Academic literature on the topic '1909-1942 Views on civilization'

The philosophical project "Homo Sacer" by the modern Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben (born in 1942) is based on a consistent highlighting of the process of Western European history that leads to the establishment of the state of emergency as a common technology of public administration today. This article offers an outline of the genesis of the state of emergency (emergency state) from the point of view of the evolution of ideas about the state in the aspect of the metaphor of the human body. In view of the fact that the logic of the state of emergency is based on the concept of a necessity (necessitas), which allows to suspend the normal functioning of law and order, it is necessary to raise the question of the origin of this relationship. The author believes that the source of the idea of the relationship between the state of emergency and necessity is the needs of the human body, the absolute urgency of which is the starting point of political organization (Plato, Aristotle). The system of views on the state as a body that emerged in the Greco-Roman worldview was clearly developed in the medieval civilization of the West. From this point on, we can talk about the emergence of the concept of "political body", within which the understanding of key sociopolitical relations took place. The combination of the Aristotelian concept of the eternity of the world with the strengthening of the absolute power of the secular sovereign and practical needs led to the formation of the idea of the permanent state with its constant needs. The new state rationality, associated with the need to meet the needs of the state and thus ensure its self-preservation, has acquired the form of biopolitics, which actually blurs the border between the political and the biological. The state of emergency becomes a paradigm of public administration, motivated by the idea of the identity of natural processes and the existence of society. The constant and imperishable nature of these processes sets the basis for the production of state of emergency, which loses its connection to a certain point in time and becomes a potentially eternal and continuous state.

Caria south of the Maeander (Büyük Menderes) river has fascinated travellers since antiquity. Mountainous in character and moderately populated today, the region served as a political and cultural frontier between the Greek mainland and the more ancient centres of civilization in the Near East. After a century of exploration, a wealth of data now illuminates the historic past of ancient Caria (von Diest 1909, Ramsay 1890, Paton and Meyers 1896, Winter 1887, Chamonard 1895, Fowler 1906, Hicks, 1892, Humann and Dörpfeld 1893, Miller 1916, Paton 1900, and Weber, 1904). Although informative, such scholarship has also had a negative impact. All too often, the view taken in the published literature is that previously identified sites offer little additional information. Scholars have tended to accept this view and the “authoritative research” of others without further examination of the region or its rich physical remains.

Islamic poets' poetical themes expressed their spiritual experience in Indonesian literature during the 1930s. These themes had opposed to the Islamic movement at the time, which was fighting against colonial ideology. The objectives of this study are to look at why poets advocated oppositional views in the face of colonial discourse, as well as the poets' position within the Dutch colonial system in the 1930s. Thematic notions of Indonesian literary poets in the 1930s, biographical histories of poets, and colonial discourses in Indonesia in the 1930s were among the data sources used in this study. The result revealed that the poets adopted a romantic aesthetic mimicking strategy to portray the idea of their spiritual experience. In most colonial literature, the mimicry between the colonizer and the colonized nation heightens the ambivalence of the Indonesian human personality. Because of ethical adjustments and unacceptable ideal categories, this ambiguous attitude develops. Syncretism emerges as a result of the clash of Western and Eastern civilizations. The author's aesthetic mimicry strategy has implications for the poet's ambivalence: on the one hand, the poet follows Balai Pustaka's aesthetic pattern with an understanding of individualism, while on the other hand, the poet ignites the concept of Islamic symbolic memory as part of the construction of Indonesian cultural identity, as in the Indonesian Cultural Polemics from 1930 to 1942.

The large number of words from Arabic found in modern Spanish is proof of the deep influence Arabic has had on the Spanish language. Historical sociolinguistic processes which have lasted to the present day indicate that the influence of Arabic culture has been neither brief or superficial. Instead, it has, and continues to have great significance for the language situation of Spain. Much linguistic research has shown how loans from Arabic have been assimilated as they have become part of the lexical resources of modern Spanish. Arabic culture and civilization in the Iberian Peninsula (711-1942) above all involved the sciences, literature, art, architecture, engineering, agriculture, the military, medicine. At that time, Al-Andalus was one of the most influential European centers of science and cultural exchange in Europe. Contacts between Arabic and the Romance languages found in the Iberian Peninsula resulted in numerous loans both from Arabic to the Romance languages and from the Romance languages to Arabic. These topics have been the subject of extensive research conducted from historical, cultural and linguistic points of view. Despite the existence of numerous works concerning Arabic loans, this area requires, further, deeper research. In this article, selected issues concerning Arabic loans in Spanish are analyzed as are the adaptive processes they have undergone and the level of their integration into Spanish. The basis of the analysis is made up of oral and written texts collected in the Corpus de Español del Siglo XXI [CORPES XXI, RAE] – a corpus of contemporary Spanish from the 21st century.

The article examines one of the maxims of the code of scientific ethos, formulated in 1942 by R.K. Merton, namely “communism” (translated in Russian also as “communalism” and “collectivism”). Although the Merton Code was derived from the study of relationships among European scientists since the 17th century, the author substantiates the possibility of using this maxim to characterize the communication that develops between the subjects of epistemological discourse in traditional society, primarily in the civilizations of the ancient and medieval East (ancient Egypt and Babylon, India, China, the Arab-Muslim world). The epistemological dimension of “communism” is rendered relevant, provided that the re- search community, a community of researchers, is united by common cognitive and professional attitudes. This commune covers not only real-life people performing in various cognitive roles (pioneers, commentators, experts, analysts or popularizers), but also individuals represented virtually. The latter are either the authors of the surviving works, determining the format and problem field of definite epistemological fragment, or future successors of the study, which will connect to it after a while. Violations of ethical principles implicitly perceived by this maxim (such as full mutual trust and equality among study participants, respect for results achieved by others, the priority of common goals over personal competition, etc.) are perceived as treasonous to the spirit of science and behavior worthy of censure. Despite interpersonal and inter-group conflicts accompanying the research work, the view of knowledge as a common, communal property of a commonwealth of scientists or, at least, this team, is an important factor in the effectiveness of scientific research. On the contrary, the privatization of knowledge and its total secrecy, characteristic of periods of scientific stagnation, is accompanied by a break of contacts between the subjects of discourse and the fading of interest in cardinal, breakthrough, innovative epistemological problems.

Abstrak Pendudukan Mesir oleh Napoleon, Kaisar Prancis, pada tahun 1798 memperkenalkan dunia Arab dengan peradaban modern. Selain menjajah, Prancis juga mengenalkan produk-produk peradaban yang baru. Alhasil, orang Islam mulai mengenal berbagai wacana terbaru di masa itu. Turki sebagai penguasa dunia Islam tidak tinggal diam. Ia mengutus Muhammad Ali Pasha untuk mengusir Prancis dari Mesir. Setelah melalui peperangan yang melelahkan akhirnya Prancis dapat dikalahkan. Tak lama kemudian, Muhammad Ali mentahbiskan diri sebagai penguasa Mesir dan melanjutkan proyek pembaruan yang sebelumnya diletakkan oleh Prancis. Dunia Islam kembali bergolak, paska kekalahan blok Jerman dalam Perang Dunia I pada 1918, dimana Turki tergabung di dalamnya. Mesir jatuh ke tangan Inggris sebagai bagian dari pemenang perang. Hingga awal Perang Dunia II, Mesir masih berada di tangan Inggris. Hal ini ditunjukkan dengan dijadikannya Mesir sebagai pangkalan perang Sekutu ketika mengalahkan tentara Jerman di front Afrika Utara pada bulan November 1942. Perang Dunia II diakhiri dengan kemenangan Sekutu dan kekalahan Jerman dan pendukungnya. Meskipun Mesir tidak terlibat langsung, pengaruh PD II sangat kental dalam menumbuhkembangkan semangat nasionalisme untuk bebas dari cengkeraman penguasa lokal yang menjadi wakil dari Inggris. Selain itu, kemenangan Rusia sebagai salah satu peserta PD II, ikut membawa wacana sosialisme ke Mesir yang diadopsi oleh gerakan Opsir Bebas sebagai ideologi dan nilai dasar pergerakannya. Selanjutnya, Opsir Bebas yang telah bekerja sama dengan Ikhwanul Muslimin menjadi aktor intelektual dan penggerak bagi rakyat Mesir untuk menjemput revolusi pada tahun 1952.---Abstract The french emperor, Napoleon, who inhabited Egypt, had introduced the modern civilization of Arab in 1798 to the world. Besides, Franch also introduced the modern products. As the result, many muslims began to have a new view of the time. Turk as a new ruler of muslims world had to take a part for it. It delegated Muhammad Ali Pasha to expelled Franch from Egypt. After finishing the exhausting war, he finally conquered French. Soon, Muhammad Ali Pasha confirmed himself as a new ruler of Egypt and continued the new project which was planned by Franch. World of Islam began to flared up after Germany had been defeated during the World War I in 1918, where Turk joined in it. Egypt were handed down to England as the winner. By the beginning of World War II, Egypt were still controlled by England. It can be seen from the Egypt where allied force base was put in it during the defeat of Germany in North Africa on November 1942. World War II was ended by the allies glory and the the loses of Germany and its supporters. Despite of Egypt had not involved, however, the effects of world War II had arisen the nationalism to get rid of local ruler as the British representative. In addition to this, the glory of Russia as one of the participants of World War II had brought a new view of socialism into Egypt which was adapted by free movement as the basic ideology and values. Next, the free movement opsir who cooperated with Ikhwanul Muslimin became the intellectual actor and locomotive for people in Egypt to have revolution in 1952. DOI : 10.5281/zenodo.556797

<p>Research „Poetry by Rainis in Latgalian” tried to establish impulse and reasons for publishing poetry by Rainis in Latgalian (original texts and renderings) using biographical method, but semiotic methods helped to analyze poetic means in poems written in Latgalian, revealing meaning of concept „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) in poem by Rainis and Latgalian culture.</p><p>Poems by the most significant Latvian literature classic Rainis (1865–1929) in Latgalian can be divided into original texts („Sveicins latgališim”/Greetings to Latgalians), original texts with renderings into Latvian („Munu jaunu dīnu zeme”/Land of My Youth) and renderings from Latvian (at least 16 poems from selections: „Tālas noskaņas zilā vakarā”/Far off Echoes on a Blue Evening, 1903;„Tie, kas neaizmirst”/Those Who Don’t Forget, 1911; „Gals un sākums”/The End and the Beginning, 1912), besides, surely we can say author’s renderings are only „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) has well as all other texts from literally scientific and social magazine „Reits” (Morning), because Rainis had been one of the editors of this magazine. Poems by Rainis published in Latgalian in newspapers – „Drywa” (Cornfield), „Gaisma” (Light), „Latgolas Wòrds”(Latgalian Word), „Jaunò straume” (New Flow) – are possibly work of authors of these periodicals, considering significant differences in stylistics with magazine „Reits” (Morning) and earlier published poems by Rainis.</p><p>Publishing of original texts and especially renderings in Latgalian press are mainly related to political activities of Rainis. But writing in Latgalian for Rainis also meant remembering his roots, remind of cultural wealth of native land and value; being a mediator in strengthening people’s unity and widening own supporters as well as the number of readers.</p><p>In the discourse of Rainis personality and creative work „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) is 1) homeland, native nature and home of poet’s childhood and colorful impressions of his youth (Rainis father’s rented manor house (semi-manor house) in Zemgale and Latgale); 2) Rainis’ land of youth is writer’s „second homeland” – Latgale, its’ nature, people and language; 3) particular semi- manor house in Latgale – Jasmuiža.</p><p>Origination of lyrical Me is emphasized in epos „Saules gadi” (Solar years) – Latgalian was born. From Rainis point of view Latgale is multinational keeper of authentic cultural values. About eight languages had been spoken in Rainis family. In Latgale, customs, folk-songs have been maintained untouched owing to certain isolation, historical and administrative separation from other parts – some kind of reserve effect. During years of his studies Rainis had intended to write a book about civilization untouched Latgale, but this intention left unimplemented.</p><p>Memories about homeland motivated Rainis to write and render into Latgalian, but original texts in Latgalian – „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) and „Sveicins latgališam” (Greetings to Latgalian) – were written on behalf of stylistic searches in particular period of Rainis creative work; they chronologically incorporate with philosophical stage (according to Janīna Kursīte). In this time poet’s ontology forms, still balancing between allegory (transmission transparency, dichotomy) and symbol (polysemy and ambivalence) structures.</p><p>In Rainis’ neo-romantic (1895–1904) and allegoric stage (1905–1909) poetry nature cycles project mainly society, not individual; only humanity will exist and revive eternally, precondition of immortality – death and birth of individual people.</p><p>In the poetry of philosophical stage (starting from 1910) Rainis frequently lingered on individual’s immortality reflection, which he called search and recoveries. A person lives not only according to nature laws, but according to existence laws and dies according to these same laws. Symbol, most frequently mythologeme, becomes a sign of existence glimpse for Rainis; lyrical Me of Rainis is awaiting new experience, knowledge, and moral enlightenment. One has to search in order to find, and searching/cognition signal in his poems is a cycle of time and space (nature, society, human) and three- dimensional structure (outer world/history, individual/soul, philosophy/ being). In the poem „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) it is possible to follow 3 of the mentioned cycles development in peculiar symmetry: 1st , 6th stanzas are a framework of individual’s inner cycle – dream/illusion/ desideratum and interchange of wakefulness/ reality/ actuality; 2nd and 4th stanzas contain nature cycle allegory – nature in spring awakes from winter sleep; while 3rd and 5th stanzas are related to social processes, which are covered with day-and-night cycle. Basics of symmetry – state of sleep and awakening in all levels of previously mentioned time and space, creating triple parallelism.</p><p>It is interesting how stanzas within a single cycle (1 and 6, 2 and 4, as well as 3 and 5) mutually relate: 1st , 2nd and 3rd stanzas contain reminiscences as symbolic sleep/dream abstractions of Rainis previously written poetry, while 4th , 5th and 6th stanzas specify something in nature, society and individual’s desires, dreams which have to wake up. Reminiscence carries out necessary associations for philosophical perceiving of functions time and space cycle, but especially – form and maintain transmission basics: historical (people’s destinies) – 3rd stanza, psychological (individual’s dreams, desires) – 1st stanza, philosophical (order of existence) – 2nd stanza.</p><p>The above mentioned allows stating that poem created by Rainis in Latgalian „Munu jaunu dīnu zeme” (Land of My Youth) indeed incorporates into Rainis creative work philosophic stage, where allegory as a supplementary tool and symbol as a dominant harmonically gets along with poet’s revelation of ontological sense.</p><p>Poem „Sveicins latgališim” (Greetings to Latgalians) has one addressee – a Latgalian, new reader of the newspaper. The text is artistically created on the allegoric stage standards of Rainis creative work – here features of one cycle (human in society) are present. Social cycle stages revealed in the poem are parting/uniting, hatred/love, old life/new life, celebrations/work.</p><p>Artistic structure of poems in Latgalian indicates on dominance of allegory or symbol in time and space. Cycle has a special meaning in reflection of existence order.</p>

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>.

Many films of the Australian New Wave (or Australian film renaissance) of the 1970s and 1980s can be defined as gothic, especially following Jonathan Rayner’s suggestion that “Instead of a genre, Australian Gothic represents a mode, a stance and an atmosphere, after the fashion of American Film Noir, with the appellation suggesting the inclusion of horrific and fantastic materials comparable to those of Gothic literature” (25). The American comparison is revealing. The 400 or so film productions of the Australian New Wave emerged, not in a vacuum, but in an increasingly connected and inter-mixed international space (Godden). Putatively discrete national cinemas weave in and out of each other on many levels. One such level concerns the reception critics give to films. This article will drill down to the level of the reception of two examples of Australian gothic film-making by two well-known American critics. Rayner’s comparison of Australian gothic with American film noir is useful; however, it begs the question of how American critics such as Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris influentially shaped the reception of Australian gothic in America and in other locations (such as Australia itself) where their reviews found an audience either at the time or afterwards. The significance of the present article rests on the fact that, as William McClain observes, following in Rick Altman’s footsteps, “critics form one of the key material institutions that support generic formations” (54). This article nurtures the suggestion that knowing how Australian gothic cinema was shaped, in its infancy, in the increasingly important American market (a market of both commerce and ideas) might usefully inform revisionist studies of Australian cinema as a national mode. A more nuanced, globally informed representation of the origins and development of Australian gothic cinema emerges at this juncture, particularly given that American film reviewing in the 1970s and 1980s more closely resembled what might today be called film criticism or even film theory. The length of individual reviews back then, the more specialized vocabulary used, and above all the tendency for critics to assume more knowledge of film history than could safely be assumed in 2014—all this shows up the contrast with today. As Christos Tsiolkas notes, “in our age… film reviewing has been reduced to a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down” (56)! The 1970s and 1980s is largely pre-Internet, and critical voices such as Kael and Sarris dominated in print. The American reviews of Australian gothic films demonstrate how a different consciousness suffuses Kael’s and Sarris’s engagements with “Antipodean” (broadly Australian and New Zealand) cinema. Rayner’s locally specific definition of Australian gothic is distorted in their interpretations of examples of the genre. It will be argued that this is symptomatic of a particular blindspot, related to the politics and art of place, in the American reception of Wake in Fright (initially called Outback in America), directed by the Canadian Ted Kotcheff (1971) and The Year of Living Dangerously, directed by Peter Weir (1982). Space and argument considerations force this article to focus on the reviews of these films, engaging less in analysis of the films themselves. Suffice to say that they all fit broadly within Rayner’s definition of Australian gothic cinema. As Rayner states, three thematic concerns which permeate all the films related to the Gothic sensibility provide links across the distinctions of era, environment and character. They are: a questioning of established authority; a disillusionment with the social reality that that authority maintains; and the protagonist’s search for a valid and tenable identity once the true nature of the human environment has been revealed. (25) “The true nature of the human environment….” Here is the element upon which the American reviews of the Australian gothic founder. Explicitly in many films of this mode, and implicitly in nearly all of them, is the “human environment” of the Australian landscape, which operates less as a backdrop and more as a participating element, even a character, in the drama, saturating the mise-en-scène. In “Out of Place: Reading (Post) Colonial Landscapes as Gothic Space in Jane Campion’s Films,” Eva Rueschmann quotes Ross Gibson’s thesis from South of the West: Postcolonialism and the Narrative Construction of Australia that By featuring the land so emphatically… [Australian] films stake out something more significant than decorative pictorialism. Knowingly or unknowingly, they are all engaging with the dominant mythology of white Australia. They are all partaking of the landscape tradition which, for two hundred years, has been used by white Australians to promote a sense of the significance of European society in the “Antipodes”. (Rueschmann) The “emphatic” nature of the land in films like Wake in Fright, Mad Max 2 and Picnic at Hanging Rock actively contributes to the “atmosphere” of Australian gothic cinema (Rayner 25). This atmosphere floats across Australian film and literature. Many of the films mentioned in this article are adaptations from books, and Rayner himself stresses the similarity between Australian gothic and gothic literature (25). Significantly, the atmosphere of Australian gothic also floats across the fuzzy boundary between the gothic and road movies or road literature. Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior is obviously a road movie as well as a gothic text; so is Wake in Fright in its way; even Picnic at Hanging Rock contains elements of the road movie in all that travelling to and from the rock. Roads, then, are significant for Australian gothic cinema, for the road traverses the Australian (gothic) landscape and, in the opportunity it provides for moving through it at speed, tantalizes with the (unfulfillable) promise of an escape from its gothic horror. Australian roads are familiar, part of White European culture referencing the geometric precision of Roman roads. The Australian outback, by contrast, is unfamiliar, uncanny. Veined with roads, the outback invites the taming by “the landscape tradition” that it simultaneously rejects (Rueschmann). In the opening 360° pan of Wake in Fright the land frightens with its immensity and intensity, even as the camera displays the land’s “conquering” agent: not a road, but the road’s surrogate—a railway line. Thus, the land introduces the uncanny into Australian gothic cinema. In Freudian terms, the uncanny is that unsettling combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar. R. Gray calls it “the class of frightening things that leads us back to what is known and familiar” (Gray). The “frightening” land is the very condition of the “comforting” road; no roads without a space for roads, and places for them to go. In her introduction to The Penguin Book of the Road, Delia Falconer similarly sutures the land to the uncanny, linking both of these with the first peoples of the Australian land: "Of course there is another 'poetry of the earth' whispering from the edges of our roads that gives so many of our road stories an extra charge, and that is the history of Aboriginal presence in this land. Thousands of years of paths and tribal boundaries also account for the uncanny sense of being haunted that dogs our travellers on their journeys (xvii). White Australia, as the local saying goes, has a black past, played out across the land. The film The Proposition instances this, with its gothic portrayal of the uncanny encroachments of the Australian “wilderness” into the domain of “civilization”. Furthermore, “our” overweening literal and metaphoric investment in the traditional quarter-acre block, not to mention in our roads, shows that “we” haven’t reconciled either with the land of Australia or with its original inhabitants: the Aboriginal peoples. Little wonder that Kael and Sarris couldn’t do so, as White Americans writing some forty years ago, and at such a huge geographic remove from Australia. As will be seen, the failure of these American film critics to comprehend the Australian landscape comes out—as both a “critical reaction” and a “reactive compensation”—in two, interwoven strands of their interpretations of Australian New Wave gothic cinema. A repulsion from, and an attraction to, the unrecognized uncanny is evidenced. The first strand is constituted in the markedly anthropological aspect to the film reviews: anthropological elements of the text itself are either disproportionately magnified or longed for. Here, “anthropological” includes the sociological and the historical. Secondly, Kael and Sarris use the films they review from Australian gothic cinema as sites upon which to trial answers to the old and persistent question of how the very categories of art and politics relate. Initially sucked out of the reviews (strand one), politics and art thus rush back in (strand two). In other words, the American failure to engage deeply with the land triggers an initial reading of films like Wake in Fright less as films per se and more as primary texts or one-to-one documentations of Australia. Australia presents for anthropological, even scientific atomization, rather than as a place in active, creative and complex relationship with its rendering in mise-en-scène. Simultaneously though, the absence of the land nags—eats away at the edges of critical thinking—and re-emerges (like a Freudian return of the repressed) in an attempt by the American critics to exploit their film subjects as an opportunity for working out how politics and art (here cinema) relate. The “un-seen” land creates a mis-reading amongst the American critics (strand one), only to force a compensatory, if somewhat blindsided, re-reading (strand two). For after all, in this critical “over-looking” of the land, and thus of the (ongoing) Aboriginal existence in and with the land, it is politics and art that is most at stake. How peoples (indigenous, settler or hybrid peoples) are connected to and through the land has perhaps always been Australia’s principal political and artistic question. How do the American reviews speak to this question? Sarris did not review Wake in Fright. Kael reviewed it, primarily, as a text at the intersection of fiction and documentary, ultimately privileging the latter. Throughout, her critical coordinates are American and, to a degree, literary. Noting the “stale whiff of Conrad” she also cites Outback’s “additional interest” in its similarity with “recent American movies [about] American racism and capitalist exploitation and the Vietnam war” (415). But her most pointed intervention comes in the assertion that there is “enough narrative to hold the social material together,” as if this were all narrative were good for: scaffolding for sociology (416). Art and culture are left out. Even as Kael mentions the “treatment of the Aborigines,” she misses the Aboriginal cultural moment of the opening shot of the land; this terrain, she writes, is “without a trace of culture” (416). Then, after critiquing what she sees as the unconvincing lesson of the schoolteacher’s moral demise, comes this: “But a more serious problem is that (despite the banal photography) the semi-documentary aspects of the film are so much more vivid and authentic and original than the factitious Conradian hero that we want to see more of that material—we want to learn more” (416-417). Further on, in this final paragraph, Kael notes that, while “there have been other Australian films, so it’s not all new” the director and scriptwriter “have seen the life in a more objective way, almost as if they were cultural anthropologists…. Maybe Kotcheff didn’t dare to expand this vision at the expense of the plot line, but he got onto something bigger than the plot” (417). Kael’s “error”, as it were, is to over-look how the land itself stretches the space of the film, beyond plot, to occupy the same space as her so-called “something bigger”, which itself is filled out by the uncanniness of the land as the intersections of both indigenous and settler (road-based) cultures and their representations in art (417). The “banal photography” might be better read as the film’s inhabitation of these artistic/cultural intersections (416). Kael’s Wake in Fright piece illustrates the first strand of the American reviews of Australian gothic cinema. Missing the land’s uncanniness effectively distributes throughout the review an elision of culture and art, and a reactive engagement with the broadly anthropological elements of Kotcheff’s film. Reviews of The Year of Living Dangerously by Kael and Sarris also illustrate the first strand of the American-Australian reviewing nexus, with the addition, also by each critic, of the second strand: the attempt to reconnect and revitalize the categories of politics and art. As with Wake in Fright, Kael introduces an anthropological gambit into Weir’s film, privileging its documentary elements over its qualities as fiction (strand one). “To a degree,” she writes, “Weir is the victim of his own skill at creating the illusion of authentic Third World misery, rioting, and chaos” (454). By comparison with “earlier, studio-set films” (like Casablanca [452]), where such “backgrounds (with their picturesque natives) were perfectly acceptable as backdrops…. Here… it’s a little obscene” (454). Kael continues: “Documentaries, TV coverage, print journalism, and modern history itself have changed audiences’ responses, and when fake dilemmas about ‘involvement’ are cooked up for the hero they’re an embarrassment” (454-455). Film is pushed to cater to anthropology besides art. Mirroring Kael’s strand-one response, Sarris puts a lot of pressure on Weir’s film to “perform” anthropologically—as well as, even instead of, artistically. The “movie”, he complains “could have been enjoyed thoroughly as a rousingly old-fashioned Hollywood big-star entertainment were it not for the disturbing vistas of somnolent poverty on view in the Philippines, the location in which Indonesian poverty in 1965 was simulated” (59). Indeed, the intrusive reality of poverty elicits from Sarris something very similar to Kael’s charge of the “obscenity of the backdrop” (454): We cannot go back to Manderley in our movie romances. That much is certain. We must go forward into the real world, but in the process, we should be careful not to dwarf our heroes and heroines with the cosmic futility of it all. They must be capable of acting on the stage of history, and by acting, make a difference in our moral perception of life on this planet. (59) Sarris places an extreme, even outrageous, strand-one demand on Weir’s film to re-purpose its fiction (what Kael calls “romantic melodrama” [454]) to elicit the categories of history and anthropology—that last phrase, “life on this planet”, sounds like David Attenborough speaking! More so, anthropological atomization is matched swiftly to a strand-two demand, for this passage also anticipates the rapprochement of politics and art, whereby art rises to the level of politics, requiring movie “heroes and heroines” to make a “moral difference” on a historical if not on a “cosmic” level (59). It is precisely in this, however, that Weir’s film falls down for Sarris. “The peculiar hollowness that the more perceptive reviewers have noted in The Year of Living Dangerously arises from the discrepancy between the thrilling charisma of the stars and the antiheroic irrelevance of the characters they play to the world around them” (59). Sarris’s spatialized phrase here (“peculiar hollowness”) recalls Kael’s observation that Wake in Fright contains “something bigger than the plot” (417). In each case, the description is doubling, dis-locating—uncanny. Echoing the title of Eva Rueschmann’s article, both films, like the Australian landscape itself, are “out of place” in their interpretation by these American critics. What, really, does Sarris’s “peculiar hollowness” originate in (59)? In what “discrepancy” (59)? There is a small but, in the context of this article, telling error in Sarris’s review of Weir’s film. Kael, correctly, notes that “the Indonesian settings had to be faked (in the Philippines and Australia)” (inserted emphasis) (452). Sarris mentions only the Philippines. From little things big things grow. Similar to how Kael overlooks the uncanny in Wake in Fright’s mise-en-scène, Sarris “sees” a “peculiar hollowness” where the land would otherwise be. Otherwise, that is, in the perspective of a cinema (Kotcheff’s, Weir’s) that comprehends “the true nature of the [Australian, gothic] human environment” (Rayner 25). Of course, it is not primarily a matter of how much footage Weir shot in Australia. It is the nature of the cinematography that matters most. For his part, Sarris damns it as “pretentiously picturesque” (59). Kael, meanwhile, gets closer perhaps to the ethics of the uncanny cinematography of The Year of Living Dangerously in her description of “intimations, fragments, hints and portents… on a very wide screen” (451). Even so, it will be remembered, she does call the “backgrounds… obscene” (454). Kael and Sarris see less than they “see”. Again like Sarris, Kael goes looking in Weir’s film for a strand-two rapprochement of politics and art, as evidenced by the line “The movie displays left-wing attitudes, but it shows no particular interest in politics” (453). It does though, only Kael is blind to it because she is blind to the land and, equally, to the political circumstances of the people of the land. Kael likely never realized the “discrepancy” in her critique of The Year of Living Dangerously’s Billy Kwan as “the same sort of in-on-the-mysteries-of-the-cosmos character that the aborigine actor Gulpilil played in Weir’s 1977 The Last Wave” (455). All this, she concludes, “might be boiled down to the mysticism of L.A.: ‘Go with the flow’” (455)! Grouping characters and places together like this, under the banner of L.A. mysticism, brutally erases the variations across different, uncanny, gothic, post-colonial landscapes. It is precisely here that politics and art do meet, in Weir’s film (and Kotcheff’s): in the artistic representation of the land as an index of the political relations of indigenous, settler and hybrid communities. (And not down the rabbit hole of the “specifics” of politics that Kael claims to want [453]). The American critics considered in this article are not in “bad faith” or a-political. Sarris produced a perceptive, left-leaning study entitled Politics and Cinema, and many of Kael’s reviews, along with essays like “Saddle Sore: El Dorado, The War Wagon, The Way West,” contain sophisticated, liberalist analyses of the political circumstances of Native Americans. The crucial point is that, as “critics form[ing] one of the key material institutions that support generic formations,” Sarris and Kael impacted majorly on the development of Australian gothic cinema, in the American context—impacted especially, one could say, on the (mis-)understanding of the land-based, uncanny politics of this mode in its Australian setting (McClain 54). Kael’s and Sarris’s reviews of My Brilliant Career, along with Judith Maslin’s review, contain traits similar to those considered in depth in the reviews studied above. Future research might usefully study this significant impact more closely, weaving in an awareness of the developing dynamics of global film productions and co-productions since the 1970s, and thereby focusing on Australian gothic as international cinema. Was, for example, the political impact of later films like The Proposition influenced, even marginally, by the (mis-)readings of Sarris and Kael? In conclusion here, it suffices to note that, even as the American reviewers reduced Australian cinema art to “blank” documentary or “neutral” anthropology, nevertheless they evidenced, in their strand-two responses, the power of the land (as presented in the cinematography and mise-en-scène) to call out—across an increasingly globalized domain of cinematic reception—for the fundamental importance of the connection between politics and art. Forging this connection, in which all lands and the peoples of all lands are implicated, should be, perhaps, the primary and ongoing concern of national and global cinemas of the uncanny, gothic mode, or perhaps even any mode. References Casablanca. Dir. Michael Curtiz. Warner Bros, 1942. Falconer, Delia. “Introduction.” The Penguin Book of the Road. Ed. Delia Falconer. Melbourne: Viking-Penguin Books, 2008. xi-xxvi. Gibson, Ross. South of the West: Postcolonialism and the Narrative Construction of Australia. Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1992. Godden, Matt. “An Essay on Australian New Wave Cinema.” 9 Jan. 2013. 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.golgotha.com.au/2013/01/09/an-essay-on-australian-new-wave-cinema/›. Gray, R. “Freud, ‘The Uncanny.’” 15 Nov. 2013. 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://courses.washington.edu/freudlit/Uncanny.Notes.html›. Kael, Pauline. “Australians.” Review of My Brilliant Career. 15 Sep. 1980. Taking It All In. London: Marion Boyars, 1986. 54-62. Kael, Pauline. “Literary Echoes—Muffled.” Review of Outback [Wake in Fright]. 4 March 1972. Deeper into Movies. Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press-Little, Brown and Company, 1973. 413-419. Kael, Pauline. “Saddle Sore: El Dorado, The War Wagon, The Way West.” Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. London: Arrow Books, 1987. 38-46. Kael, Pauline. “Torrid Zone.” Review of The Year of Living Dangerously. 21 Feb. 1983. Taking It All In. London: Marion Boyars, 1986. 451-456. Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior. Dir. George Miller. Warner Bros, 1981. Maslin, Janet. “Film: Australian ‘Brilliant Career’ by Gillian Armstrong.” Review of My Brilliant Career. New York Times (6 Oct. 1979.): np. McClain, William. “Western, Go Home! Sergio Leone and the ‘Death of the Western’ in American Film Criticism.” Journal of Film and Video 62.1-2 (Spring/Summer 2010): 52-66. My Brilliant Career. Dir. Gillian Armstrong. Peace Arch, 1979. Picnic at Hanging Rock. Dir. Peter Weir. Picnic Productions, 1975. Rayner, Jonathan. Contemporary Australian Cinema: An Introduction. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000. Rueschmann, Eva. “Out of Place: Reading (Post) Colonial Landscapes as Gothic Space in Jane Campion’s Films.” Post Script (22 Dec. 2005). 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Out+of+place%3A+reading+%28post%29+colonial+landscapes+as+Gothic+space+in...-a0172169169›. Sarris, Andrew. “Films in Focus.” Review of My Brilliant Career. Village Voice (4 Feb. 1980): np. Sarris, Andrew. “Films in Focus: Journalistic Ethics in Java.” Review of The Year of Living Dangerously. Village Voice 28 (1 Feb. 1983): 59. Sarris, Andrew. “Liberation, Australian Style.” Review of My Brilliant Career. Village Voice (15 Oct. 1979): np. Sarris, Andrew. Politics and Cinema. New York: Columbia University Press, 1978. The Last Wave. Dir. Peter Weir. Ayer Productions, 1977. The Proposition. Dir. John Hillcoat. First Look Pictures, 2005. The Year of Living Dangerously. Dir. Peter Weir. MGM, 1982. Tsiolkas, Christos. “Citizen Kael.” Review of Pauline Kael: A Life in the Dark by Brian Kellow. The Monthly (Feb. 2012): 54-56. Wake in Fright. Dir. Ted Kotcheff. United Artists, 1971.

碩士
國立成功大學
台灣文學研究所
94
Founded in 1885 as Taiwan’s first newspaper, “Taiwan Prefectural City Church News”launched developments of Taiwan’s print media.From 1885 to 1969 Taiwan had gone through three different colonial regimes, chronologically the Chheng Empire,the Japanese and the Chinese KMT (Kok-bin-tong).Nevertheless this paper insisted on purely printing in Peh-oe-ji, an alphabetical system invented to record Taiwan’s native languages, and had left precious documents about Taiwan’s societal, historic and cultural evolutions.This thesis aims to discuss on views of civilization reflected in “Taiwan Prefectural City Church News”, its role as the pioneer of Taiwan’s print media, and its content regarding medicine and public health, language education and absorption of new knowledge. Through her research the author has found that Peh-oe-ji had not only functioned as an effective tool to represent Taiwan’s native languages, but also facilitated modernization and the spread of new knowledge. Views of civilization translated in Peh-oe-ji documents had also played a leading part in spheres like media, education, linguistics and medicine, preceding records in Han characters and Japanese in the above areas.Thus the author concludes Peh-oe-ji sparks Taiwan’s modernization and its significance in histories of Taiwanese literature and philosophy should be highlighted and explored further. Since this study targets “Taiwan Prefectural City Church News”, which was solely printed in a native Taiwanese language, the author decides to write this thesis in Romanlized-Han mixed Taiwanese so as to thoroughly and precisely present language features of this newspaper.On the other hand, Taiwan’s native tongues, such as aboriginal languages, Hakka and Amoy, had been repeatedly repressed and discriminated by different colonial regimes. It has been a long time that Taiwan’s native languages are “devilled” as “low languages”, uncultured and uncivilized. The author firmly believe such stereotypes and misrepresentations should be challenged and corrected. She wants to demonstrate that native Taiwanese languages are not merely for oral communications; they can be applied in more demanding aspects academic projects and literature.With the approval and encouragement of her advisor, Professor Li Heng-chhiong, she has tried her best to carry out her beliefs and completed this thesis in a native Taiwanese tongue. Hopefully this thesis will contribute to strengthening Peh-oe-ji’s status as an efficient writing system and help build up more resources for native Taiwanese writing.