Academic literature on the topic '97 Murray Street (New York, N.Y.)'

The automotive design process and the materials in the automotive industry in recent years has caused great interest to the industrial and academic sector. In this study was to evaluate the effect of the amount of bentonite on the thermal and rheological properties of the compound bentonite / paraffin wax. Two bentonite ratios were used: paraffin wax (40:60 and 30:70). The paraffin was characterized by Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy (FTIR), the bentonite was characterized by means of x-ray diffraction (XRD), thermogravimetric analysis (TGA), X-ray fluorescence (XRF). The bentonite/paraffine wax composite was characterized by differential-scanning calorimetry (DSC) and rheology. The sample that contains a higher amount of bentonite shows a lower latent heat, and this could cause a greater heat transfer. Finally, the sample that has a lower amount of bentonite evidenced a lower viscosity, and it could be related to a lower interaction between the particles. The sample S1 due to its lower latent heat compared to S2 could represent an interesting alternative to develop prototypingclays. since these materials are characterized by their low working temperatures and easy malleability. Keywords: automotive, prototyping, latent heat, bentonite, paraffin. References [1]X. Ferràs-Hernández, E. Tarrats-Pons, and N. Arimany-Serrat, “Disruption in the automotive industry: A Cambrian moment,” Bus. Horiz., vol. 60, no. 6, pp.855–863, 2017, doi: 10.1016/j.bushor.2017.07.011. [2]O. Heneric, G. Licht, S. Lutz, and W. Urban, “The Europerean Automotive Industry in a Global Context,” Eur. Automot. Ind. Move, pp. 5–44, 2005, doi: 10.1007/3-7908-1644-2_2. [3]S. I.-N. Delhi, “Automotive Revolution & Perspective Towards 2030,” Auto Tech Rev., vol. 5, no. 4, pp. 20–25, Apr. 2016, doi: 10.1365/s40112-016-1117-8.[4]M. Tovey, J. Owen, and P. Street, “in Automotive Design,” vol. 21, pp. 569–588, 2000. [5]Yasusato Yamada, Clay modeling : techniques for giving three-dimensional form to idea. 1997. [6]H. Murray, “Industrial clays case study,” Mining, Miner. Sustain. Dev., vol. 1, no. 64, pp. 1–9, 2002, [Online]. Available: http://www.whitemudresources.com/public/Hayn Murray Clays Case Study.pdf%0Ahttp://whitemudresources.com/public/Hayn Murray ClaysCase Study.pdf. [7]Transparency Market Research, “Industrial Clay Market - Global Industry Analysis, Size, Share, Growth, Trends, and Forecast 2016 - 2024,” New york, 2016.[8]J. Murphy, Additives for Plastics Handbook. Elsevier, 2001. [9]Y. Hong, J. J. Cooper-White, M. E. Mackay, C. J. Hawker, E. Malmström, and N. Rehnberg, “A novel processing aid for polymer extrusion: Rheology and processing of polyethylene and hyperbranched polymer blends,” J. Rheol. (N. Y. N. Y)., vol. 43, no. 3, pp. 781–793, 1999, doi: 10.1122/1.550999. [10]D. P. Rawski, P. Edwards, and U. States, “Pulp and Paper : Non fi brous Components,” no. January, pp.1–4, 2017, doi: 10.1016/B978-0-12-803581-8.10289-9. [11]J. Speight, “Instability and incompatibility of tight oil and shale oil,” Shale Oil Gas Prod. Process., pp. 915–942, 2020, doi: 10.1016/b978-0-12-813315-6.00017-8. [12]T. P. Brown, L. Rushton, M. A. Mugglestone, and D. F. Meechan, “Health effects of a sulphur dioxide air pollution episode,” vol. 25, no. 4, pp. 369–371, 2003,doi: 10.1093/pubmed/fdg083. [13]R. Chihi, I. Blidi, M. Trabelsi-Ayadi, and F. Ayari, “Elaboration and characterization of a low-cost porous ceramic support from natural Tunisian bentonite clay,” Comptes Rendus Chim., vol. 22, no. 2–3, pp. 188–197, 2019, doi: 10.1016/j.crci.2018.12.002. [14]Z. Yi, W. Xiaopeng, and L. I. Dongxu, “Prepartion of organophilic bentonite / paraffin composite phase change energy storage material with melting intercalation method,” pp. 126–131, 2011, doi: 10.4028/www.scientific.net/AMR.284-286.126. [15]I. Krupa and A. S. Luyt, “Thermal and mechanical properties of extruded LLDPE / wax blends,” vol. 73, pp. 157–161, 2001. [16]A. Saleem, L. Frormann, J. Koltermann, and C. Reichelt, “Fabrication and Processing of Polypropylene - Paraffin Compounds with Enhanced Thermal andProcessing Properties : Impact Penetration and Thermal Characterization,” vol. 40164, pp. 1–9, 2014, doi:10.1002/app.40164. [17]M. Mu, P. A. M. Basheer, W. Sha, Y. Bai, and T. Mcnally, “Shape stabilised phase change materials based on a high melt viscosity HDPE and paraffin waxes,”Appl. Energy, vol. 162, pp. 68–82, 2016, doi: 10.1016/j.apenergy.2015.10.030. [18]M. Tovey, “Intuitive and objective processes in automotive design,” Des. Stud., vol. 13, no. 1, pp. 23–41, 1992, doi: 10.1016/0142-694X(92)80003-H. [19]J. Verlinden, A. Kooijman, E. Edelenbos, and C. Go, “Investigation on the use of illuminated clay in automotive styling,” 6th Int. Conf. Comput. Ind. Des.Concept. Des. (CAID&CD), Delft, NETHERLANDS, pp. 514–519, 2005. [20]N. W. Muhamad Bustaman and M. S. Abu Mansor, “A Study on CAD/CAM Application in CNC Milling Using Industrial Clay,” Appl. Mech. Mater., vol. 761, pp. 32–36, 2015, doi: 10.4028/www.scientific.net/AMM.761.32. [21]K. Shimokawa, Japan and the global automotive industry. 2010. [22]A. Bucio, R. Moreno tovar, L. Bucio, J. Espinosadávila, and F. Anguebes franceschi, “Characterization of beeswax, candelilla wax and paraffin wax for coatingcheeses,” Coatings, vol. 11, no. 3, pp. 1–18, 2021, doi: 10.3390/coatings11030261. [23]F. Valentini, A. Dorigato, A. Pegoretti, M. Tomasi, G. D. Sorarù, and M. Biesuz, “Si3N4 nanofelts/paraffin composites as novel thermal energy storage architecture,” J. Mater. Sci., vol. 56, no. 2, pp. 1537–1550, 2021, doi: 10.1007/s10853-020-05247-5. [24]F. Paquin, J. Rivnay, A. Salleo, N. Stingelin, and C. Silva, “Multi-phase semicrystalline microstructures drive exciton dissociation in neat plastic semiconductors,” J. Mater. Chem. C, vol. 3, pp. 10715–10722, 2015, doi: 10.1039/b000000x. [25]R. S. Hebbar, A. M. Isloor, B. Prabhu, Inamuddin, A. M. Asiri, and A. F. Ismail, “Removal of metal ions and humic acids through polyetherimide membranewith grafted bentonite clay,” Sci. Rep., vol. 8, no. 1, 2018, doi: 10.1038/s41598-018-22837-1. [26]S. Betancourt-Parra, M. A. Domínguez-Ortiz, and M. Martínez-Tejada, “Colombian clays binary mixtures: Physical changes due to thermal treatments,” DYNA, vol. 87, no. 212, pp. 73–79, 2020, doi: 10.15446/dyna.v87n212.82285. [27]A. M. Rabie, E. A. Mohammed, and N. A. Negm, “Feasibility of modified bentonite as acidic heterogeneous catalyst in low temperature catalytic crackingprocess of biofuel production from nonedible vegetable oils,” J. Mol. Liq., vol. 254, no. 2018, pp. 260–266, 2018, doi: 10.1016/j.molliq.2018.01.110. [28]A. Kadeche et al., “Preparation, characterization and application of Fe-pillared bentonite to the removal of Coomassie blue dye from aqueous solutions,” Res. Chem. Intermed., vol. 46, no. 11, pp. 4985–5008, 2020, doi: 10.1007/s11164-020-04236-2. [29]C. I. R. De Oliveira, M. C. G. Rocha, A. L. N. DaSilva, and L. C. Bertolino, “Characterization of bentonite clays from Cubati, Paraíba Northeast of Brazil,” Ceramica, vol. 62, no. 363, pp. 272–277, 2016, doi:10.1590/0366-69132016623631970. [30]I. Z. Hager, Y. S. Rammah, H. A. Othman, E. M. Ibrahim, S. F. Hassan, and F. H. Sallam, “Nano-structured natural bentonite clay coated by polyvinyl alcohol polymer for gamma rays attenuation,” J. Theor. Appl. Phys., vol. 13, no. 2, pp. 141–153, 2019, doi: 10.1007/ s40094-019-0332-5. [31]A. Tebeje, Z. Worku, T. T. I. Nkambule, and J. Fito, “Adsorption of chemical oxygen demand from textile industrial wastewater through locally prepared bentonite adsorbent,” Int. J. Environ. Sci. Technol., no. 0123456789, 2021, doi: 10.1007/s13762-021-03230-4. [32]F. E. Özgüven, A. D. Pekdemir, M. Önal, and Y. Sarıkaya, “Characterization of a bentonite and its permanent aqueous suspension,” J. Turkish Chem. Soc.Sect. A Chem., vol. 7, no. 1, pp. 11–18, 2019, doi: 10.18596/jotcsa.535937. [33]S. Tao, S. Wei, and Y. Yulan, “Characterization of Expanded Graphite Microstructure and Fabrication of Composite Phase-Change Material for Energy Storage,” J. Mater. Civ. Eng., vol. 27, no. 4, p. 04014156, 2015, doi: 10.1061/(asce)mt.1943-5533.0001089. [34]M. Li, Z. Wu, H. Kao, and J. Tan, “Experimental investigation of preparation and thermal performances of paraffin/bentonite composite phase change material,” Energy Convers. Manag., vol. 52, no. 11, pp. 3275–3281, 2011, doi: 10.1016/j.enconman.2011.05.015. [35]S. M. Hosseini, E. Ghasemi, A. Fazlali, and D. E. Henneke, “The effect of nanoparticle concentration on the rheological properties of paraffin-based Co3O4 ferrofluids,” J. Nanoparticle Res., vol. 14, no. 7, 2012, doi: 10.1007/s11051-012-0858-9.

This article presents the results of the first implementation of map literacy learning model in middle school classes - this is the preliminary test. The implementation of this learning model will gain optimal results when it is conducted by following all the component of the model such as the syntax, theoretical framework, social system, teachers' roles, and support system. After the model implementation has been completed, the results showed that there was significantly different in students' spatial thinking skills before and after the treatment. However, the implementation also revealed that the model has some technical issues and thus to be improved. In a social system revision, the teacher has to be flexibly provide scaffolding every time he/she sees that the students need it. Teacher's book is significantly important to help a teacher lead the learning process. After improvement of the model has been completed, then it is ready to be implemented in the main field testing stage. Keywords: map literacy, social studies learning, spatial thinking References Abbasnasab, S., Rashid, M., & Saad, M. (2012). Knowledge with Professional Practice A Sociocultural Perspective on Assessment for Learning : The Case of a Malaysian Primary School ESL Context, 66, 343–353. http://doi.org/10.1016/j.sbspro.2012.11.277 Adeyemi, S. B., & Cishe, E. N. (2015). Effects of Cooperative and Individualistic Learning Strategies on Students’ Map Reading and Interpretation. International Journal of Arts & Sciences, 8(7), 383–395. Bednarz, S. W., Acheson, G., & Bednarz, R. S. (2006). Maps and Map Learning in Social Studies. Social Education, 70(7), 398–404. http://doi.org/10.4324/9780203841273 Brophy, J., & Alleman, J. (2009). Meaningful social studies for elementary students. Teachers and Teaching, 15(3), 357–376. http://doi.org/10.1080/13540600903056700 Cohen, L., Manion, L., Morrison, K., & Wyse, D. (2010). A Guide To Teaching Practice (5th ed.). London and New York: Rotledge. Churcher, K. M. A., Downs, E., & Tewksbury, D. (2014). “ Friending ” Vygotsky : A Social Constructivist P edagogy of Knowledge Building Through Classroom Social Media Use, 14(1), 33–50. Durmuş, Y. T. (2016). Effective Learning Environment Characteristics as a requirement of Constructivist Curricula: Teachers’ Needs and School Principals’ Views. International Journal of Instruction, 9(2), 183–198. http://doi.org/10.12973/iji.2016.9213a Fani, T., & Ghaemi, F. (2011). Implications of Vygotsky ’ s Zone of Proximal Development ( ZPD ) in Teacher Education : ZPTD and Self-scaffolding. Procedia - Social and Behavioral Sciences, 29(Iceepsy), 1549–1554. http://doi.org/10.1016/j.sbspro.2011.11.396 Gauvain, M. (1993). The Development of Spatial Thinking in Everyday Activity. Developmental Review, 13, 92–121. Hribar, G. C. (2015). Using Map-Based Investigations with Elementary Students. In ESRI Education GIS Conference (pp. 1–26). Huynh, N. T., & Sharpe, B. (2013). An Assessment Instrument to Measure Geospatial Thinking Expertise An Assessment Instrument to Measure Geospatial Thinking Expertise. Journal of Geography, 112(October 2014), 3–41. http://doi.org/10.1080/00221341.2012.682227 Ishikawa, T. (2012). Geospatial Thinking and Spatial Ability: An Empirical Examination of Knowledge and Reasoning in Geographical Science. The Professional Geographer, (July 2015), 121018062625002. http://doi.org/10.1080/00330124.2012.724350 Jessie A. (1951). Maps and Slow-Learners. Journal of Geography, 50:4, 145-149, DOI: 10.1080/00221345108982661 Jo, I., Bednarz, S., & Metoyer, S. (2010). Selecting and Designing Questions to Facilitate Spatial Thinking. The Geography Teacher, 7(2), 49–55. http://doi.org/10.1080/19338341.2010.510779 Joyce, B.R., Weil, M., & Calhoun, E. (2014). Models of Teaching (8th Ed). New Jersey: Pearson Education. Key, L.V., Bradley, J.A., & Bradley, K.A. (2010).Stimulating Instruction in Social Studies. The Social Studies, 101:3, 117-120, DOI: 10.1080/00377990903283932 Leinhardt, G., Stainton, C., & Bausmith, J. M. (1998). Constructing Maps Collaboratively. Journal of Geography, 97(1), 19–30. http://doi.org/10.1080/00221349808978821 Logan, J. R. (2012). Making a Place for Space: Spatial Thinking in Social Science. Annual Review of Sociology, 38(1), 507–524. http://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-soc-071811-145531 Logan, J. R., Zhang, W., & Xu, H. (2010). Applying spatial thinking in social science research. GeoJournal, 75(1), 15–27. http://doi.org/10.1007/s10708-010-9343-0 National Reseach Council. (2006). Learning to Think spatially. Washington, D.C.: The National Academic Press. Retrieved from www.nap.edu NCSS. (2016). A Vision of Powerful Teaching and Learning in the Social Studies, 80(3), 180–182. Saekhow, J. (2015). Steps of Cooperative Learning on Social Networking by Integrating Instructional Design based on Constructivist Approach. Procedia - Social and Behavioral Sciences, 197(February), 1740–1744. http://doi.org/10.1016/j.sbspro.2015.07.230 Uttal, D. H. (2000). Maps and spatial thinking: a two-way street. Developmental Science, 3(3), 283–286. http://doi.org/10.1111/1467-7687.00121 Verma, K. (2014). Geospatial Thinking of Undergraduate Students in Public Universities in The United States. Texas State University. Wiegand, P. (2006). Learning and Teaching with Maps. London and New York: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group. Retrieved from http://cataleg.udg.edu/record=b1373859~S10*cat

O constante e crescente uso de ferramentas digitais no ensino de línguas tem (re)significado a prática de professores (DOOLY; SADLER, 2016). Do mesmo modo, esse fenômeno tem influenciado campos de pesquisa na área da Linguística Aplicada como, por exemplo, processos de ensino e aprendizagem, que focam em affordances promovidas pelo uso de ferramentas digitais em aulas de língua inglesa (DOOLY; SADLER, 2016; RAMA et al, 2012; SILVA, 2015; TOUR, 2015). Este trabalho, de natureza teórico-prática, visa a aproximar conceitos de Leitura Crítica (SCOTT, 1988) e Letramento Crítico (LANKSHEAR; KNOBEL, 1997; SINGH; MORAN, 1997) do Letramento Digital (DOOLY; SADLER, 2016). Após advogar o uso de ferramentas digitais para a leitura e transformação da realidade social, apresenta-se uma proposta didática que materializa tais conceitos teóricos. Referências:AGUDELO, O. L.; SALINAS, J. Flexible Learning Itineraries Based on Conceptual Maps. New Approaches in Educational Research, Colombia, v.4, n.2, p.70-76, 2015.CORADIM, J. N. Ensino de língua inglesa e letramento crítico: uma proposta didática de leitura e produção escrita. In: EL KADRI, M. S.; PASSONI, T. P.; GAMERO, R. (Org.). Tendências contemporâneas para o ensino de língua inglesa: propostas didáticas para a educação básica. Campinas: Pontes, 2014, p.99-124.DAWSON, M. A. (Ed.) Developing comprehension – including critical reading. Newark: International Reading Association, 1968.D’ALMAS, J. Da passividade à agência: desenvolvimento de professoras como resultado de empoderamento. 2016. 314f. Tese (Doutorado em Estudos da Linguagem) – Universidade Estadual de Londrina, Londrina, 2016.DOOLY, M.; SADLER, R. Becoming little scientists: Technologically-enhanced project-based language learning. Language Learning and Technology, Hawai, v.20, n.1, 54-78. 2016.FAIRCLOUGH, N. Language and power. London: Longman, 1989.FRANCESCON, P. K.; REIS, S. Contexto da situação em foco em leituras críticas do cotidiano. In: EL KADRI, M. S.; PASSONI, T. P.; GAMERO, R. (Org.). Tendências contemporâneas para o ensino de língua inglesa: propostas didáticas para a educação básica. Campinas: Pontes, 2014, p.83-98.FREIRE, P. Pedagogia do oprimido. São Paulo, SP: Paz Terra, 2015 [1974], 59ed.______. Education for critical consciousness. New York, NY: Continuum, 2005 [1974].GIROUX, H. A. Os professores como intelectuais: rumo a uma pedagogia crítica da aprendizagem. Porto Alegre, RS: Artes Médicas, 1997 [1988].GOODMAN, K. The reading process. In: CARRELL, P. L.; DEVINE, J.; ESKEY, D. (Eds.). Interactive Approaches to Second Language Reading. London, UK: Cambridge Press, 1988, p.11-21.GUILLEMIN, M.; GILLAM, L. Ethics, reflexivity, and “ethically important moments” in research. Qualitative Inquiry, California, n.10, v.2, p.261-280. 2004.HALLIDAY, M. A. K.; HASAN, R. Language, Context, and Text: aspects of language in a social-semiotic perspective. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1989.LANKSHEAR, C.; KNOBEL, M. Critical Literacy and Active Citizenship. In: MUSPRATT, S.; LUKE, A.; FREEBODY, P. (Eds.). Constructing Critical Literacies: Teaching and Learning Textual Practice. Broadway, NY: Hamption Press, 1997, p.95-124.LEFFA, V. J. Perspectivas no estudo da leitura: texto, leitor e interação social. In: ______. (Org.). O ensino da leitura e produção textual: alternativas de renovação. Pelotas, RS: EDUCAT, 1999, p.13-37.LINCOLN, Y. S.; GUBA, E. G. Paradigmatic Controversies, Contradictions, and Emerging Confluences. In: DENZIN, N. K.; LINCOLN, Y. S. (Ed.). Handbook of Qualitative Research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2000. p. 253-291.MOORE, J. et al. Effectiveness of Adaptive Concept Maps for Promoting Conceptual Understanding: Findings from a Design-Based Case Study of a Learner-Centered Tool. Advances in Engineering Education, Virginia, v.[s], n.[s], p.1-35, 2015.PESSOA, R. R.; URZÊDA-FREITAS, M. T. Challenges in Critical Language Teaching. TESOL Quartely, v. [s], n.[s], p.1-24, 2012.REA-RAMIREZ, M. A.; RAMIREZ, T. M. Changing Attitudes, Changing Behaviors. Conceptual Change as a Model for Teaching Freedom of Religion or Belief. Journal of Social Science Education, Germany, v.16, n.4, p.97-108.REIS, S.; EGIDO, A. A. Ontologia, Epistemologia e Ética como determinantes metodológicos em Estudos da Linguagem. In: REIS, S. (Org.). História, Políticas e Ética na área profissional da linguagem. Londrina: Eduel, 2017. p.227-250.REIS, S.; D’ALMAS, J.; MANTOVANI, L. Leituras críticas para transformação do cotidiano. In: EL KADRI, M. S.; PASSONI, T. P.; GAMERO, R. (Org.). Tendências contemporâneas para o ensino de língua inglesa: propostas didáticas para a educação básica. Campinas: Pontes, 2014, p.125-150.SAITO, L. M. Leitura crítica: origens conceituais e sugestões de atividades didáticas para aulas de língua inglesa. 2018. 72f. Dissertação (Programa de Mestrado Profissional em Letras Estrangeiras Modernas) – Universidade Estadual de Londrina, 2018.SCOTT, M. Critical reading needn’t be left out. The ESPecialist, São Paulo. v.9, n.1, p.123-137. 1988. SELWYN, N. Discourses of digital “disruption” in education: A critical analysis. Paper presented to Fifth International Roundtable on Discourse Analysis, City University, Hong Kong. 2013.SILVA, A. T. Affordances e restrições na interação interpessoal escrita online durante a aprendizagem de inglês como língua estrangeira. 2015. 342 f. Tese (Doutorado em Linguística) – Universidade Federal do Ceará, Centro de Humanidades.SINGH, M. G.; MORAN, P. Critical Literacies for Informed Citizenship: Further Thoughts on Possible Actions. In: MUSPRATT, S.; LUKE, A.; FREEBODY, P. (Eds.). Constructing Critical Literacies: Teaching and Learning Textual Practice. Broadway, NY: Hamption Press, 1997, p.125-136.STREET, B. V. Letramentos sociais: abordagens críticas do letramento no desenvolvimento, na etnografia e na educação. São Paulo, SP: Parábola, 2014 [1995],TOUR, E. Digital Mindsets: Teachers’ technology use in personal life and teaching. Language Learning Technology, Hawai, v.19, n.3, p.124-139, 2015.URZÊDA-FREITAS, M. T.; PESSOA, R. R. Discursos de identidades, ensino crítico de línguas e mudança social: análise de uma experiência localizada. In: MATEUS, E.; OLIVEIRA, N. B. (Org.). Estudos Críticos da Linguagem e Formação de Professores/as de Línguas: contribuições Teórico-Metodológicas. Campinas: Pontes, p. 365-396, 2014.VAN LIER, L. From input to affordance: Social-interactive learning from an ecological perspective. In: LANTOLF, J. (Ed.). Sociocultural theory and second language learning. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2000.Recebido em 31-12-2018.Aceito em 21-03-2019.

RÉSUMÉLe principal objectif de cet article est d’encourager une approche plus large, supraconfessionnelle, du mariage et de la famille à l’époque moderne. La conjugalité a été “désacralisée” par les réformateurs protestants du 16e siècle. Martin Luther, parmi d’autres, a refusé le statut de sacrement au mariage, tout en valorisant celui-ci comme une arme contre le péché. En réaction, le concile de Trente a réaffirmé avec force que le mariage est bien un des sept sacrements chrétiens. Mais, promouvant la supériorité du célibat, l’Église catholique n’a jamais beaucoup insisté sur les vertus de la vie et de la piété familiales avant le 19e siècle. En parallèle, les historiens décèlent des signes de “sacralisation” de la famille protestante à partir du 16e siècle. Leurs conclusions doivent être relativisées à la lumière de recherches plus récentes et plus critiques, centrées sur les rapports et les représentations de genre. Elles peuvent néanmoins inspirer une étude élargie et comparative, inexistante dans l’historiographie traditionnelle, des réalités et des perceptions de la famille chrétienne au-delà des frontières confessionnelles.MOTS-CLÉ: Époque Moderne, mariage, famille, protestantisme, Concile de TrenteABSTRACTThe main purpose of this paper is to encourage a broader supra-confessional approach to the history of marriage and the family in the Early Modern era. Wedlock was “desacralized” by the Protestant reformers of the 16th century. Martin Luther, among others, denied the sacramental status of marriage but valued it as a weapon against sin. In reaction, the Council of Trent reinforced marriage as one of the seven sacraments. But the Catholic Church, which promoted the superiority of celibacy, did little to defend the virtues of family life and piety before the 19th century. In parallel, historians have identified signs of a “sacralization” of the Protestant family since the 16th century. These findings must be relativized in the light of newer and more critical studies on gender relations and representations. But they can still inspire a broader comparative study, non-existent in traditional confessional historiography, of the realities and perceptions of the Christian family beyond denominational borders.KEY WORDS: Early Modern Christianity, marriage, family, Protestantism, Council of Trent BIBLIOGRAPHIEAdair, R., Courtship, Illegitimacy and Marriage in Early Modern England, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1996.Beaulande-Barraud, V., “Sexualité, mariage et procréation. Discours et pratiques dans l’Église médiévale (XIIIe-XVe siècles)”, dans Vanderpelen-Diagre, C., & Sägesser, C., (coords.), La Sainte Famille. Sexualité, filiation et parentalité dans l’Église catholique, Problèmes d’Histoire des Religions, 24, Bruxelles, Éditions de l’Université de Bruxelles, 2017, pp. 19-29.Bels, P., Le mariage des protestants français jusqu’en 1685. 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Ehe und Sexualität in Basel während der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn, Schöningh, 1999.Calvin, J., Institution de la Religion chrétienne (1541), édition critique en deux vols., Millet, O., (ed.), Genève, Librairie Droz, 2008, vol. 2, pp. 1471-1479.Carillo, F., “Famille”, dans Gisel, P., (coord.), Encyclopédie du protestantisme, Paris, PUF/Quadrige, 2006, p. 489.Christin, O., & Krumenacker, Y., (coords.), Les protestants à l’époque moderne. 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NORTHERN IRELAND FROM THE AIR. Edited by R. Common, Belfast : Queen's University Geography Department, 1964. 104 pp., 44 plates, 1 folding map. 10 × 8 ins. 25s.THE CANALS OF THE NORTH OF IRELAND, by W. A. McCutcheon. Dawlish : David and Charles, and London : Macdonald and Co., 1965. 180 pp. 8 1/2 × 5 1/4 in. 36s.ULSTER AND OTHER IRISH MAPS c.1600. Edited by G. A. Hayes‐McCoy. Dublin : Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1964. 13 × 19 in. xv + 36 pp., 23. plates. £ 6.SOILS OF COUNTY WEXFORD. Edited by P. Ryan and M. J. Gardiner. Prepared and published by An Foras Talúntais (The Agricultural Institute), Dublin 1964. 171 pp. and three fold‐in maps. 30s.THE GEOGRAPHY OF SOIL, by Brian T. Bunting. London : Hutchinson's University Library, 1965. pp. 213. 14 figs. 12 tables. 7 1/2 × 5 in. 15s.THE HISTORY OF THE STUDY OF LANDFORMS. Vol. I : GEOMORPHOLOGY BEFORE DAVIS. Richard J. Chorley, Anthony J. Dunn and Robert P. Beckinsale. London : Methuen, 1964. 678 pp. 84s.A DICTIONARY OF GEOGRAPHY, by F. 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London : University Tutorial Press Ltd., 1966, constituting Book Six (Part 1 ) of the Advanced Level Geography Series. 303 pp. 8 1/4 × 5 1/4 in. 20s.PREHISTORIC AND EARLY CHRISTIAN IRELAND. A GUIDE, by Estyn Evans. London : B. T. Batsford Ltd., 1966. xii + 241 pp. 45s.A REGIONAL GEOGRAPHY OF IRELAND, by G. Fahy. Dublin : Browne and Nolan Ltd. No date. 238 pp. 12s.THE CANALS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND, by V. T. H. and D. R. Delany. Newton Abbot : David and Charles, 1966. 260 pp. + 20 plates. 8 1/2 × 5 1/2 in. 50s.THE COURSE OF IRISH HISTORY. Edited by T. W. Moody and F. X. Martin. Cork : The Mercier Press. 1967. 404 pp. 5 3/4 × 7 3/4 ins. Paperback, 21s. Hard cover, 40s.NORTH MUNSTER STUDIES. Edited by E. Rynne. Limerick : The Thomond Archaeological Society, 1967. 535 pp. 63s.SOILS OF COUNTY LIMERICK, by T. F. Finch and Pierce Ryan. Dublin: An Foras Talúntais, 1966. 199 pp. and four fold‐in maps. 9 1/2 × 7 1/4 in. 30s.THE FORESTS OF IRELAND. Edited by H. M. Fitzpatrick. 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Institute of British Geographers Transactions No. 39, 1966, pp. 127–140.LIMESTONE PAVEMENTS (with special reference to Western Ireland), by Paul W. Williams. Institute of British Geographers Transactions No. 40, 1966, pp. 155–172. 50s. for 198 pages.IRISH SPELEOLOGY. Volume I, No. 2, 1966. Pp. 18. 10 × 8 in. 5s., free to members of the Irish Speleological Association.THE GEOGRAPHER'S CRAFT, by T. W. Freeman. Manchester University Press, 1967. pp.204. 8 1/4 × 5 in. 25s.GEOGRAPHY AS HUMAN ECOLOGY. Edited by S. R. Eyre and G. R. J. Jones. London : Edward Arnold Ltd., 1966. 308 pp. 45s.LOCATIONAL ANALYSIS IN HUMAN GEOGRAPHY, by Peter Haggett. London : Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1965. 339 pp. 9 × 5 1/2 in. 40s.AGRICULTURAL GEOGRAPHY, by Leslie Symons. London : G. Bell and Sons, Ltd., 1967. 283 pp. 8 1/2 × 5 1/2 ins. 30s.THE GEOLOGY OF SCOTLAND, edited by Gordon Y. Craig. Edinburgh and London : Oliver & Boyd, 1965. Pp. 556. 9 3/4 × 7 1/2 in. 105s.MORPHOLOGY OF THE EARTH, by Lester C. 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Dublin : Department of Transport and Power, Meteorological Service, 1968. 72 pp. 10s. 6d.SOILS OF COUNTY CARLOW, by M.J. Conry and Pierce Ryan. Dublin : An Foras Talúntais, 1967. 204 pp. and four fold‐in maps. 30s.MOURNE COUNTRY, by E. Estyn Evans. Dundalk : Dundalgan Press (W. Tempest) Ltd., 2nd ed., 1967. 244 pp. 63s.THE DUBLIN REGION. Advisory Plan and Final Report, by Myles Wright. Dublin : The Stationery Office, 1967. Part One, pp. 64. 20s. Part Two, pp. 224. 80s.BELFAST : THE ORIGIN AND GROWTH OF AN INDUSTRIAL CITY. Edited by J. C. Beckett and R. E. Glasscock. London : The British Broadcasting Corporation, 1967. 204 pp. 25s.REPORT ON SKIBBEREEN SOCIAL SURVEY, by John Jackson. Dublin : Human Sciences Committee of the Irish National Productivity Committee, 1967. 63 pp. 12s. 6d.AN OUTLINE PLAN FOR GALWAY CITY, by Breandan S. MacAodha. Dublin : Scepter Publishers Ltd., 1966. 15 pp.COASTAL PASSENGER STEAMERS AND INLAND NAVIGATIONS IN THE SOUTH OF IRELAND, by D.B. McNeill. Belfast : The Transport Museum (Transport Handbook No. 6), 1965 (issued in 1967). 44 pp. (text) + 12 pp. (plates). 3s. 6d.CANALIANA, the annual bulletin of Robertstown Muintir na Tire. Robertstown, Co. Kildare : Muintir na Tire, n.d. (issued in 1967). 60 pp. 2s. 6d.CONACRE IN IRELAND, by Breandan S. MacAodha (Social Sciences Research Centre, Galway). Dublin : Scepter Publishers Ltd., 1967, 15 pp. No price.PROCESSES OF COASTAL DEVELOPMENT, by V.P. Zenkovich, edited by J.A. Steers, translated by D.G. Fry. 738 pp. Edinburgh and London : Oliver and Boyd, 1967. £12. 12s.CONGRESS PROCEEDINGS. 20th International Geographical Congress. Edited by J. Wreford Watson. London : Nelson, 1967. 401 pp. 70s.REGIONAL GEOGRAPHY, by Roger Minshull. London : Hutchinson University Library, 1967. 168 pp. 10s. 6d.ATMOSPHERE, WEATHER AND CLIMATE, by R.G. Barry and R.J. Chorley. London : University Paperback, Methuen, 1967. 25s.THE EVOLUTION OF SCOTLAND'S SCENERY, by J.B. Sissons. Edinburgh and London : Oliver and Boyd, 1967. 259 pp. 63s.WEST WICKLOW. BACKGROUND FOR DEVELOPMENT, by F.H.A. Aalen, D.A. Gillmor and P.W. Williams. Dublin : Geography Department, Trinity College, 1966. 323 pp. Unpublished : copy available in the Society's Library.

Introduction Crime fiction is one of the world’s most popular genres. Indeed, it has been estimated that as many as one in every three new novels, published in English, is classified within the crime fiction category (Knight xi). These new entrants to the market are forced to jostle for space on bookstore and library shelves with reprints of classic crime novels; such works placed in, often fierce, competition against their contemporaries as well as many of their predecessors. Raymond Chandler, in his well-known essay The Simple Art of Murder, noted Ernest Hemingway’s observation that “the good writer competes only with the dead. The good detective story writer […] competes not only with all the unburied dead but with all the hosts of the living as well” (3). In fact, there are so many examples of crime fiction works that, as early as the 1920s, one of the original ‘Queens of Crime’, Dorothy L. Sayers, complained: It is impossible to keep track of all the detective-stories produced to-day [sic]. Book upon book, magazine upon magazine pour out from the Press, crammed with murders, thefts, arsons, frauds, conspiracies, problems, puzzles, mysteries, thrills, maniacs, crooks, poisoners, forgers, garrotters, police, spies, secret-service men, detectives, until it seems that half the world must be engaged in setting riddles for the other half to solve (95). Twenty years after Sayers wrote on the matter of the vast quantities of crime fiction available, W.H. Auden wrote one of the more famous essays on the genre: The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on the Detective Story, by an Addict. Auden is, perhaps, better known as a poet but his connection to the crime fiction genre is undisputed. As well as his poetic works that reference crime fiction and commentaries on crime fiction, one of Auden’s fellow poets, Cecil Day-Lewis, wrote a series of crime fiction novels under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake: the central protagonist of these novels, Nigel Strangeways, was modelled upon Auden (Scaggs 27). Interestingly, some writers whose names are now synonymous with the genre, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Raymond Chandler, established the link between poetry and crime fiction many years before the publication of The Guilty Vicarage. Edmund Wilson suggested that “reading detective stories is simply a kind of vice that, for silliness and minor harmfulness, ranks somewhere between crossword puzzles and smoking” (395). In the first line of The Guilty Vicarage, Auden supports Wilson’s claim and confesses that: “For me, as for many others, the reading of detective stories is an addiction like tobacco or alcohol” (406). This indicates that the genre is at best a trivial pursuit, at worst a pursuit that is bad for your health and is, increasingly, socially unacceptable, while Auden’s ideas around taste—high and low—are made clear when he declares that “detective stories have nothing to do with works of art” (406). The debates that surround genre and taste are many and varied. The mid-1920s was a point in time which had witnessed crime fiction writers produce some of the finest examples of fiction to ever be published and when readers and publishers were watching, with anticipation, as a new generation of crime fiction writers were readying themselves to enter what would become known as the genre’s Golden Age. At this time, R. Austin Freeman wrote that: By the critic and the professedly literary person the detective story is apt to be dismissed contemptuously as outside the pale of literature, to be conceived of as a type of work produced by half-educated and wholly incompetent writers for consumption by office boys, factory girls, and other persons devoid of culture and literary taste (7). This article responds to Auden’s essay and explores how crime fiction appeals to many different tastes: tastes that are acquired, change over time, are embraced, or kept as guilty secrets. In addition, this article will challenge Auden’s very narrow definition of crime fiction and suggest how Auden’s religious imagery, deployed to explain why many people choose to read crime fiction, can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment. This latter argument demonstrates that a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. Crime Fiction: A Type For Every Taste Cathy Cole has observed that “crime novels are housed in their own section in many bookshops, separated from literary novels much as you’d keep a child with measles away from the rest of the class” (116). Times have changed. So too, have our tastes. Crime fiction, once sequestered in corners, now demands vast tracts of prime real estate in bookstores allowing readers to “make their way to the appropriate shelves, and begin to browse […] sorting through a wide variety of very different types of novels” (Malmgren 115). This is a result of the sheer size of the genre, noted above, as well as the genre’s expanding scope. Indeed, those who worked to re-invent crime fiction in the 1800s could not have envisaged the “taxonomic exuberance” (Derrida 206) of the writers who have defined crime fiction sub-genres, as well as how readers would respond by not only wanting to read crime fiction but also wanting to read many different types of crime fiction tailored to their particular tastes. To understand the demand for this diversity, it is important to reflect upon some of the appeal factors of crime fiction for readers. Many rules have been promulgated for the writers of crime fiction to follow. Ronald Knox produced a set of 10 rules in 1928. These included Rule 3 “Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable”, and Rule 10 “Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them” (194–6). In the same year, S.S. Van Dine produced another list of 20 rules, which included Rule 3 “There must be no love interest: The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar”, and Rule 7 “There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better” (189–93). Some of these directives have been deliberately ignored or have become out-of-date over time while others continue to be followed in contemporary crime writing practice. In sharp contrast, there are no rules for reading this genre. Individuals are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction. There are, however, different appeal factors for readers. The most common of these appeal factors, often described as doorways, are story, setting, character, and language. As the following passage explains: The story doorway beckons those who enjoy reading to find out what happens next. The setting doorway opens widest for readers who enjoy being immersed in an evocation of place or time. The doorway of character is for readers who enjoy looking at the world through others’ eyes. Readers who most appreciate skilful writing enter through the doorway of language (Wyatt online). These doorways draw readers to the crime fiction genre. There are stories that allow us to easily predict what will come next or make us hold our breath until the very last page, the books that we will cheerfully lend to a family member or a friend and those that we keep close to hand to re-read again and again. There are settings as diverse as country manors, exotic locations, and familiar city streets, places we have been and others that we might want to explore. There are characters such as the accidental sleuth, the hardboiled detective, and the refined police officer, amongst many others, the men and women—complete with idiosyncrasies and flaws—who we have grown to admire and trust. There is also the language that all writers, regardless of genre, depend upon to tell their tales. In crime fiction, even the most basic task of describing where the murder victim was found can range from words that convey the genteel—“The room of the tragedy” (Christie 62)—to the absurd: “There it was, jammed between a pallet load of best export boneless beef and half a tonne of spring lamb” (Maloney 1). These appeal factors indicate why readers might choose crime fiction over another genre, or choose one type of crime fiction over another. Yet such factors fail to explain what crime fiction is or adequately answer why the genre is devoured in such vast quantities. Firstly, crime fiction stories are those in which there is the committing of a crime, or at least the suspicion of a crime (Cole), and the story that unfolds revolves around the efforts of an amateur or professional detective to solve that crime (Scaggs). Secondly, crime fiction offers the reassurance of resolution, a guarantee that from “previous experience and from certain cultural conventions associated with this genre that ultimately the mystery will be fully explained” (Zunshine 122). For Auden, the definition of the crime novel was quite specific, and he argued that referring to the genre by “the vulgar definition, ‘a Whodunit’ is correct” (407). Auden went on to offer a basic formula stating that: “a murder occurs; many are suspected; all but one suspect, who is the murderer, are eliminated; the murderer is arrested or dies” (407). The idea of a formula is certainly a useful one, particularly when production demands—in terms of both quality and quantity—are so high, because the formula facilitates creators in the “rapid and efficient production of new works” (Cawelti 9). For contemporary crime fiction readers, the doorways to reading, discussed briefly above, have been cast wide open. Stories relying upon the basic crime fiction formula as a foundation can be gothic tales, clue puzzles, forensic procedurals, spy thrillers, hardboiled narratives, or violent crime narratives, amongst many others. The settings can be quiet villages or busy metropolises, landscapes that readers actually inhabit or that provide a form of affordable tourism. These stories can be set in the past, the here and now, or the future. Characters can range from Edgar Allan Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin to Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, from Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple to Kerry Greenwood’s Honourable Phryne Fisher. Similarly, language can come in numerous styles from the direct (even rough) words of Carter Brown to the literary prose of Peter Temple. Anything is possible, meaning everything is available to readers. For Auden—although he required a crime to be committed and expected that crime to be resolved—these doorways were only slightly ajar. For him, the story had to be a Whodunit; the setting had to be rural England, though a college setting was also considered suitable; the characters had to be “eccentric (aesthetically interesting individuals) and good (instinctively ethical)” and there needed to be a “completely satisfactory detective” (Sherlock Holmes, Inspector French, and Father Brown were identified as “satisfactory”); and the language descriptive and detailed (406, 409, 408). To illustrate this point, Auden’s concept of crime fiction has been plotted on a taxonomy, below, that traces the genre’s main developments over a period of three centuries. As can be seen, much of what is, today, taken for granted as being classified as crime fiction is completely excluded from Auden’s ideal. Figure 1: Taxonomy of Crime Fiction (Adapted from Franks, Murder 136) Crime Fiction: A Personal Journey I discovered crime fiction the summer before I started high school when I saw the film version of The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. A few days after I had seen the film I started reading the Raymond Chandler novel of the same title, featuring his famous detective Philip Marlowe, and was transfixed by the second paragraph: The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armour rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the visor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying (9). John Scaggs has written that this passage indicates Marlowe is an idealised figure, a knight of romance rewritten onto the mean streets of mid-20th century Los Angeles (62); a relocation Susan Roland calls a “secular form of the divinely sanctioned knight errant on a quest for metaphysical justice” (139): my kind of guy. Like many young people I looked for adventure and escape in books, a search that was realised with Raymond Chandler and his contemporaries. On the escapism scale, these men with their stories of tough-talking detectives taking on murderers and other criminals, law enforcement officers, and the occasional femme fatale, were certainly a sharp upgrade from C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia. After reading the works written by the pioneers of the hardboiled and roman noir traditions, I looked to other American authors such as Edgar Allan Poe who, in the mid-1800s, became the father of the modern detective story, and Thorne Smith who, in the 1920s and 1930s, produced magical realist tales with characters who often chose to dabble on the wrong side of the law. This led me to the works of British crime writers including Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy L. Sayers. My personal library then became dominated by Australian writers of crime fiction, from the stories of bushrangers and convicts of the Colonial era to contemporary tales of police and private investigators. There have been various attempts to “improve” or “refine” my tastes: to convince me that serious literature is real reading and frivolous fiction is merely a distraction. Certainly, the reading of those novels, often described as classics, provide perfect combinations of beauty and brilliance. Their narratives, however, do not often result in satisfactory endings. This routinely frustrates me because, while I understand the philosophical frameworks that many writers operate within, I believe the characters of such works are too often treated unfairly in the final pages. For example, at the end of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, Frederick Henry “left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain” after his son is stillborn and “Mrs Henry” becomes “very ill” and dies (292–93). Another example can be found on the last page of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four when Winston Smith “gazed up at the enormous face” and he realised that he “loved Big Brother” (311). Endings such as these provide a space for reflection about the world around us but rarely spark an immediate response of how great that world is to live in (Franks Motive). The subject matter of crime fiction does not easily facilitate fairy-tale finishes, yet, people continue to read the genre because, generally, the concluding chapter will show that justice, of some form, will be done. Punishment will be meted out to the ‘bad characters’ that have broken society’s moral or legal laws; the ‘good characters’ may experience hardships and may suffer but they will, generally, prevail. Crime Fiction: A Taste For Justice Superimposed upon Auden’s parameters around crime fiction, are his ideas of the law in the real world and how such laws are interwoven with the Christian-based system of ethics. This can be seen in Auden’s listing of three classes of crime: “(a) offenses against God and one’s neighbor or neighbors; (b) offenses against God and society; (c) offenses against God” (407). Murder, in Auden’s opinion, is a class (b) offense: for the crime fiction novel, the society reflected within the story should be one in “a state of grace, i.e., a society where there is no need of the law, no contradiction between the aesthetic individual and the ethical universal, and where murder, therefore, is the unheard-of act which precipitates a crisis” (408). Additionally, in the crime novel “as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder” (408). Thus, as Charles J. Rzepka notes, “according to W.H. Auden, the ‘classical’ English detective story typically re-enacts rites of scapegoating and expulsion that affirm the innocence of a community of good people supposedly ignorant of evil” (12). This premise—of good versus evil—supports Auden’s claim that the punishment of wrongdoers, particularly those who claim the “right to be omnipotent” and commit murder (409), should be swift and final: As to the murderer’s end, of the three alternatives—execution, suicide, and madness—the first is preferable; for if he commits suicide he refuses to repent, and if he goes mad he cannot repent, but if he does not repent society cannot forgive. Execution, on the other hand, is the act of atonement by which the murderer is forgiven by society (409). The unilateral endorsement of state-sanctioned murder is problematic, however, because—of the main justifications for punishment: retribution; deterrence; incapacitation; and rehabilitation (Carter Snead 1245)—punishment, in this context, focuses exclusively upon retribution and deterrence, incapacitation is achieved by default, but the idea of rehabilitation is completely ignored. This, in turn, ignores how the reading of crime fiction can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment and how a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. One of the ways to explore the connection between crime fiction and justice is through the lens of Emile Durkheim’s thesis on the conscience collective which proposes punishment is a process allowing for the demonstration of group norms and the strengthening of moral boundaries. David Garland, in summarising this thesis, states: So although the modern state has a near monopoly of penal violence and controls the administration of penalties, a much wider population feels itself to be involved in the process of punishment, and supplies the context of social support and valorization within which state punishment takes place (32). It is claimed here that this “much wider population” connecting with the task of punishment can be taken further. Crime fiction, above all other forms of literary production, which, for those who do not directly contribute to the maintenance of their respective legal systems, facilitates a feeling of active participation in the penalising of a variety of perpetrators: from the issuing of fines to incarceration (Franks Punishment). Crime fiction readers are therefore, temporarily at least, direct contributors to a more stable society: one that is clearly based upon right and wrong and reliant upon the conscience collective to maintain and reaffirm order. In this context, the reader is no longer alone, with only their crime fiction novel for company, but has become an active member of “a moral framework which binds individuals to each other and to its conventions and institutions” (Garland 51). This allows crime fiction, once viewed as a “vice” (Wilson 395) or an “addiction” (Auden 406), to be seen as playing a crucial role in the preservation of social mores. It has been argued “only the most literal of literary minds would dispute the claim that fictional characters help shape the way we think of ourselves, and hence help us articulate more clearly what it means to be human” (Galgut 190). Crime fiction focuses on what it means to be human, and how complex humans are, because stories of murders, and the men and women who perpetrate and solve them, comment on what drives some people to take a life and others to avenge that life which is lost and, by extension, engages with a broad community of readers around ideas of justice and punishment. It is, furthermore, argued here that the idea of the story is one of the more important doorways for crime fiction and, more specifically, the conclusions that these stories, traditionally, offer. For Auden, the ending should be one of restoration of the spirit, as he suspected that “the typical reader of detective stories is, like myself, a person who suffers from a sense of sin” (411). In this way, the “phantasy, then, which the detective story addict indulges is the phantasy of being restored to the Garden of Eden, to a state of innocence, where he may know love as love and not as the law” (412), indicating that it was not necessarily an accident that “the detective story has flourished most in predominantly Protestant countries” (408). Today, modern crime fiction is a “broad church, where talented authors raise questions and cast light on a variety of societal and other issues through the prism of an exciting, page-turning story” (Sisterson). Moreover, our tastes in crime fiction have been tempered by a growing fear of real crime, particularly murder, “a crime of unique horror” (Hitchens 200). This has seen some readers develop a taste for crime fiction that is not produced within a framework of ecclesiastical faith but is rather grounded in reliance upon those who enact punishment in both the fictional and real worlds. As P.D. James has written: [N]ot by luck or divine intervention, but by human ingenuity, human intelligence and human courage. It confirms our hope that, despite some evidence to the contrary, we live in a beneficent and moral universe in which problems can be solved by rational means and peace and order restored from communal or personal disruption and chaos (174). Dorothy L. Sayers, despite her work to legitimise crime fiction, wrote that there: “certainly does seem a possibility that the detective story will some time come to an end, simply because the public will have learnt all the tricks” (108). Of course, many readers have “learnt all the tricks”, or most of them. This does not, however, detract from the genre’s overall appeal. We have not grown bored with, or become tired of, the formula that revolves around good and evil, and justice and punishment. Quite the opposite. Our knowledge of, as well as our faith in, the genre’s “tricks” gives a level of confidence to readers who are looking for endings that punish murderers and other wrongdoers, allowing for more satisfactory conclusions than the, rather depressing, ends given to Mr. Henry and Mr. Smith by Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell noted above. Conclusion For some, the popularity of crime fiction is a curious case indeed. When Penguin and Collins published the Marsh Million—100,000 copies each of 10 Ngaio Marsh titles in 1949—the author’s relief at the success of the project was palpable when she commented that “it was pleasant to find detective fiction being discussed as a tolerable form of reading by people whose opinion one valued” (172). More recently, upon the announcement that a Miles Franklin Award would be given to Peter Temple for his crime novel Truth, John Sutherland, a former chairman of the judges for one of the world’s most famous literary awards, suggested that submitting a crime novel for the Booker Prize would be: “like putting a donkey into the Grand National”. Much like art, fashion, food, and home furnishings or any one of the innumerable fields of activity and endeavour that are subject to opinion, there will always be those within the world of fiction who claim positions as arbiters of taste. Yet reading is intensely personal. I like a strong, well-plotted story, appreciate a carefully researched setting, and can admire elegant language, but if a character is too difficult to embrace—if I find I cannot make an emotional connection, if I find myself ambivalent about their fate—then a book is discarded as not being to my taste. It is also important to recognise that some tastes are transient. Crime fiction stories that are popular today could be forgotten tomorrow. Some stories appeal to such a broad range of tastes they are immediately included in the crime fiction canon. Yet others evolve over time to accommodate widespread changes in taste (an excellent example of this can be seen in the continual re-imagining of the stories of Sherlock Holmes). Personal tastes also adapt to our experiences and our surroundings. A book that someone adores in their 20s might be dismissed in their 40s. A storyline that was meaningful when read abroad may lose some of its magic when read at home. Personal events, from a change in employment to the loss of a loved one, can also impact upon what we want to read. Similarly, world events, such as economic crises and military conflicts, can also influence our reading preferences. Auden professed an almost insatiable appetite for crime fiction, describing the reading of detective stories as an addiction, and listed a very specific set of criteria to define the Whodunit. Today, such self-imposed restrictions are rare as, while there are many rules for writing crime fiction, there are no rules for reading this (or any other) genre. People are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction, and to follow the deliberate or whimsical paths that their tastes may lay down for them. Crime fiction writers, past and present, offer: an incredible array of detective stories from the locked room to the clue puzzle; settings that range from the English country estate to city skyscrapers in glamorous locations around the world; numerous characters from cerebral sleuths who can solve a crime in their living room over a nice, hot cup of tea to weapon wielding heroes who track down villains on foot in darkened alleyways; and, language that ranges from the cultured conversations from the novels of the genre’s Golden Age to the hard-hitting terminology of forensic and legal procedurals. Overlaid on these appeal factors is the capacity of crime fiction to feed a taste for justice: to engage, vicariously at least, in the establishment of a more stable society. Of course, there are those who turn to the genre for a temporary distraction, an occasional guilty pleasure. There are those who stumble across the genre by accident or deliberately seek it out. There are also those, like Auden, who are addicted to crime fiction. So there are corpses for the conservative and dead bodies for the bloodthirsty. There is, indeed, a murder victim, and a murder story, to suit every reader’s taste. References Auden, W.H. “The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on The Detective Story, By an Addict.” Harper’s Magazine May (1948): 406–12. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.harpers.org/archive/1948/05/0033206›. Carter Snead, O. “Memory and Punishment.” Vanderbilt Law Review 64.4 (2011): 1195–264. Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1976/1977. Chandler, Raymond. The Big Sleep. London: Penguin, 1939/1970. ––. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Christie, Agatha. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. London: HarperCollins, 1920/2007. Cole, Cathy. Private Dicks and Feisty Chicks: An Interrogation of Crime Fiction. Fremantle: Curtin UP, 2004. Derrida, Jacques. “The Law of Genre.” Glyph 7 (1980): 202–32. Franks, Rachel. “May I Suggest Murder?: An Overview of Crime Fiction for Readers’ Advisory Services Staff.” Australian Library Journal 60.2 (2011): 133–43. ––. “Motive for Murder: Reading Crime Fiction.” The Australian Library and Information Association Biennial Conference. Sydney: Jul. 2012. ––. “Punishment by the Book: Delivering and Evading Punishment in Crime Fiction.” Inter-Disciplinary.Net 3rd Global Conference on Punishment. Oxford: Sep. 2013. Freeman, R.A. “The Art of the Detective Story.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924/1947. 7–17. Galgut, E. “Poetic Faith and Prosaic Concerns: A Defense of Suspension of Disbelief.” South African Journal of Philosophy 21.3 (2002): 190–99. Garland, David. Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1993. Hemingway, Ernest. A Farewell to Arms. London: Random House, 1929/2004. ––. in R. Chandler. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Hitchens, P. A Brief History of Crime: The Decline of Order, Justice and Liberty in England. London: Atlantic Books, 2003. James, P.D. Talking About Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Death, Detection, Diversity, 2nd ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2010. Knox, Ronald A. “Club Rules: The 10 Commandments for Detective Novelists, 1928.” Ronald Knox Society of North America. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.ronaldknoxsociety.com/detective.html›. Malmgren, C.D. “Anatomy of Murder: Mystery, Detective and Crime Fiction.” Journal of Popular Culture Spring (1997): 115–21. Maloney, Shane. The Murray Whelan Trilogy: Stiff, The Brush-Off and Nice Try. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1994/2008. Marsh, Ngaio in J. Drayton. Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime. Auckland: Harper Collins, 2008. Orwell, George. Nineteen Eighty-Four. London: Penguin Books, 1949/1989. Roland, Susan. From Agatha Christie to Ruth Rendell: British Women Writers in Detective and Crime Fiction. London: Palgrave, 2001. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge: Polity, 2005. Sayers, Dorothy L. “The Omnibus of Crime.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 71–109. Scaggs, John. Crime Fiction: The New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge, 2005. Sisterson, C. “Battle for the Marsh: Awards 2013.” Black Mask: Pulps, Noir and News of Same. 1 Jan. 2014 http://www.blackmask.com/category/awards-2013/ Sutherland, John. in A. Flood. “Could Miles Franklin turn the Booker Prize to Crime?” The Guardian. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/25/miles-franklin-booker-prize-crime›. Van Dine, S.S. “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 189-93. Wilson, Edmund. “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1944/1947. 390–97. Wyatt, N. “Redefining RA: A RA Big Think.” Library Journal Online. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://lj.libraryjournal.com/2007/07/ljarchives/lj-series-redefining-ra-an-ra-big-think›. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 2006.

The following press sections are a collection that emerged from an inductive-deductive analysis of 26 periodicals from Germany, South Africa and the US. Overlaps on big topics were found and sub-topics assigned accordingly (Pentzold & Knorr, 2024). Field of Application/Theoretical Foundation Journalists usually publish their articles in topic-specific sections. The decision on the section, i.e., the journalistic placement within a thematic context, can already be seen as part of framing (preframing) on the part of the publishers, journalists and the recipients (Scheufele, 2004). Example studies: Pentzold & Knorr (2024) & Wessler et al. (2016) Information on Wesser et al., 2016 Authors: Hartmut Wessler, Antal Wozniak, Lutz Hofer, and Julia Lück Research questions: Which topics and frames as well as which visual elements such as photos, diagrams and graphics are present in the press reporting on climate change in the context of four UN climate conferences (2010-2013), in different countries and coming from different journalists? Object of analysis: A comparative issue-specific multimodal news frame analysis of climate change coverage around the UN Climate Change Conferences in Cancún, Mexico (COP 16, 2010), Durban, South Africa (COP 17, 2011), Doha, Qatar (COP 18, 2012), and Warsaw, Poland (COP 19, 2013). Both textual and visual content elements were analyzed and then incorporated into a joint cluster analysis. Time frame of analysis: Event-based sampling around the UN Climate Change Conferences in Cancún, Mexico (COP 16, 2010); Durban, South Africa (COP 17, 2011); Doha, Qatar (COP 18, 2012); and Warsaw, Poland (COP 19, 2013). Analyzed media type: Newspapers from five countries: Brazil (Folha de Sao Paolo, O Globo), Germany (Süddeutsche Zeitung, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung), India (Times of India, The Hindu), South Africa (Daily Sun, The Star), the United States (New York Times, Washington Post) Information about variable: Variable/name definition: Section of newspaper / magazine / news website [Section] Scale: Nominal Level of analysis: News article Sample operationalization: The position of the press article was coded, referring to its placement in the overall press outlet (front page, inside the newspaper, commentaries etc. distinguishable by distinct layout features such as a different font for headlines and the naming of authors). Values: 1 Politics; 2 Economy / Business; 3 Opinion / Letters to the editor; 4 Culture & Arts / Feuilleton / Media; 5 Local news; 6 Science/Technology; 7 Environment; 8 Miscellaneous /Human interest; 9 Supplement with editorial responsibility of media outlet; 997 Other; 998 Unclear; 999 Not applicable Reliability: In sum, intercoder reliability achieved at least a .70 level (six coders). Codebook: Wessler et al. (2016) Information on Pentzold & Knorr, 2024 Authors: Christian Pentzold and Charlotte Knorr Research questions: With which imaginaries do journalistic reports make sense of Big Data? (RQ1) How do these imaginaries evolve over time? (RQ2) To what extent are the imaginaries similar or different across countries? (RQ3) Object of analysis [and analyzed media type]: The project Framing Big Data (DFG 2021-2024) analyzed the media-communicatively articulated frames on “Big Data” in online press aggregates of newspapers and magazines in three countries: South Africa, Germany and the United States. No visual material was collected or examined. In total, the coded press aggregates of 26 newspapers and magazines were analyzed. The period of collected press articles was from 2011 to 2020 (N=1,456 press articles). Hereby, the online press articles had to contain the keywords “big data” or “dataf*” (e.g., datafication, datafied) in the headline, sub-headline and/or first paragraph (inclusion criteria). Time frame of analysis: 2011, Jan 1 – 2020, Dec 31 Analyzed media type: Online press aggregates from newspapers and magazines in three countries: South Africa, Germany, and the United States. In sum, the coded press aggregates were sampled from 26 periodicals. Codebook: Public_Codebook_FBD_fin.pdf Information about the variable Variable name/definition: Press sections in online newspapers. This variable was created from a compilation of sections found in most newspapers, supplemented by newspaper-specific subsections. It is a comprehensive collection of all sections present in newspapers from three countries (Germany: Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Süddeutsche Zeitung, ZEIT online, WirtschaftsWoche, Handelsblatt, taz, Welt online, Spiegel online, wired, c’t; South Africa: NAG, The Star, Financial Mail, Business Day, Sunday Times, Brainstorm Magazine, Tech Central, Mail & Guardian, Stuff Magazine; USA: New York Times, Washington Post, Financial Times, Wall Street Journal, Forbes, Newsweek, Brainstorm). Since some newspapers – such as Süddeutsche Zeitung or The Star – have detailed sections for specific regions and others like Forbes, Stuff Magazine and Handelsblatt feature sections on specific technical/economic topics, all editorial sections were recorded by hand and manually bundled according to superordinate categories (e.g., Economics, Science, Success, Society) and subcategories to be able to map the characteristic sections across newspapers. The aim was to be able to also code sections that are specific to one magazine while assuring combability with the structure of other outlets. Scale: Nominal Level of analysis: Formal level (press article), coded as press product and as part of the discourse (formal variables, content variables; article unit) Sample operationalization: Code the press section that is depicted on the top of the article. Not every journal clearly depicts the section their articles are published in (especially online). Do not confuse key words with sections. Values: 1. Politics (domestic and foreign affairs, network policies, courts and law, fact checks); 2. Economics (Banks, Energy, Industry, Stocks, Taxes, Real Estate, Cars); 3. Technology/Science (Knowledge, Research, IT, Digital, Traffic and Mobility, Work, Ecology); 4. Business (Finances, Companies, Investments); 5. Culture (Media, Books, Movies, Art, Travel, Fashion, Food, Regional); 6. Society (Style, Discover, Research, Reports, Ideas, ZEITmagazin, ze.tt, Z2X, Podcasts, Feuilleton); 7. Opinion (Columns, Comments, Guest Articles, Debate) ; 8. Global Crisis (Ukraine, Covid-19, Climate change); 9. Success (Management, Coaching, Trends, Career, Job, Universities); 10. Health/Medicine; 11. Regional; 12. Headlines; 13. Sports; -97 not visible; -98 unclear; -99 not applicable (one code per news article) Reliability: α = 1.00 [Krippendorff’s alpha, intercoder reliability. A total of seven reliability tests were conducted, five of them during the coding phase and two as part of two pretests. Five coders were involved in four tests, four coders were involved in three tests. All tests were conducted in the period July 2022 to December 2022]. References Jasanoff, S. (2015). Future Imperfect. In S. Jasanoff & S. Kim (Eds.), Dreamscapes of Modernity (pp. 1–33). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pentzold, C. & Knorr, C. (2024). Making Sense of “Big Data”: Ten Years of Discourse Around Datafication (ICA 2024, 74th Conference, Gold Coast, Australia). Pentzold, C., & Knorr, C. (2021-2024). Framing Big Data (DFG). Leipzig University. Scheufele, B. (2004). Framing-effects approach: A theoretical and methodological critique. Communications, 29(4), 401–428. Wessler, H., Wozniak, A., Hofer, L., & Lück, J. (2016). Global Multimodal News Frames on Climate Change: A Comparison of Five Democracies around the World. The International Journal of Press/Politics, 21(4), 423–445. doi: 10.1177/1940161216661848

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. References Bates, Daisy. “Fanny Balbuk-Yooreel: The Last Swan River (Female) Native.” The Western Mail 1 Jun. 1907: 45.———. “Oldest Perth: The Days before the White Men Won.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1909: 16–17.———. “Derelicts: The Passing of the Bibbulmun.” The Western Mail 25 Dec. 1924: 55–56. ———. “Aboriginal Perth.” The Western Mail 4 Jul. 1929: 70.———. “Hooper’s Fence: A Query.” The Western Mail 18 Apr. 1935: 9.———. The Passing of the Aborigines: A Lifetime Spent among the Natives of Australia. London: John Murray, 1966.Bekle, Hugo. “The Wetlands Lost: Drainage of the Perth Lake Systems.” Western Geographer 5.1–2 (1981): 21–41.Bekle, Hugo, and Joseph Gentilli. “History of the Perth Lakes.” Early Days 10.5 (1993): 442–60.Bobbink, Roland, Boudewijn Beltman, Jos Verhoeven, and Dennis Whigham, eds. Wetlands: Functioning, Biodiversity Conservation, and Restoration. Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2006. Carter, Bevan, and Lynda Nutter. Nyungah Land: Records of Invasion and Theft of Aboriginal Land on the Swan River 1829–1850. Guildford: Swan Valley Nyungah Community, 2005.Chinna, Nandi. “Swamp.” Griffith Review 47 (2015). 29 Sep. 2015 ‹https://griffithreview.com/articles/swamp›.Department of Environment and Conservation. Geomorphic Wetlands Swan Coastal Plain Dataset. Perth: Department of Environment and Conservation, 2008.Dixon, Robert. Photography, Early Cinema, and Colonial Modernity: Frank Hurley’s Synchronized Lecture Entertainments. London: Anthem Press, 2011. Forster, Clive. Australian Cities: Continuity and Change. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004.Giblett, Rod. Postmodern Wetlands: Culture, History, Ecology. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 1996. ———. Forrestdale: People and Place. Bassendean: Access Press, 2006.———. Black Swan Lake: Life of a Wetland. Bristol: Intellect, 2013.———. Cities and Wetlands: The Return of the Repressed in Nature and Culture. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. 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(Quoted material transcribed from 3.08–3.39 of the video.) O’Connor, Rory, Gary Quartermaine, and Corrie Bodney. Report on an Investigation into Aboriginal Significance of Wetlands and Rivers in the Perth-Bunbury Region. Perth: Western Australian Water Resources Council, 1989.Reece, Bob. “‘Killing with Kindness’: Daisy Bates and New Norcia.” Aboriginal History 32 (2008): 128–45.Rose, Deborah Bird. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission, 1996.Sanderson, Eric. Mannahatta: A Natural History of New York City. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2009.Sandgroper. “Gilgies: The Swamps of Perth.” The West Australian 4 May 1935: 7.Scruton, Roger. Art and Imagination. London: Methuen, 1974.Seddon, George. Sense of Place: A Response to an Environment, the Swan Coastal Plain, Western Australia. Melbourne: Bloomings Books, 2004.South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council and John Host with Chris Owen. “It’s Still in My Heart, This is My Country:” The Single Noongar Claim History. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009.Urban Bushland Council. “Bushland Issues.” 2015. 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.bushlandperth.org.au/bushland-issues›.Welborn, Suzanne. Swan: The History of a Brewery. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 1987.Weller, Richard. Boomtown 2050: Scenarios for a Rapidly Growing City. Crawley: U of Western Australia P, 2009. Whish-Wilson, David. Perth. Sydney: NewSouth Publishing, 2013.

Our culture abhors the world.Yet Quicksand is swallowing the duellists; the river is threatening the fighter: earth, waters and climate, the mute world, the voiceless things once placed as a decor surrounding the usual spectacles, all those things that never interested anyone, from now on thrust themselves brutally and without warning into our schemes and manoeuvres (Michel Serres, The Natural Contract, p 3). When Michel Serres describes culture's abhorrence of the world in the opening pages of The Natural Contract he draws our attention to the sidelining of nature in histories and theories that have sought to describe Western culture. As Serres argues, cultural histories are quite often built on the debates and struggles of humanity, which are largely held apart from their natural surroundings, as if on a stage, "purified of things" (3). But, as he is at pains to point out, human activity and conflict always take place within a natural milieu, a space of quicksand, swelling rivers, shifting earth, and atmospheric turbulence. Recently, via the potential for vast environmental change, what was once thought of as a staid “nature” has reasserted itself within culture. In this paper I explore how Serres’s positioning of nature can be understood amid new communication systems, which, via the apparent dematerialization of messages, seems to have further removed culture from nature. From here, I focus on a set of artworks that work against this division, reformulating the connection between information, a topic usually considered in relation to media and anthropic communication (and something about which Serres too has a great deal to say), and nature, an entity commonly considered beyond human contrivance. In particular, I explore how information visualisation and sonification has been used to give a new sense of materiality to the atmosphere, repotentialising the air as a natural and informational entity. The Natural Contract argues for the legal legitimacy of nature, a natural contract similar in standing to Rousseau’s social contract. Serres’ss book explores the history and notion of a “legal person”, arguing for a linking of the scientific view of the world and the legal visions of social life, where inert objects and living beings are considered within the same legal framework. As such The Natural Contract does not deal with ecology per-se, but instead focuses on an argument for the inclusion of nature within law (Serres, “A Return” 131). In a drastic reconfiguring of the subject/object relationship, Serres explains how the space that once existed as a backdrop for human endeavour now seems to thrust itself directly into history. "They (natural events) burst in on our culture, which had never formed anything but a local, vague, and cosmetic idea of them: nature" (Serres, The Natural Contract 3). In this movement, nature does not simply take on the role of a new object to be included within a world still dominated by human subjects. Instead, human beings are understood as intertwined with a global system of turbulence that is both manipulated by them and manipulates them. Taking my lead from Serres’s book, in this paper I begin to explore the disconnections and reconnections that have been established between information and the natural environment. While I acknowledge that there is nothing natural about the term “nature” (Harman 251), I use the term to designate an environment constituted by the systematic processes of the collection of entities that are neither human beings nor human crafted artefacts. As the formation of cultural systems becomes demarcated from these natural objects, the scene is set for the development of culturally mediated concepts such as “nature” and “wilderness,” as entities untouched and unspoilt by cultural process (Morton). On one side of the divide the complex of communication systems is situated, on the other is situated “nature”. The restructuring of information flows due to developments in electronic communication has ostensibly removed messages from the medium of nature. Media is now considered within its own ecology (see Fuller; Strate) quite separate from nature, except when it is developed as media content (see Cubitt; Murray; Heumann). A separation between the structures of media ecologies and the structures of natural ecologies has emerged over the history of electronic communication. For instance, since the synoptic media theory of McLuhan it has been generally acknowledged that the shift from script to print, from stone to parchment, and from the printing press to more recent developments such as the radio, telephone, television, and Web2.0, have fundamentally altered the structure and effects of human relationships. However, these developments – “the extensions of man” (McLuhan)— also changed the relationship between society and nature. Changes in communications technology have allowed people to remain dispersed, as ideas, in the form of electric currents or pulses of light travel vast distances and in diverse directions, with communication no longer requiring human movement across geographic space. Technologies such as the telegraph and the radio, with their ability to seemingly dematerialize the media of messages, reformulated the concept of communication into a “quasi-physical connection” across the obstacles of time and space (Clarke, “Communication” 132). Prior to this, the natural world itself was the medium through which information was passed. Rather than messages transmitted via wires, communication was associated with the transport of messages through the world via human movement, with the materiality of the medium measured in the time it took to cover geographic space. The flow of messages followed trade flows (Briggs and Burke 20). Messages moved along trails, on rail, over bridges, down canals, and along shipping channels, arriving at their destination as information. More recently however, information, due to its instantaneous distribution and multiplication across space, seems to have no need for nature as a medium. Nature has become merely a topic for information, as media content, rather than as something that takes part within the information system itself. The above example illustrates a separation between information exchange and the natural environment brought about by a set of technological developments. As Serres points out, the word “media” is etymologically related to the word “milieu”. Hence, a theory of media should be always related to an understanding of the environment (Crocker). But humans no longer need to physically move through the natural world to communicate, ideas can move freely from region to region, from air-conditioned room to air-conditioned room, relatively unimpeded by natural forces or geographic distance. For a long time now, information exchange has not necessitated human movement through the natural environment and this has consequences for how the formation of culture and its location in (or dislocation from) the natural world is viewed. A number of artists have begun questioning the separation between media and nature, particularly concerning the materiality of air, and using information to provide new points of contact between media and the atmosphere (for a discussion of the history of ecoart see Wallen). In Eclipse (2009) (fig. 1) for instance, an internet based work undertaken by the collective EcoArtTech, environmental sensing technology and online media is used experimentally to visualize air pollution. EcoArtTech is made up of the artist duo Cary Peppermint and Leila Nadir and since 2005 they have been inquiring into the relationship between digital technology and the natural environment, particularly regarding concepts such as “wilderness”. In Eclipse, EcoArtTech garner photographs of American national parks from social media and photo sharing sites. Air quality data gathered from the nearest capital city is then inputted into an algorithm that visibly distorts the image based on the levels of particle pollution detected in the atmosphere. The photographs that circulate on photo sharing sites such as Flickr—photographs that are usually rather banal in their adherence to a history of wilderness photography—are augmented by the environmental pollution circulating in nearby capital cities. Figure 1: EcoArtTech, Eclipse (detail of screenshot), 2009 (Internet-based work available at:http://turbulence.org/Works/eclipse/) The digital is often associated with the clean transmission of information, as packets of data move from a server, over fibre optic cables, to be unpacked and re-presented on a computer's screen. Likewise, the photographs displayed in Eclipse are quite often of an unspoilt nature, containing no errors in their exposure or focus (most probably because these wilderness photographs were taken with digital cameras). As the photographs are overlaid with information garnered from air quality levels, the “unspoilt” photograph is directly related to pollution in the natural environment. In Eclipse the background noise of “wilderness,” the pollution in the air, is reframed as foreground. “We breathe background noise…Background noise is the ground of our perception, absolutely uninterrupted, it is our perennial sustenance, the element of the software of all our logic” (Serres, Genesis 7). Noise is activated in Eclipse in a similar way to Serres’s description, as an indication of the wider milieu in which communication takes place (Crocker). Noise links the photograph and its transmission not only to the medium of the internet and the glitches that arise as information is circulated, but also to the air in the originally photographed location. In addition to noise, there are parallels between the original photographs of nature gleaned from photo sharing sites and Serres’s concept of a history that somehow stands itself apart from the effects of ongoing environmental processes. By compartmentalising the natural and cultural worlds, both the historiography that Serres argues against and the wilderness photograph produces a concept of nature that is somehow outside, behind, or above human activities and the associated matter of noise. Eclipse, by altering photographs using real-time data, puts the still image into contact with the processes and informational outputs of nature. Air quality sensors detect pollution in the atmosphere and code these atmospheric processes into computer readable information. The photograph is no longer static but is now open to continual recreation and degeneration, dependent on the coded value of the atmosphere in a given location. A similar materiality is given to air in a public work undertaken by Preemptive Media, titled Areas Immediate Reading (AIR) (fig. 2). In this project, Preemptive Media, made up of Beatriz da Costa, Jamie Schulte and Brooke Singer, equip participants with instruments for measuring air quality as they walked around New York City. The devices monitor the carbon monoxide (CO), nitrogen oxides (NOx) or ground level ozone (O3) levels that are being breathed in by the carrier. As Michael Dieter has pointed out in his reading of the work, the application of sensing technology by Preemptive Media is in distinct contrast to the conventional application of air quality monitoring, which usually takes the form of extremely high resolution located devices spread over great distances. These larger air monitoring networks tend to present the value garnered from a large expanse of the atmosphere that covers individual cities or states. The AIR project, in contrast, by using small mobile sensors, attempts to put people in informational contact with the air that they are breathing in their local and immediate time and place, and allows them to monitor the small parcels of atmosphere that surround other users in other locations (Dieter). It thus presents many small and mobile spheres of atmosphere, inhabited by individuals as they move through the city. In AIR we see the experimental application of an already developed technology in order to put people on the street in contact with the atmospheres that they are moving through. It gives a new informational form to the “vast but invisible ocean of air that surrounds us and permeates us” (Ihde 3), which in this case is given voice by a technological apparatus that converts the air into information. The atmosphere as information becomes less of a vague background and more of a measurable entity that ingresses into the lives and movements of human users. The air is conditioned by information; the turbulent and noisy atmosphere has been converted via technology into readable information (Connor 186-88). Figure 2: Preemptive Media, Areas Immediate Reading (AIR) (close up of device), 2011 Throughout his career Serres has developed a philosophy of information and communication that may help us to reframe the relationship between the natural and cultural worlds (see Brown). Conventionally, the natural world is understood as made up of energy and matter, with exchanges of energy and the flows of biomass through food webs binding ecosystems together (DeLanda 120-1). However, the tendencies and structures of natural systems, like cultural systems, are also dependent on the communication of information. It is here that Serres provides us with a way to view natural and cultural systems as connected by a flow of energy and information. He points out that in the wake of Claude Shannon’s famous Mathematical Theory of Communication it has been possible to consider the relationship between information and thermodynamics, at least in Shannon’s explanation of noise as entropy (Serres, Hermes74). For Serres, an ecosystem can be conceptualised as an informational and energetic system: “it receives, stores, exchanges, and gives off both energy and information in all forms, from the light of the sun to the flow of matter which passes through it (food, oxygen, heat, signals)” (Serres, Hermes 74). Just as we are related to the natural world based on flows of energy— as sunlight is converted into energy by plants, which we in turn convert into food— we are also bound together by flows of information. The task is to find new ways to sense this information, to actualise the information, and imagine nature as more than a welter of data and the air as more than background. If we think of information in broad ranging terms as “coded values of the output of a process” (Losee 254), then we see that information and the environment—as a setting that is produced by continual and energetic processes—are in constant contact. After all, humans sense information from the environment all the time; we constantly decode the coded values of environmental processes transmitted via the atmosphere. I smell a flower, I hear bird songs, and I see the red glow of a sunset. The process of the singing bird is coded as vibrations of air particles that knock against my ear drum. The flower is coded as molecules in the atmosphere enter my nose and bind to cilia. The red glow is coded as wavelengths from the sun are dispersed in the Earth’s atmosphere and arrive at my eye. Information, of course, does not actually exist as information until some observing system constructs it (Clarke, “Information” 157-159). This observing system as we see the sunset, hear the birds, or smell the flower involves the atmosphere as a medium, along with our sense organs and cognitive and non-cognitive processes. The molecules in the atmosphere exist independently of our sense of them, but they do not actualise as information until they are operationalised by the observational system. Prior to this, information can be thought of as noise circulating within the atmosphere. Heinz Von Foester, one of the key figures of cybernetics, states “The environment contains no information. The environment is as it is” (Von Foester in Clarke, “Information” 157). Information, in this model, actualises only when something in the world causes a change to the observational system, as a difference that makes a difference (Bateson 448-466). Air expelled from a bird’s lungs and out its beak causes air molecules to vibrate, introducing difference into the atmosphere, which is then picked up by my ear and registered as sound, informing me that a bird is nearby. One bird song is picked up as information amid the swirling noise of nature and a difference in the air makes a difference to the observational system. It may be useful to think of the purpose of information as to control action and that this is necessary “whenever the people concerned, controllers as well as controlled, belong to an organised social group whose collective purpose is to survive and prosper” (Scarrott 262). Information in this sense operates the organisation of groups. Using this definition rooted in cybernetics, we see that information allows groups, which are dependent on certain control structures based on the sending and receiving of messages through media, to thrive and defines the boundaries of these groups. We see this in a flock of birds, for instance, which forms based on the information that one bird garners from the movements of the other birds in proximity. Extrapolating from this, if we are to live included in an ecological system capable of survival, the transmission of information is vital. But the form of the information is also important. To communicate, for example, one entity first needs to recognise that the other is speaking and differentiate this information from the noise in the air. Following Clarke and Von Foester, an observing system needs to be operational. An art project that gives aesthetic form to environmental processes in this vein—and one that is particularly concerned with the co-agentive relation between humans and nature—is Reiko Goto and Tim Collin’s Plein Air (2010) (fig. 3), an element in their ongoing Eden 3 project. In this work a technological apparatus is wired to a tree. This apparatus, which references the box easels most famously used by the Impressionists to paint ‘en plein air’, uses sensing technology to detect the tree’s responses to the varying CO2 levels in the atmosphere. An algorithm then translates this into real time piano compositions. The tree’s biological processes are coded into the voice of a piano and sensed by listeners as aesthetic information. What is at stake in this work is a new understanding of atmospheres as a site for the exchange of information, and an attempt to resituate the interdependence of human and non-human entities within an experimental aesthetic system. As we breathe out carbon dioxide—both through our physiological process of breathing and our cultural processes of polluting—trees breath it in. By translating these biological processes into a musical form, Collins and Gotto’s work signals a movement from a process of atmospheric exchange to a digital process of sensing and coding, the output of which is then transmitted through the atmosphere as sound. It must be mentioned that within this movement from atmospheric gas to atmospheric music we are not listening to the tree alone. We are listening to a much more complex polyphony involving the components of the digital sensing technology, the tree, the gases in the atmosphere, and the biological (breathing) and cultural processes (cars, factories and coal fired power stations) that produce these gases. Figure 3: Reiko Goto and Tim Collins, Plein Air, 2010 As both Don Ihde and Steven Connor have pointed out, the air that we breathe is not neutral. It is, on the contrary, given its significance in technology, sound, and voice. Taking this further, we might understand sensing technology as conditioning the air with information. This type of air conditioning—as information alters the condition of air—occurs as technology picks up, detects, and makes sensible phenomena in the atmosphere. While communication media such as the telegraph and other electronic information distribution systems may have distanced information from nature, the sensing technology experimentally applied by EcoArtTech, Preeemptive Media, and Goto and Collins, may remind us of the materiality of air. These technologies allow us to connect to the atmosphere; they reformulate it, converting it to information, giving new form to the coded processes in nature.AcknowledgmentAll images reproduced with the kind permission of the artists. References Bateson, Gregory. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972. Briggs, Asa, and Peter Burke. A Social History of the Media: From Gutenberg to the Internet. Maden: Polity Press, 2009. Brown, Steve. “Michel Serres: Science, Translation and the Logic of the Parasite.” Theory, Culture and Society 19.1 (2002): 1-27. Clarke, Bruce. “Communication.” Critical Terms for Media Studies. Eds. Mark B. N. Hansen and W. J. T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010. 131-45 -----. “Information.” Critical Terms for Media Studies. Eds. Mark B. N. Hansen and W. J. T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010. 157-71 Crocker, Stephen. “Noise and Exceptions: Pure Mediality in Serres and Agamben.” CTheory: 1000 Days of Theory. (2007). 7 June 2012 ‹http://www.ctheory.net/articles.aspx?id=574› Connor, Stephen. The Matter of Air: Science and the Art of the Etheral. London: Reaktion, 2010. Cubitt, Sean. EcoMedia. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2005 Deiter, Michael. “Processes, Issues, AIR: Toward Reticular Politics.” Australian Humanities Review 46 (2009). 9 June 2012 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-May-2009/dieter.htm› DeLanda, Manuel. Intensive Science and Virtual Philosophy. London and New York: Continuum, 2002. Fuller, Matthew. Media Ecologies: Materialist Energies in Art and Technoculture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005 Harman, Graham. Guerilla Metaphysics. Illinois: Open Court, 2005. Ihde, Don. Listening and Voice: Phenomenologies of Sound. Albany: State University of New York, 2007. Innis, Harold. Empire and Communication. Toronto: Voyageur Classics, 1950/2007. Losee, Robert M. “A Discipline Independent Definition of Information.” Journal of the American Society for Information Science 48.3 (1997): 254–69. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. London: Sphere Books, 1964/1967. Morton, Timothy. Ecology Without Nature: Rethinking Environmental Aesthetics. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007. Murray, Robin, and Heumann, Joseph. Ecology and Popular Film: Cinema on the Edge. Albany: State University of New York, 2009 Scarrott, G.C. “The Nature of Information.” The Computer Journal 32.3 (1989): 261-66 Serres, Michel. Hermes: Literature, Science Philosophy. Baltimore: The John Hopkins Press, 1982. -----. The Natural Contract. Trans. Elizabeth MacArthur and William Paulson. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992/1995. -----. Genesis. Trans. Genevieve James and James Nielson. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1982/1995. -----. “A Return to the Natural Contract.” Making Peace with the Earth. Ed. Jerome Binde. Oxford: UNESCO and Berghahn Books, 2007. Strate, Lance. Echoes and Reflections: On Media Ecology as a Field of Study. New York: Hampton Press, 2006 Wallen, Ruth. “Ecological Art: A Call for Intervention in a Time of Crisis.” Leonardo 45.3 (2012): 234-42.

Story spreads out through time the behaviors or bodies – the shapes – a self has been or will be, each replacing the one before. Hence a story has before and after, gain and loss. It goes somewhere…Moreover, shape or body is crucial, not incidental, to story. It carries story; it makes story visible; in a sense it is story. Shape (or visible body) is in space what story is in time. (Bynum, quoted in Garland Thomson, 113-114) Drawing on Goffman’s classic work on stigma, research documenting the existence of discrimination and bias against individuals classified as obese goes back five decades. Since Cahnman published “The Stigma of Obesity” in 1968, other researchers have well documented systematic and growing discrimination against fat people (cf. Puhl and Brownell; Puhl and Heuer; Puhl and Heuer; Fikkan and Rothblum). While weight-based stereotyping has a long history (Chang and Christakis; McPhail; Schwartz), contemporary forms of anti-fat stigma and discrimination must be understood within a social and economic context of neoliberal healthism. By neoliberal healthism (see Crawford; Crawford; Metzel and Kirkland), I refer to the set of discourses that suggest that humans are rational, self-determining actors who independently make their own best choices and are thus responsible for their life chances and health outcomes. In such a context, good health becomes associated with proper selfhood, and there are material and social consequences for those who either unwell or perceived to be unwell. While the greatest impacts of size-based discrimination are structural in nature, the interpersonal impacts are also significant. Because obesity is commonly represented (at least partially) as a matter of behavioral choices in public health, medicine, and media, to “remain fat” is to invite commentary from others that one is lacking in personal responsibility. Guthman suggests that this lack of empathy “also stems from the growing perception that obesity presents a social cost, made all the more tenable when the perception of health responsibility has been reversed from a welfare model” (1126). Because weight loss is commonly held to be a reasonable and feasible goal and yet is nearly impossible to maintain in practice (Kassierer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer), fat people are “in effect, asked to do the impossible and then socially punished for failing” (Greenhalgh, 474). In this article, I explore how weight-based stigma shaped the decisions of bariatric patients to undergo weight loss surgery. In doing so, I underline the work that emotion does in circulating anti-fat stigma and in creating categories of subjects along lines of health and responsibility. As well, I highlight how fat bodies are lived and negotiated in space and place. I then explore ways in which participants take up notions of time, specifically in regard to risk, in discussing what brought them to the decision to have bariatric surgery. I conclude by arguing that it is a dynamic interaction between the material, social, emotional, discursive, and the temporal that produces not only fat embodiment, but fat subjectivity “failed”, and serves as an impetus for seeking bariatric surgery. Methods This article is based on 30 semi-structured interviews with American bariatric patients. At the time of the interview, individuals were between six months and 12 years out from surgery. After obtaining Intuitional Review Board approval, recruitment occurred through a snowball sample. All interviews were audio-taped with permission and verbatim interview transcripts were analyzed by means of a thematic analysis using Dedoose (www.dedoose.com). All names given in this article are pseudonyms. This work is part of a larger project that includes two additional interviews with bariatric surgeons as well as participant-observation research. Findings Navigating Anti-Fat Stigma In discussing what it was like to be fat, all but one of the individuals I interviewed discussed experiencing substantive size-based stigma and discrimination. Whether through overt comments, indirect remarks, dirty looks, open gawking, or being ignored and unrecognized, participants felt hurt, angry, and shamed by friends, family, coworkers, medical providers, and strangers on the street because of the size of their bodies. Several recalled being bullied and even physically assaulted by peers as children. Many described the experience of being fat or very fat as one of simultaneous hypervisibility and invisibility. One young woman, Kaia, said: “I absolutely was not treated like a person … . I was just like this object to people. Just this big, you know, thing. That’s how people treated me.” Nearly all of my participants described being told repeatedly by others, including medical professionals, that their inability to lose weight was effectively a failure of the will. They found these comments to be particularly hurtful because, in fact, they had spent years, even decades, trying to lose weight only to gain the weight back plus more. Some providers and family members seemed to take up the idea that shame could be a motivating force in weight loss. However, as research by Lewis et al.; Puhl and Huerer; and Schafer and Ferraro has demonstrated, the effect this had was the opposite of what was intended. Specifically, a number of the individuals I spoke with delayed care and avoided health-facilitating behaviors, like exercising, because of the discrimination they had experienced. Instead, they turned to health-harming practices, like crash dieting. Moreover, the internalization of shame and blame served to lower a sense of self-worth for many participants. And despite having a strong sense that something outside of personal behavior explained their escalating body weights, they deeply internalized messages about responsibility and self-control. Danielle, for instance, remarked: “Why could the one thing I want the most be so impossible for me to maintain?” It is important to highlight the work that emotion does in circulating such experiences of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. As Fraser et al have argued in their discussion on fat and emotion, the social, the emotional, and the corporeal cannot be separated. Drawing on Ahmed, they argue that strong emotions are neither interior psychological states that work between individuals nor societal states that impact individuals. Rather, emotions are constitutive of subjects and collectivities, (Ahmed; Fraser et al.). Negative emotions in particular, such as hate and fear, produce categories of people, by defining them as a common threat and, in the process, they also create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and those who are not. Thus following Fraser et al, it is possible to see that anti-fat hatred did more than just negatively impact the individuals I spoke with. Rather, it worked to produce, differentiate, and drive home categories of people along lines of health, weight, risk, responsibility, and worth. In this next section, I examine the ways in which anti-fat discrimination works at the interface of not only the discursive and the emotive, but the material as well. Big Bodies, Small Spaces When they discussed their previous lives as very fat people, all of the participants made reference to a social and built environment mismatch, or in Garland Thomson’s terms, a “misfit”. A misfit occurs “when the environment does not sustain the shape and function of the body that enters it” (594). Whereas the built environment offers a fit for the majority of bodies, Garland Thomson continues, it also creates misfits for minority forms of embodiment. While Garland Thomson’s analysis is particular to disability, I argue that it extends to fat embodiment as well. In discussing what it was like to navigate the world as fat, participants described both the physical and emotional pain entailed in living in bodies that did not fit and frequently discussed the ways in which leaving the house was always a potential, anxiety-filled problem. Whereas all of the participants I interviewed discussed such misfitting, it was notable that participants in the Greater New York City area (70% of the sample) spoke about this topic at length. Specifically, they made frequent and explicit mentions of the particular interface between their fat bodies and the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA), and the tightly packed spaces of the city itself. Greater New York City area participants frequently spoke of the shame and physical discomfort in having to stand on public transportation for fear that they would be openly disparaged for “taking up too much room.” Some mentioned that transit seats were made of molded plastic, indicating by design the amount of space a body should occupy. Because they knew they would require more space than what was allotted, these participants only took seats after calculating how crowded the subway or train car was and how crowded it would likely become. Notably, the decision to not take a seat was one that was made at a cost for some of the larger individuals who experienced joint pain. Many participants stated that the densely populated nature of New York City made navigating daily life very challenging. In Talia’s words, “More people, more obstacles, less space.” Participants described always having to be on guard, looking for the next obstacle. As Candice put it: “I would walk in some place and say, ‘Will I be able to fit? Will I be able to manoeuvre around these people and not bump into them?’ I was always self-conscious.” Although participants often found creative solutions to navigating the hostile environment of both the MTA and the city at large, they also identified an increasing sense of isolation that resulted from the physical discomfort and embarrassment of not fitting in. For instance, Talia rarely joined her partner and their friends on outings to movies or the theater because the seats were too tight. Similarly, Decenia would make excuses to her husband in order to avoid social situations outside of the home: “I’d say to my husband, ‘I don’t feel well, you go.’ But you know what? It was because I was afraid not to fit, you know?” The anticipatory scrutinizing described by these participants, and the anxieties it produced, echoes Kirkland’s contention that fat individuals use the technique of ‘scanning’ in order to navigate and manage hostile social and built environments. Scanning, she states, involves both literally rapidly looking over situations and places to determine accessibility, as well as a learned assessment and observation technique that allows fat people to anticipate how they will be received in new situations and new places. For my participants, worries about not fitting were more than just internal calculation. Rather, others made all too clear that fat bodies are not welcome. Nina recalled nasty looks she received from other subway riders when she attempted to sit down. Decenia described an experience on a crowded commuter train in which the woman next to her openly expressed annoyance and disgust that their thighs were touching. Talia recalled being aggressively handed a weight loss brochure by a fellow passenger. When asked to contrast their experiences living in New York City with having travelled or lived elsewhere, participants almost universally described the New York as a more difficult place to live for fat people. However, the experiences of three of the Latinas that I interviewed troubled this narrative. Katrina felt that the harassment she received in her country of origin, the Dominican Republic, was far worse than what she now experienced in the New York Metropolitan Area. Although Decenia detailed painful experiences of anti-fat stigma in New York City, she nevertheless described her life as relatively “easy” compared to what it was like in her home country of Brazil. And Denisa contrasted her neighbourhood of East Harlem with other parts of Manhattan: “In Harlem it's different. Everybody is really fat or plump – so you feel a bit more comfortable. Not everybody, but there's a mix. Downtown – there's no mix.” Collectively, their stories serve as a reminder (see Franko et al.; Grabe and Hyde) to be suspicious of over determined accounts that “Latino culture” is (or people of colour communities in general are), more accepting of larger bodies and more resistant to weight-based stigma and discrimination. Their comments also reflect arguments made by Colls, Grosz, and Garland Thomson, who have all pointed to the contingent nature between space and bodies. Colls argue that sizing is both a material and an emotional process – what size we take ourselves to be shifts in different physical and emotional contexts. Grosz suggests that there is a “mutually constitutive relationship between bodies and cities” – one that, I would add, is raced, classed, and gendered. Garland Thomson has described the relationship between bodies and space/place as “a dynamic encounter between world and flesh.” These encounters, she states, are always contingent and situated: “When the spatial and temporal context shifts, so does the fit, and with it meanings and consequences” (592). In this sense, fat is materialized differently in different contexts and in different scales – nation, state, city, neighbourhood – and the materialization of fatness is always entangled with raced, classed, and gendered social and political-economic relations. Nevertheless, it is possible to draw some structural commonalities between divergent parts of the Greater New York City Metropolitan Area. Specifically, a dense population, cramped physical spaces, inaccessible transportation and transportation funding cuts, social norms of fast paced life, and elite, raced, classed, and gendered norms of status and beauty work to materialize fatness in such a way that a ‘misfit’ is often the result for fat people who live and/or work in this area. And importantly, misfitting, as Garland Thomson argues, has consequences: it literally “casts out” when the “shape and function of … bodies comes into conflict with the shape and stuff of the built world” (594). This casting out produces some bodies as irrelevant to social and economic life, resulting in segregation and isolation. To misfit, she argues, is to be denied full citizenship. Responsibilising the Present Garland Thomson, discussing Bynum’s statement that “shape carries story”, argues the following: “the idea that shape carries story suggests … that material bodies are not only in the spaces of the world but that they are entwined with temporality as well” (596). In this section, I discuss how participants described their decisions to get weight loss surgery by making references to the need take responsibility for health now, in the present, in order to avoid further and future morbidity and mortality. Following Adams et al., I look at how the fat body is lived in a state of constant anticipation – “thinking and living toward the future” (246). All of the participants I spoke with described long histories of weight cycling. While many managed to lose weight, none were able to maintain this weight loss in the long term – a reality consistent with the medical fact that dieting does not produce durable results (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). They experienced this inability as not only distressing, but terrifying, as they repeatedly regained the lost weight plus more. When participants discussed their decisions to have surgery, they highlighted concerns about weight related comorbidities and mobility limitations in their explanations. Consistent then with Boero, Lopez, and Wadden et al., the participants I spoke with did not seek out surgery in hopes of finding a permanent way to become thin, but rather a permanent way to become healthy and normal. Concerns about what is considered to be normative health, more than simply concerns about what is held to be an appropriate appearance, motivated their decisions. Significantly, for these participants the decision to have bariatric surgery was based on concerns about future morbidity (and mortality) at least as much, if not more so, than on concerns about a current state of ill health and impairment. Some individuals I spoke with were unquestionably suffering from multiple chronic and even life threatening illnesses and feared they would prematurely die from these conditions. Other participants, however, made the decision to have bariatric surgery despite the fact that they had no comorbidities whatsoever. Motivating their decisions was the fear that they would eventually develop them. Importantly, medial providers explicitly and repeatedly told all of these participants that lest they take drastic and immediate action, they would die. For example: Faith’s reproductive endocrinologist said: “you’re going to have diabetes by the time you’re 30; you’re going to have a stroke by the time you’re 40. And I can only hope that you can recover enough from your stroke that you’ll be able to take care of your family.” Several female participants were warned that without losing weight, they would either never become pregnant or they would die in childbirth. By contrast, participants stated that their bariatric surgeons were the first providers they had encountered to both assert that obesity was a medical condition outside of their control and to offer them a solution. Within an atmosphere in which obesity is held to be largely or entirely the result of behavioural choices, the bariatric profession thus positions itself as unique by offering both understanding and what it claims to be a durable treatment. Importantly, it would be a mistake to conclude that some bariatric patients needed surgery while others choose it for the wrong reasons. Regardless of their states of health at the time they made the decision to have surgery, the concerns that drove these patients to seek out these procedures were experienced as very real. Whether or not these concerns would have materialized as actual health conditions is unknown. Furthermore, bariatric patients should not be seen as having been duped or suffering from ‘false consciousness.’ Rather, they operate within a particular set of social, cultural, and political-economic conditions that suggest that good citizenship requires risk avoidance and personal health management. As these individuals experienced, there are material and social consequences for ‘failing’ to obtain normative conceptualizations of health. This set of conditions helps to produce a bariatric patient population that includes both those who were contending with serious health concerns and those who feared they would develop them. All bariatric patients operate within this set of conditions (as do medical providers) and make decisions regarding health (current, future, or both) by using the resources available to them. In her work on the temporalities of dieting, Coleman argues that rather than seeing dieting as a linear and progressive event, we might think of it instead a process that brings the future into the present as potential. Adams et al suggest concerns about potential futures, particularly in regard to health, are a defining characteristic of our time. They state: “The present is governed, at almost every scale, as if the future is what matters most. Anticipatory modes enable the production of possible futures that are lived and felt as inevitable in the present, rendering hope and fear as important political vectors” (249). The ability to act in the present based on potential future risks, they argue, has become a moral imperative and a marker of proper of citizenship. Importantly, however, our work to secure the ‘best possible future’ is never fully assured, as risks are constantly changing. The future is thus always uncertain. Acting responsibly in the present therefore requires “alertness and vigilance as normative affective states” (254). Importantly, these anticipations are not diagnostic, but productive. As Adams et al state, “the future arrives already formed in the present, as if the emergency has already happened…a ‘sense’ of the simultaneous uncertainty and inevitability of the future, usually manifest in entanglements of fear and hope” (250). It is in this light, then, that we might see the decision to have bariatric surgery. For these participants, their future weight-related morbidity and mortality had already arrived in the present and thus they felt they needed to act responsibly now, by undergoing what they had been told was the only durable medical intervention for obesity. The emotions of hope, fear, anxiety and I would suggest, hatred, were key in making these decisions. Conclusion Medical, public health, and media discourses frame obesity as an epidemic that threatens to bring untold financial disaster and escalating rates of morbidity and mortality upon the nation state and the world at large. As Fraser et al argue, strong emotions (such hatred, fear, anxiety, and hope), are at the centre of these discourses; they construct, circulate, and proliferate them. Moreover, they create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and categories of others who are not. In this context, the participants I spoke with were caught between a desire to have fatness understood as a medical condition needing intervention; the anti-fat attitudes of others, including providers, which held that obesity was a failure of the will and nothing more; their own internalization of these messages of personal responsibility for proper behavioural choices, and, the biologically intractable nature of fatness wherein dieting not only fails to reduce weight in the vast majority of cases but results, in the long term, in increased weight gain (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). Widespread anxiety and embarrassment over and fear and hatred of fatness was something that the individuals I interviewed experienced directly and which signalled to them that they were less than human. Their desire for weight loss, therefore was partially a desire to become ‘normal.’ In Butler’s term, it was the desire for a ‘liveable life. ’A liveable life, for these participants, included a desire for a seamless fit with the built environment. The individuals I spoke with were never more ashamed of their fatness than when they experienced a ‘misfit’, in Garland Thomson’s terms, between their bodies and the material world. Moreover, feelings of shame over this disjuncture worked in tandem with a deeply felt, pressing sense that something must be done in the present to secure a better health future. The belief that bariatric surgery might finally provide a durable answer to obesity served as a strong motivating factor in their decisions to undergo bariatric surgery. By taking drastic action to lose weight, participants hoped to contest stigmatizing beliefs that their fat bodies reflected pathological interiors. Moreover, they sought to demonstrate responsibility and thus secure proper subjectivities and citizenship. In this sense, concerns, anxieties, and fears about health cannot be disentangled from the experience of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. Again, anti-fat bias, for these participants, was more than discursive: it operated through the circulation of emotion and was experienced in a very material sense. The decision to have weight loss surgery can thus be seen as occurring at the interface of emotion, flesh, space, place, and time, and in ways that are fundamentally shaped by the broader social context of neoliberal healthism. AcknowledgmentI am grateful to the anonymous reviewers of this article for their helpful feedback on earlier version. References Adams, Vincanne, Michelle Murphy, and Adele E. Clarke. “Anticipation: Technoscience, Life, Affect, Temporality.” Subjectivity 28.1 (2009): 246-265. 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