of these male lovers “is practically a fantasmatic image evoked by the amorous situation that Paul is experiencing” (Brenez 174). This quasi-spectral appearance of embracing lovers and grafitti writing is echoed in the following sequence where Paul once again leaves the theatre, this time to fervently inform the largely indifferent theatre projectionist about the correct projection ratio of the film being shown. On his graffiti strewn journey back inside Paul encounters an embracing man and woman nestled in an outer corner of the theatre building. Silent and motionless the presence of this intertwined couple is at once unsettling and prescient providing “a background real for what is being projected inside on the screen” (Brenez 174). On returning to the theatre Paul asks Madeleine to fill him in on what he has missed to which she replies, “It is about a man and woman in a foreign city who…”. Shot in Stockholm to appease the Swedish co-producers that stipulated that part of the production be made in Sweden, the film within a film occupies a fine line between restrained formal artfulness and pornographic violence. What could have been a creatively stifling demand on the part of his financial backers was inverted by Godard to become a complex exploration of power relations played out through an unsettling sexual encounter. When questioned on set by a Swedish television reporter what the film was about the filmmaker curtly replied, “The film has a lot to do with sex and the Swedish are known for that” (Masculin Féminin). The film possesses a barely concealed undertow of violence. A drama of resistance and submission is played out within the confines of a starkly decorated apartment. The apartment itself is a zone in which language ceases to operate or at the least is reduced to its barest components. The man’s imploring grunts are met with the woman’s repeated reply of “no”. What seemingly begins as a homage to the contemporaneous work of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman quickly slides into a chronicle of coercion. As the final scene of seduction/debasement is played out on the screen the camera pulls away to reveal the captivated gazes of Madeleine and her friends. It finally rests on Paul who then shuts his eyes, unable to bear what is being shown on the screen. It is a moment of refusal that marks a turning away not only from this projected image but from cinema itself. A point made all the clearer by Paul’s voiceover that accompanies the scene: We went to the movies often. The screen would light up and we would feel a thrill. But Madeleine and I were usually disappointed. The images were dated and jumpy. Marilyn Monroe had aged badly. We felt sad. It wasn't the movie of our dreams. It wasn't that total film we carried inside ourselves. That film we would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt the film we wanted to live. (Masculin Féminin) There was a dogged relentlessness to Godard’s interrogation of the cinema through the very space of its display. 1963’s Le Mépris (Contempt) swapped the public movie theatre for the private screening room; a theatrette emblazoned with the words Il cinema é un’invenzione senza avvenire. The phrase, presented in a style that recalled Soviet revolutionary graphics, is an Italian translation of Louis Lumiere’s 1895 appraisal of his new creation: “The cinema is an invention without a future.” The words have an almost physical presence in the space providing a fatalistic backdrop to the ensuing scene of conflict and commerce. As an exercise in self reflexivity it at once serves to remind us that even at its inception the cinema was cast in doubt. In Le Mépris the pleasures of spectatorship are played against the commercial demands of the cinema as industry. Following a screening of rushes for a troubled production of Homer’s Odyssey a tempestuous exchange ensues between a hot-headed producer (Jeremy Prokosch played by Jack Palance) and a calmly philosophical director (Fritz Lang as himself). It is a scene that attests to Godard’s view of the cinema as an art form that is creatively compromised by its own modes of production. In a film that plays the disintegration of a relationship against the production of a movie and that features a cast of Germans, Italians and French it is of no small consequence that the movie producer is played by an American. An American who, when faced with a creative impasse, utters the phrase “when I hear the word culture I bring out my checkbook”. It is one of Godard’s most acerbic and doubt filled sequences pitting as he does the implied genius of Lang against the tantrum throwing demands of the rapacious movie producer. We are presented with a model of industrial relations that is both creatively stifling and practically unworkable. Certainly it was no coincidence that Le Mépris had the biggest budget ($1 million) that Godard has ever worked with. In Godard’s 1965 film Une Femme Mariée (A Married Woman), he would once again use the movie theatre as a location. The film, which dealt with the philosophical implications of an adulterous affair, is also notable for its examination of the Holocaust and that defining event’s relationship to personal and collective memory. Biographer Richard Brody has observed that, “Godard introduced the Auschwitz trial into The Married Woman (sic) as a way of inserting his view of another sort of forgetting that he suggested had taken hold of France—the conjoined failures of historical and personal memory that resulted from the world of mass media and the ideology of gratification” (Brody 196-7). Whatever the causes, there is a pervading sense of amnesia that surrounds the Holocaust in the film. In one exchange the character of Charlotte, the married woman in question, momentarily confuses Auschwitz with thalidomide going on to later exclaim that “the past isn’t fun”. But like the barely repressed memories of her past indiscretions, the Holocaust returns at the most unexpected juncture in the film. In what starts out as Godard’s most overt reference to the work of Alfred Hitchcock, Charlotte and her lover secretly meet under the cover of darkness in a movie theatre. Each arriving separately and kitted out in dark sunglasses, there is breezy energy to this clandestine rendezvous highly reminiscent of the work of the great director. It is a stylistic point that is underscored in the film by the inclusion of a full-frame shot of Hitchcock’s portrait in the theatre’s foyer. However, as the lovers embrace the curtain rises on Alain Resnais’s 1955 documentary Nuit et Brouillard (Night and Fog). The screen is filled with images of barbed wire as the voice of narrator Jean Cayrol informs the audience that “even a vacation village with a fair and a steeple can lead very simply to a concentration camp.” It is an incredibly shocking moment, in which the repressed returns to confirm that while memory “isn’t fun”, it is indeed necessary. An uncanny sense of recognition pervades the scene as the two lovers are faced with the horrendous evidence of a past that refuses to stay subsumed. The scene is all the more powerful for the seemingly casual manner it is relayed. There is no suspenseful unveiling or affected gauging of the viewers’ reactions. What is simply is. In this moment of recognition the Hitchcockian mood of the anticipation of an illicit rendezvous is supplanted by a numbness as swift as it is complete. Needless to say the couple make a swift retreat from the now forever compromised space of the theatre. Indeed this scene is one of the most complex and historically layered of any that Godard had produced up to this point in his career. By making overt reference to Hitchcock he intimates that the cinema itself is deeply implicated in this perceived crisis of memory. What begins as a homage to the work of one of the most valorised influences of the Nouvelle Vague ends as a doubt filled meditation on the shortcomings of a system of representation. The question stands: how do we remember through the cinema? In this regard the scene signposts a line of investigation that would become a defining obsession of Godard’s expansive Histoire(s) du cinéma, a project that was to occupy him throughout the 1990s. Across four chapters and four and half hours Histoire(s) du cinéma examines the inextricable relationship between the history of the twentieth century and the cinema. Comprised almost completely of filmic quotations, images and text, the work employs a video-based visual language that unremittingly layers image upon image to dissolve and realign the past. In the words of theorist Junji Hori “Godard's historiography in Histoire(s) du cinéma is based principally on the concept of montage in his idiosyncratic sense of the term” (336). In identifying montage as the key strategy in Histoire(s) du cinéma Hori implicates the cinema itself as central to both Godard’s process of retelling history and remembering it. However, it is a process of remembering that is essentially compromised. Just as the relationship of the cinema to the Holocaust is bought into question in Une Femme Mariée, so too it becomes a central concern of Histoire(s) du cinéma. It is Godard’s assertion “that the cinema failed to honour its ethical commitment to presenting the unthinkable barbarity of the Nazi extermination camps” (Temple 332). This was a failure that for Godard moved beyond the realm of doubt to represent “nothing less than the end of cinema” (Brody 512). In October 1976 the New Yorker magazine published a profile of Jean Luc Godard by Penelope Gilliatt a writer who shared the post of film critic at the magazine with Pauline Kael. The article was based on an interview that took place at Godard’s production studio in Grenoble Switzerland. It was notable for two things: Namely, the most succinct statement that Godard has made regarding the enduring sense of criticality that pervades his work: “A good film is a matter of questions properly put.” (74) And secondly, surely the shortest sentence ever written about the filmmaker: “Doubt stands.” (77)ReferencesÀ Bout de soufflé. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. 1960. DVD. Criterion, 2007. Brenez, Nicole. “The Forms of the Question.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Brody, Richard. Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard. New York: Metropolitan Books / Henry Holt & Co., 2008. Daney, Serge. “The Godard Paradox.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Gilliat, Penelope. “The Urgent Whisper.” Jean-Luc Godard Interviews. Ed. David Sterritt. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998. Godard, Jean-Luc. “Jean-Luc Godard: 'From Critic to Film-Maker': Godard in Interview (extracts). ('Entretien', Cahiers du Cinema 138, December 1962).” Cahiers du Cinéma: 1960-1968 New Wave, New Cinema, Reevaluating Hollywood. Ed. Jim Hillier. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986. Histoires du Cinema. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1988-98. DVD, Artificial Eye, 2008. Hori, Junji. “Godard’s Two Histiographies.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Le Grand Escroc. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean Seberg. Film. Ulysse Productions, 1963. Le Mépris. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jack Palance, Fritz Lang. 1964. DVD. Criterion, 2002. La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc. Dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer. Film. Janus films, 1928. MacCabe, Colin. Godard: A Portrait of the Artist at 70. London: Bloomsbury, 2003. Masculin Féminin. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean-Pierre Léaud. 1966. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Nuit et Brouillard. Dir Alain Resnais. Film. Janus Films, 1958. Perec, Georges. Things: A Story of the Sixties. Trans. David Bellos. London: Collins Harvill, 1990. (Originally published 1965.) Sontag, Susan. “Godard’s Vivre Sa Vie.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Picador, 2001. Temple, Michael, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt, eds. For Ever Godard. London: Black Dog, 2004. Une Femme Mariée. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Macha Meril. 1964. DVD. Eureka, 2009. Vivre Sa Vie. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Anna Karina. 1962. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Week End, Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1967. DVD. Distinction Series, 2005.

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash ABSTRACT In cases where the law conflicts with bioethics, the status of rights must be determined to resolve some of the tensions. This paper considers the origins of both legal and philosophical rights, arguing that rights per se do not exist naturally. Even natural rights that are constitutional or statutory came from relationships rather than existing in nature. Once agreed upon, rights develop moral influence. INTRODUCTION l. The Question of Rights The language of rights is omnipresent in current discourse in law, bioethics, and many other disciplines. Rights dialogue is frequently contentious – some thinkers take issue with various uses of rights in the modern dialogue. For example, some criticize “rights talk,” which heightens social conflict when used as a “trump” against disfavored arguments.[1] Others are displeased by what is termed “rights inflation,” where too many novel rights are developed, such that the rights these scholars view as “more important” become devalued.[2] Some solutions have been proposed: one recommendation is that rights should be restricted to extremely important or essential ones. Some Supreme Court justices make arguments for applying original meanings in legal cases.[3] Conflict over the quantity and status of rights has long been a subject of debate in law and philosophy. Even Jefferson had to balance his own strict reading of the Constitution with tendencies to exceed the plain text of the document.[4] This thread of discourse has grown in political prominence over the years, with more Supreme Court cases that suggest newly developed (or, perhaps, newly recognized) rights. The theoretical conflict between textualists and those looking to intent or context could lead to repealing rights to abortion, sterilization, or marital privacy and deeply impacts our daily lives. Bioethics is ubiquitous, and rights discourse is fundamental. This paper analyzes the assumptions that underlie the existence of rights. The law is steeped in philosophy, though philosophical theories have an often-unacknowledged role. This is especially true in cases that navigate difficult bioethical issues. As a result of this interleaving, the ontological status of rights is necessary to resolve some of the theoretical tensions. Many philosophers have either argued for or implicitly included human rights in their theories of morality and legality. However, there is no universally accepted definition of rights; various philosophers have their own approaches. For example: Louden comments, “Rights are permissions rather than requirements. Rights tell us what the bearer is at liberty to do”; Martin thinks that a right is “an established way of acting”; Hohfeld concludes that all rights are claims.[5] Similarly, there is dissent about the qualities of rights: The Declaration of Independence characterizes rights as unalienable, but not all thinkers agree. Nickel comments, “Inalienability does not mean that rights are absolute or can never be overridden by other considerations. . . Perhaps it is sufficient to say that [human] rights are very hard to lose.”[6] This discord necessitates additional analysis. “Many people tend to take the validity of. . . rights for granted. . . However, moral philosophers do not enjoy such license for epistemological complacency.”[7] Because of the fundamental impact that political and moral philosophy enacted as the law have, this paper considers the origins of both legal and philosophical rights, arguing that rights per se do not exist naturally. Even natural rights that are constitutional or statutory came from relationships rather than existing in nature. Once agreed upon, rights take on moral force. ll. Legal Rights: From Case to Constitution Bioethics and law sometimes address rights differently. Three Supreme Court cases marked the development of privacy rights in the United States: Griswold v. Connecticut (1965), Roe v. Wade (1973) and Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health (1990). These cases shape the normative dialogue and consider complex moral quandaries. Griswold v. Connecticut concerned providing contraception to married couples in contravention of state law. Justice Douglas writes for the majority that, based in “a right of privacy older than the Bill of Rights,” legally protected zones of privacy extend from the text of the Constitution. “Specific guarantees in the Bill of Rights have penumbras, formed by emanations from those guarantees that help give them life and substance.”[8] Writing in dissent, Justice Black argues that there is not a broad right to privacy included in the provisions of the Constitution, and expresses concern over “dilut[ion] or expans[ion]” of enumerated rights by terms such as privacy, which he characterizes as abstract and ambiguous – and subject to liberal reinterpretation.[9] He concludes that the government does have the right to invade privacy “unless prohibited by some specific constitutional provision.”[10] Also dissenting, Justice Stewart finetunes the argument: rather than look to community values beyond the Constitution, the Court ought to rely solely on text of the document, in which he “can find no such general right of privacy in the Bill of Rights, in any other part of the Constitution, or in any case ever decided by this court.”[11] Thus, Griswold v. Connecticut is an example of the tensions within the Supreme Court over strict textualism or broader interpretations of the Constitution that look to intent and purpose. Roe v. Wade held that there is a right to privacy found through the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment that includes the right to make medical decisions including abortion. While the conclusion – that there is a Constitutionally protected right to abortion, with certain limits seems to expand the Griswold doctrine of privacy rights, dissent to the ruling stems from much the same concern as before. Justice Rehnquist writes: A transaction resulting in an operation such as this is not "private" in the ordinary usage of that word. Nor is the "privacy" that the Court finds here even a distant relative of the freedom from searches and seizures protected by the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution, which the Court has referred to as embodying a right to privacy.[12] However, he then departs from the stricter approach of Justices Black and Stewart: I agree… that the "liberty," against deprivation of which without due process the Fourteenth Amendment protects, embraces more than the rights found in the Bill of Rights. But that liberty is not guaranteed absolutely against deprivation, only against deprivation without due process of law.[13] This is a tempering of the stricter constructionism found earlier, where more latitude is allowed for the interpretation of the text of the Constitution, even though there are clearly limits on how far the words may be stretched, with the genesis of a new right. Later, in Planned Parenthood of Southwestern Pennsylvania v. Casey, the Court further refined Roe v. Wade implementing an “undue burden” test.[14] In Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health, the Court held that there is a general liberty interest in the refusal of medical treatment. The case continues the tradition of Griswold and Roe v. Wade ensuring a liberty that is beyond the text, but also allows states to impose a strict evidentiary burden to shape how the right is exercised. The Court affirmed the lower court’s decision that “because there was no clear and convincing evidence of Nancy [Cruzan’s] desire to have life-sustaining treatment withdrawn. . . her parents lacked authority to effectuate such a request.”[15] The Supreme Court found that the clear and convincing evidentiary burden applied by the Missouri Supreme Court was consistent with the Due Process clause. Justice Scalia notes that even though he agrees with the Court’s decision, he finds this judgment unnecessary or, perhaps counterproductive, because the philosophical underpinnings of the case “are neither set forth in the Constitution nor known to the nine Justices of this Court any better than they are known to nine people picked at random from the Kansas City telephone directory” and should be left to the states to legislate as they see fit.[16] He goes on to further argue that the Due Process clause “does not protect individuals against deprivations of liberty simpliciter”; rather, it protects them from infringements of liberty that are not accompanied by due process.[17] Justice Scalia’s textualist position likely influenced his remarks.[18] Comparing these cases, I argue there is a distinct effort to make the Constitution amenable to contemporary mores and able to address present issues that is moderated by justices who adhere to the text. The legal evolution of rights that are beyond the text of the Constitution may reflect social norms as well as the framers’ intent. Rights are protected by the Constitution, but the Constitution is mutable, through both case law and legislation. Prior to the adoption of the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence declared: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.[19] The Declaration of Independence gives insight into rights prior to the Constitution by referring to a priori rights extended by a creator, sheltered and supported by the state.[20] For earlier evidence of rights, Supreme Court cases often reference English common law doctrines. The common law was informed by preexisting principles and drew on a historical body of thought: philosophy. Exploring philosophy can give insight about the evolution of law. lll. Philosophical Rights: Issues of Ontology A moral right, the precursor to many legal rights, in some ways is a claim that bears moral weight. One relevant distinction is between positive and negative rights: a positive right is a claim on another to do something for the right holder; a negative right is a claim on others to leave the rights holder alone. Some rights are per se (that is, rights that have a de novo ontological origin) and some are constructed (rights that are secondary to some other theoretical apparatus). We must appeal to the state of nature to understand the origin of rights. If rights exist in the state of nature, they are de novo; if not, they are constructed. The state of nature is the theoretical realm where there are no social conventions or no normative rules. The theoretical state of nature is stateless. Hobbes writes about the state of nature. He constructs the person within as incorporating two normative qualities: the law of nature, “whereby individuals are forbidden to do anything destructive of their lives or to omit the means of self-preservation,” and the right of nature, where the person has the “right to all things” – those things required for self-preservation.[21] Similarly, more contemporary philosophers have also inferred that the right to freedom is a natural right.[22] I argue that nature allows every person the freedom to all things, or a natural right against limitation on freedom. Every person has the capacity to do whatever they want, in accordance with their reason; liberty, rather than being a normative claim, is a component of the essence of beings. Yet both nature and other people pose some limitations. Early modern contractarians’ status theories maintain that human attributes engender rights. [23] A specific formulation of human status ethics can be found in Kantian deontology. From the autonomous and rational will, Kant evolves his Categorical Imperative: “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.”[24] Without (or before) law, philosophers suggested behaviors should reflect moral rights. Like Rawls, I maintain that the state of nature includes both a scarcity of resources and individuals with whom we may develop conflicts of interest.[25] Individually, we are vulnerable to others, and because of that natural vulnerability, we have an inclination toward self-interest.[26] Therefore, we eventually find the state of nature unsatisfactory and move to create a civil society. Then the subsequent pathway to creating “rights” is well known. People agree on them and act accordingly. Then, they are enshrined in the law.[27] I attribute the impetus to move from the state of nature toward government to interpersonal interaction that creates a form of the social contract. Rawls qualitatively describes this when he notes the “identity of interests” that powers interpersonal cooperation.[28] To me, the development of positive social relations has three components. The first is the human capacity for empathy. Empathy is commonly accepted by psychologists as universal.[29] Kittay deepens the concept of human empathy, arguing that there is a “register of inevitable human dependency” – a natural sense of care found in the human experience of suffering and decay and death to which we all eventually succumb, necessitating a recognition of interdependence and cooperation.[30] The second is the importance of identity in generating social cooperation.[31] There is a sense of familial resemblance that resonates when we see others in our lives, forming the base of the identification that allows us to create bonds of mutual assent. A microsociety develops when people are exposed to each other and acts as a miniaturized state, governed by what is at first an implicit social contract. An internal order is generated and can be codified. The third component of social relations is the extension of the otherness-yet-sameness beyond human adults. Mirroring connects the fully abled adult man and the woman, as well as the child, the physically and mentally disabled, and could extend to animals as well.[32] Therefore, to me, it seems that rights do not exist per se in the state of nature, but because of our human capacities, relationships yield a social contract. This contract governs interpersonal relations with normative power: rights are constructed. Once constructed based on people in micro-society and then larger groups, rights were codified. Negative rights like those found in the U.S. Constitution allow people in liberal society to codify nearly universal ground rules in certain arenas while respecting minority views and differing priorities. However, the social contract is not absolute: it may be broken by any party with the power to enforce their will upon the other and it will evolve to reflect changing standards. So, there is a subtle distinction to be made: in unequal contractual social relations, there are not constructed rights but rather privileges. In a social relationship that aims at equal status among members, these privileges are normative claims – rights that are not inherent or a priori but mandated to be equally applied by society’s governing body. In this way, I differ from Rawls. To me, justice is a fundamental moral principle only for societies that aim at cooperation, where advancing the interests of all is valued.[33] CONCLUSION From Liberty to Law Social contractualism purports to provide moral rules for its followers even when other ethical systems flounder in the state of nature. Relationships consider the needs and wants of others. Rights exist, with the stipulation that they are constructed under social contracts that aim for equality of application. I also suggest that contractualist approaches may even expand the parties who may be allowed rights, something that has significant bearing on the law and practical bioethics. The strict/loose constructionism debate that has played out in the Supreme Court’s decisions focuses on whether rights are enumerated or implied. Theoretical or implicit contracts may be change quickly, based on the power dynamics in a social relationship. Theoretical bounds of the social contract (possibly including animals, nonhumans, etc.) may be constricted by an official contract, so these concerns would need to be adjudicated in the context of the Constitution. In certain cases, strict interpretation reflects the rights determined by the social compact and limits new positive rights; in others, a broad interpretation keeps government out of certain decisions, expanding negative rights to reflect changing social norms. The negative rights afforded in the Constitution provide a framework meant to allow expansive individual choices and freedom. The underlying social compact has more to do with the norms behind societal structure than forcing a set of agreed upon social norms at the level of individual behavior. The Constitution’s text can be unclear, arbitrary, or open to multiple meanings. The literary theorist may be willing to accept contradiction or multiple meanings, but the legal scholar may not. The issue of whether the social compact is set or evolving affects constitutional interpretation. The law is itself may be stuck in a state of indeterminacy: the law, in the eyes of the framers, was centered on a discourse steeped in natural, human rights, attributed to a creator. Today, there is an impulse toward inherent human dignity to support rights. The strict/loose constructionism debate concerns interpretation.[34] In conclusion, rights have no ontological status per se, but are derived from a complex framework that springs from our relationships and dictates the appropriateness of our actions. While the Constitution establishes the negative rights reflecting a social compact, interpretations recognize the limitations on rights that are also rooted in societal relationships. The author would like to thank Stephen G. Post, PhD, and Caitlyn Tabor, JD, for providing feedback on early drafts of this paper. [1] Mary Ann Glendon, A World Made New: Eleanor Roosevelt and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (New York: Random House, 2001), 14. [2] James Griffin, On Human Rights (Oxford: Oxford University, 2008). [3] Maurice Cranston, What Are Human Rights? (London: Bodley Head, 1973). [4] Barry Balleck, “When The Ends Justify the Means: Thomas Jefferson and the Louisiana Purchase,” Presidential Studies Quarterly 22, no. 4 (1992): 679-680. [5] Robert Louden, “Rights Infatuation and the Impoverishment of Moral Theory,” Journal of Value Inquiry 17 (1983): 95; Rex Martin, A System of Rights (Oxford: Oxford University, 1993), 1; Wesley Hohfeld, Fundamental Legal Conceptions (New Haven: Yale University, 1919), 36. [6] James Nickel, "Human Rights", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2019 Edition), ed. Edward N. Zalta, accessed 27 April 2021, https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/rights-human/. [7] Andrew Fagan, “Human Rights,” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. James Fieser and Bradley Dowden, accessed 27 April 2021, https://iep.utm.edu/hum-rts/. [8] Griswold v. Connecticut 381 U.S. 479 (1965), para. 18, https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/381/479. [9] Griswold v. Connecticut 381 U.S. 479 (1965), para. 69 https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/381/479. [10] Griswold v. Connecticut 381 U.S. 479 (1965), para. 69 https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/381/479. [11] Griswold v. Connecticut 381 U.S. 479 (1965), para. 92 https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/381/479. [12] Roe v. Wade 410 U.S. 113 (1973), 172, https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/410/113%26amp. [13] Roe v. Wade 410 U.S. 113 (1973), 172-173, https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/410/113%26amp. [14] Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833 (1992), https://supreme.justia.com/cases/federal/us/505/833/#:~:text=Casey%2C%20505%20U.S.%20833%20(1992)&text=A%20person%20retains%20the%20right,the%20mother%20is%20at%20risk. [15] Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health 497 U.S. 261 (1990), https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/88-1503.ZO.html. [16] Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health 497 U.S. 261 (1990), https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/88-1503.ZO.html. [17] Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health 497 U.S. 261 (1990), https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/88-1503.ZO.html. [18] It is worth noting that some of the Supreme Court’s conservatives – like Scalia, Thomas, Roberts – have expressed explicit disdain for the right to privacy introduced in Griswold. Jamal Greene, “The So-Called Right to Privacy,” UC Davis Law Review 43 (2010): 715-747, https://scholarship.law.columbia.edu/faculty_scholarship/622. [19] National Archives. “Declaration of Independence: A Transcription.” July 4, 1776; reviewed July 24, 2020, https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-transcript. [20] However, the reference to a creator has come to mean a natural right and a priori best describes it rather than a religious underpinning. To borrow from Husserl, this approach will be bracketed out. [21] DJC Carmichael, “Hobbes on Natural Right in Society: The ‘Leviathan’ Account,” Canadian Journal of Political Science 23, no. 1 (1990): 4-5. [22] HLA Hart, “Are There Any Natural Rights?” The Philosophical Review 64, no. 2 (1955): 175. [23] Warren Quinn, Morality and Action (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993), 170. [24] Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, trans. James Ellington, 3rd ed. (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993), 30. [25] John Rawls, A Theory of Justice: Revised Edition (Cambridge: Belknap, 1999), 109. [26] JS Mill, Remarks on Bentham’s Philosophy, in Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, Vol. X, ed. JM Robson (Toronto: U of Toronto Press, 1985), 13-14. [27] Rex Martin, A System of Rights (Oxford: Oxford University, 1993), 1; Kenneth Baynes, “Kant on Property Rights and the Social Contract,” The Monist 72, no. 3 (1989): 433-453. [28] John Rawls, A Theory of Justice: Revised Edition (Cambridge: Belknap, 1999), 109. [29] Frederik von Harbou, “A Remedy Called Empathy: The Neglected Element of Human Rights Theory,” Archives for Philosophy of Law and Social Philosophy 99, no. 2 (2013): 141. [30] Eva Feder Kittay. Learning from My Daughter: The Value and Care of Disabled Minds (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2019), 145-146. [31] Jane Gallop, “Lacan’s ‘Mirror Stage’: Where to Begin,” SubStance 11, no. 4 (1983): 121; Lacan, Jacques. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Book X: Anxiety: 1962-1963, trans. Cormac Gallagher, 26-27, https://www.valas.fr/IMG/pdf/THE-SEMINAR-OF-JACQUES-LACAN-X_l_angoisse.pdf. (In Lacanian psychoanalytic theory, human development necessitates both recognition of the Self and the separation of the Self from the Other.) [32] Lacan, Jacques. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Book X: Anxiety: 1962-1963, trans. Cormac Gallagher, 27-28, https://www.valas.fr/IMG/pdf/THE-SEMINAR-OF-JACQUES-LACAN-X_l_angoisse.pdf. [33] There is an interesting discussion to be had about whether social contract theory allows for this gradation in quality of contracts, or whether the two are fundamentally different phenomena. I cannot answer this question here; John Rawls, A Theory of Justice: Revised Edition (Cambridge: Belknap, 1999), 102-103. [34] Ruthellen Josselson, “The Hermeneutics of Faith and the Hermeneutics of Suspicion,” Narrative Inquiry 14, no. 1 (2004): 2-4.

Literature—at least serious literature—is something that we work at. This is especially true within the academy. Literature departments are places where workers labour over texts carefully extracting and sharing meanings, for which they receive monetary reward. Specialised languages are developed to describe professional concerns. Over the last thirty years, the productions of mass culture, once regarded as too slight to warrant laborious explication, have been admitted to the academic workroom. Gothic studies—the specialist area that treats fearful and horrifying texts —has embraced the growing acceptability of devoting academic effort to texts that would once have fallen outside of the remit of “serious” study. In the seventies, when Gothic studies was just beginning to establish itself, there was a perception that the Gothic was “merely a literature of surfaces and sensations”, and that any Gothic of substantial literary worth had transcended the genre (Thompson 1). Early specialists in the field noted this prejudice; David Punter wrote of the genre’s “difficulty in establishing respectable credentials” (403), while Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick hoped her work would “make it easier for the reader of ‘respectable’ nineteenth-century novels to write ‘Gothic’ in the margin” (4). Gothic studies has gathered a modicum of this longed-for respectability for the texts it treats by deploying the methodologies used within literature departments. This has yielded readings that are largely congruous with readings of other sorts of literature; the Gothic text tells us things about ourselves and the world we inhabit, about power, culture and history. Yet the Gothic remains a production of popular culture as much as it is of the valorised literary field. I do not wish to argue for a reintroduction of the great divide described by Andreas Huyssen, but instead to suggest that we have missed something important about the ways in which popular Gothics—and perhaps other sorts of popular text—function. What if the popular Gothic were not a type of work, but a kind of play? How might this change the way we read these texts? Johan Huizinga noted that “play is not ‘ordinary’ or ‘real’ life. It is rather a stepping out of ‘real’ life into a temporary sphere of activity with a disposition all of its own. Every child knows perfectly well he is ‘only pretending’, or that it was ‘only for fun’” (8). If the Gothic sometimes offers playful texts, then those texts might direct readers not primarily towards the real, but away from it, at least for a limited time. This might help to account for the wicked spectacle offered by Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out, and in particular, its presentation of the black mass. The black mass is the parody of the Christian mass thought to be performed by witches and diabolists. Although it has doubtless been performed on rare occasions since the Middle Ages, the first black mass for which we have substantial documentary evidence was celebrated in Hampstead on Boxing Day 1918, by Montague Summers; it is a satisfying coincidence that Summers was one of the Gothic’s earliest scholars. We have record of Summer’s mass because it was watched by a non-participant, Anatole James, who was “bored to tears” as Summers recited tracts of Latin and practiced homosexual acts with a youth named Sullivan while James looked on (Medway 382-3). Summers claimed to be a Catholic priest, although there is some doubt as to the legitimacy of his ordination. The black mass ought to be officiated by a Catholic clergyman so the host may be transubstantiated before it is blasphemed. In doing so, the mass de-emphasises interpretive meaning and is an assault on the body of Christ rather than a mutilation of the symbol of Christ’s love and sacrifice. Thus, it is not conceived of primarily as a representational act but as actual violence. Nevertheless, Summers’ black mass seems like an elaborate form of sexual play more than spiritual warfare; by asking an acquaintance to observe the mass, Summers formulated the ritual as an erotic performance. The black mass was a favourite trope of the English Gothic of the nineteen-sixties and seventies. Dennis Wheatley’s The Devil Rides Out features an extended presentation of the mass; it was first published in 1934, but had achieved a kind of genre-specific canonicity by the nineteen-sixties, so that many Gothics produced and consumed in the sixties and seventies featured depictions of the black mass that drew from Wheatley’s original. Like Summers, Wheatley’s mass emphasised licentious sexual practice and, significantly, featured a voyeur or voyeurs watching the performance. Where James only wished Summers’ mass would end, Wheatley and his followers presented the mass as requiring interruption before it reaches a climax. This version of the mass recurs in most of Wheatley’s black magic novels, but it also appears in paperback romances, such as Susan Howatch’s 1973 The Devil on Lammas Night; it is reimagined in the literate and genuinely eerie short stories of Robert Aickman, which are just now thankfully coming back into print; it appears twice in Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast books. Nor was the black mass confined to the written Gothic, appearing in films of the period too; The Kiss of the Vampire (1963), The Witches (1966), Satan’s Skin, aka Blood on Satan’s Claw (1970), The Wicker Man (1973), and The Satanic Rites of Dracula (1974) all feature celebrations of the Sabbat, as, of course do the filmed adaptations of Wheatley’s novels, The Devil Rides Out (1967) and To the Devil a Daughter (1975). More than just a key trope, the black mass was a procedure characteristic of the English Gothic of the sixties; narratives were structured so as to lead towards its performance. All of the texts mentioned above repeat narrative and trope, but more importantly, they loosely repeat experience, both for readers and the characters depicted. While Summers’ black mass apparently made for tiresome viewing, textual representations of the black mass typically embrace the pageant and sensuality of the Catholic mass it perverts, involving music, incense and spectacle. Often animalistic sex, bestiality, infanticide or human sacrifice are staged, and are intended to fascinate rather than bore. Although far from canonical in a literary sense, by 1969 Wheatley was an institution. He had sold 27 million books worldwide and around 70 percent of those had been within the British market. All of his 55 books were in print. A new Wheatley in hardcover would typically sell 30,000 copies, and paperback sales of his back catalogue stood at more than a million books a year. While Wheatley wrote thrillers in a range of different subgenres, at the end of the sixties it was his ‘black magic’ stories that were far and away the most popular. While moderately successful when first published, they developed their most substantial audience in the sixties. When The Satanist was published in paperback in 1966, it sold more than 100,000 copies in the first ten days. By 1973, five of these eight black magic titles had sold more than a million copies. The first of these was The Devil Rides Out which, although originally published in 1934, by 1973, helped by the Hammer film of 1967, had sold more than one and a half million copies, making it the most successful of the group (“Pooter”; Hedman and Alexandersson 20, 73). Wheatley’s black magic stories provide a good example of the way that texts persist and accumulate influence in a genre field, gaining genre-specific canonicity. Wheatley’s apparent influence on Gothic texts and films that followed, coupled with the sheer number of his books sold, indicate that he occupied a central position in the field, and that his approach to the genre became, for a time, a defining one. Wheatley’s black magic stories apparently developed a new readership in the sixties. The black mass perhaps became legible as a salacious, nightmarish version of some imaginary hippy gathering. While Wheatley’s Satanists are villainous, there is a vaguely progressive air about them; they listen to unconventional music, dance in the nude, participate in unconventional sexual practice, and glut themselves on various intoxicants. This, after all, was the age of Hair, Oh! Calcutta! and Oz magazine, “an era of personal liberation, in the view of some critics, one of moral anarchy” (Morgan 149). Without suggesting that the Satanists represent hippies there is a contextual relevancy available to later readers that would have been missing in the thirties. The sexual zeitgeist would have allowed later readers to pornographically and pleasurably imagine the liberated sexuality of the era without having to approve of it. Wheatley’s work has since become deeply, embarrassingly unfashionable. The books are racist, sexist, homophobic and committed to a basically fascistic vision of an imperial England, all of which will repel most casual readers. Nor do his works provide an especially good venue for academic criticism; all surface, they do not reward the labour of careful, deep reading. The Devil Rides Out narrates the story of a group of friends locked in a battle with the wicked Satanist Mocata, “a pot-bellied, bald headed person of about sixty, with large, protuberant, fishy eyes, limp hands, and a most unattractive lisp” (11), based, apparently, on the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley (Ellis 145-6). Mocata hopes to start a conflict on the scale of the Great War by performing the appropriate devilish rituals. Led by the aged yet spry Duke de Richleau and garrulous American Rex van Ryn, the friends combat Mocata in three substantial set pieces, including their attempt to disrupt the black mass as it is performed in a secluded field in Wiltshire. The Devil Rides Out is a ripping story. Wheatley’s narrative is urgent, and his simple prose suggests that the book is meant to be read quickly. Likewise, Wheatley’s protagonists do not experience in any real way the crises and collapses that so frequently trouble characters who struggle against the forces of darkness in Gothic narratives. Even when de Richlieu’s courage fails as he observes the Wiltshire Sabbat, this failure is temporary; Rex simply treats him as if he has been physically wounded, and the Duke soon rallies. The Devil Rides Out is remarkably free of trauma and its sequelæ. The morbid psychological states which often interest the twentieth century Gothic are excluded here in favour of the kind of emotional fortitude found in adventure stories. The effect is remarkable. Wheatley retains a cheerful tone even as he depicts the appalling, and potentially repellent representations become entertainments. Wheatley describes in remarkable detail the actions that his protagonists witness from their hidden vantage point. If the Gothic reader looks forward to gleeful blasphemy, then this is amply provided, in the sort of sardonic style that Lewis’ The Monk manages so well. A cross is half stomped into matchwood and inverted in the ground, the Christian host is profaned in a way too dreadful to be narrated, and the Duke informs us that the satanic priests are eating “a stillborn baby or perhaps some unfortunate child that they have stolen and murdered”. Rex is chilled by the sound of a human skull rattling around in their cauldron (117-20). The mass offers a special quality of experience, distinct from the everyday texture of life represented in the text. Ostensibly waiting for their chance to liberate their friend Simon from the action, the Duke and Rex are voyeurs, and readers participate in this voyeurism too. The narrative focus shifts from Rex and de Richlieu’s observation of the mass, to the wayward medium Tanith’s independent, bespelled arrival at the ritual site, before returning to the two men. This arrangement allows Wheatley to extend his description of the gathering, reiterating the same events from different characters’ perspectives. This would be unusual if the text were simply a thriller, and relied on the ongoing release of new information to maintain narrative interest. Instead, readers have the opportunity to “view” the salacious activity of the Satanists a second time. This repetition delays the climactic action of the scene, where the Duke and Rex rescue Simon by driving a car into the midst of the ritual. Moreover, the repetition suggests that the “thrill” on offer is not necessarily related to plot —it offers us nothing new —but instead to simply seeing the rite performed. Tanith, although conveyed to the mass by some dark power, is delayed and she too becomes a part of the mass’ audience. She saw the Satanists… tumbling upon each other in the disgusting nudity of their ritual dance. Old Madame D’Urfé, huge-buttocked and swollen, prancing by some satanic power with all the vigour of a young girl who had only just reached maturity; the Babu, dark-skinned, fleshy, hideous; the American woman, scraggy, lean-flanked and hag-like with empty, hanging breasts; the Eurasian, waving the severed stump of his arm in the air as he gavotted beside the unwieldy figure of the Irish bard, whose paunch stood out like the grotesque belly of a Chinese god. (132) The reader will remember that Madame D’Urfé is French, and that the cultists are dancing before the Goat of Mendes, who masquerades as Malagasy, earlier described by de Richlieu as “a ‘bad black’ if ever I saw one” (11). The human body is obsessively and grotesquely racialized; Wheatley is simultaneously at his most politically vile and aesthetically Goya-like. The physically grotesque meshes with the crudely sexual and racist. The Irishman is typed as a “bard” and somehow acquires a second racial classification, the Indian is horrible seemingly because of his race, and Madame D’Urfé is repulsive because her sexuality is framed as inappropriate to her age. The dancing crone is defined in terms of a younger, presumably sexually appealing, woman; even as she is denigrated, the reader is presented with a contrary image. As the sexuality of the Satanists is excoriated, titillation is offered. Readers may take whatever pleasure they like from the representations while simultaneously condemning them, or even affecting revulsion. A binary opposition is set up between de Richlieu’s company, who are cultured and moneyed, and the Satanists, who might masquerade as civilised, but reveal their savagery at the Sabbat. Their race becomes a further symptom of their lack of civilised qualities. The Duke complains to Rex that “there is little difference between this modern Satanism and Voodoo… We might almost be witnessing some heathen ceremony in an African jungle!” (115). The Satanists become “a trampling mass of bestial animal figures” dancing to music where, “Instead of melody, it was a harsh, discordant jumble of notes and broken chords which beat into the head with a horrible nerve-racking intensity and set the teeth continually on edge” (121). Music and melody are cultural constructions as much as they are mathematical ones. The breakdown of music suggests a breakdown of culture, more specifically, of Western cultural norms. The Satanists feast, with no “knives, forks, spoons or glasses”, but instead drink straight from bottles and eat using their hands (118). This is hardly transgression on the scale of devouring an infant, but emphasises that Satanism is understood to represent the antithesis of civilization, specifically, of a conservative Englishness. Bad table manners are always a sign of wickedness. This sort of reading is useful in that it describes the prejudices and politics of the text. It allows us to see the black mass as meaningful and places it within a wider discursive tradition making sense of a grotesque dance that combines a variety of almost arbitrary transgressive actions, staged in a Wiltshire field. This style of reading seems to confirm the approach to genre text that Fredric Jameson has espoused (117-9), which understands the text as reinforcing a hegemonic worldview within its readership. This is the kind of reading the academy often works to produce; it recognises the mass as standing for something more than the simple fact of its performance, and develops a coherent account of what the mass represents. The labour of reading discerns the work the text does out in the world. Yet despite the good sense and political necessity of this approach, my suggestion is that these observations are secondary to the primary function of the text because they cannot account for the reading experience offered by the Sabbat and the rest of the text. Regardless of text’s prejudices, The Devil Rides Out is not a book about race. It is a book about Satanists. As Jo Walton has observed, competent genre readers effortlessly grasp this kind of distinction, prioritising certain readings and elements of the text over others (33-5). Failing to account for the reading strategy presumed by author and audience risks overemphasising what is less significant in a text while missing more important elements. Crucially, a reading that emphasises the political implications of the Sabbat attributes meaning to the ritual; yet the ritual’s ability to hold meaning is not what is most important about it. By attributing meaning to the Sabbat, we miss the fact of the Sabbat itself; it has become a metaphor rather than a thing unto itself, a demonstration of racist politics rather than one of the central necessities of a black magic story. Seligman, Weller, Puett and Simon claim that ritual is usually read as having a social purpose or a cultural meaning, but that these readings presume that ritual is interested in presenting the world truthfully, as it is. Seligman and his co-authors take exception to this, arguing that ritual does not represent society or culture as they are and that ritual is “a subjunctive—the creation of an order as if it were truly the case” (20). Rather than simply reflecting history, society and culture, ritual responds to the disappointment of the real; the farmer performs a rite to “ensure” the bounty of the harvest not because the rite symbolises the true order of things, but as a consolation because sometimes the harvest fails. Interestingly, the Duke’s analysis of the Satanists’ motivations closely accords with Seligman et al.’s understanding of the need for ritual to console our anxieties and disappointments. For the cultists, the mass is “a release of all their pent-up emotions, and suppressed complexes, engendered by brooding over imagined injustice, lust for power, bitter hatred of rivals in love or some other type of success or good fortune” (121). The Satanists perform the mass as a response to the disappointment of the participant’s lives; they are ugly, uncivil outsiders and according to the Duke, “probably epileptics… nearly all… abnormal” (121). The mass allows them to feel, at least for a limited time, as if they are genuinely powerful, people who ought to be feared rather than despised, able to command the interest and favour of their infernal lord, to receive sexual attention despite their uncomeliness. Seligman et al. go on to argue ritual “must be understood as inherently nondiscursive—semantic content is far secondary to subjunctive creation.” Ritual “cannot be analysed as a coherent system of beliefs” (26). If this is so, we cannot expect the black mass to necessarily say anything coherent about Satanism, let alone racism. In fact, The Devil Rides Out tends not to focus on the meaning of the black mass, but on its performance. The perceivable facts of the mass are given, often in instructional detail, but any sense of what they might stand for remains unexplicated in the text. Indeed, taken individually, it is hard to make sense or meaning out of each of the Sabbat’s components. Why must a skull rattle around a cauldron? Why must a child be killed and eaten? If communion forms the most significant part of the Christian mass, we could presume that the desecration of the host might be the most meaningful part of the rite, but given the extensive description accorded the mass as a whole, the parody of communion is dealt with surprisingly quickly, receiving only three sentences. The Duke describes the act as “the most appalling sacrilege”, but it is left at that as the celebrants stomp the host into the ground (120). The action itself is emphasised over anything it might mean. Most of Wheatley’s readers will, I think, be untroubled by this. As Pierre Bourdieu noted, “the regularities inherent in an arbitrary condition… tend to appear as necessary, even natural, since they are the basis of the schemes of perception and appreciation through which they are apprehended” (53-4). Rather than stretching towards an interpretation of the Sabbat, readers simply accept it a necessary condition of a “black magic story”. While the genre and its tropes are constructed, they tend to appear as “natural” to readers. The Satanists perform the black mass because that is what Satanists do. The representation does not even have to be compelling in literary terms; it simply has to be a “proper” black mass. Richard Schechner argues that, when we are concerned with ritual, “Propriety”, that is, seeing the ritual properly executed, “is more important than artistry in the Euro-American sense” (178). Rather than describing the meaning of the ritual, Wheatley prefers to linger over the Satanist’s actions, their gluttonous feasting and dancing, their nudity. Again, these are actions that hold sensual qualities for their performers that exceed the simply discursive. Through their ritual behaviour they enter into atavistic and ecstatic states beyond everyday human consciousness. They are “hardly human… Their brains are diseased and their mentality is that of the hags and the warlocks of the middle ages…” and are “governed apparently by a desire to throw themselves back into a state of bestiality…” (117-8). They finally reach a state of “maniacal exaltation” and participate in an “intoxicated nightmare” (135). While the mass is being celebrated, the Satanists become an undifferentiated mass, their everyday identities and individuality subsumed into the subjunctive world created by the ritual. Simon, a willing participant, becomes lost amongst them, his individual identity given over to the collective, subjunctive state created by the group. Rex and the Duke are outside of this subjunctive world, expressing revulsion, but voyeuristically looking on; they retain their individual identities. Tanith is caught between the role played by Simon, and the one played by the Duke and Rex, as she risks shifting from observer to participant, her journey to the Sabbat being driven on by “evil powers” (135). These three relationships to the Sabbat suggest some of the strategies available to its readers. Like Rex and the Duke, we seem to observe the black mass as voyeurs, and still have the option of disapproving of it, but like Simon, the act of continuing to read means that we are participating in the representation of this perversity. Having committed to reading a “black magic story”, the reader’s procession towards the black mass is inevitable, as with Tanith’s procession towards it. Yet, just as Tanith is compelled towards it, readers are allowed to experience the Sabbat without necessarily having to see themselves as wanting to experience it. This facilitates a ludic, undiscursive reading experience; readers are not encouraged to seriously reflect on what the Sabbat means or why it might be a source of vicarious pleasure. They do not have to take responsibility for it. As much as the Satanists create a subjunctive world for their own ends, readers are creating a similar world for themselves to participate in. The mass—an incoherent jumble of sex and violence—becomes an imaginative refuge from the everyday world which is too regulated, chaste and well-behaved. Despite having substantial precedent in folklore and Gothic literature (see Medway), the black mass as it is represented in The Devil Rides Out is largely an invention. The rituals performed by occultists like Crowley were never understood by their participants as being black masses, and it was not until the foundation of the Church of Satan in San Francisco in the later nineteen-sixties that it seems the black mass was performed with the regularity or uniformity characteristic of ritual. Instead, its celebration was limited to eccentrics and dabblers like Summers. Thus, as an imaginary ritual, the black mass can be whatever its writers and readers need it to be, providing the opportunity to stage those actions and experiences required by the kind of text in which it appears. Because it is the product of the requirements of the text, it becomes a venue in which those things crucial to the text are staged; forbidden sexual congress, macabre ceremony, violence, the appearance of intoxicating and noisome scents, weird violet lights, blue candle flames and the goat itself. As we observe the Sabbat, the subjunctive of the ritual aligns with the subjunctive of the text itself; the same ‘as if’ is experienced by both the represented worshippers and the readers. The black mass offers an analogue for the black magic story, providing, almost in digest form, the images and experiences associated with the genre at the time. Seligman et al. distinguish between modes that they term the sincere and the ritualistic. Sincerity describes an approach to reading the world that emphasises the individual subject, authenticity, and the need to get at “real” thought and feeling. Ritual, on the other hand, prefers community, convention and performance. The “sincere mode of behavior seeks to replace the ‘mere convention’ of ritual with a genuine and thoughtful state of internal conviction” (103). Where the sincere is meaningful, the ritualistic is practically oriented. In The Devil Rides Out, the black mass, a largely unreal practice, must be regarded as insincere. More important than any “meaning” we might extract from the rite is the simple fact of participation. The individuality and agency of the participants is apparently diminished in the mass, and their regular sense of themselves is recovered only as the Duke and Rex desperately drive the Duke’s Hispano into the ritual so as to halt it. The car’s lights dispel the subjunctive darkness and reduce the unified group to a gathering of confused individuals, breaking the spell of naughtily enabling darkness. Just as the meaningful aspect of the mass is de-emphasised for ritual participants, for readers, self and discursive ability are de-emphasised in favour of an immersive, involving reading experience; we keep reading the mass without pausing to really consider the mass itself. It would reduce our pleasure in and engagement with the text to do so; the mass would be revealed as obnoxious, unpleasant and nonsensical. When we read the black mass we tend to put our day-to-day values, both moral and aesthetic, to one side, bracketing our sincere individuality in favour of participation in the text. If there is little point in trying to interpret Wheatley’s black mass due to its weakly discursive nature, then this raises questions of how to approach the text. Simply, the “work” of interpretation seems unnecessary; Wheatley’s black mass asks to be regarded as a form of play. Simply, The Devil Rides Out is a venue for a particular kind of readerly play, apart from the more substantial, sincere concerns that occupy most literary criticism. As Huizinga argued that, “Play is distinct from ‘ordinary’ life both as to locality and duration… [A significant] characteristic of play [is] its secludedness, its limitedness” (9). Likewise, by seeing the mass as a kind of play, we can understand why, despite the provocative and transgressive acts it represents, it is not especially harrowing as a reading experience. Play “lies outside the antithesis of wisdom and folly, and equally outside those of truth and falsehood, good and evil…. The valuations of vice and virtue do not apply...” (Huizinga 6). The mass might well offer barbarism and infanticide, but it does not offer these to its readers “seriously”. The subjunctive created by the black mass for its participants on the page is approximately equivalent to the subjunctive Wheatley’s text proposes to his readers. The Sabbat offers a tawdry, intoxicated vision, full of strange performances, weird lights, queer music and druggy incenses, a darkened carnival apart from the real that is, despite its apparent transgressive qualities and wretchedness, “only playing”. References Bourdieu, Pierre. The Logic of Practice. Trans. Richard Nice. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1990. Ellis, Bill. Raising the Devil: Satanism, New Religions, and the Media. Lexington: The UP of Kentucky, 2000. Hedman, Iwan, and Jan Alexandersson. Four Decades with Dennis Wheatley. 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Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Thompson, G.R. Introduction. “Romanticism and the Gothic Imagination.” The Gothic Imagination: Essays in Dark Romanticism. Ed. G.R. Thompson. Pullman: Washington State UP, 1974. 1-10. Wheatley, Dennis. The Devil Rides Out. 1934. London: Mandarin, 1996.