Journal articles on the topic 'Billaud words'

Abstract Sightings of the now-feared-extinct ivory-billed woodpecker Campephilus principalis in 2004 in the Big Woods of Arkansas initiated a series of studies on how to best manage habitat for this endangered species as well as all woodpeckers in the area. Previous work suggested that densities of other woodpeckers, particularly pileated Dryocopus pileatus and red-bellied Melanerpes carolinus woodpeckers, might be useful in characterizing habitat use by the ivory-billed woodpecker. We estimated densities of six woodpecker species in the Big Woods during the breeding seasons of 2006 and 2007 and also during the winter season of 2007. Our estimated densities were as high as or higher than previously published woodpecker density estimates for the Southeastern United States. Density estimates ranged from 9.1 to 161.3 individuals/km2 across six woodpecker species. Our data suggest that the Big Woods of Arkansas is attractive to all woodpeckers using the region, including ivory-billed woodpeckers.

The article is aimed at revealing the specificity of socio-pragmatic informative value of literary anthroponyms used by H. Böll in his literary works. The study of the onyms mentioned in such an aspect demonstrates the lack of comprehensive research. As a result, the findings covered this aspect are dispersal in scientific and practical work. However, literary onyms are considered to be semantic and text-forming units of a literary text and they are used to identify and differentiate the persons on their social, cultural, and psychological background, as well as to create the characters with national peculiarities. The object of the study includes the contextual units representing the «family names» anthroponymic category. The data collected are based on the following literary works by H. Böll: «Where Were You, Adam?» («Wo warst du, Adam?»), «Billiards at Half-Past Nine» («Billard um halb zehn»), «House without Guardians» («Haus ohne Hüter»), «The Clown» («Ansichten eines Clowns»). The continuous sampling method, qualitative-quantitative and descriptive ones, component and contextual analysis have been used as study methodology. The article contains certain essential results of the dissertation that have not been published yet. It is established that family names used by H. Böll are a means of revealing the following socio-pragmatic information: 1) the character’s nationality (a correlation between literary family names and the real national anthroponymic system is revealed); 2) a geographical location (family names with a typical sound and alphabetic composition that helps to define the place where the events occur); 3) social status (family names with the «von» component indicate both the character’s social status and their relationship with other members of the community); 4) a direct / indirect character’s description (family names with pure inner forms of the words and an updated internal form and appellatively based family names).

All European languages have a word for God, and this word means exactly the same in all of them. However, speakers of different European languages tend to relate to God in different ways. Each group has its own characteristic ways of addressing God, encoded in certain words, phrases and grammatical forms, which both reflect and shape the speakers’ habitual ways of thinking about God and relating to God. Often, they also reflect some other aspects of their cultural memory and historical experience. In this paper I will compare the meanings of the vocative expressions used for addressing God in several European languages, including “Gospodi” in Russian, “O God” in English, “Mon Dieu” in French, “Herr” in German, and “Boże” in Polish. But to compare those meanings, we need a common measure. I believe such a common measure is available in the “NSM” framework, from Natural Semantic Metalanguage (see e.g. Goddard and Wierzbicka, 2014; Wierzbicka 2014a and 2018a; Gladkova and Larina 2018a, b). The data is taken mainly from well-known works of literature, such as Lev Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Boris Pasternak’s poem “V bol’nice” (“In Hospital”) for Russian, Charles Peguy’s Le mystère de la charité de Jeanne d’Arc and its English translation by Julien Green for French and English, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s prison poems and Heinrich Böll’s novel Billard um halbzehn for German. The results have shown that each European language offers its users a range of options for addressing God. Some of these options are shared, others appear to be unique to the language. All are underpinned by broader historical phenomena. The exact nature of all these links remains to be investigated.

Large, introductory, nonmajors biology classes present challenges when trying to encourage class discussion to help reinforce important concepts. Lively in-class discussion involving hundreds of students is more successful when a relevant story told with passion is used to introduce a topic. In my courses, each semester begins with thorough treatment of the scientific method, followed by the multiple Darwinian theories of evolution. To reinforce these two important themes, the story of the ivory-billed woodpecker’s ecology, evolution, conservation, and probable extirpation has been effective in provoking class dialogue and reinforcing the two themes. Although I describe this approach as a large-class activity, it works well in courses of all sizes. In this article, I discuss teaching with storytelling and detail the use of the ivory-billed woodpecker story as a teaching tool.

Parents are the first party responsible for protecting and fulfilling children's rights. The rights of children to parents begin when their children are born and breathe the air in this world. So since then the responsibility of parents to their children has also arisen. Among the rights of children that must be fulfilled by parents is the right to support. Regarding family income, fathers are obliged to provide for their children if they need them, so children are obliged to provide for their mother and father if they need them. If the father is in poverty or his income is insufficient, the obligation to provide for his children remains, does not die, and if the mother of the children is well off, he can be ordered to provide for his children, which is their father's obligation, but can be billed for return it. However, the income that the father (husband) cannot afford can be billed to be returned, the laws which in Indonesia have not regulated that far. Key Words: , ,

Characteristics of Sex and Age Composition ofCalidris Alpine(Aves, Charadriiformes) Migrating Across SivashThe paper shows features of distribution based on regular captures and measurements since 1986 on two sites of Sivash (Central and Eastern), which are different in their hydrological regime and composition of forage macrozoobenthos. Shorter-billed males reliably prefer Central Sivash for storage of fat reserves at the expense of feeding on larvae of chironomids and possibly the brine shrimp. For longer-billed females it is more profitable to concentrate on Eastern Sivash, where they prefer to feed on polychaete worms. On basis of size characteristics of the captured birds and their time dynamics, the paper considers suggested terms of passage of different subspecies and populations of the Dunlin across the Azov-Black Sea coast of Ukraine. Also differences in age composition of migratory waders on different sites of Sivash are shown compared to other water bodies of the near Black Sea area.

Providing appropriate and equitable compensation is essential. “ Compensation is intended as retribution (reward) of the company to sacrifice time, energy, and thoughts that have been granted to the company’s employees, then the company duly appreclate the hard work of employees by way of remuneration or compensation in kind ti them. Compensation and not a continuous process that moment. Compensation is a means to anticipate a situation that could reduce productivity. Employee productivity problems associated also with the right of every worker to earn a decent living opportunities for people. To be able to enjoy a decent life is not obtainable without a guarantee of incime and wages that can be generated by the presence of sufficlently high labor productivity. As a reward of productivity achieved karyawan. Rata average compensation inthe form of a basic salary of Rp 779,568,00, an average allowance of Rp. 1,56,868,00 and the average incentive ig Rp. 737,057,00. The collection og employee productivity (billing) is obatained from a large collection target value set by the company to be billed to the customer for which payment is stalled motorcycles and delinquent payments on certain areas divided by the realization that reached every employee billing in the month. Employee productivity level of collection in August 2008, the average productivity of employees by 78% of categorized collection baik. Pengaruh compensation to labor productivity levels of labor in the PT bogor summit Oto Finance Brand as follows : (1) Effect of base salary to the level og labor productivity sig valuse obtained for 0,237 > a = 0,05 other words there is no influence of the basic salary of labor productivity levels . (2) The effect of the level of work productivity benefits gained sig value of 0,177>a = 0,05 in other woeds there is no effect on the level of work productivity benefits . (3) effect of incentives on the level of labor productivity obtained sig value of 0,002 <a = 0,05 in other words there is an incentive effect on the level of labor productivity.

A recent paper (Billat et al., 1994a) has shown the reproducibility but also the great variability between subelite long-distance runners in their time to exhaustion at the velocity which elicits [Formula: see text], called the maximal aerobic speed (MAS). The present study delved further into the reasons for this large difference between runners having the same [Formula: see text]. The question addressed was whether the exercise-induced hypoxemia (EIH) was more important for athletes having the longest time to exhaustion at 90 (Tlim 90), 100 (Tlim 100), or 105% (Tlim 105) of MAS. The study was conducted on 16 elite male runners. EIH was observed, that is, arteriel oxyhemoglobin saturation and arterial partial pressure of oxygen dropped significantly after all the Tlim tests. However, EIH was only correlated with Tlim 90 (r = −0.757; −0.531, respectively). Key words: exercise, running

Background Word embeddings are dense numeric vectors used to represent language in neural networks. Until recently, there had been no publicly released embeddings trained on clinical data. Our work is the first to study the privacy implications of releasing these models. Objective This paper aims to demonstrate that traditional word embeddings created on clinical corpora that have been deidentified by removing personal health information (PHI) can nonetheless be exploited to reveal sensitive patient information. Methods We used embeddings created from 400,000 doctor-written consultation notes and experimented with 3 common word embedding methods to explore the privacy-preserving properties of each. Results We found that if publicly released embeddings are trained from a corpus anonymized by PHI removal, it is possible to reconstruct up to 68.5% (n=411/600) of the full names that remain in the deidentified corpus and associated sensitive information to specific patients in the corpus from which the embeddings were created. We also found that the distance between the word vector representation of a patient’s name and a diagnostic billing code is informative and differs significantly from the distance between the name and a code not billed for that patient. Conclusions Special care must be taken when sharing word embeddings created from clinical texts, as current approaches may compromise patient privacy. If PHI removal is used for anonymization before traditional word embeddings are trained, it is possible to attribute sensitive information to patients who have not been fully deidentified by the (necessarily imperfect) removal algorithms. A promising alternative (ie, anonymization by PHI replacement) may avoid these flaws. Our results are timely and critical, as an increasing number of researchers are pushing for publicly available health data.

Akad Al-Qardh is an agreement or agreement between the two parties, whereby the first party provides assets or provides property in the sense of lending to a second party as a borrower of money or a person who receives assets that can be billed or reimbursed, in other words lend property to other people who need fast funds without expecting rewards. For its practice in the Islamic banking of Al Qardh Al Hasan serves as a bailout fund for a short period of time, the customer will return it quickly, as a facility to obtain funds quickly because the customer cannot withdraw the funds, for example due to being stranded in deposits, as a facility to help small and medium businesses or social community. The benefits of aqad al-qardh are helping customers who need fast funds, as well as one of the giver characteristics between Islamic banks and conventional banks which contain social missions, in addition to commercial missions, improve good image and increase community loyalty to Islamic banks.

Abstrak: Penelitian ini merupakan penelitian tentang ragam bahasa prokem dari penggemar Leslar (Lesti Bilar) dalam media sosial. Prokem penggemar Leslar dikaji menggunakan ilmu sosiolinguistik. Prokem merupakan variasi bahasa yang disesuaikan dengan konteks penggunaan bahasa. Jenis penelitian ini adalah penelitian deskriptif kualitatif. Tujuan penelitian ini untuk menemukan beberapa hal, yaitu 1) bentuk prokem Leslar, dan 2) makna prokem Leslar. Data yang digunakan dalam penelitian ini adalah data tertulis. Metode yang digunakan dalam penelitian ini, yaitu metode pengumpulan data, analisis data, dan penyajian analisis data. Pengumpulan data menggunakan metode simak dan catat yang berhubungan dengan penggemar Leslar di media sosial Instagram. Analisis data menggunakan analisis prokem, yaitu menganalisis kosakata khusus yang dipakai dalam komunitas tertentu. Metode penyajian hasil analisis data adalah metode informal, yaitu menggunakan kata-kata yang mudah dipahami. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa terdapat beberapa prokem Leslar yaitu anjay, kiyut, dede, vitamin, osas, uwu, meninggoy, terleslar-leslar, markonah, pansos, baper, bucin, setingan, dan virus leslar. Abstract: This research is a research about prokem language of Leslar fans (Lesti Bilar) in social media. Leslar's fan program was studied using sociolinguistics. Prokem is a variation of language that is adapted to the context of language use. This type of research is descriptive qualitative research. The purpose of this study was to find out several things, namely 1) the form of the Leslar program, and 2) the meaning of the Leslar program. The data used in this research is written data. The method used in this study, namely the method of data collection, data analysis, and presentation of data analysis. Data collection uses the listen and note method related to Leslar fans on Instagram social media. Data analysis uses program analysis, which is to analyze the special vocabulary used in certain communities. The method of presenting the results of data analysis is an informal method, using words that are easy to understand. The results showed that there were several prokem for Leslar, namely anjay, kiyut, dede, vitamin, osas, uwu, meninggoy, terleslar-leslar, markonah, pansos, baper, bucin, setingan, virus leslar.

AbstractSmooth approaches are able to model reasonably well contact/impact events between two bodies, showing some peculiarities when dealing with certain geometries and arising certain issues with the detection of the initial instant of contact. The characterization of multiple-simultaneous interaction systems, considering (or not) energy dissipation phenomena (mainly friction), is always an interesting research topic, addressed from different perspectives. In the present work, the process of design, optimization and verification of a multiple-impact, day-to-day multibody novel model is shown. Specifically, we have decided to focus on a pool/billiard game due to its geometry simplicity. The model involves several balls moving freely and rolling, suffering different kinds of contacts/impacts among them and against the cushions and the cloth. In this system, the proper modelling of both contact and friction forces in the multiple, simultaneous contacts and impacts events is critical to obtain consistent results. In addition, these forces are complicated to model because of its nonlinear behaviour. The different existing approaches when dealing with multiple-contact events are briefly described, along with their most distinctive features. Then, the interactions identified on the model are implemented using several nonlinear contact-force models, following a smooth-based approach and considering friction phenomena, aiming at determining the most suitable set of both contact and friction force models for each of these implemented interactions, which take place simultaneously, thus resulting in a complex system with multiple impacts. Subsequently, the solving method that provides the most accurate results at the minimum computational cost is determined by testing a simple shot. Finally, the different interactions on the model are verified using experimental results and previous works. One of the main goals of this work is to show the some of the issues that arise when dealing with multiple-simultaneous impact multibody systems from a smooth-contact approach, and how researchers can deal with them.

Background: Acute cholecystitis, which is typically associated with gallstones, is one of the most common causes of acute abdomen presenting in emergency departments around the world. The aim of this study was to compare the incidence of biliary leak and hospital stay between early and delayed laparoscopic cholecystectomy for acute cholecystitis.Objectives: To compare the incidence of biliary leak and hospital stay between early and delayed laparoscopic cholecystectomy for acute cholecystitis.Material and Methods: Patients with radiologically confirmed acute calculus cholecystitis and ASA grade I/II were selected from the surgical OPD and prospectively randomized into two equivalent classes between August 1, 2015 and July 31, 2017. Early laparoscopic cholecystectomy was performed on patients in group A, while delayed laparoscopic cholecystectomy was performed on patients in group B. The data was collected from the patients using a non-probability sampling technique.Results: The research included 200 patients with radiologically proven acute calculus cholecystitis and an ASA grade I/II. Overall, patients who had an early laparoscopic cholecystectomy had a shorter hospital stay and less billary leak than those who had a delayed laparoscopic cholecystectomy (P=0.01) (0.00 and 0.11). In comparison to Group-II, the number of post-operative complications was lower in Group-I.Conclusion: When compared to delayed laparoscopic cholecystectomy, early laparoscopic cholecystectomy allows for substantially shorter biliary leak frequency and overall hospital stay.Key Words: Acute cholecystitis, Cholecystectomy, Laparoscopic.

We study the Magnus effect: deflection of the trajectory of a spinning body moving in a gas. It is well known that in rarefied gases, the inverse Magnus effect takes place, which means that the transversal component of the force acting on the body has opposite signs in sparse and relatively dense gases. The existing works derive the inverse effect from non-elastic interaction of gas particles with the body. We propose another (complementary) mechanism of creating the transversal force owing to multiple collisions of particles in cavities of the body surface. We limit ourselves to the two-dimensional case of a rough disc moving through a zero-temperature medium on the plane, where reflections of the particles from the body are elastic and mutual interaction of the particles is neglected. We represent the force acting on the disc and the moment of this force as functionals depending on ‘shape of the roughness’, and determine the set of all admissible forces. The disc trajectory is determined for several simple cases. The study is made by means of billiard theory, Monge–Kantorovich optimal mass transport and by numerical methods.

<p>Naser Khosrow is the theologian and one of the famous poets of the fifth century. At first, he was secretary but he was evolved due to his spiritual dream. He started traveling and by hearing the promulgation of Isma‘ilism in Egypt went to that land and joined Ismaili sect. By the order of Fatimid imam of that time, Ma'ad al-Mustansir Billah, he was named Hujjat-i Khorasan. Among his works, Jamial hikmatin can be named which is the answer of the Abol heitham’s philosophical and theological questions. His Diwan includes the poems defending Isma‘ilism thoughts and is rich in philosophical, theological, and religious thoughts. One of the manifestations of Quranic verses (ayah) and hadith in Naser Khosrow’s Diwan is the existence of a variety of Quranic allusions and interpretations. From the Naser Khosrow’s viewpoint, the apparent meaning of divine miracle (Quran) is not enough because the core of rules is foundation and discovering these core components of the verses is the responsibility of an innocent Imam as well as hardworking scholars.</p>

The hospital’s claim collectively and billed done to the BPJS of each month,with complete supporting documents i.e copy of BPJS card,prof nurse, letter of statement, the cost of which must be paid. The function of the claims of BPJS is the submission the cost of patient care BPJS participaty from the hospital to the BPJS, previously the cost of patient care in the responsibility by the hospital. The porpuse of research to find out information on filing a claim general hospital of Anutapura palu to BPJS. This research has been carried out in a Hospital Anutapura palu and implemented in june 2016. Type writer this research with a qualitative approach. The study make’s and overview of the complex, researching the words, the detailed report of the views of respondents, and conduct a study on the situation of the natural. The results showed that the claims of the administration in the hospital Anutapura palu has been running in a coedance with the rules as seen from the claims in the pending was upon agreement of the parties hospital and office of the BPJS that follow the rules No. 28 service system JKN. So based on research it can be deduced that the implementation of the filing the claim of the nation health assurance ( JKN ) in Hospital Anutapura palu are in accoedance with Permenkes No.28 service system ( JKN ). Keyword : Implementation, Claim JKN.

<p>The Blue Whistling-Thrush (Myophoneus caeruleus) is a member of Turdidae family which is comprised of six races distributed from Turkestan up to India and China, Southeast Asia, Malay Peninsula, Sumatera, and Java. This bird can be found around large rivers or between ridges in the forests. On 13 December 2012, we conducted an observation around the Kakek Bodo Waterfall’s camping ground and tourism site, Prigen, Pasuruan. The observation resulted in the sightings of five endemic bird species (the Olive-backed Tailorbird, Crescent-chested Babbler, Yellow-throated Hanging-parrot, Javan Banded-pitta, Lesser Forktail), and a bird with minimal record bird in Java, the Thick-billed Flowerpecker. Another result of the observation is a new data on the diet of the Blue Whistling-thrush. This species is known to prey on snails, beetles, maggots, worms, and water bugs; however, that one bird we observed was preying on a snake (from the genus Dendrelaphis). This species had also been reported to scavenge for leftovers thrown away by food vendors in the tourism site, so that its behavior has gradually changed. </p><p><strong>Keywords</strong>: Blue Whistling-thrush, Dendrelaphis snake, diet, Kakek Bodo waterfall.</p>

The establishment of modern Iran in 1925 accelerated a centralisation policy, which resulted in the oppression of Iran’s national and cultural diversity. Under such unfavourable conditions, Kurdish fiction had a stuttering start with only three works since the publication of the first Kurdish novel in 1961 up until 1991, when the number of Kurdish fictional works produced in Iran began to increase steadily. This article addresses the question of commitment and aesthetics in Kurdish prose fiction by examining a short story collection and three novels published between 1961 and 2002. Whereas the earlier Kurdish writers primarily viewed fiction as a medium for cultural preservation and national liberation, around the turn of the 20th century a generation of Kurdish writers appeared who were as equally concerned with aesthetics as with politics.ABSTRACT IN KURMANJIÇîroka kurdî: Ji nivîsîna berxwedanê bo pabendiyeke estetîkAvakirina Îrana modern li sala 1925an lez da siyaseta navendîkirinê, ku bû sebebê fetisandina cihêrengiya neteweyî û çandî ya Îranê. Li jêr şertên wisa xerab, destpêka çîrok û romanên kurdî gelek giran bû û bi tenê sê berhem çap bûn di navbera 1961 û 1991ê, dema ku berhemên edebî yên kurdî li Îranê her ku çû zêdetir bûn. Ev gotar berê xwe dide pirsa pabendiya siyasî/îdeolojîk û estetîkê di edebiyata kurdî bi rêya tehlîla berhemeke kurteçîrokan û sê romanên di navbera 1961 û 2003 de çap bûyî. Di demekê de ku nivîskarên kurd yên pêşiyê edebiyat wek amrazeke parastina çandî û azadiya neteweyî didîtin, li werçerxa sedsala 20an nifşekî nivîskarên kurd derhatin ku bi qasî siyasetê xwedanê xem û endîşeyên estetîk jî bûn.ABSTRACT IN SORANIÇîrokî kurdî: Le nûsînî berengarîyewe bo pabendbûnî cuwanînasîDamezrandinî dewlletî modêrnî Êran le 1925da siyasetî nawedindêtî xêratir kird. Emeş serkutkirdinî freyîy keltûrî û neteweyîy Êranî lêkewtewe. Le sayey em barûdoxe nalebareda, çîrokî kurdî seretayekî piçirr piçirrî hebû, le billawkirdinewey yekem romanî kurdî le sallî 1961 ta sallî 1991 tenha sê berhem billaw kirawetewe û le 1991 berhemî çîrokî kurdî le Êran destî be ziyadbûnî berdewam kird. Em babete kar leser pirsî pabendbûn û cuwaninasî le çîrokî kurdîda dekat le rêgay hellsengandinî koberhemêkî kurteçîrok û sê roman ke le nêwan sallanî 1961 ta 2002da billaw kirawnetewe. Le katêkda cîlî pêşûy nûseranî Kurd be giştî çîrok nûsînyan wek amrazêk bo parastinî keltûr û rizgarîy nîştimanî debînî, le serûbendî hatinî sedey bîstemda neweyek le nûserî kurd peydabûn ke be heman radey siyaset bayexyan be cuwanînasîş deda.ABSTRACT IN ZAZAKIFîksîyonê kurdkî: Nuştişê xoverrodayoxkî ra ver bi wezîfeya estetîzekerdîyeAwankerdişê Îranê modernî yê serra 1925î bî sebebê sîyasetê merkezîkerdişî. Semedê nê sîyasetê merkezî ra zafrenginîya Îranî ya neteweyî û kulturî ameye bindestkerdene. Binê şertanê winasîyanê bêavantajan de, destpêkê fîksîyonê kurdkî giran bî: mabênê serra 1961î, wexto ke romanê kurdkî yo verên weşanîyabî, û serra 1991î, wexto ke Îran de weşanê eseranê fîksîyonî yê kurdkî hêdî-hêdî aver şîyêne, tena hîrê eserî weşanîyabîyî. Na meqale persê wezîfedarî û estetîkî yê fîksîyonê kurdkî ser o vindena. Seba naye koleksîyonêkê hîkayeyan û hîrê romanê ke mabênê 1961 û 2002î de weşanîyayî, analîz benê. Nuştoxanê kurdkî yê verênan fîksîyon heme çîyan ra ver sey wasîtaya muhafezekerdişê kulturî û xelasa neteweyîye dîyêne. Labelê serê seserra 20. de neslê nuştoxanê kurdkî yo newe vejîya meydan ke înan giranîya xo hem dayêne sîyasetî hem kî estetîkî ser.

An account is given of the names of families, genera, and species of hydroids established by C.M. Fraser of Canada, excluding those from Allan Hancock Pacific Expeditions and the Allan Hancock Caribbean Sea Expedition. The names of four families, 11 genera, and 101 species are attributed to him in this work, complementing those of another two genera and 164 species described by Fraser in various Allan Hancock publications. Information is provided on type localities of his new species, on locations and kinds of type material in existence, where known, and on the current taxonomic status of families, genera, and species described by him in works reviewed herein. Two replacement names (Thuiaria geniculata Fraser, 1918a and Salacia fraseri Calder, 1991) exist for Thuiaria distans Fraser, 1914a (not Thuiaria distans Allman, 1877). The widely overlooked senior synonym, T. geniculata, is recognized as the valid name of the species. Diphasia alta nom. nov. is proposed as a new replacement name for the permanently invalid junior primary homonym Diphasia robusta Fraser, 1943a (not D. attenuata robusta Billard, 1924). In addition, Cryptolaria crassa nom. nov. is proposed as a new replacement name for the junior secondary homonym Cryptolaria rigida (Fraser, 1948) [not C. rigida (Fraser, 1940a)]. Lectotypes have been designated for 47 of the species to establish objective standards for application of their names. Corymorpha adventitia Fraser, 1941b, from the Pacific coast of Panama, is assigned to Ralpharia Watson, 1980, as R. adventitia. No type specimens are known to exist for seven of the species considered, including one holotype (of Hebella eximia Fraser, 1944a) missing from its bottle. Particular attention has been paid to dating and chronology of the 51 publications of Fraser covered in this work. Earlier bibliographic errors are corrected, most notably establishing that the book Distribution and relationship in American hydroids was published in early 1947 rather than 1946 as per the title page.

The objective of this thesis is to make a position play for a billiard robot in a nine ball pool game by the Grey System Theory. The position play is the placement of the cue ball on the best position to the next planned shot. The robot is able to decide a shooting mode with a corresponding shooting strength from the developed data base of rebound paths of the cue ball. The rebound paths are calculated and recorded from four shooting modes (free shot, cushion shot, bank shot, kiss shot) with five different shooting strengths by the collision theory in a PC. The continuous position play is called the clean-table in the pool game. The moving path of object ball and cue ball are calculated by the collision theory. The grey decision making is developed to find out the best position of cue ball after shooting for the position play. The decision factors are the block ball, the shooting angle, the distance between the object ball and the pocket, and the distance between the object ball and the cue ball. The first priority of the position play is to choose the corresponding object ball and the rebound path of cue ball without any block ball. Then, the second priority is to choose the higher successful pocketing rate (large than 60%). Finally, the offensive decision is set up to make a position play by the Grey Decision-making Sub-system. The experimental results show this clean-table offensive system works very well in the pool game.

The thirty-second Wien Modern was an extraordinary month-long festival of concerts and events with almost 90 world and Austrian premieres. The excellent Klangforum Wien programme at the Wiener Konzerthaus, conducted by Bas Wiegers, was well attended by an enthusiastic and mostly young-ish audience, where the focus was two first performances for large ensemble: Klaus Lang's linea mundi and Mirela Ivičević's Sweet Dreams. The evening was, in fact, billed as being ‘in honour’ of Ivičević who had won the Erste Bank Composition Prize 2019 with this piece. Ivičević is a Croatian composer now living in Vienna and her work shows an involvement with big themes: politics, diversity and violence, among others. Apart from concert pieces she works with different media and takes by-products of popular trash culture often as a starting point for her work. In interviews she has talked about the ‘subversive potency of sound’, and said that her work is ‘raw, imperfect, unpolished’, which this piece, and other recent examples you can hear on YouTube, demonstrate, despite her quite rigorous musical education in Zagreb and Vienna. Sweet Dreams is a lively, noisy, busy piece about the rapid change between sleep and waking states. The large ensemble, including harmonium, electric guitar and harp, opens with monumental repeated sections, dramatic but with a sense of direction toward slow, strong, pedal entries. Rough punctuation from alto saxophone, bass clarinet and trumpet adds to the ‘rawness’ but the writing is assured with a particular, individual imagination and sense of colour that bodes well for future work.

<p style="text-align: justify;"><em>This study aims to analyze positive thinking in the hadith "ana 'inda zhanni 'abdi bi" in a grammatical and balaghah perspective. The diction of the hadith confirms that Allah will actually realize what His servant thinks of him, both positive and negative because there is taukid namely dhamir al-fashl at the beginning of the hadith and ismiyyatul jumlah which strengthens jumlah khabariyah. However, if it is examined from a grammatical and balaghah perspective, the hadith contains an invitation to think positively, not negatively. This research is library research by examining books and scientific works related to the title. The authors found that the hadith is included in the chapter on the invitation to remember Allah from this study. Allah warns His servants to be careful in prejudice or thinking of Him because He is present, close, closely attached to what is suspected or thought by the servant, and is easily able to realize what is suspected or thought. As a "closeness" and "specialization" for 'abdu (obedient and submissive servant), Allah invites His servants to think positively, remember Him, draw closer to Him, and come to Him. Then He will reward the servant with good rewards that will lead him to success in this world and the hereafter. In the hadith there are taukid, tahriku al-himmah ila ma yalzamu tahshiluhu, ziyadatu at-taqrir wa al-idhah li as-sami', ta'jilu al-masarrah, azh-zharfu li hudhuri asy-sya'i wa dunuwwihi, al -yaqin billahi, wa at-takhshishu li al-'abdi al-khadhi' li rabbihi al-mustaslimi al-munqadi li amrihi and al-ilshaq. Therefore, every servant should try always to think positively.</em><strong></strong></p>

The polytypic Straight-billed Woodcreeper Dendroplex picus (J. F. Gmelin, 1788) is one of the most complex species-groups of Dendrocolaptidae (Aves: Passeriformes), from both the nomenclatural and morphological standpoints. Firstly, its alpha taxonomy is debatable. Virtually all recent works (e.g. Aleixo 2002; Marantz et al. 2003; del Hoyo & Collar 2016) have recognized just two species in the group—Dendroplex picus and Zimmer’s Woodcreeper Dendroplex kienerii (Des Murs, 1856)—although some of the other described taxa possess singular morphological characters and well-defined ranges somewhat isolated from their geographically closest relatives (e.g. Plain-throated Woodcreeper Dendroplex picirostris Lafresnaye, 1847). Secondly, the correct genus to which to allocate taxa presently included in this group (vide Aleixo 2002) has been controversial. There is a considerable confusion as to which nominal species should be regarded as the type of Dendroplex Swainson, 1827b. Three species are involved in the dispute (Cory & Hellmayr 1925; Peters 1951; Aleixo et al. 2002; Marantz et al. 2003; Aleixo et al. 2007): Oriolus picus J. F. Gmelin, 1788; Dendrocolaptes guttatus M. H. C. Lichtenstein, 1818; and Dendrocolaptes ocellatus Spix, 1824. Here, we re-examine the nomenclatural issue and show that application of the nomen Dendroplex to the clade comprising the species-group D. picus (Aleixo et al. 2007) is based on a misunderstanding of the application of Article 70.3 of the Code (Anon. 1999) and that Dendrocolaptes ocellatus Spix, 1824, is its real type species. Consequently, the genus Dendroplex Swainson, 1827b, must be considered a junior synonym of Xiphorhynchus Swainson, 1827a. Because no generic nomen is currently available for them, we propose a new genus nomen to encompass the species originally described as Oriolus picus J. F. Gmelin, 1788, Dendroplex picirostris Lafresnaye, 1847, and Dendrornis kienerii Des Murs, 1856.

Recently, Deloncle, Billant & Chomaz (J. Fluid Mech., vol. 599, 2008, p. 229) and Waite & Smolarkiewicz (J. Fluid Mech., vol. 606, 2008, p. 239) have performed numerical simulations of the nonlinear evolution of the zigzag instability of a pair of counter-rotating vertical vortices in a stratified fluid. Both studies report the development of a small-scale secondary instability when the vortices are strongly bent if the Reynolds number Re is sufficiently high. However, the two papers are at variance about the nature of this secondary instability: it is a shear instability according to Deloncle et al. (J. Fluid Mech., vol. 599, 2008, p. 229) and a gravitational instability according to Waite & Smolarkiewicz (J. Fluid Mech., vol. 606, 2008, p. 239). They also profoundly disagree about the condition for the onset of the secondary instability: ReF2h > O(1) according to the former or ReFh > 80 according to the latter, where Fh is the horizontal Froude number. In order to understand the origin of these discrepancies, we have carried out direct numerical simulations of the zigzag instability of a Lamb–Chaplygin vortex pair for a wide range of Reynolds and Froude numbers. The threshold for the onset of a secondary instability is found to be ReF2h ≃ 4 for Re ≳ 3000 and ReFh = 80 for Re ≲ 1000 in agreement with both previous studies. We show that the scaling analysis of Deloncle et al. (J. Fluid Mech., vol. 599, 2008, p. 229) can be refined to obtain a universal threshold: (Re − Re0)F2h ≃ 4, with Re0 ≃ 400, which works for all Re. Two different regimes for the secondary instabilities are observed: when (Re − Re0)F2h ≃ 4, only the shear instability develops while when (Re − Re0)F2h ≫ 4, both shear and gravitational instabilities appear almost simultaneously in distinct regions of the vortices. However, the shear instability seems to play a dominant role in the breakdown into small scales in the range of parameters investigated.

This research is here to reveal how Islam views a tradition carried out by the Akit tribe community in the Berancah village, Bengkalis Regency, namely the Oath Tradition. This problem was taken from the community's perception that the tradition of curses was a taboo for some people. This taboo assumption is caused by the curse contained in expletives. Curses are defined as hopes or prayers accompanied by words that result in distress or disaster to others. From these problems the researchers formulated into several questions as follows: 1. how is the form of language use and meaning of expletive oaths of the Akit tribal community in Bengkalis Village? How is the oath of the Akit tribe of the Beralis Village in Bengkalis Regency viewed from an Islamic perspective? In connection with this question, researchers used a qualitative approach that developed a phenomenological model. Data collection methods used by researchers are observation, interview, and documentation. The findings of this study indicate that the form of language use The form of expletives in this study is the Akit language, which is translated into Indonesian. The language style used tends to be sarcasm, which is a style that contains bitterness and is not pleasant to hear. The style of sarcasm is demonstrated through the use of diction which refers to bad conditions such as being eaten by crocodiles, being struck by lightning, being eaten by a land ghost, not being saved, and being eaten by a ghost pod. Dictation contained in expletives generally contain emotive and connotative meanings because it describes the feelings of the speaker. The components of expletive speech found in the Akit tribe are among them: "Eating Boye You!", "Not Save You!" "Yeng steals, right? Eaten Land Ghost ...!". The Islamic view of curses is Islam is strictly prohibited when people say or speak that is not good to other humans. This is confirmed by the authentic proposition narrated by Imam Ahmad which reads: "Man kaana yu 'minu billahi wal yaumil Akhir, fal yaqul khoiron au li yasmut". "Whoever believes in Allah SWT, he should say good or better be quiet." Imam Abu Hatim Ibn Hibban Al Busti said in his book, Raudhah A-Uqala wa Nazhah Al-Fudhala, p. 45, "People who have reason should be more silent than talk, because of how many people are sorry for talking and few are sorry for being quiet."

Abstract- Dian Cinema is an entertainment building in the form of a cinema that was built in 1930 under the name Radio City at that time. Located on Jalan Dalem Kaum no. 58, Bandung, Dian Cinema is the only cinema building left in the Alun - alun area and it is categorized as Group A Cultural Heritage Building in Bandung. In the beginning, Dian Cinema had experienced its heyday by showing a variety of foreign and local films, until it was eventually replaced with a new, more modern cinema concept that made Dian Cinema visitors diminished and eventually closed. The transition of functions in this building continues as a billiard sports venue, a place to sell clothes, rental offices, football sports venues, until now, Dian cinema is run into a vacuum of function. This makes the condition of the building become untreated and unmaintained well. In fact, the use of buildings in the right way can save these buildings and have a positive impact on the surrounding environment. Therefore, the proposed of a new function commonly referred to as adaptive reuse is carried out as one of the conservation act of cultural heritage buildings to maintain its history and existence. The study uses descriptive methods with qualitative analysis and evaluation, by describing the existing condition of the building. After that, it was conducted on the needs of the area in accordance with Bandung City regulations, conservation theory, analysis of the area and buildings, as well as examples of the successful application of adaptive reuse in Indonesia. The results of this study resulted in a new function, the Art Studio and the Performing Gallery which was considered applicable to the Dian Cinema building. The function is chosen based on a series of analysis results such as location, historical value, building characteristics, spatial requirements, to the potential and constraints of the building and area. The existence of new functions in the building is expected to be able to evoke social activities and old historical memories that are starting to fade, increase public knowledge, become an entertainment building and educational tourist destinations, and can participate in maintaining, protecting, and utilizing the existence of Group A Cultural Heritage Buildings in Bandung. Key Words: Adaptive Reuse, Cultural Heritage Building, Bioskop Dian

In 2007, Maynilad Water Services, Inc. (Maynilad), the private water and wastewater service provider of the West Zone of Metro-Manila (Philippines), had an enormous challenge ahead: to achieve 100% service coverage in the coming few years with basically no additional water resources; to connect an additional 3 million people still without access to piped water; and to improve the service level to the existing customers. The only way to meet this demand is to reduce water losses from its deteriorated pipe network. Water balance made in that year showed significant total non-revenue water of 1,500 million liters per day which is equivalent to 66% of the total system input volume. Maynilad recognized that to be financially viable, it needs to address the non-revenue water problem. Thus, the Central NRW team was immediately created in 2008 and was tasked to lead Maynilad's ambitious NRW reduction and management program, which is considered one of the largest NRW projects in the world in terms of amount of water losses and the scope and magnitude of works involved to bring down the high level of NRW. Maynilad's NRW program involves breaking up the whole network into hydraulically isolated and measurable district metered areas (DMA); monitoring and diagnosing each DMA; developing well-trained and fully equipped leak detection teams to find surfacing and non-surfacing leaks; active leakage control; pressure management; selective pipe replacement/rehabilitation; closing of illegal connections and decommissioning of old distribution pipes; integrated meter management; and a sustained capacity building of NRW teams. By the end of 2013, 6 years after implementing the NRW program, Maynilad was able to recover more than 700 MLD and managed to bring down the NRW level to 39%. The water that was saved in turn was used to supply additional 400,000 new customers in the expansion areas and generally improved the level of service of the existing customers by providing higher water pressure and longer water availability. These translated to an increase in billed volume by 56 and 107% increase in total revenues for the company.

In Arabic literature, Bakseer’s figure is quite unique and well known.Particularly when we talk about historical novel,Bakseer is regarded as the pioneer of this genre. “Seeratush-Shujaa” is his typical historical novel which gives a graphic picture of the period of Al Aazid Billah the last ruler of Fatmic dynasty.The conspiracies of the royal court, along with the allied acts of treachery have been depicted in detail.This novl especially focuses on the differences and clashes between the two prominent ministers Shawer and Zargham.Both of them were real persons. Zargham killed Shawer’s two sons,but speared his third son Shujaa mainly for his bravery and honesty.Later on, Shujaa also started loving Zargham with the passage of time.Shawer fled to Noor-ud-Din Zangi and convinced him to help him. Zangi sent Asad-ud-Din Shairkooh and Slahudddin Ayobi to Egypt to help Shawer who ultimately succeeded in killing Zargham.Subsequently, Shawer regained ministry and Aazid became a puppet in his hands.All the affairs of the caliphate were supervised by Shawer.Taking advantage of his position,he developed friendly relation with the English-back King Maree, and hence became a traitor to his own country.He handed over Fustat and some other cities to Maree.As a result,his son Shuja started hating him and decided to support Asad-ud-Din and Slahuddin. The hero of the novel is Shjaa,who opposes his father and supports the truth.One day Shawer invited Asad-ud-Din and his army to a party and asked his new slave Yaqoot to poison the food to be served to Asad-ud-Din and Slahuddin.Shujaa’s wife Sumaiya overheard this conversation and informed Shujaa of the plot who consequently got annoyed.He exchanged hot words with his father and revealed that he knew all his evil [1]designs.this irritated Shawer and he ordered his slave Yaqoot to murder Shujaa.Before his death,Shuja expressed two wishes:one that Asad-ud-Din should forgive his father Shawer so that the latter might repent of his sins; the second that his son who has not yet born should be given the name “Zargham” and title “Asad-ud-Din”. The beauty of the novel lies in the writer’s skill of blending the romantic and the real.The diction is quite impressive and fully charged.Metaphors,Similes and references have been used dexterously.Dialogues are charged with sublime emotions and, as such,touch the chords of the heart.

Physicians in the United States have been affected by significant changes in the patterns of medical practice evolving over the last several decades. The recently passed affordable health care law, termed the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act of 2010 (the ACA, for short) affects physicians more than any other law. Physician services are an integral part of health care. Physicians are paid in the United States for their personal services. This payment also includes the overhead expenses for maintaining an office and providing services. The payment system is highly variable in the private insurance market; however, governmental systems have a formula-based payment, mostly based on the Medicare payment system. Physician services are billed under Part B. Since the inception of the Medicare program in 1965, several methods have been used to determine the amounts paid to physicians for each covered service. Initially, the payment systems compensated physicians on the basis of their charges. In 1975, just over 10 years after the inception of the Medicare program, payments changed so as not to exceed the increase in the Medical Economic Index (MEI). Nevertheless, the policy failed to curb increases in costs, leading to the determination of a yearly change in fees by legislation from 1984 to 1991. In 1992, the fee schedule essentially replaced the prior payment system that was based on the physician’s charges, which also failed to live up to expectations for operational success. Then, in 1998, the sustainable growth rate (SGR) system was introduced. In 2009, multiple attempts were made by Congress to repeal the formula – rather unsuccessfully. Consequently, the SGR formula continues to hamper physician payments. The mechanism of the SGR includes 3 components that are incorporated into a statutory formula: expenditure targets, growth rate period, and annual adjustments of payment rates for physician services. Further, the relative value of a physician fee schedule is based on 3 components: physician work, practice expense (PE), and malpractice expense that are used to determine a value ranking for each service to which it is applied. On average, the work component represents 53.5% of a service’s relative value, the fee component represents 43.6%, and the malpractice component represents 3.9%. The final schedule for physician payment was issued on November 24, 2010. This was based on a total cut of 30.8% with 24.9% of the cut attributed to SGR. However, as usual, with patchwork efficiency, Congress passed a one-year extension of the 0% update, effective through December 2011. Consequently, CMS issued an emergency update of the 2011 Medicare fee schedule, with multiple revisions, resulting in a reduction of the conversion factor of $36.8729 from December 2010 to $33.9764 for 2011. Key words: Health policy, physician payment policy, physician fee schedule, Medicare, sustained growth rate formula, interventional pain management, regulatory reform

Abstract We studied adult Cooper's hawks Accipiter cooperii on two study areas in north Florida from 1995 to 2001, an area dominated by large plantations managed for northern bobwhite Colinus virginianus and an area of mixed farmland and woods with no direct bobwhite management. We monitored 76 Cooper's hawk nesting attempts at 31 discrete nest areas, and radio-tagged 19 breeding males and 30 breeding females that we radio-tracked for up to 5 y. Nesting density (565 to 1,494 ha per occupied nest area) was comparable but productivity (1.8 and 2.8 young fledged per occupied and successful nest area, respectively) was lower than for the species elsewhere. Prey may have been more limiting than in other areas studied because chipmunks Tamias striatus, an important prey elsewhere, were absent. Annual Cooper's hawk survival averaged 84% for males and 81% for females, except in 1998 when survival was substantially lower. Average annual home-range size for male Cooper's hawks was 15.3 km2 inclusive of one nesting area. Female annual ranges averaged 30.3 km2, and included from three to nine nesting areas. Daily space use was similar between the sexes, but females had separate breeding and nonbreeding ranges whereas males were sedentary. Females used the same nonbreeding areas among years, but switched nesting areas 68% of the time compared with only 17% for males. Birds comprised 88% of the breeding and 98% of the nonbreeding season diet of Cooper's hawks by frequency. Important prey species all year were mourning doves Zenaida macroura, blue jays Cyanocitta cristata, and northern bobwhite; during summer, cattle egrets Bubulcus ibis, northern mockingbirds Mimus polyglottos and northern cardinals Cardinalis cardinalis were also important; and during autumn and winter, killdeer Charadrius vociferus, yellow-billed cuckoos Coccyzus americanus, and chickens were important. Female Cooper's hawks took larger prey than males; females were responsible for most cattle egret and chicken kills; whereas, males took most blue jays, killdeer, northern mockingbirds, and northern cardinals. Of avian prey brought to nests, 64% were nestling birds. Most adult male Cooper's hawks were adept at raiding bird nest boxes. Male Cooper's hawks captured 85% of the prey fed to nestlings. Female Cooper's hawks relied on males for food from early March until young were ≥12 d old, and 6 of 10 breeding females monitored intensively were never observed foraging for their broods. Most prey brought to nestling Cooper's hawks was captured within 2 km of nests, and foraging effort was consistent throughout the day. During the nonbreeding season, most prey captures occurred before 0900 hours or at dusk. Northern bobwhite made up 2% of male and 6% of female Cooper's hawk prey annually by frequency; this extrapolated to 18 bobwhite/year/adult Cooper's hawk on both study areas, 59% of which were captured between November and February. Outside the breeding season, male Cooper's hawks foraged evenly over their home range whereas females tended to focus on prey concentrations. Because female Cooper's hawks were so adept at finding and exploiting prey hotspots, perhaps the best strategy for reducing predation on bobwhite is habitat management that produces an even distribution of bobwhite across the landscape.

This is the first in a series of rigorous nomenclatural studies of selected Diptera workers, undertaken as part of the Biosystematic Database of World Diptera (BDWD). A total of 566 genus-group names of Diptera proposed by A.-J.-B. Robineau-Desvoidy are listed, each with all originally included nominal species, method of typification, current taxonomic status, and emendations. A detailed biography of Robineau-Desvoidy is given with discussion of his works and his relationships with contemporaries. In addition, an index to all the species-group names of Diptera proposed by RobineauDesvoidy (3,204) is given with bibliographic reference to each original citation. Appended to this study are a full bibliography of Robineau-Desvoidy’s works, a list of collectors on which Robineau-Desvoidy based his Diptera studies, a list of collecting localities mentioned in his Diptera works, and a reproduction of the little-known but valuable 1826 Blainville Rapport of Robineau-Desvoidy’s 1830 Essai sur les Myodaires. Type species are designated for the following genus-group names: Dasyphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Muscidae]; Dyctia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Sciomyzidae]; Fimetia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Sphaeroceridae]; and Haematobia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Muscidae]. Acting as First Reviser of multiple original spellings, the following are selected as correct original spellings for genus-group names: Arisbaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Carbonia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Elbaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Eversmania Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Faedoria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Fairmairia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1853 [Conopidae]; Gymnodia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Muscidae]; Lylibaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Phaenicia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Calliphoridae]; Solieria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1849 [Tachinidae]; and Stephensia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; and for species-group names: Cyzenis haemisphaerica Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]. Earlier or corrected type-species designations are given for the following genus-group names: Elpigia RobineauDesvoidy, 1863 [Sarcophagidae]; Erigone Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae]; Kirbya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae]; Lilaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae]; Meckelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Ulidiidae]; Melinda Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Calliphoridae]; Misellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Sarcophagidae]; Myophora RobineauDesvoidy, 1830 [Sarcophagidae]; Myoris Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Ulidiidae]; Odinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Odiniidae]; Phoraea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Anthomyiidae]; Rhinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Rhiniidae]; Rhinophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Rhinophoridae]; Sabethes Robineau-Desvoidy, 1827 [Culicidae]; Salticella RobineauDesvoidy, 1830 [Sciomyzidae]; and Urellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tephritidae]. The following new synonymies are proposed as junior synonyms under their respective valid genus-group names: under Acemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Acemyia Schiner, 1861, n. syn.; under Aplomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Aplomyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Billaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Nicea Marschall, 1873, n. syn.; under Bohemania Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Bohemannia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Botanophila Lioy, 1864 [Anthomyiidae] is Aegeria Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Campylocheta Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae] is Goedartia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Cephenemyia Latreille, 1818 [Oestridae] is Cephenemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn.; under Chrysomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Calliphoridae] is Chrysomyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn.; under Chyromya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Chyromyidae] is Chyromyia Schiner, 1864, n. syn.; under Cistogaster Latreille, 1829 [Tachinidae] is Palassa Lioy, 1864, n. syn.; under Clairvillia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Phaniomyia Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. syn.; under Conops irritans Linnaeus, 1758 [Muscidae] is Haematobia ferox Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn.; under Cylidria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Sciomyzidae] is Cylindria Hendel, 1900, n. syn.; under Dinera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Myiocera Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. syn.; under Dufouria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Silbermannia Marschall, 1873, n. syn.; under Dumerillia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] are Dumerilia Duponchel in d’Orbigny, 1844, n. syn., Dumerilia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Elodia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Westwoodia Herting, 1974, n. syn.; under Elomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Helomyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Elophoria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Helophoria Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Eriothrix Meigen, 1803 [Tachinidae] is Oliviera Lioy, 1864, n. syn.; under Estheria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Myiostoma Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. syn.; under Eurithia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1844 [Tachinidae] is Eurythia Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. syn.; under Eurysthaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Euristhaea Marschall, 1873, n. syn.; under Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Fanniidae] is Philintha Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Freraea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Frerea Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Gimmenthalia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Gimmerthalia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Gonia Meigen, 1803 [Tachinidae] are Pissemyia Schiner, 1861, n. syn., Redia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Haematobia Le Peletier & Serville, 1828 [Muscidae] are Haematobia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn., Hoematobia Bigot, 1892, n. syn.; under Hermya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is HermyiaVerrall in Scudder, 1882, n. syn.; under Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Muscidae] is Ophira Bigot, 1892, n. syn.; under Hydromya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Sciomyzidae] is Hydromyia Curtis, 1837, n. syn.; under Hylemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Anthomyiidae] is Hylemia Marié, 1930, n. syn.; under Leiophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Liophora Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Linnaemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Linnaemyia Aldrich, 1905, n. syn.; under Loevia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Loewia Herting, 1974, n. syn.; under Macromya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Macromyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Megarhinus Robineau-Desvoidy, 1827 [Culicidae] is Megarhina Osten Sacken, 1881, n. syn.; under Minettia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Lauxaniidae] is Terennia Schiner, 1868, n. syn.; under Musca Linnaeus, 1758 [Muscidae] are Plaxemyia Schiner, 1861, n. syn., Byomyia Williston, 1908, n. syn.; under Oestrus Linnaeus, 1758 [Oestridae] is Cephalemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn.; under Oswaldia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 [Tachinidae] is Edomyia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Otites Latreille, 1804 [Otitidae] is Meckelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn.; under Palpomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Platystomatidae] is Palpomyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn.; under Pegomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Anthomyiidae] is Pegomyia Curtis, 1837, n. syn.; under Phaonia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Muscidae] are Fellea Agassiz, 1846, n. syn., Euphemyia Lioy, 1864, n. syn.; under Phasia Latreille, 1804 [Tachinidae] is Allophora Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Phryxe Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Erinnia Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Phyllomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] is Phyllomyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Polystodes Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 is Polistodes Speiser, 1915, n. syn.; under Pyrellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Muscidae] is Pyrelia Am Stein, 1857, n. syn.; under Rhinomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] are Rhinomyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn., Rhynomyia Schiner, 1861, n. syn.; under Rhyncomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Rhiniidae] is Rhynchomyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Rivellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Platystomatidae] is Revellia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn.; under Sarcophaga Meigen, 1826 [Sarcophagidae] is Myiophora Bezzi & Stein, 1907, n. syn.; under Solieria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1849 [Tachinidae] is Myiobia Mik, 1890, n. syn.; under Strauzia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tephritidae] is Straxissia Verrall in Scudder, 1882, n. syn.; under Tachina Meigen, 1803 [Tachinidae] is Servilia Am Stein, 1857, n. syn.; under Taxigramma Perris, 1852 [Sarcophagidae] is Misella Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1893, n. syn.; under Thecophora Rondani, 1845 [Conopidae] is Occemyia Schiner, 1861, n. syn.; under Uramya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tachinidae] are Uramyia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn., Uromyia Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1893, n. syn.; under Xyphosia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830 [Tephritidae] is Xiphosia Agassiz, 1846, n. syn. New combinations resulting from research conducted here include: Paracalobata ephippium (Fabricius, 1794), n. comb.; Paracalobata octoannulata (Strobl, 1899), n. comb. [Micropezidae]. Additionally, Gymnodia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1863 is treated as a valid senior synonym of Brontaea Kowarz, 1873, n. status [Muscidae]; Lyciella Collin, 1948, n. status, is treated as an invalid junior synonym of the valid name Meiosimyza Hendel, 1925, n. status [Lauxaniidae]. Reversal of precedence is invoked for four cases of subjective synonymy to promote stability in nomenclature: Thricops Rondani, 1856, nomen protectum and Phyllis Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, nomen oblitum [in Muscidae]; Musca halterata Panzer, 1798, nomen protectum and Musca nigrita Scopoli, 1763, nomen oblitum [in Sarcophagidae]; Tachina moerens Meigen, 1830, nomen protectum and Kirbya vernalis Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, nomen oblitum [in Tachinidae]; Trypeta longipennis Wiedemann, 1830, nomen protectum and Struzia inermis Robinea-Desvoidy 1830, nomen oblitum [Tephritidae].

Gudbilledlighed og syndefald. - Aspekter af Grundtvigs og Kierkegaards menneskesyn på baggrund af Irenæus.[The Image and Likeness of God and the Fall of the Human Being. - Aspects of Grundtvig's and Kierkegaard's Conceptions of the Human Being in light of Irenaeus]By Niels Jørgen CappelørnIn his account of the human being, the early church father Irenaeus, the bishop of Lyon (in the second century, C.E.), makes a distinction between imago dei and similitudo dei based on the Genesis account of the creation of human beings in the image and likeness of God (Gen 1:26-27). It is the thesis of this article that this distinction can be traced in the works of N. F. S. Grundtvig and Soren Kierkegaard and that this distinction opens possibilities for finding and demonstrating new and parallel elements in Grundvig’s and Kierkegaard’s respective conceptions of the human person, particularly concerning the relationship between the image and likeness of God in human beings and the Fall.Grundtvig studied Irenaeus for the first time in 1823 and produced a translation of the fifth and final book of his apologetic work, Adversus haereses, in 1827. Kierkegaard seems not to have studied Irenaeus’ own texts, but a good ten years after Grundtvig’s translation he read about the theology of Irenaeus in Johannes Adam Mohler’s Athanasius der Große und die Kirche seiner Zeit from 1827.Irenaeus’ conception of the human being with regard to both the Fall and the rebirth in Christ can be summarized as follows: The human being consists of body and soul, which is its substance, and this substance must become united with the Spirit of God if the individual is to become a complete spiritual person. What was lost in Adam is won in Christ. But not all was lost with the Fall. The image of God is still within the human soul while the likeness of God, which resides in the human spirit, has been lost and must be reborn of the Holy Spirit.The image of God in the soul is freedom, and this remains with human beings. At times, this freedom assents to the flesh and falls into earthly desire, at times it follows the will of God and submits to His Spirit, which is granted anew in Christ.The account here of Grundtvig’s conception of the human being - specifically with regard to the consequences of the Fall for the image and likeness of God that was endowed to human beings at creation – is based on Den christelige Børnelærdom, [Elementary Christian Doctrine], which was first published in a series of articles in 1855-61 and which was later republished in book form in 1868. Additionally, it is based on a series of hymns and spiritual songs from the same period, especially “Hvor skal jeg Guds Billed finde?” [Where Shall I God’s Image Find?] and “I Begyndelsen var Ordet / Gjenlyds-Ordet i vort Bryst,” [In the Beginning Was the Word / The Resonating Word in Our Breast] together with a sermon from 1839 on Mark 7: 31-37, and finally, ‘Christenhedens Syvstjeme’ [The Pleiades of Christendom] (1854-55).The corresponding account of Kierkegaard’s conception is based on several sources: The Concept of Anxiety (1844) where the author engages in a critical rejection of the Augustinian-Lutheran understanding of inherited sin; “An Occasional Discourse” and “What We Learn from the Lilies in the Field and the Birds of the Air” from Upbuilding Discouses in Various Spirits (1847); and his discourses for Friday Communion in Christian Discourses (1848), in Three Discourses at Communion on Fridays. The High Priest - The Tax Collector - The Woman Who Sinned (1849) and in Two Discourses at the Communion on Friday (1851). Additionally, a series of other texts is consulted, including passages from Philosophical Fragments (1844) and Journals EE (1839) and HH (\ 840-41).These two respective accounts reveal that the thesis of the article cannot be comprehensively applied in every detail and for every text; the constmction is too schematic and static to do justice to Gmndtvig’s dynamics and Kierkegaard’s dialectics. But as a backdrop to a reading and comparison of their respective conceptions of the human being with regard to the Fall and its consequences for the image and likeness of God in human beings, it has been helpful to treat essential aspects of their respective anthropologies.Both Gmndtvig and Kierkegaard agree with Irenaeus that human beings consist of a triad: body, soul and spirit. And they share the conviction that human beings possess an original divine stamp, established in creation, in the form of the image and likeness of God.This stamp has not completely perished with regard to the image of God, but with regard to the likeness of God, it has been lost – though Grundtvig and Kierkegaard do not make the distinction between imago dei and similitudo dei as sharply.In Grundtvig, one finds first and foremost that despite the Fall, a positive element of God’s image survives in the soul as “the resonating word” which can both hear and utter God’s creative Word. In Kierkegaard, one finds first and foremost that because of the Fall a negative element of God’s image is left behind as a cracked and split freedom which is, however, manifest positively as a consciousness of sin and a desire for God. For both of them - insofar as Irenaeus’ distinction can be sustained - a remnant of God’s image in the soul remains while the likeness of God in the spirit has been lost. They likewise agree that God’s Spirit is the driving force for both the renewal and reunification of the image and likeness of God. For Grundtvig, this renewal of the image of God and the rebirth of the likeness of God takes place through the Holy Spirit in Baptism. For Kierkegaard, where Baptism does not have the same signifying meaning, it takes place in the interaction between Confession and Communion.Grundtvig maintains a clear axis between Baptism and Communion, with an emphasis on Baptism as the place where human “sin-guilt,” which is a consequence of the Fall, is forgiven and erased once and for all. By contrast, Kierkegaard inserts a third element, Confession, so that the schema appears as follows: Baptism, Confession, Communion, but with an emphasis on Confession as the place where human beings confess their sins and God grants His forgiveness. Grundvig underscores first and foremost that Baptism is a spiritual bath of rebirth and, secondly, that it is a covenant. To be sure, they are in agreement that Baptism must be appropriated in faith but Kierkegaard, more than Grundtvig, insists that human beings constantly fall away from and break the covenant. It is here that the confessee’s admission of sin and the absolved one’s reception of God’s forgiveness in Confession receives decisive significance as a preparation to and precondition for going to Communion worthily and for accepting forgiveness at the Lord’s table.In neither of them is there a mention of a “creation anew” in the form of a second creatio ex nihilo (creation from nothing) - at least not as the dominant theme - but rather a renewal, a rebirth, a redemption, a restoration, a repetition, and a reunification in spirit and truth. While Grundtvig, who thinks especially dynamically and metaphorically, places emphasis on the homogeneous quality of the states before and after the Fall or, more specifically, before and after renewal and rebirth, Kierkegaard - who thinks more dialectically and conceptually - points to the heterogeneous quality. For both of them, one can speak of a growth: in Grundtvig, a growth in faith, hope and charity; in Kierkegaard, a growth in faith and especially in following Christ as truth which brings about a sanctifying fellowship of love and suffering in Christ.

The Diptera genus-group names of Camillo Rondani are reviewed and annotated. A total of 601 nomenclaturally available genus-group names in 82 families of Diptera are listed alphabetically. For each name the following are given: author, year and page of original publication, originally included species [and first included species if none were originally included], type species and method of fixation, current status of the name, family placement, and a list of any emendations of it that have been found in the literature. Remarks are given to clarify nomenclatural or taxonomic information. In addition, an index is provided to all the species-group names of Diptera proposed by Rondani (1,236, of which 1,183 are available) with bibliographic reference to each original citation. Appended to this study is a full bibliography of Rondani’s works and a list with explanations for all new synonymies arising from revised emendations. Corrected or clarified type-species and/or corrected or clarified type-species designations are given for the following genus-group names: Anoplomerus Rondani, 1856 [Dolichopodidae]; Biomya Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Bremia Rondani, 1861 [Cecidomyiidae]; Deximorpha Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Elasmocera Rondani, 1845 [Asilidae]; Enteromyza Rondani, 1857 [Oestridae]; Exogaster Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Istocheta Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Istoglossa Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Lejogaster Rondani, 1857 [Syrphidae]; Lignodesia Rondani, 1868 [Phaeomyiidae]; Medorilla Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Meroplius Rondani, 1874 [Sepsidae]; Nodicornis Rondani, 1843 [Dolichopodidae]; Omalostoma Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Opegiocera Rondani, 1845 [Asilidae]; Petagnia Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Phaniosoma Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Proboscina Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Pyragrura Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]; Stemonocera Rondani, 1870 [Tephritidae]; Telejoneura Rondani, 1863 [Asilidae]; Tricoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]. The following genus-group names previously treated as available were found to be unavailable: Bombyliosoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Bombyliidae]; Bombylosoma Marschall, 1873, n. stat. [Bombyliidae]; Brachynevra Agassiz, 1846, n. stat. [Cecidomyiidae]; Calliprobola Rondani, 1856, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Camponeura Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Chlorosoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Engyzops Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Calliphoridae]; Exodonta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Histochaeta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Histoglossa Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Homalostoma Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Hoplacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Hoplodonta Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]; Liota Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Lomatacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Machaera Mik, 1890, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Machaira Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889, n. stat. [Tachinidae]; Myiatropa Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Syrphidae]; Oplacantha Verrall, 1882, n. stat. [Stratiomyidae]. Previous First Reviser actions for multiple original spellings missed by previous authors include: Genus-group names—Achanthipodus Rondani, 1856 [Dolichopodidae]; Argyrospila Rondani, 1856 [Bombyliidae]; Botria Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Chetoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Chrysoclamys Rondani, 1856 [Syrphidae]; Cyrtophloeba Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Istocheta Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Macherea Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Macronychia Rondani, 1859 [Sarcophagidae]; Pachylomera Rondani, 1856 [Psilidae]; Peratochetus Rondani, 1856 [Clusiidae]; Phytophaga Rondani, 1840 [Cecidomyiidae]; Spylosia Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Thlipsogaster Rondani, 1863 [Bombyliidae]; Tricogena Rondani, 1856 [Rhinophoridae]; Tricoliga Rondani, 1856 [Tachinidae]; Viviania Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]. Species-group name—Sphixapata albifrons Rondani, 1859 [Sarcophagidae]. Acting as First Reviser, the following correct original spellings for multiple original spellings are selected by us: Bellardia Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Chetoptilia Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Chetylia Rondani, 1861 [Tachinidae]; Clytiomyia Rondani, 1862 [Tachinidae]; Cryptopalpus Rondani, 1850 [Tachinidae]; Diatomineura Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Enteromyza Rondani, 1857 [Oestridae]; Esenbeckia Rondani, 1863 [Tabanidae]; Hammomyia Rondani, 1877 [Anthomyiidae]; Hydrothaea Rondani, 1856 [Muscidae]; Hyrmophlaeba Rondani, 1863 [Nemestrinidae]; Limnomya Rondani, 1861 [Limoniidae]; Lyoneura Rondani, 1856 [Psychodidae]; Micetoica Rondani, 1861 [Anisopodidae]; Miennis Rondani, 1869 [Ulidiidae]; Mycetomiza Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Mycosia Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Mycozetaea Rondani, 1861 [Mycetophilidae]; Piotepalpus Rondani, 1856 [Mycetophilidae]; Prothechus Rondani, 1856 [Pipunculidae]; Spyloptera Rondani, 1856 [Limoniidae]; Teremya Rondani, 1875 [Lonchaeidae]; Thricogena Rondani, 1859 [Tachinidae]; Trichopalpus Rondani, 1856 [Scathophagidae]; Trichopeza Rondani, 1856 [Brachystomatidae]; Tricophthicus Rondani, 1861 [Muscidae]; Triphleba Rondani, 1856 [Phoridae]; Xiloteja Rondani, 1863 [Syrphidae]. The following names are new synonymies of their respective senior synonyms: Genus-group names—Acanthipodus Bigot, 1890 of Poecilobothrus Mik, 1878, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Acanthiptera Rondani, 1877 of Achanthiptera Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Achantiptera Schiner, 1864 of Achanthiptera Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Acydia Rondani, 1870 of Acidia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Acyura Rondani, 1863 of Aciura Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Agaromyia Marschall, 1873 of Agaromya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Ammomyia Mik, 1883 of Leucophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Anomoja Rondani, 1871 of Anomoia Walker, 1835, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Anthracomyia Rondani, 1868 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Antracomya Lioy, 1864 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Anthoeca Bezzi, 1906 of Solieria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1849, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Antomyza Rondani, 1866 of Anthomyza Fallén, 1810, n. syn. [Anthomyzidae]; Antracia Rondani, 1862 of Nyctia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Aporomyia Schiner, 1861 of Lypha Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Asphondilia Rondani, 1861 of Asphondylia Loew, 1850, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Asteja Rondani, 1856 of Asteia Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Asteiidae]; Astenia Rondani, 1856 of Blepharicera Macquart, 1843, n. syn. [Blephariceridae]; Astilium Costa, 1866 of Senobasis Macquart, 1838, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Ateleneura Agassiz, 1846 of Atelenevra Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Pipunculidae]; Athomogaster Rondani, 1866 of Azelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Axista Rondani, 1856 of Axysta Haliday, 1839, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Bigonichaeta Schiner, 1864 of Triarthria Stephens, 1829, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Billea Rondani, 1862 of Billaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Biomyia Schiner, 1868 of Biomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Bombilius Dufour, 1833 of Bombylius Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Bombylosoma Loew, 1862 of Bombylisoma Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Brachipalpus Rondani, 1845 of Brachypalpus Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Brachipalpus Rondani, 1863 of Palpibracus Rondani, 1863, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Brachistoma Rondani, 1856 of Brachystoma Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Brachystomatidae]; Brachychaeta Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Brachicheta Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Brachyglossum Bigot, 1858 of Leopoldius Rondani, 1843, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Brachyneura Oken, 1844 of Brachineura Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Caelomya Rondani, 1866 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Caelomyia Rondani, 1877 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Caenosia Westwood, 1840 of Coenosia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Campilomiza Rondani, 1840 of Campylomyza Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Campylochaeta Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Campylocheta Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Caricoea Rondani, 1856 of Coenosia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Carpomyia Loew, 1862 of Carpomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Cassidemya Rondani, 1861 of Cassidaemyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Ceratoxia Costa, 1866 of Otites Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Ceratoxys Rondani, 1861 of Otites Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Chaetogena Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Chetogena Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chamemyia Rondani, 1875 of Chamaemyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Chamaemyiidae]; Chaetoptilia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Chetoptilia Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chatolyga Bigot, 1892 of Carcelia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chersodromya Rondani, 1856 of Chersodromia Haliday, 1851, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Chetilya Rondani, 1861 of Chetina Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Chilopogon Bezzi, 1902 of Dasypogon Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Chiromya Agassiz, 1846 of Chyromya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Chyromyidae]; Chlorisoma Rondani, 1861 of Microchrysa Loew, 1855, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Chorthophila Rondani, 1856 of Phorbia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Chortofila Rondani, 1843 of Phorbia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Chriorhyna Rondani, 1845 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrisogaster Rondani, 1868 of Chrysogaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chryorhina Rondani, 1856 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chryorhyna Rondani, 1857 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrysoclamys Rondani, 1856 of Ferdinandea Rondani, 1844, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Chrysomya Rondani, 1856 of Microchrysa Loew, 1855, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Chrysopila Rondani, 1844 of Chrysopilus Macquart, 1826, n. syn. [Rhagionidae]; Chyrosia Rondani, 1866 of Chirosia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Clytiomyia Rondani, 1862 of Clytiomya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Conopoejus Bigot, 1892 of Conops Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Criorhyna Rondani, 1865 of Criorhina Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Criptopalpus Rondani, 1863 of Cryptopalpus Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Crysogaster Rondani, 1865 of Chrysogaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Crysops Rondani, 1844 of Chrysops Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Cyrthoneura Rondani, 1863 of Graphomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Cyrthoplaeba Rondani, 1857 of Cyrtophloeba Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Cyrthosia Rondani, 1863 of Cyrtosia Perris, 1839, n. syn. [Mythicomyiidae]; Cystogaster Walker, 1856 of Cistogaster Latreille, 1829, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Cyterea Rondani, 1856 of Cytherea Fabricius, 1794, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Dactyliscus Bigot, 1857 of Habropogon Loew, 1847, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Dasiphora Rondani, 1856 of Dasyphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Dasipogon Dufour, 1833 of Dasypogon Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Dasyneura Oken, 1844 of Dasineura Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Dexiomorpha Mik, 1887 of Estheria Robineau-Desvoidy, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Dichaetophora Becker, 1905 of Dichetophora Rondani, 1868, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Dicheta Rondani, 1856 of Dichaeta Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Dictia Rondani, 1856 of Dictya Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Dionea Rondani, 1861 of Dionaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ditricha Rondani, 1871 of Dithryca Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Dolicopeza Rondani, 1856 of Dolichopeza Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Doricera Rondani, 1856 of Dorycera Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Drimeia Rondani, 1877 of Drymeia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Drimeja Rondani, 1856 of Drymeia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Driomyza Rondani, 1844 of Dryomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Driope Rondani, 1868 of Dryope Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Dryomiza Rondani, 1869 of Dryomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Dryomyzidae]; Dynera Rondani, 1861 of Dinera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Dytricha Rondani, 1870 of Dithryca Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Elachysoma Rye, 1881 of Elachisoma Rondani, 1880, n. syn. [Sphaeroceridae]; Elaeophila Marschall, 1873 of Eloeophila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Emerodromya Rondani, 1856 of Hemerodromia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Engyzops Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Eggisops Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Entomybia Rondani, 1879 of Braula Nitzsch, 1818, n. syn. [Braulidae]; Epidesmya Rondani, 1861 of Acidia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Erinnia Rondani, 1856 of Erynnia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Eristalomyia Kittel & Kreichbaumer, 1872 of Eristalomya Rondani, 1857, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Esteria Rondani, 1862 of Estheria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Exatoma Rondani, 1856 of Hexatoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Exochila Mik, 1885 of Hammerschmidtia Schummel, 1834, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Fisceria Rondani, 1856 of Fischeria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gedia Rondani, 1856 of Gaedia Meigen, 1838, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gimnocheta Rondani, 1859 of Gymnocheta Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gimnosoma Rondani, 1862 of Gymnosoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Gonirhinchus Lioy, 1864 of Myopa Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Gonirhynchus Marschall, 1873 of Myopa Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Gononeura Oldenberg, 1904 of Gonioneura Rondani, 1880, n. syn. [Sphaeroceridae]; Graphomia Rondani, 1862 of Graphomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Gymnopha Rondani, 1856 of Mosillus Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Hammobates Rondani, 1857 of Tachytrechus Haliday, 1851, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Harrysia Rondani, 1865 of Lydina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hemathobia Rondani, 1862 of Haematobia Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Hemerodromya Rondani, 1856 of Hemerodromia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Heryngia Rondani, 1857 of Heringia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Hidropota Lioy, 1864 of Hydrellia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Hipostena Rondani, 1861 of Phyllomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hirmophloeba Marschall, 1873 of Hyrmophlaeba Rondani, 1863, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Histricia Rondani, 1863 of Hystricia Macquart, 1843, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hoemotobia Rondani, 1856 of Haematobia Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Homalomya Rondani, 1866 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Homalostoma Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Billaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Hoplisa Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Oplisa Rondani, 1862, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Hydrothaea Rondani, 1856 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Hylara Rondani, 1856 of Hilara Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Hyrmoneura Rondani, 1863 of Hirmoneura Meigen, 1820, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Ilisomyia Osten Sacken, 1869 of Ormosia Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Istochaeta Marschall, 1873 of Istocheta Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lamnea Rondani, 1861 of Erioptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Lasiophthicus Rondani, 1856 of Scaeva Fabricius, 1805, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Lestremya Rondani, 1856 of Lestremia Macquart, 1826, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Lidella De Galdo, 1856 of Lydella Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lomacantha Lioy, 1864 of Lomachantha Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Lomachanta Schiner, 1864 of Lomachantha Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Loncoptera Rondani, 1856 of Lonchoptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Lonchopteridae]; Lymnophora Blanchard, 1845 of Limnophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Macherium Rondani, 1856 of Machaerium Haliday, 1832, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Macrochaetum Bezzi, 1894 of Elachiptera Macquart, 1825, n. syn. [Chloropidae]; Macrochoetum Bezzi, 1892 of Elachiptera Macquart, 1825, n. syn. [Chloropidae]; Macroneura Rondani, 1856 of Diadocidia Ruthe, 1831, n. syn. [Diadocidiidae]; Marshamya Rondani, 1850 of Linnaemya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Marsilia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Megachetum Rondani, 1856 of Dasyna Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Psilidae]; Megaloglossa Bezzi, 1907 of Platystoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Platystomatidae]; Megera Rondani, 1859 of Senotainia Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Melanomyia Rondani, 1868 of Melanomya Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Melizoneura Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Melisoneura Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Mesomelaena Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Mesomelena Rondani, 1859, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Micetina Rondani, 1861 of Mycetophila Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Micetobia Rondani, 1861 of Mycetobia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Anisopodidae]; Micromyia Oken, 1844 of Micromya Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Miennis Rondani, 1869 of Myennis Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Miopina Rondani, 1866 of Myopina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Anthomyiidae]; Morjnia Rondani, 1862 of Morinia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Morphomyia Rondani, 1862 of Stomina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myatropa Rondani, 1857 of Myathropa Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Mycetomiza Rondani, 1861 of Mycosia Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Myiantha Rondani, 1877 of Fannia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Fanniidae]; Myiathropa Rondani, 1868 of Myathropa Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Myiocera Rondani, 1868 of Dinera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myiolepta Rondani, 1868 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Myiospila Rondani, 1868 of Myospila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Myltogramma Rondani, 1868 of Miltogramma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Myntho Rondani, 1845 of Mintho Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Myospyla Rondani, 1862 of Myospila Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Napoea Rondani, 1856 of Parydra Stenhammar, 1844, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Neera Rondani, 1861 of Neaera Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Nemestrina Blanchard, 1845 of Nemestrinus Latreille, 1802, n. syn. [Nemestrinidae]; Nemorea Macquart, 1834 of Nemoraea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Nevrolyga Agassiz, 1846 of Neurolyga Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Nictia Rondani, 1862 of Nyctia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Noteromyia Marschall, 1873 of Camilla Haliday, 1838, n. syn. [Camillidae]; Ociptera Rondani, 1862 of Cylindromyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Onodonta Rondani, 1866 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Opegiocera Rondani, 1845 of Ancylorhynchus Berthold, 1827, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Ophira Rondani, 1844 of Hydrotaea Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Ornithoeca Kirby, 1880 of Ornithoica Rondani, 1878, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Ornithomyia Macquart, 1835 of Ornithomya Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Orthochile Blanchard, 1845 of Ortochile Latreille, 1809, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Oxicera Rondani, 1856 of Oxycera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Oxina Rondani, 1856 of Oxyna Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Ozyrhinchus Rondani, 1861 of Ozirhincus Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Oxyrhyncus Rondani, 1856 of Ozirhincus Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Pachigaster Rondani, 1856 of Pachygaster Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Pachimeria Rondani, 1856 of Pachymeria Stephens, 1829, n. syn. [Empididae]; Pachipalpus Rondani, 1856 of Cordyla Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Pachirhyna Rondani, 1845 of Nephrotoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Pachirina Rondani, 1840 of Nephrotoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tipulidae]; Pachistomus Rondani, 1856 of Xylophagus Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Xylophagidae]; Pangonia Macquart, 1834 of Pangonius Latreille, 1802, n. syn. [Tabanidae]; Pentetria Rondani, 1856 of Penthetria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bibionidae]; Perichaeta Herting, 1984 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Perichoeta Bezzi, 1894 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phalacromyia Costa, 1866 of Copestylum Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Phicodromia Rondani, 1866 of Malacomyia Westwood, 1840, n. syn. [Coelopidae]; Phillophaga Lioy, 1864 of Asphondylia Loew, 1850, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phito Rondani, 1861 of Phyto Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Phitomyptera Lioy, 1864 of Phytomyptera Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phitophaga Lioy, 1864 of Cecidomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phloebotomus Rondani, 1856 of Phlebotomus Rondani & Berté, 1840, n. syn. [Psychodidae]; Phorichaeta Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Periscepsia Gistel, 1848, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phrino Rondani, 1861 of Phryno Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phrixe Rondani, 1862 of Phryxe Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Phthyria Rondani, 1856 of Phthiria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Phtyria Rondani, 1863 of Phthiria Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Phyllodromya Rondani, 1856 of Phyllodromia Zetterstedt, 1837, n. syn. [Empididae]; Phytofaga Rondani, 1843 of Cecidomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Phytomyzoptera Bezzi, 1906 of Phytomyptera Rondani, 1845, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Platiparea Rondani, 1870 of Platyparea Loew, 1862, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Platistoma Lioy, 1864 of Platystoma Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Platystomatidae]; Platychyra Rondani, 1859 of Panzeria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Platynochetus Rondani, 1845 of Platynochaetus Wiedemann, 1830, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Polychaeta Schiner, 1868 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Polycheta Schiner, 1861 of Policheta Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Porrhocondyla Agassiz, 1846 of Porricondyla Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Porrycondyla Walker, 1874 of Porricondyla Rondani, 1840, n. syn. [Cecidomyiidae]; Prosopaea Brauer & Bergenstamm, 1889 of Prosopea Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Psicoda Rondani, 1840 of Psychoda Latreille, 1797, n. syn. [Psychodidae]; Psylopus Rondani, 1850 of Sciapus Zeller, 1842, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Pteropectria Rondani, 1869 of Herina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Ulidiidae]; Pterospylus Bigot, 1857 of Syneches Walker, 1852, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Pticoptera Rondani, 1856 of Ptychoptera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Ptychopteridae]; Ptilocheta Rondani, 1857 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptilochoeta Bezzi, 1894 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptylocera Rondani, 1861 of Zeuxia Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ptylops Rondani, 1859 of Macquartia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Pyragrura Rondani, 1861 of Labigastera Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Pyrrhosia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Leskia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ragio Scopoli, 1777 of Rhagio Fabricius, 1775, n. syn. [Rhagionidae]; Raimondia Rondani, 1879 of Raymondia Frauenfeld, 1855, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Ramphina Rondani, 1856 of Rhamphina Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Ramphomya Rondani, 1845 of Rhamphomyia Meigen, 1822, n. syn. [Empididae]; Raphium Latreille, 1829 of Rhaphium Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Rhynchomyia Macquart, 1835 of Rhyncomya Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Rhyncosia Rondani, 1861 of Aphria Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Rhynophora Rondani, 1861 of Rhinophora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhinophoridae]; Riphus Rondani, 1845 of Rhyphus Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Anisopodidae]; Ripidia Rondani, 1856 of Rhipidia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Sarcopaga Rondani, 1856 of Sarcophaga Meigen, 1826, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Scatomiza Rondani, 1866 of Scathophaga Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Scathophagidae]; Schaenomyza Rondani, 1866 of Schoenomyza Haliday, 1833, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Sciomiza Rondani, 1856 of Sciomyza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Sciopila Rondani, 1856 of Sciophila Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Serromya Rondani, 1856 of Serromyia Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Ceratopogonidae]; Seseromyia Costa, 1866 of Cosmina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Sibistroma Rondani, 1856 of Sybistroma Meigen, 1824, n. syn. [Dolichopodidae]; Simplecta Rondani, 1856 of Symplecta Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Limoniidae]; Sinapha Rondani, 1856 of Synapha Meigen, 1818, n. syn. [Mycetophilidae]; Siritta Rondani, 1844 of Syritta Le Peletier & Serville, 1828, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Somatolia Bezzi & Stein, 1907 of Lydina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Somomia Rondani, 1862 of Calliphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Somomyia Rondani, 1868 of Calliphora Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Calliphoridae]; Sphixaea Rondani, 1856 of Milesia Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Sphyxaea Rondani, 1856 of Milesia Latreille, 1804, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Sphyxapata Bigot, 1881 of Senotainia Macquart, 1846, n. syn. [Sarcophagidae]; Sphyximorpha Rondani, 1856 of Sphiximorpha Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spilomya Rondani, 1857 of Spilomyia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spiximorpha Rondani, 1857 of Sphiximorpha Rondani, 1850, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Spixosoma Rondani, 1857 of Conops Linnaeus, 1758, n. syn. [Conopidae]; Spylographa Rondani, 1871 of Trypeta Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Stenopterix Millet de la Turtaudière, 1849 of Craterina Olfers, 1816, n. syn. [Hippoboscidae]; Stomorhyna Rondani, 1862 of Stomorhina Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Rhiniidae]; Stomoxis Latreille, 1797 of Stomoxys Geoffroy, 1762, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Syphona Rondani, 1844 of Siphona Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Tachidromya Rondani, 1856 of Tachydromia Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Tachipeza Rondani, 1856 of Tachypeza Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Tanipeza Rondani, 1850 of Tanypeza Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Tanypezidae]; Teicomyza Rondani, 1856 of Teichomyza Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Ephydridae]; Telaira Rondani, 1862 of Thelaira Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Teremya Rondani, 1875 of Lonchaea Fallén, 1820, n. syn. [Lonchaeidae]; Thecomya Rondani, 1848 of Thecomyia Perty, 1833, n. syn. [Sciomyzidae]; Thlypsigaster Marschall, 1873 of Amictus Wiedemann, 1817, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Thlypsomyza Rondani, 1863 of Amictus Wiedemann, 1817, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Thrichogena Bezzi, 1894 of Loewia Egger, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Thricogena Rondani, 1859 of Loewia Egger, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Thricophticus Rondani, 1866 of Thricops Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Thriptocheta Lioy, 1864 of Campichoeta Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Diastatidae]; Thryptochoeta Bezzi, 1891 of Campichoeta Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Diastatidae]; Thyreodonta Marschall, 1873 of Stratiomys Geoffroy, 1762, n. syn. [Stratiomyidae]; Toxopora Rondani, 1856 of Toxophora Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Bombyliidae]; Tricholiga Rondani, 1873 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Trichophticus Rondani, 1871 of Thricops Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Muscidae]; Tricocera Rondani, 1856 of Trichocera Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Trichoceridae]; Tricolyga Schiner, 1861 of Tricoliga Rondani, 1856, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Trigliphus Rondani, 1856 of Triglyphus Loew, 1840, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Tripeta Rondani, 1856 of Trypeta Meigen, 1803, n. syn. [Tephritidae]; Triphera Rondani, 1861 of Tryphera Meigen, 1838, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Triptocera Lioy, 1864 of Actia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Tryptocera Macquart, 1844 of Actia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Uromya Rondani, 1856 of Phania Meigen, 1824, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Winthemya Rondani, 1859 of Winthemia Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830, n. syn. [Tachinidae]; Xiloteja Rondani, 1863 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Xylomyia Marschall, 1873 of Xylomya Rondani, 1861, n. syn. [Xylomyidae]; Xyloteja Rondani, 1856 of Myolepta Newman, 1838, n. syn. [Syrphidae]; Xyphidicera Rondani, 1845 of Xiphidicera Macquart, 1834, n. syn. [Hybotidae]; Xyphocera Rondani, 1845 of Ancylorhynchus Berthold, 1827, n. syn. [Asilidae]; Zigoneura Rondani, 1840 of Zygoneura Meigen, 1830, n. syn. [Sciaridae]; Zophomya Rondani, 1859 of Zophomyia Macquart, 1835, n. syn. [Tachinidae]. Species-group name—Psalida leucostoma Rondani, 1856 of Ocyptera simplex Fallén, 1815, n. syn. [Tachinidae]. Mycosia Rondani, 1861 is treated here as nomen dubium [Mycetophilidae]; Habropogon heteroneurus Timon-David, 1951 is resurrected from junior synonymy with Asilus striatus Fabricius, 1794, new stat. [Asilidae]. Reversal of precedence is invoked for three cases of subjective synonymy to promote stability in nomenclature: Macquartia monticola Egger, 1856, nomen protectum and Proboscina longipes Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Tachinidae]; Loewia Egger, 1856, nomen protectum and Thrychogena Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Tachinidae]; Zygomyia Winnertz, 1863, nomen protectum and Bolithomyza Rondani, 1856, nomen oblitum [in Mycetophilidae].

International audience Many results are already known, concerning the palindromic factors and the palindomic prefixes of Standard billiard words, i.e., Sturmian words and billiard words in any dimension, starting at the origin. We give new geometrical proofs of these results, especially for the existence in any dimension of Standard billiard words with arbitrary long palindromic prefixes.

This research is meant to describe : (i) Various synonyms of the word oath in Madani surahs (2) The importance or the usage of the word oath and its synonyms in Madani surahs (3) The contexts of the word oath and its synonyms in Madani surahs. The research methodology used is qualitative descriptive. The results of the research are as follows : (1) There are 7 words as synonyms of the word oath in Madaniah surahs. They are aqsama and yuqsimu, halafa and yahlifuna, special oath fala warabbika, nabtahil, yu'luna and ya'tali, syahadatin billahi and aiman. (2) In Madani surahs, the researcher finds that there are four function of the word oath and their synonyms, namely to throw away doubt, to strengthen the reason, to strengthen the statement and to define the law perfectly. (3) The contexts used to distinguish the word oath and its synonyms are linguistic and non-linguistic (situation) contexts

Billan, Rumeet. Who Do I Want To Become? Illustrated by Michelle Clement. Page Two Books, 2018. This picture book conveys an important approach to problem solving. When asked by his teacher, Mr. Janzen, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” the central character, Dylan, initially thinks in narrow terms: career choices. He is stymied. When he reframes the question as “Who do I want to become?” he arrives at a thoughtful answer. “I want to be someone who tries new things and isn’t afraid to fail. I want to be someone who helps others and makes a difference in the world. Someone who isn’t afraid to be me.” [p.31] Dylan clearly has changed the problem from “What do I want to do for a living?” to “What kind of person do I want to be?” It should be pointed out that the actual words of his reframing are no guarantee of a philosophical result. Many children would still respond to the question, “Who do I want to become?” in terms of role models, generic or specific: “I want to become Prime Minister.” “Chris Hadfield.” “Tessa Virtue.” (Certainly, had I been asked that question at eight years of age as I struggled, in my brother’s old hockey skates, to navigate the frozen puddle that was our “rink” I would have replied, “Barbara Ann Scott.”) The culminating focus of the storyline is character development; parents and teachers could use this book to begin discussion of it. They may have to do some prompting, even a little rewording of the central question, to achieve that focus. It is worth the effort. Dillan’s answer opens up issues of self-acceptance, self-direction, and self-actualization in a manner suitable for school aged children. His conclusion also emphasizes that the business of childhood is personal growth and development, not career planning. Though this is a picture book, the inherent nature of its topic, as well as Billan’s writing vocabulary, suggest its use with children eight to twelve years of age. Michelle Clement’s humorous cartoon-style drawings should appeal to that age group as well. In sum, the total package seems age appropriate for pre-adolescent youngsters. Reviewer: Leslie AitkenRecommended: 3 out of 4 stars Leslie Aitken’s long career in librarianship included selection of children’s literature for school, public, special and academic libraries. She is a former Curriculum Librarian of the University of Alberta.

Purpose: Clinical education is an essential part of physical therapy education. Clinicians who provide student clinical training have the primary responsibility of patient care and meeting their job demands including meeting productivity standards. Adding a student to the mix is often perceived as negatively impacting productivity. The purpose of this study is to examine the impact on clinician productivity in direct patient care while hosting a student for a clinical experience. This study (a) investigates differences seen when hosting a DPT student or a PTA student; (b) compares differences seen influenced by which curricular stage the student is in for the clinical experience; and (c) investigates the impact on productivity while hosting a student across various clinic settings. Method: Clinical instructors for DPT and PTA students from three academic institutions were asked to participate while hosting one of the institution’s students. Information was taken on daily hours worked, number of patients seen, and units billed for the week before the student arrived and during the student’s full-time clinical experience. Data collected was analyzed for changes over time and for comparison of baseline data to collective (net) averages for all weeks in which the student was present. Sub-analysis was done on curricular timing of the rotations (initial, intermediate, or final), types of settings (inpatient, outpatient or other), and types of students. Results: While there were several significant changes over time in the components assessed, there were no significant differences when comparing baseline productivity components to the collective weekly averages. Conclusion: It appears that hosting students during full-time clinical experiences does not affect the overall productivity. There is generally the predictable drop initially that recovers to baseline around week 4 while either maintaining or increasing productivity during the remaining weeks to produce a net neutral or positive impact. This study works to ultimately disprove the common belief that clinician productivity is negatively impacted while hosting a student during a clinical experience.

BACKGROUND: Although the clinical significance and treatment management of opioid use disorder (OUD) is sufficiently discussed, utilization of healthcare services associated with OUD has not been adequately studied in the United States. OBJECTIVE: To provide a descriptive assessment of the utilization of health care services for adults with OUD in the United States. STUDY DESIGN: A retrospective cross-sectional study design based on the National Inpatient Sample (NIS) developed by the Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project. SETTING: All OUD cases included in the 2016 NIS database. Adults aged 18 years or older were included in the study. METHODS: We analyzed a stratified probability sampling of 7.1 million hospital discharges weighted to 35.7 million national discharges. We used ICD-10-CM codes to identify OUD cases. Groups were compared using the Student’s t-test for continuous variables and the chi-square test for categorical variables. Total cost per hospital discharge was determined by converting the total per case hospital charge to a hospital cost estimate (estimate = total charges X hospital cost-to-charge ratio). RESULTS: In 2016, an estimated 741,275 Americans were associated with OUD. Among patients with OUD, 73% were White, 12% were African-American, 8% were Hispanic, 0.6% Asian-American/Pacific Islander, 0.9% were Native Americans, and 2% were other race; 49% of patients with OUD were women. A large proportion (43%) of the OUD hospitalizations were billed to Medicaid. The average hospital length of stay for all OUD patients was 5.6 days, and the average cost per discharge was $11,233. A higher average LOS was observed for patients who died during hospitalization (8.4 days), Asian-American/Pacific Islander patients (6.8 days), patients covered by self-pay (6.8 days), patients with median household income of 71,000 or more (5.8 days), patients discharged from hospitals in the Northeast ($10,540) and patients discharged from hospitals in large hospitals ($12,570). The most frequently observed diagnosis associated with patients with OUD were alcohol/drug abuse or dependence, psychosis, and septicemia. LIMITATIONS: These data sources are comprised of hospital discharge records, originally collected for billing purposes, and may be subject to provider biases and variations in coding practices. CONCLUSIONS: In the United States, very few health issues have garnered the attention of such diverse sectors as the opioid crisis. Our analysis of 2016 NIS data found that patients with OUD accounted for approximately 740,000 discharges that year. This represents about a 55% increase over 2015. We also demonstrate that inpatient settings provide a unique opportunity for targeting evidence-based, comprehensive interventions at patients with OUD. Key words: Opioid use disorder, discharge diagnosis, hospital resource utilization, cost-to-charge ratio, HCUP, NIS, AHRQ

Introduction It used to be the case that for the mass of workers, work was something that was done in order to get by. A working class was simply the sum total of all those workers and their dependents whose wages paid for the necessities of life, providing the bare minimum for family reproduction, to secure a place and a lineage within the social order. However, work has now become something else. Work has become the privileged sign of a new kind of class, whose existence is guaranteed not so much by work, but by the very fact of holding a job. Society no longer divides itself between a ruling elite and a subordinated working class, but between a job-holding, job-aspiring class, and those excluded from holding a job; those unable, by virtue of age, infirmity, education, gender, race or demographics, to participate in the rewards of work. Today, these rewards are not only a regular salary and job satisfaction (the traditional consolations of the working class), but also a certain capacity to plan ahead, to gain control of one's destiny through saving and investment, and to enjoy the pleasures of consumption through the fulfilment of self-images. What has happened to transform the worker from a subsistence labourer to an affluent consumer? In what way has the old working class now become part of the consumer society, once the privileged domain of the rich? And what effects has this transformation had on capitalism and its desire for profit? These questions take on an immediacy when we consider that, in the recent Federal election held in Australia (November 11, 2001), voters in the traditional working class areas of western Sydney deserted the Labour Party (the party of the worker) and instead voted Liberal/conservative (the party of capital and small business). The fibro worker cottage valleys of Parramatta are apparently no more, replaced by the gentrified mansions of an aspiring worker formation, in pursuit of the wealth and independence once the privilege of the educated bourgeoisie. In this brief essay, I will outline an understanding of work in terms of its changing relation to capital. My aim is to show how the terrain of work has shifted so that it no longer operates in strict subordination to capital, and has instead become an investment in capital. The worker no longer works to subsist, but does so as an investment in the future. My argument is situated in the rich theoretical field set out by Karl Marx in his critique of capitalism, which described the labour/capital relation in terms of a repressive, extractive force (the power of capital over labour) and which has since been redefined by various poststructuralist theorists including Michel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze (Anti-Oedipus) in terms of the forces of productive desire. What follows then, is not a Marxist reading of work, but a reading of the way Marx sets forth work in relation to capital, and how this can be re-read through poststructuralism, in terms of the transformation of work from subordination to capital, to investment in capital; from work as the consequence of repression, to work as the fulfilment of desire. The Discipline of Work In his major work Capital Marx sets out a theory of labour in which the task of the worker is to produce surplus value: "Capitalist production is not merely the production of commodities, it is, by its very essence, the production of surplus-value. The worker produces not for himself, but for capital. It is no longer sufficient, therefore, for him simply to produce. He must produce surplus-value." (644) For Marx, surplus-value is generated when commodities are sold in the market for a price greater than the price paid to the worker for producing it: "this increment or excess over the original value I call surplus-value" (251). In order to create surplus value, the time spent by the worker in making a commodity must be strictly controlled, so that the worker produces more than required to fulfil his subsistence needs: ". . . since it is just this excess labour that supplies [the capitalist] with the surplus value" (1011). In other words, capital production is created through a separation between labour and capital: "a division between the product of labour and labour itself, between the objective conditions of labour and the subjective labour-power, was . . . the real foundation and the starting point of the process of capital production" (716). As Michael Ryan has argued, this separation was forced , through an allegiance between capital and the state, to guarantee the conditions for capital renewal by controlling the payment of labour in the form of a wage (84). Marx's analysis of industrialised capital in Capital thus outlines the way in which human labour is transformed into a form of surplus value, by the forced extraction of labour time: "the capitalist forces the worker where possible to exceed the normal rate of intensity [of work] and he forces him as best he can to extend the process of labour beyond the time necessary to replace the amount laid out in wages" (987). For Marx, capitalism is not a voluntary system; workers are not free to enter into and out of their relation with capital, since capital itself cannot survive without the constant supply of labour from which to extract surplus value. Needs and wants can only be satisfied within the labour/capital relation which homogenises labour into exchange value in terms of a wage, pegged to subsistence levels: "the capital earmarked for wages . . . belongs to the worker as soon as it has assumed its true shape of the means of subsistence destined to be consumed by him" (984). The "true shape" of wages, and hence the single, univocal truth of the wage labourer, is that he is condemned to subsistence consumption, because his capacity to share in the surplus value extracted from his own labour is circumscribed by the alliance between capital and the state, where wages are fixed and controlled according to wage market regulations. Marx's account of the labour/capital relation is imposing in its description of the dilemma of labour under the power of capital. Capitalism appears as a thermodynamic system fuelled by labour power, where, in order to make the system homogeneous, to produce exchange value, resistance is reduced: "Because it is capital, the automatic mechanism is endowed, in the person of the capitalist, with consciousness and a will. As capital, therefore, it is animated by the drive to reduce to a minimum the resistance offered by man, that obstinate yet elastic natural barrier." (527) In the capitalist system resistance takes the form of a living residue within the system itself, acting as an "elastic natural barrier" to the extractive force of capital. Marx names this living residue "man". In offering resistance, that is, in being subjected to the force of capital, the figure of man persists as the incommensurable presence of a resistive force composed by a refusal to assimilate. (Lyotard 102) This ambivalent position (the place of many truths) which places man within/outside capital, is not fully recognised by Marx at this stage of his analysis. It suggests the presence of an immanent force, coming from the outside, yet already present in the figure of man (man as "offering" resistance). This force, the counter-force operating through man as the residue of labour, is necessarily active in its effects on the system. That is to say, resistance in the system is not resistance to the system, but the resistance which carries the system elsewhere, to another place, to another time. Unlike the force of capital which works on labour to preserve the system, the resistive force figured in man works its way through the system, transforming it as it goes, with the elusive power to refuse. The separation of labour and capital necessary to create the conditions for capitalism to flourish is achieved by the action of a force operating on labour. This force manifests itself in the strict surveillance of work, through supervisory practices: "the capitalist's ability to supervise and enforce discipline is vital" (Marx 986). Marx's formulation of supervision here and elsewhere, assumes a direct power relation between the supervisor and the supervised: a coercive power in the form of 'the person of the capitalist, with consciousness and a will'. Surplus value can only be extracted at the maximum rate when workers are entirely subjected to physical surveillance. As Foucault has shown, surveillance practices in the nineteenth century involved a panoptic principle as a form of surveillance: "Power has its principle not so much in a person as in a certain concerted distribution of bodies, surfaces, lights, gazes; an arrangement whose internal mechanisms produce the relation in which individuals get caught up." (202) Power is not power over, but a productive power involving the commingling of forces, in which the resistive force of the body does not oppose, but complies with an authoritative force: "there is not a single moment of life from which one cannot extract forces, providing one knows how to differentiate it and combine it with others" (165). This commingling of dominant and resistive forces is distributive and proliferating, allowing the spread of institutions across social terrains, producing both "docile" and "delinquent" bodies at the same time: "this production of delinquency and its investment by the penal apparatus ..." (285, emphasis added). Foucault allows us to think through the dilemma posed by Marx, where labour appears entirely subject to the power of capital, reducing the worker to subsistence levels of existence. Indeed, Foucault's work allows us to see the figure of man, briefly adumbrated in quote from Marx above as "that obstinate yet elastic natural barrier", but refigured as an active, investing, transformative force, operating within the capitalist system, yet sending it on its way to somewhere else. In Foucauldian terms, self-surveillance takes on a normative function during the nineteenth century, producing a set of disciplinary values around the concepts of duty and respectability (Childers 409). These values were not only imposed from above, through education and the state, but enacted and maintained by the workers themselves, through the myriad threads of social conformity operating in daily life, whereby people made themselves suitable to each other for membership of the imagined community of disciplined worker-citizens. In this case, the wellbeing of workers gravitated to self-awareness and self-improvement, seen for instance in the magazines circulating at the time addressed to a worker readership (e.g. The Penny Magazine published in Britain from 1832-1845; see Sinnema 15). Instead of the satisfaction of needs in subsistence consumption, the worker was possessed by a desire for self-improvement, taking place in his spare time which was in turn, consolidated into the ego-ideal of the bourgeois self as the perfected model of civilised, educated man. Here desire takes the form of a repression (Freud 355), where the resistive force of the worker is channelled into maintaining the separation between labour and capital, and where the worker is encouraged to become a little bourgeois himself. The desire for self-improvement by the worker did not lead to a shift into the capitalist classes, but was satisfied in coming to know one's place, in being satisfied with fulfilling one's duty and in living a respectable life; that is in being individuated with respect to the social domain. Figure 1 - "The British Beehive", George Cruickshank's image of the hierarchy of labour in Victorian England (1840, modified 1867). Each profession is assigned an individualised place in the social order. A time must come however, in the accumulation of surplus-value, in the vast accelerating machine of capitalism, when the separation between labour and capital begins to dissolve. This point is reached when the residue left by capital in extracting surplus value is sufficient for the worker to begin consuming for its own sake, to engage in "unproductive expenditure" (Bataille 117) where desire is released as an active force. At this point, workers begin to abandon the repressive disciplines of duty and respectability, and turn instead to the control mechanisms of self-transformation or the "inventing of a self as if from scratch" (Massumi 18). In advanced capitalism, where the accrued wealth has concentrated not only profit but wages as well (a rise in the "standard of living"), workers cease to behave as subordinated to the system, and through their increased spending power re-enter the system as property owners, shareholders, superannuants and debtees with the capacity to access money held in banks and other financial institutions. As investment guru Peter Drucker has pointed out, the accumulated wealth of worker-owned superannuation or "pension" funds, is the most significant driving force of global capital today (Drucker 76-8). In the superannuation fund, workers' labour is not fully expended in the production of surplus value, but re-enters the system as investment on the workers' behalf, indirectly fuelling their capacity to fulfil desires through a rapidly accelerating circulation of money. As a consequence, new consumer industries begin to emerge based on the management of investment, where money becomes a product, subject to consumer choice. The lifestyles of the old capitalist class, itself a simulacra of aristocracy which it replaced, are now reproduced by the new worker-capitalist, but in ersatz forms, proliferating as the sign of wealth and abundance (copies of palatial homes replace real palaces, look-alike Rolex watches become available at cheap prices, medium priced family sedans take on the look and feel of expensive imports, and so forth). Unable to extract the surplus value necessary to feed this new desire for money from its own workforce (which has, in effect, become the main consumer of wealth), capital moves 'offshore' in search of a new labour pool, and repeats what it did to the labour pools in the older social formations in its relentless quest to maximise surplus value. Work and Control We are now witnessing a second kind of labour taking shape out of the deformations of the disciplinary society, where surplus value is not extracted, but incorporated into the labour force itself (Mules). This takes place when the separation between labour and capital dissolves, releasing quantities of "reserve time" (the time set aside from work in order to consume), which then becomes part of the capitalising process itself. In this case workers become "investors in their own lives (conceived of as capital) concerned with obtaining a profitable behaviour through information (conceived of as a production factor) sold to them." (Alliez and Feher 347). Gilles Deleuze has identified this shift in terms of what he calls a "control society" where the individuation of workers guaranteed by the disciplinary society gives way to a cybernetic modulation of "dividuals" or cypher values regulated according to a code (180). For dividualised workers, the resource incorporated into capital is their own lived time, no longer divided between work and leisure, but entirely "consummated" in capital (Alliez and Fehrer 350). A dividualised worker will thus work in order to produce leisure, and conversely enjoy leisure as a form of work. Here we have what appears to be a complete breakdown of the separation of labour and capital instigated by the disciplinary society; a sweeping away of the grounds on which labour once stood as a mass of individuals, conscious of their rivalry with capital over the spoils of surplus value. Here we have a situation where labour itself has become a form of capital (not just a commodity exchangeable on the market), incorporated into the temporalised body of the worker, contributing to the extraction of its own surplus value. Under the disciplinary society, the body of the worker became subject to panoptic surveillance, where "time and motion" studies enabled a more efficient control of work through the application of mathematical models. In the control society there is no need for this kind of panoptic control, since the embodiment of the panoptic principle, anticipated by Foucault and responsible for the individuation of the subject in disciplinary societies, has itself become a resource for extracting surplus value. In effect, dividualised workers survey themselves, not as a form of self-discipline, but as an investment for capitalisation. Dividuals are not motivated by guilt, conscience, duty or devotion to one's self, but by a transubjective desire for the other, the figure of a self projected into the future, and realised through their own bodily becoming. Unlike individuals who watch themselves as an already constituted self in the shadow of a super-ego, dividuals watch themselves in the image of a becoming-other. We might like to think of dividuals as self-correctors operating in teams and groups (franchises) whose "in-ness" as in-dividuals, is derived not from self-reflection, but from directiveness. Directiveness is the disposition of a habitus to find its way within programs designed to maximise performance across a territory. Following Gregory Bateson, we might say that directiveness is the pathway forged between a map and its territory (Bateson 454). A billiard ball sitting on a billiard table needs to be struck in such a way to simultaneously reduce the risk of a rival scoring from it, and maximise the score available, for instance by potting it into a pocket. The actual trajectory of the ball is governed by a logic of "restraint" (399) which sets up a number of virtual pathways, all but one of which is eliminated when the map (the rules and strategies of the game) is applied to the territory of the billiard table. If surveillance was the modus operandi of the old form of capitalism which required a strict control over labour, then directiveness is the new force of capital which wants to eliminate work in the older sense of the word, and replace it with the self-managed flow of capitalising labour. Marx's labour theory of value has led us, via a detour through Foucault and Deleuze, to the edge of the labour/capital divide, where the figure of man reappears, not as a worker subject to capital, but in some kind of partnership with it. This seems to spell the end of the old form of work, which required a strict delineation between labour and capital, where workers became rivals with capital for a share in surplus value. In the new formation of work, workers are themselves little capitalists, whose labour time is produced through their own investments back into the system. Yet, the worker is also subject to the extraction of her labour time in the necessity to submit to capital through the wage relation. This creates a reflexive snarl, embedded in the worker's own self-image, where work appears as leisure and leisure appears as work, causing labour to drift over capital and vice versa, for capital to drift over labour. This drifting, mobile relation between labour and capital cannot be secured through appeals to older forms of worker awareness (duty, responsibility, attentiveness, self-surveillance) since this would require a repression of the desire for self-transformation, and hence a fatal dampening of the dynamics of the market (anathema to the spirit of capitalism). Rather it can only be directed through control mechanisms involving a kind of forced partnership between capital and labour, where both parties recognise their mutual destinies in being "thrown" into the system. In the end, work remains subsumed under capital, but not in its alienated, disciplinary state. Rather work has become a form of capital itself, one's investment in the future, and hence as valuable now as it was before. It's just a little more difficult to see how it can be protected as a 'right' of the worker, since workers are themselves investors of their own labour, and not right-bearing individuals whose position in society has been fixed by the separation of labour from capital. References Alliez, Eric and Michel Feher. "The Luster of Capital." Zone1/2 (1987): 314-359. Bataille, Georges. 'The Notion of Expenditure'. Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939, Trans. and Ed. Alan Stoekl. Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 1985. 116-29. Bateson, Gregory. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. New York: Ballantine Books, 1972. Childers, Joseph W. "Observation and Representation: Mr. Chadwick Writes the Poor." Victorian Studies37.3 (1994): 405-31. Deleuze, Gilles. Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1983. --. Negotiations, 1972-1990. Trans. Martin Joughin. New York: Columbia UP, 1995. Drucker, Peter F. Post-Capitalist Society. New York: Harper, 1993. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1977. Freud, Sigmund. "The Ego and the Id". On Metapsychology: The Theory of Psychoanalysis. The Pelican Freud Library, Vol 11. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984. 339-407. Lyotard, Jean-Francois. Libidinal Economy. Trans. Iain Hamilton Grant,. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1993. Marx, Karl. Capital, Vol. I. Trans. Ben Fowkes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976. Massumi, Brian. "Everywhere You Wanted to Be: Introduction to Fear." The Politics of Everyday Fear. Ed. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1993. 3-37. Mules, Warwick. "A Remarkable Disappearing Act: Immanence and the Creation of Modern Things." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 4.4 (2001). 15 Nov. 2001 <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0108/disappear.php>. Ryan, Michael. Marxism and Deconstruction: A Critical Introduction. Baltimore: John Hopkins Press, 1982. Sinnema, Peter W. Dynamics of the Printed Page: Representing the Nation in the Illustrated London News. Aldershot: Ashgate Press, 1998. Links http://csf.colorado.edu/psn/marx/Archive/1867-C1/ http://www.media-culture.org.au/0108/Disappear.html http://acnet.pratt.edu/~arch543p/help/Foucault.html http://acnet.pratt.edu/~arch543p/help/Deleuze.html Citation reference for this article MLA Style Mules, Warwick. "That Obstinate Yet Elastic Natural Barrier" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 4.5 (2001). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0111/Mules.xml >. Chicago Style Mules, Warwick, "That Obstinate Yet Elastic Natural Barrier" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 4, no. 5 (2001), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0111/Mules.xml > ([your date of access]). APA Style Mules, Warwick. (2001) That Obstinate Yet Elastic Natural Barrier. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 4(5). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0111/Mules.xml > ([your date of access]).

She leant lazily across the picnic hamper and reached for my hearing aid in my open-palmed hand. I jerked away from her, batting her hand away from mine. The glare of the summer sun blinded me. I struck empty air. Her tendril-fingers seized the beige seashell curve of my hearing aid and she lifted the cargo of sound towards her eyes. She peered at the empty battery-cage before flicking it open and shut as if it was a cigarette lighter, as if she could spark hearing-life into this trick of plastic and metal that held no meaning outside of my ear. I stared at her. A band of horror tightened around my throat, strangling my shout: ‘Don’t do that!’ I clenched my fist around the new battery that I had been about to insert into my hearing aid and imagined it speeding like a bullet towards her heart. This dream arrived as I researched my anthology of memoir-style essays on deafness, The Art of Being. I had already been reflecting and writing for several years about my relationship with my deaf-self and the impact of my deafness on my life, but I remained uneasy about writing about my deaf-life. I’ve lived all my adult life entirely in the hearing world, and so recasting myself as a deaf woman with something pressing to say about deaf people’s lives felt disturbing. The urgency to tell my story and my anxiety to contest certain assumptions about deafness were real, but I was hampered by diffidence. The dream felt potent, as if my deaf-self was asserting itself, challenging my hearing persona. I was the sole deaf child in a family of five muddling along in a weatherboard war commission house at The Grange in Brisbane during the nineteen fifties and nineteen sixties. My father’s resume included being in the army during World War Two, an official for the boxing events at the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games and a bookie with a gift for telling stories. My mother had spent her childhood on a cherry orchard in Young, worked as a nurse in war-time Sydney and married my father in Townsville after a whirlwind romance on Magnetic Island before setting up home in Brisbane. My older sister wore her dark hair in thick Annie-Oakley style plaits and my brother took me on a hike along the Kedron Brook one summer morning before lunchtime. My parents did not know of any deaf relatives in their families, and my sister and brother did not have any friends with deaf siblings. There was just me, the little deaf girl. Most children are curious about where they come from. Such curiosity marks their first foray into sexual development and sense of identity. I don’t remember expressing such curiosity. Instead, I was diverted by my mother’s story of her discovery that I was deaf. The way my mother tells the story, it is as if I had two births with the date of the diagnosis of my deafness marking my real arrival, over-riding the false start of my physical birth three years earlier. Once my mother realized that I was deaf, she was able to get on with it, the ‘it’ being to defy the inevitability of a constrained life for her deaf child. My mother came out swinging; by hook or by crook, her deaf daughter was going to learn to speak and to be educated and to take her place in the hearing world and to live a normal life and that was that. She found out about the Commonwealth Acoustics Laboratory (now known as Australian Hearing Services) where, after I completed a battery of auditory tests, I was fitted with a hearing aid. This was a small metal box, to be worn in a harness around my body, with a long looping plastic cord connected to a beige ear-mould. An instrument for piercing silence, it absorbed and conveyed sounds, with those sounds eventually separating themselves out into patterns of words and finally into strings of sentences. Without my hearing aid, if I am concentrating, and if the sounds are made loudly, I am aware of the sounds at the deeper end of the scale. Sometimes, it’s not so much that I can hear them; it’s more that I know that those sounds are happening. My aural memory of the deep-register sounds helps me to “hear” them, much like the recollection of any tune replays itself in your imagination. With and without my hearing aids, if I am not watching the source of those sounds – for example, if the sounds are taking place in another room or even just behind me – I am not immediately able to distinguish whether the sounds are conversational or musical or happy or angry. I can only discriminate once I’ve established the rhythm of the sounds; if the rhythm is at a tearing, jagged pace with an exaggerated rise and fall in the volume, I might reasonably assume that angry words are being had. I cannot hear high-pitched sounds at all, with and without my hearing aids: I cannot hear sibilants, the “cees” and “esses” and “zeds”. I cannot hear those sounds which bounce or puff off from your lips, such as the letters “b” and “p”; I cannot hear that sound which trampolines from the press of your tongue against the back of your front teeth, the letter “t”. With a hearing-aid I can hear and discriminate among the braying, hee-hawing, lilting, oohing and twanging sounds of the vowels ... but only if I am concentrating, and if I am watching the source of the sounds. Without my hearing aid, I might also hear sharp and sudden sounds like the clap of hands or crash of plates, depending on the volume of the noise. But I cannot hear the ring of the telephone, or the chime of the door bell, or the urgent siren of an ambulance speeding down the street. My hearing aid helps me to hear some of these sounds. I was a pupil in an oral-deaf education program for five years until the end of 1962. During those years, I was variously coaxed, dragooned and persuaded into the world of hearing. I was introduced to a world of bubbles, balloons and fingers placed on lips to learn the shape, taste and feel of sounds, their push and pull of air through tongue and lips. By these mechanics, I gained entry to the portal of spoken, rather than signed, speech. When I was eight years old, my parents moved me from the Gladstone Road School for the Deaf in Dutton Park to All Hallows, an inner-city girls’ school, for the start of Grade Three. I did not know, of course, that I was also leaving my world of deaf friends to begin a new life immersed in the hearing world. I had no way of understanding that this act of transferring me from one school to another was a profound statement of my parents’ hopes for me. They wanted me to have a life in which I would enjoy all the advantages and opportunities routinely available to hearing people. Like so many parents before them, ‘they had to find answers that might not, for all they knew, exist . . . How far would I be able to lead a ‘normal’ life? . . . How would I earn a living? You can imagine what forebodings weighed on them. They could not know that things might work out better than they feared’ (Wright, 22). Now, forty-four years later, I have been reflecting on the impact of that long-ago decision made on my behalf by my parents. They made the right decision for me. The quality of my life reflects the rightness of their decision. I have enjoyed a satisfying career in social work and public policy embedded in a life of love and friendships. This does not mean that I believe that my parents’ decision to remove me from one world to another would necessarily be the right decision for another deaf child. I am not a zealot for the cause of oralism despite its obvious benefits. I am, however, stirred by the Gemini-like duality within me, the deaf girl who is twin to the hearing persona I show to the world, to tell my story of deafness as precisely as I can. Before I can do this, I have to find that story because it is not as apparent to me as might be expected. In an early published memoir-essay about my deaf girlhood, I Hear with My Eyes (in Schulz), I wrote about my mother’s persistence in making sure that I learnt to speak rather than sign, the assumed communication strategy for most deaf people back in the 1950s. I crafted a selection of anecdotes, ranging in tone, I hoped, from sad to tender to laugh-out-loud funny. I speculated on the meaning of certain incidents in defining who I am and the successes I have enjoyed as a deaf woman in a hearing world. When I wrote this essay, I searched for what I wanted to say. I thought, by the end of it, that I’d said everything that I wanted to say. I was ready to move on, to write about other things. However, I was delayed by readers’ responses to that essay and to subsequent public speaking engagements. Some people who read my essay told me that they liked its fresh, direct approach. Others said that they were moved by it. Friends were curious and fascinated to get the inside story of my life as a deaf person as it has not been a topic of conversation or inquiry among us. They felt that they’d learnt something about what it means to be deaf. Many responses to my essay and public presentations had relief and surprise as their emotional core. Parents have cried on hearing me talk about the fullness of my life and seem to regard me as having given them permission to hope for their own deaf children. Educators have invited me to speak at parent education evenings because ‘to have an adult who has a hearing impairment and who has developed great spoken language and is able to communicate in the community at large – that would be a great encouragement and inspiration for our families’ (Email, April 2007). I became uncomfortable about these responses because I was not sure that I had been as honest or direct as I could have been. What lessons on being deaf have people absorbed by reading my essay and listening to my presentations? I did not set out to be duplicitous, but I may have embraced the writer’s aim for the neatly curved narrative arc at the cost of the flinty self-regarding eye and the uncertain conclusion. * * * Let me start again. I was born deaf at a time, in the mid 1950s, when people still spoke of the ‘deaf-mute’ or the ‘deaf and dumb.’ I belonged to a category of children who attracted the gaze of the curious, the kind, and the cruel with mixed results. We were bombarded with questions we could either not hear and so could not answer, or that made us feel we were objects for exploration. We were the patronized beneficiaries of charitable picnics organized for ‘the disadvantaged and the handicapped.’ Occasionally, we were the subject of taunts, with words such as ‘spastic’ being speared towards us as if to be called such a name was a bad thing. I glossed over this muddled social response to deafness in my published essay. I cannot claim innocence as my defence. I knew I was glossing over it but I thought this was right and proper: after all, why stir up jagged memories? Aren’t some things better left unexpressed? Besides, keep the conversation nice, I thought. The nature of readers’ responses to my essay provoked me into a deeper exploration of deafness. I was shocked by the intensity of so many parents’ grief and anxiety about their children’s deafness, and frustrated by the notion that I am an inspiration because I am deaf but oral. I wondered what this implied about my childhood deaf friends who may not speak orally as well as I do, but who nevertheless enjoy fulfilling lives. I was stunned by the admission of a mother of a five year old deaf son who, despite not being able to speak, has not been taught how to Sign. She said, ‘Now that I’ve met you, I’m not so frightened of deaf people anymore.’ My shock may strike the average hearing person as naïve, but I was unnerved that so many parents of children newly diagnosed with deafness were grasping my words with the relief of people who have long ago lost hope in the possibilities for their deaf sons and daughters. My shock is not directed at these parents but at some unnameable ‘thing out there.’ What is going on out there in the big world that, 52 years after my mother experienced her own grief, bewilderment, anxiety and quest to forge a good life for her little deaf daughter, contemporary parents are still experiencing those very same fears and asking the same questions? Why do parents still receive the news of their child’s deafness as a death sentence of sorts, the death of hope and prospects for their child, when the facts show – based on my own life experiences and observations of my deaf school friends’ lives – that far from being a death sentence, the diagnosis of deafness simply propels a child into a different life, not a lesser life? Evidently, a different sort of silence has been created over the years; not the silence of hearing loss but the silence of lost stories, invisible stories, unspoken stories. I have contributed to that silence. For as long as I can remember, and certainly for all of my adult life, I have been careful to avoid being identified as ‘a deaf person.’ Although much of my career was taken up with considering the equity dilemmas of people with a disability, I had never assumed the mantle of advocacy for deaf people or deaf rights. Some of my early silence about deaf identity politics was consistent with my desire not to shine the torch on myself in this way. I did not want to draw attention to myself by what I did not have, that is, less hearing than other people. I thought that if I lived my life as fully as possible in the hearing world and with as little fuss as possible, then my success in blending in would be eloquence enough. If I was going to attract attention, I wanted it to be on the basis of merit, on what I achieved. Others would draw the conclusions that needed to be drawn, that is, that deaf people can take their place fully in the hearing world. I also accepted that if I was to be fully ‘successful’ – and I didn’t investigate the meaning of that word for many years – in the hearing world, then I ought to isolate myself from my deaf friends and from the deaf culture. I continued to miss them, particularly one childhood friend, but I was resolute. I never seriously explored the possibility of straddling both worlds, despite the occasional invitation to do so. For example, one of my childhood deaf friends, Damien, visited me at my parents’ home once, when we were both still in our teens. He was keen for me to join him in the Deaf Theatre, but I couldn’t muster the emotional dexterity that I felt this required. Instead, I let myself to be content to hear news of my childhood deaf friends through the grape-vine. This was, inevitably, a patchy process that lent itself to caricature. Single snippets of information about this person or that person ballooned into portrait-size depictions of their lives as I sketched the remaining blanks of their history with my imagination as my only tool. My capacity to be content with my imagination faltered. * * * Despite the construction of public images of deafness around the highly visible performance of hand-signed communication, the ‘how-small-can-we-go?’ advertorials of hearing aids and the cochlear implant with its head-worn speech processor, deafness is often described as ‘the invisible disability.’ My own experience bore this out. I became increasingly self-conscious about the singularity of my particular success, moderate in the big scheme of things though that may be. I looked around me and wondered ‘Why don’t I bump into more deaf people during the course of my daily life?’ After all, I am not a recluse. I have broad interests. I have travelled a lot, and have enjoyed a policy career for some thirty years, spanning the three tiers of government and scaling the competitive ladder with a reasonable degree of nimbleness. Such a career has got me out and about quite a bit: up and down the Queensland coast and out west, down to Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra, Adelaide and Hobart, and to the United Kingdom. And yet, not once in those thirty years did I get to share an office or a chance meeting or a lunch break with another deaf person. The one exception took place in the United Kingdom when I attended a national conference in which the keynote speaker was the Chairman of the Audit Commission, a man whose charisma outshines his profound deafness. After my return to Australia from the United Kingdom, a newspaper article about an education centre for deaf children in a leafy suburb of Brisbane, prompted me into action. I decided to investigate what was going on in the world of education for deaf children and so, one warm morning in 2006, I found myself waiting in the foyer for the centre’s clinical director. I flicked through a bundle of brochures and newsletters. They were loaded with images of smiling children wearing cochlear implants. Their message was clear: a cochlear implant brought joy, communication and participation in all that the world has to offer. This seemed an easy miracle. I had arrived with an open mind but now found myself feeling unexpectedly tense, as if I was about to walk a high-wire without the benefit of a safety net. Not knowing the reason for my fear, I swallowed it and smiled at the director in greeting upon her arrival. She is physically a small person but her energy is large. Her passion is bracing. That morning, she was quick to assert the power of cochlear implants by simply asking me, ‘Have you ever considered having an implant?’ When I shook my head, she looked at me appraisingly, ‘I’m sure you’d benefit from it’ before ushering me into a room shining with sun-dappled colour and crowded with a mess of little boys and girls. The children were arrayed in a democracy of shorts, shirts, and sandals. Only the occasional hair-ribbon or newly pressed skirt separated this girl from that boy. Some young mothers and fathers, their faces stretched with tension, stood or sat around the room’s perimeter watching their infant children. The noise in the room was orchestral, rising and falling to a mash of shouts, cries and squeals. A table had been set with several plastic plates in which diced pieces of browning apple, orange slices and melon chunks swam in a pond of juice. Some small children clustered around it, waiting to be served. When they finished their morning fruit, they were rounded up to sit at the front of the room, before a teacher poised with finger-puppets of ducks. I tripped over a red plastic chair – its tiny size designed to accommodate an infant’s bottom and small-sausage legs – and lowered myself onto it to take in the events going on around me. The little boys and girls laughed merrily as they watched their teacher narrate the story of a mother duck and her five baby ducks. Her hands moved in a flurry of duck-billed mimicry. ‘“Quack! Quack! Quack!” said the mother duck!’ The parents trilled along in time with the teacher. As I watched the children at the education centre that sunny morning, I saw that my silence had acted as a brake of sorts. I had, for too long, buried the chance to understand better the complex lives of deaf people as we negotiate the claims and demands of the hearing world. While it is true that actions speak louder than words, the occasional spoken and written word must surely help things along a little. I also began to reflect on the apparent absence of the inter-generational transfer of wisdom and insights born of experience rather than academic studies. Why does each new generation of parents approach the diagnosis of their newborn child’s disability or deafness with such intensity of fear, helplessness and dread for their child’s fate? I am not querying the inevitability of parents experiencing disappointment and shock at receiving unexpected news. I accept that to be born deaf means to be born with less than perfect hearing. All the same, it ought not to be inevitable that parents endure sustained grief about their child’s prospects. They ought to be illuminated as quickly as possible about all that is possible for their child. In particular, they ought to be encouraged to enjoy great hopes for their child. I mused about the power of story-telling to influence attitudes. G. Thomas Couser claims that ‘life writing can play a significant role in changing public attitudes about deafness’ (221) but then proceeds to cast doubt on his own assertion by later asking, ‘to what degree and how do the extant narratives of deafness rewrite the discourse of disability? Indeed, to what degree and how do they manage to represent the experience of deafness at all?’ (225). Certainly, stories from the Deaf community do not speak for me as my life has not been shaped by the framing of deafness as a separate linguistic and cultural entity. Nor am I drawn to the militancy of identity politics that uses terms such as ‘oppression’ and ‘oppressors’ to deride the efforts of parents and educators to teach deaf children to speak (Lane; Padden and Humphries). This seems to be unhelpfully hostile and assumes that deafness is the sole arbitrating reason that deaf people struggle with understanding who they are. It is the nature of being human to struggle with who we are. Whether we are deaf, migrants, black, gay, mentally ill – or none of these things – we are all answerable to the questions: ‘who am I and what is my place in the world?’ As I cast around for stories of deafness and deaf people with which I could relate, I pondered on the relative infrequency of deaf characters in literature, and the scarcity of autobiographies by deaf writers or biographies of deaf people by either deaf or hearing people. I also wondered whether written stories of deafness, memoirs and fiction, shape public perceptions or do they simply respond to existing public perceptions of deafness? As Susan DeGaia, a deaf academic at California State University writes, ‘Analysing the way stories are told can show us a lot about who is most powerful, most heard, whose perspective matters most to society. I think if we polled deaf/Deaf people, we would find many things missing from the stories that are told about them’ (DeGaia). Fighting my diffidence in staking out my persona as a ‘deaf woman’ and mustering the ‘conviction as to the importance of what [I have] to say, [my] right to say it’ (Olsen 27), I decided to write The Art of Being Deaf, an anthology of personal essays in the manner of reflective memoirs on deafness drawing on my own life experiences and supported by additional research. This presented me with a narrative dilemma because my deafness is just one of several life-events by which I understand myself. I wanted to find fresh ways of telling stories of deaf experiences while fashioning my memoir essays to show the texture of my life in all its variousness. A.N.Wilson’s observation about the precarious insensitivity of biographical writing was my guiding pole-star: the sense of our own identity is fluid and tolerant, whereas our sense of the identity of others is always more fixed and quite often edges towards caricature. We know within ourselves that we can be twenty different persons in a single day and that the attempt to explain our personality is doomed to become a falsehood after only a few words ... . And yet ... works of literature, novels and biographies depend for their aesthetic success precisely on this insensitive ability to simplify, to describe, to draw lines around another person and say, ‘This is she’ or ‘This is he.’ I have chosen to explore my relationship with my deafness through the multiple-threads of writing several personal essays as my story-telling vehicle rather than as a single-thread autobiography. The multiple-thread approach to telling my stories also sought to avoid the pitfalls of identity narrative in which I might unwittingly set myself up as an exemplar of one sort or another, be it as a ‘successful deaf person’ or as an ‘angry militant deaf activist’ or as ‘a deaf individual in denial attempting to pass as hearing.’ But in seeking to avoid these sorts of stories, what autobiographical story am I trying to tell? Because, other than being deaf, my life is not otherwise especially unusual. It is pitted here with sadness and lifted there with joy, but it is mostly a plateau held stable by the grist of daily life. Christopher Jon Heuer recognises this dilemma when he writes, ‘neither autobiography nor biography nor fiction can survive without discord. Without it, we are left with boredom. Without it, what we have is the lack of a point, a theme and a plot’ (Heuer 196). By writing The Art of Being Deaf, I am learning more than I have to teach. In the absence of deaf friends or mentors, and in the climate of my own reluctance to discuss my concerns with hearing people who, when I do flag any anxieties about issues arising from my deafness tend to be hearty and upbeat in their responses, I have had to work things out for myself. In hindsight, I suspect that I have simply ignored most of my deafness-related difficulties, leaving the heavy lifting work to my parents, teachers, and friends – ‘for it is the non-deaf who absorb a large part of the disability’ (Wright, 5) – and just got on with things by complying with what was expected of me, usually to good practical effect but at the cost of enriching my understanding of myself and possibly at the cost of intimacy. Reading deaf fiction and memoirs during the course of this writing project is proving to be helpful for me. I enjoy the companionability of it, but not until I got over my fright at seeing so many documented versions of deaf experiences, and it was a fright. For a while there, it was like walking through the Hall of Mirrors in Luna Park. Did I really look like that? Or no, perhaps I was like that? But no, here’s another turn, another mirror, another face. Spinning, twisting, turning. It was only when I stopped searching for the right mirror, the single defining portrait, that I began to enjoy seeing my deaf-self/hearing-persona experiences reflected in, or challenged by, what I read. Other deaf writers’ recollections are stirring into fresh life my own buried memories, prompting me to re-imagine them so that I can examine my responses to those experiences more contemplatively and less reactively than I might have done originally. We can learn about the diversity of deaf experiences and the nuances of deaf identity that rise above the stock symbolic scripts by reading authentic, well-crafted stories by memoirists and novelists. Whether they are hearing or deaf writers, by providing different perspectives on deafness, they have something useful to say, demonstrate and illustrate about deafness and deaf people. I imagine the possibility of my book, The Art of Being Deaf, providing a similar mentoring role to other deaf people and families.References Couser, G. Thomas. Recovering Bodies: Illness, Disablity, and Life Writing. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997. Heuer, Christopher Jon. ‘Deafness as Conflict and Conflict Component.’ Sign Language Studies 7.2 (Winter 2007): 195-199. Lane, Harlan. When the Mind Hears: A History of the Deaf. New York: Random House, 1984 Olsen, Tillie. Silences. New York: Delta/Seymour Lawrence. 1978. Padden, Carol, and Tom Humphries. Deaf in America: Voices from a Culture. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998. Schulz, J. (ed). A Revealed Life. Sydney: ABC Books and Griffith Review. 2007 Wilson, A.N. Incline Our Hearts. London: Penguin Books. 1988. Wright, David. Deafness: An Autobiography. New York: Stein and Day, 1969.

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

Introduction: Conceptualizing DisabilityThe two most prominent models for understanding disability are the medical model and the social model (“Disability”). The medical model locates disability in the person and emphasises the possibility of a cure, reinforcing the idea that disability is the fault of the disabled person, their body, their genes, and/or their upbringing. The social model, formulated as a response to the medical model, presents disability as a failure of the surrounding environment to accommodate differently abled bodies and minds. Closely linked to identity politics, the social model argues that disability is not a defect to be fixed but a source of human experience and identity, and that to disregard the needs of people with disability is to discriminate against them by being “ableist.”Both models have limitations. On the one hand, simply being a person with disability or having any other minority identity/-ies does not by itself lead to exclusion and discrimination (Nocella 18); an element of social valuation must be present that goes beyond a mere numbers game. On the other hand, merely focusing on the social aspect neglects “the realities of sickness, suffering, and pain” that many people with disability experience (Mollow 196) and that cannot be substantially alleviated by any degree of social change. The body is irreducible to discourse and representation (Siebers 749). Disability exists only at the confluence of differently abled minds and bodies and unaccommodating social and physical environs. How a body “fits” (my word) its environment is the focus of the “ecosomatic paradigm” (Cella 574-75); one example is how the drastically different environment of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006) reorients the coordinates of ability and impairment (Cella 582–84). I want to examine a novel that, conversely, features a change not in environment but in body.Alien LegsTim Farnsworth, the protagonist of Joshua Ferris’s second novel, The Unnamed (2010), is a high-powered New York lawyer who develops a condition that causes him to walk spontaneously without control over direction or duration. Tim suffers four periods of “walking,” during which his body could without warning stand up and walk at any time up to the point of exhaustion; each period grows increasingly longer with more frequent walks, until the fourth one ends in Tim’s death. As his wife, Jane, understands it, these forced excursions are “a hijacking of some obscure order of the body, the frightened soul inside the runaway train of mindless matter” (24). The direction is not random, for his legs follow roads and traffic lights. When Tim is exhausted, his legs abruptly stop, ceding control back to his conscious will, whence Tim usually calls Jane and then sleeps like a baby wherever he stops. She picks him up at all hours of the day and night.Contemporary critics note shades of Beckett in both the premise and title of the novel (“Young”; Adams), connections confirmed by Ferris (“Involuntary”); Ron Charles mentions the Poe story “The Man of the Crowd” (1845), but it seems only the compulsion to walk is similar. Ferris says he “was interested in writing about disease” (“Involuntary”), and disability is at the core of the novel; Tim more than once thinks bitterly to himself that the smug person without disability in front of him will one day fall ill and die, alluding to the universality of disability. His condition is detrimental to his work and life, and Stuart Murray explores how this reveals the ableist assumptions behind the idea of “productivity” in a post-industrial economy. In one humorous episode, Tim arrives unexpectedly (but volitionally) at a courtroom and has just finished requesting permission to join the proceedings when his legs take him out of the courtroom again; he barely has time to shout over his shoulder, “on second thought, Your Honor” (Ferris Unnamed 103). However, Murray does not discuss what is unique about Tim’s disability: it revolves around walking, the paradigmatic act of ability in popular culture, as connoted in the phrase “to stand up and walk.” This makes it difficult to understand Tim’s predicament solely in terms of either the medical or social model. He is able-bodied—in fact, we might say he is “over-able”—leading one doctor to label his condition “benign idiopathic perambulation” (41; my emphasis); yet the lack of agency in his walking precludes it from becoming a “pedestrian speech act” (de Certeau 98), walking that imbues space with semiotic value. It is difficult to imagine what changes society could make to neutralize Tim’s disability.The novel explores both avenues. At first, Tim adheres to the medical model protocol of seeking a diagnosis to facilitate treatment. He goes to every and any (pseudo)expert in search of “the One Guy” who can diagnose and, possibly, cure him (53), but none can; a paper in The New England Journal of Medicine documents psychiatrists and neurologists, finding nothing, kicking the can between them, “from the mind to body back to the mind” (101). Tim is driven to seek a diagnosis because, under the medical model, a diagnosis facilitates understanding, by others and by oneself. As the Farnsworths experience many times, it is surpassingly difficult to explain to others that one has a disease with no diagnosis or even name. Without a name, the disease may as well not exist, and even their daughter, Becka, doubts Tim at first. Only Jane is able to empathize with him based on her own experience of menopause, incomprehensible to men, gesturing towards the influence of sex on medical hermeneutics (Mollow 188–92). As the last hope of a diagnosis comes up empty, Tim shifts his mentality, attempting to understand his condition through an idiosyncratic idiom: experiencing “brain fog”, feeling “mentally unsticky”, and having “jangly” nerves, “hyperslogged” muscles, a “floaty” left side, and “bunched up” breathing—these, to him, are “the most precise descriptions” of his physical and mental state (126). “Name” something, “revealing nature’s mystery”, and one can “triumph over it”, he thinks at one point (212). But he is never able to eschew the drive toward understanding via naming, and his “deep metaphysical ache” (Burn 45) takes the form of a lament at misfortune, a genre traceable to the Book of Job.Short of crafting a life for Tim in which his family, friends, and work are meaningfully present yet detached enough in scheduling and physical space to accommodate his needs, the social model is insufficient to make sense of, let alone neutralize, his disability. Nonetheless, there are certain aspects of his experience that can be improved with social adjustments. Tim often ends his walks by sleeping wherever he stops, and he would benefit from sensitivity training for police officers and other authority figures; out of all the authority figures who he encounters, only one shows consideration for his safety, comfort, and mental well-being prior to addressing the illegality of his behaviour. And making the general public more aware of “modes of not knowing, unknowing, and failing to know”, in the words of Jack Halberstam (qtd. in McRuer and Johnson 152), would alleviate the plight not just of Tim but of all sufferers of undiagnosed diseases and people with (rare forms of) disability.After Tim leaves home and starts walking cross-country, he has to learn to deal with his disability without any support system. The solution he hits upon illustrates the ecosomatic paradigm: he buys camping gear and treats his walking as an endless hike. Neither “curing” his body nor asking accommodation of society, Tim’s tools mediate a fit between body and environs, and it more or less works. For Tim the involuntary nomad, “everywhere was a wilderness” (Ferris Unnamed 247).The Otherness of the BodyProblems arise when Tim tries to fight his legs. After despairing of a diagnosis, he internalises the struggle against the “somatic noncompliance” of his body (Mollow 197) and refers to it as “the other” (207). One through-line of the novel is a (failed) attempt to overcome cartesian duality (Reiffenrath). Tim divides his experiences along cartesian lines and actively tries to enhance while short-circuiting the body. He recites case law and tries to take up birdwatching to maintain his mind, but his body constantly stymies him, drawing his attention to its own needs. He keeps himself ill-clothed and -fed and spurns needed medical attention, only to find—on the brink of death—that his body has brought him to a hospital, and that he stops walking until he is cured and discharged. Tim’s early impression that his body has “a mind of its own” (44), a situation comparable to the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886; Ludwigs 123–24), is borne out when it starts to silently speak to him, monosyllabically at first (“Food!” (207)), then progressing to simple sentences (“Leg is hurting” (213)) and sarcasm (“Deficiency of copper causes anemia, just so you know” (216)) before arriving at full-blown taunting:The other was the interrogator and he the muttering subject […].Q: Are you aware that you can be made to forget words, if certain neurons are suppressed from firing?A: Certain what?Q: And that by suppressing the firing of others, you can be made to forget what words mean entirely? Like the word Jane, for instance.A: Which?Q: And do you know that if I do this—[inaudible]A: Oof!Q: —you will flatline? And if I do this—[inaudible]A: Aaa, aaa…Q: —you will cease flatlining? (223–24; emphases and interpolations in original except for bracketed ellipsis)His Jobean lament turns literal, with his mind on God’s side and his body, “the other”, on the Devil’s in a battle for his eternal soul (Burn 46). Ironically, this “God talk” (Ferris Unnamed 248) finally gets Tim diagnosed with schizophrenia, and he receives medication that silences his body, if not stilling his legs. But when he is not medicated, his body can dominate his mind with multiple-page monologues.Not long after Tim’s mind and body reach a truce thanks to the camping gear and medication, Tim receives word on the west coast that Jane, in New York, has terminal cancer; he resolves to fight his end-of-walk “narcoleptic episodes” (12) to return to her—on foot. His body is not pleased, and it slowly falls apart as Tim fights it eastward cross-country. By the time he is hospitalized “ten miles as the crow flies from his final destination”, his ailments include “conjunctivitis”, “leg cramps”, “myositis”, “kidney failure”, “chafing and blisters”, “shingles”, “back pain”, “bug bites, ticks, fleas and lice”, “sun blisters”, “heatstroke and dehydration”, “rhabdomyolysis”, “excess [blood] potassium”, “splintering [leg] bones”, “burning tongue”, “[ballooning] heels”, “osteal complications”, “acute respiratory distress syndrome”, “excess fluid [in] his peritoneal cavity”, “brain swelling”, and a coma (278–80)—not including the fingers and toes lost to frostbite during an earlier period of walking. Nevertheless, he recovers and reunites with Jane, maintaining a holding pattern by returning to Jane’s hospital bedside after each walk.Jane recovers; the urgency having dissipated, Tim goes back on the road, confident that “he had proven long ago that there was no circumstance under which he could not walk if he put his mind to it” (303). A victory for mind over body? Not quite. The ending, Tim’s death scene, planned by Ferris from the beginning (Ferris “Tracking”), manages to grant victory to both mind and body without uniting them: his mind keeps working after physical death, but its last thought is of a “delicious […] cup of water” (310). Mind and body are two, but indivisible.Cartesian duality has relevance for other significant characters. The chain-smoking Detective Roy, assigned the case Tim is defending, later appears with oxygen tank in tow due to emphysema, yet he cannot quit smoking. What might have been a mere shortcut for characterization here carries physical consequences: the oxygen tank limits Roy’s movement and, one supposes, his investigative ability. After Jane recovers, Tim visits Frank Novovian, the security guard at his old law firm, and finds he has “gone fat [...] His retiring slouch behind the security post said there was no going back”; recognising Tim, Frank “lifted an inch off [his] chair, righting his jellied form, which immediately settled back into place” (297; my emphases). Frank’s physical state reflects the state of his career: settled. The mind-body antagonism is even more stark among Tim’s lawyer colleagues. Lev Wittig cannot become sexually aroused unless there is a “rare and extremely venomous snak[e]” in the room with no lights (145)—in direct contrast to his being a corporate tax specialist and the “dullest person you will ever meet” (141). And Mike Kronish famously once billed a twenty-seven-hour workday by crossing multiple time zones, but his apparent victory of mind over matter is undercut by his other notable achievement, being such a workaholic that his grown kids call him “Uncle Daddy” (148).Jane offers a more vexed case. While serving as Tim’s primary caretaker, she dreads the prospect of sacrificing the rest of her life for him. The pressures of the consciously maintaining her wedding vows directly affects her body. Besides succumbing to and recovering from alcoholism, she is twice tempted by the sexuality of other men; the second time, Tim calls her at the moment of truth to tell her the walking has returned, but instead of offering to pick him up, she says to him, “Come home” (195). As she later admits, asking him to do the impossible is a form of abandonment, and though causality is merely implied, Tim decides a day later not to return. Cartesian duality is similarly blurred in Jane’s fight against cancer. Prior to developing cancer, it is the pretence for Tim’s frequent office absences; she develops cancer; she fights it into remission not by relying on the clinical trial she undergoes, but because Tim’s impossible return inspires her; its remission removes the sense of urgency keeping Tim around, and he leaves; and he later learns that she dies from its recurrence. In multiple senses, Jane’s physical challenges are inextricable from her marriage commitment. Tim’s peripatetic condition affects both of them in homologous ways, gesturing towards the importance of disability studies for understanding the experience both of people with disability and of their caretakers.Becka copes with cartesian duality in the form of her obesity, and the way she does so sets an example for Tim. She gains weight during adolescence, around the time Tim starts walking uncontrollably, and despite her efforts she never loses weight. At first moody and depressed, she later channels her emotions into music, eventually going on tour. After one of her concerts, she tells Tim she has accepted her body, calling it “my one go-around,” freeing her from having to “hate yourself till the bitter end” (262) to instead enjoy her life and music. The idea of acceptance stays with Tim; whereas in previous episodes of walking he ignored the outside world—another example of reconceptualizing walking in the mode of disability—he pays attention to his surroundings on his journey back to New York, which is filled with descriptions of various geographical, meteorological, biological, and sociological phenomena, all while his body slowly breaks down. By the time he leaves home forever, he has acquired the habit of constant observation and the ability to enjoy things moment by moment. “Beauty, surprisingly, was everywhere” (279), he thinks. Invoking the figure of the flâneur, which Ferris had in mind when writing the novel (Ferris “Involuntary”), Peter Ferry argues that “becoming a 21st century incarnation of the flâneur gives Tim a greater sense of selfhood, a belief in the significance of his own existence within the increasingly chaotic and disorientating urban environment” (59). I concur, with two caveats: the chaotic and disorienting environment is not merely urban; and, contrary to Ferry’s claim that this regained selfhood is in contrast to “disintegrating” “conventional understandings of masculinity” (57), it instead incorporates Tim’s new identity as a person with disability.Conclusion: The Experience of DisabilityMore than specific insights into living with disability, the most important contribution of The Unnamed to disability studies is its exploration of the pure experience of disability. Ferris says, “I wanted to strip down this character to the very barest essentials and see what happens when sickness can’t go away and it can’t be answered by all [sic] of the medical technology that the country has at its disposal” (“Tracking”); by making Tim a wealthy lawyer with a caring family—removing common complicating socioeconomic factors of disability—and giving him an unprecedented impairment—removing all medical support and social services—Ferris depicts disability per se, illuminating the importance of disability studies for all people with(out) disability. After undergoing variegated experiences of pure disability, Tim “maintained a sound mind until the end. He was vigilant about periodic checkups and disciplined with his medication. He took care of himself as best he could, eating well however possible, sleeping when his body required it, […] and he persevered in this manner of living until his death” (Ferris Unnamed 306). This is an ideal relation to maintain between mind, body, and environment, irrespective of (dis)ability.ReferencesAdams, Tim. “The Unnamed by Joshua Ferris.” Fiction. Observer, 21 Feb. 2010: n. pag. 19 Sep. 2018 <https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/feb/21/the-unnamed-joshua-ferris>.Burn, Stephen J. “Mapping the Syndrome Novel.” Diseases and Disorders in Contemporary Fiction: The Syndrome Syndrome. Eds. T.J. Lustig and James Peacock. New York: Routledge, 2013. 35-52.Cella, Matthew J.C. “The Ecosomatic Paradigm in Literature: Merging Disability Studies and Ecocriticism.” Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment 20.3 (2013): 574–96.De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. 1980. Trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984.Charles, Ron. “Book World Review of Joshua Ferris’s ‘The Unnamed.’” Books. Washington Post 20 Jan. 2010: n. pag. 19 Sep. 2018 <http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/01/19/AR2010011903945.html>.“Disability.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia 17 Sep. 2018. 19 Sep. 2018 <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disability>.Ferris, Joshua. “Involuntary Walking; the Joshua Ferris Interview.” ReadRollShow. Created by David Weich. Sheepscot Creative, 2010. Vimeo, 9 Mar. 2010. 18 Sep. 2018 <https://www.vimeo.com/10026925>. [My transcript.]———. “Tracking a Man’s Life, in Endless Footsteps.” Interview by Melissa Block. All Things Considered, NPR, 15 Feb. 2010. 18 Sep. 2018 <https://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=123650332>.———. The Unnamed: A Novel. New York: Little, Brown, 2010.Ferry, Peter. “Reading Manhattan, Reading Masculinity: Reintroducing the Flâneur with E.B. White’s Here Is New York and Joshua Ferris’ The Unnamed.” Culture, Society & Masculinities 3.1 (2011): 49–61.Ludwigs, Marina. “Walking as a Metaphor for Narrativity.” Studia Neophilologica 87.1 (Suppl. 1) (2015): 116–28.McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. New York: Vintage, 2006.McRuer, Robert, and Merri Lisa Johnson. “Proliferating Cripistemologies: A Virtual Roundtable.” Journal of Literary and Cultural Disability Studies 8.2 (2014): 149–69.Mollow, Anna. “Criphystemologies: What Disability Theory Needs to Know about Hysteria.” Journal of Literary and Cultural Disability Studies 8.2 (2014): 185–201.Murray, Stuart. “Reading Disability in a Time of Posthuman Work: Speed and Embodiment in Joshua Ferris’ The Unnamed and Michael Faber’s Under the Skin.” Disability Studies Quarterly 37.4 (2017). 20 May 2018 <http://dsq–sds.org/article/view/6104/4823/>.Nocella, Anthony J., II. “Defining Eco–Ability: Social Justice and the Intersectionality of Disability, Nonhuman Animals, and Ecology.” Earth, Animal, and Disability Liberation: The Rise of the Eco–Ability Movement. Eds. Anthony J. Nocella II, Judy K.C. Bentley, and Janet M. Duncan. New York: Peter Lang, 2012. 3–21.Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Man of the Crowd.” 1845. PoeStories.com. 18 Sep. 2018 <https://poestories.com/read/manofthecrowd>.Reiffenrath, Tanja. “Mind over Matter? Joshua Ferris’s The Unnamed as Counternarrative.” [sic] – a journal of literature, culture and literary translation 5.1 (2014). 20 May 2018 <https://www.sic–journal.org/ArticleView.aspx?aid=305/>.Siebers, Tobin. “Disability in Theory: From Social Constructionism to the New Realism of the Body.” American Literary History 13.4 (2001): 737–54.“The Young and the Restless.” Review of The Unnamed by Joshua Ferris. Books and Arts. Economist, 28 Jan. 2010: n. pag. 19 Sep. 2018 <https://www.economist.com/books-and-arts/2010/01/28/the-young-and-the-restless>.

The Leichhardt Highway is a six hundred-kilometre stretch of sealed inland road that joins the Australian Queensland border town of Goondiwindi with the Capricorn Highway, just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Named after the young Prussian naturalist Ludwig Leichhardt, part of this roadway follows the route his party took as they crossed northern Australia from Morton Bay (Brisbane) to Port Essington (near Darwin). Ignoring the usual colonial practice of honouring the powerful and aristocratic, Leichhardt named the noteworthy features along this route after his supporters and fellow expeditioners. Many of these names are still in use and a series of public monuments have also been erected in the intervening century and a half to commemorate this journey. Unlike Leichhardt, who survived his epic trip, some contemporary travellers who navigate the remote roadway named in his honour do not arrive at their final destinations. Memorials to these violently interrupted lives line the highway, many enigmatically located in places where there is no obvious explanation for the lethal violence that occurred there. This examination profiles the memorials along Leichhardt’s highway as Gothic practice, in order to illuminate some of the uncanny paradoxes around public memorials, as well as the loaded emotional terrain such commemorative practices may inhabit. All humans know that death awaits them (Morell). Yet, despite this, and the unprecedented torrent of images of death and dying saturating news, television, and social media (Duwe; Sumiala; Bisceglio), Gorer’s mid-century ideas about the denial of death and Becker’s 1973 Pulitzer prize-winning description of the purpose of human civilization as a defence against this knowledge remains current in the contemporary trope that individuals (at least in the West) deny their mortality. Contributing to this enigmatic situation is how many deny the realities of aging and bodily decay—the promise of the “life extension” industries (Hall)—and are shielded from death by hospitals, palliative care providers, and the multimillion dollar funeral industry (Kiernan). Drawing on Piatti-Farnell’s concept of popular culture artefacts as “haunted/haunting” texts, the below describes how memorials to the dead can powerfully reconnect those who experience them with death’s reality, by providing an “encrypted passageway through which the dead re-join the living in a responsive cycle of exchange and experience” (Piatti-Farnell). While certainly very different to the “sublime” iconic Gothic structure, the Gothic ruin that Summers argued could be seen as “a sacred relic, a memorial, a symbol of infinite sadness, of tenderest sensibility and regret” (407), these memorials do function in both this way as melancholy/regret-inducing relics as well as in Piatti-Farnell’s sense of bringing the dead into everyday consciousness. Such memorialising activity also evokes one of Spooner’s features of the Gothic, by acknowledging “the legacies of the past and its burdens on the present” (8).Ludwig Leichhardt and His HighwayWhen Leichhardt returned to Sydney in 1846 from his 18-month journey across northern Australia, he was greeted with surprise and then acclaim. Having mounted his expedition without any backing from influential figures in the colony, his party was presumed lost only weeks after its departure. Yet, once Leichhardt and almost all his expedition returned, he was hailed “Prince of Explorers” (Erdos). When awarding him a significant purse raised by public subscription, then Speaker of the Legislative Council voiced what he believed would be the explorer’s lasting memorial —the public memory of his achievement: “the undying glory of having your name enrolled amongst those of the great men whose genius and enterprise have impelled them to seek for fame in the prosecution of geographical science” (ctd. Leichhardt 539). Despite this acclaim, Leichhardt was a controversial figure in his day; his future prestige not enhanced by his Prussian/Germanic background or his disappearance two years later attempting to cross the continent. What troubled the colonial political class, however, was his transgressive act of naming features along his route after commoners rather than the colony’s aristocrats. Today, the Leichhardt Highway closely follows Leichhardt’s 1844-45 route for some 130 kilometres from Miles, north through Wandoan to Taroom. In the first weeks of his journey, Leichhardt named 16 features in this area: 6 of the more major of these after the men in his party—including the Aboriginal man ‘Charley’ and boy John Murphy—4 more after the tradesmen and other non-aristocratic sponsors of his venture, and the remainder either in memory of the journey’s quotidian events or natural features there found. What we now accept as traditional memorialising practice could in this case be termed as Gothic, in that it upset the rational, normal order of its day, and by honouring humble shopkeepers, blacksmiths and Indigenous individuals, revealed the “disturbance and ambivalence” (Botting 4) that underlay colonial class relations (Macintyre). On 1 December 1844, Leichhardt also memorialised his own past, referencing the Gothic in naming a watercourse The Creek of the Ruined Castles due to the “high sandstone rocks, fissured and broken like pillars and walls and the high gates of the ruined castles of Germany” (57). Leichhardt also disturbed and disfigured the nature he so admired, famously carving his initials deep into trees along his route—a number of which still exist, including the so-called Leichhardt Tree, a large coolibah in Taroom’s main street. Leichhardt also wrote his own memorial, keeping detailed records of his experiences—both good and more regretful—in the form of field books, notebooks and letters, with his major volume about this expedition published in London in 1847. Leichhardt’s journey has since been memorialised in various ways along the route. The Leichhardt Tree has been further defaced with numerous plaques nailed into its ancient bark, and the town’s federal government-funded Bicentennial project raised a formal memorial—a large sandstone slab laid with three bronze plaques—in the newly-named Ludwig Leichhardt Park. Leichhardt’s name also adorns many sites both along, and outside, the routes of his expeditions. While these fittingly include natural features such as the Leichhardt River in north-west Queensland (named in 1856 by Augustus Gregory who crossed it by searching for traces of the explorer’s ill-fated 1848 expedition), there are also many businesses across Queensland and the Northern Territory less appropriately carrying his name. More somber monuments to Leichhardt’s legacy also resulted from this journey. The first of these was the white settlement that followed his declaration that the countryside he moved through was well endowed with fertile soils. With squatters and settlers moving in and land taken up before Leichhardt had even arrived back in Sydney, the local Yeeman people were displaced, mistreated and completely eradicated within a decade (Elder). Mid-twentieth century, Patrick White’s literary reincarnation, Voss of the eponymous novel, and paintings by Sidney Nolan and Albert Tucker have enshrined in popular memory not only the difficult (and often described as Gothic) nature of the landscape through which Leichhardt travelled (Adams; Mollinson, and Bonham), but also the distinctive and contrary blend of intelligence, spiritual mysticism, recklessness, and stoicism Leichhardt brought to his task. Roadside Memorials Today, the Leichhardt Highway is also lined with a series of roadside shrines to those who have died much more recently. While, like centotaphs, tombstones, and cemeteries, these memorialise the dead, they differ in usually marking the exact location that death occurred. In 43 BC, Cicero articulated the idea of the dead living in memory, “The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living” (93), yet Nelson is one of very few contemporary writers to link roadside memorials to elements of Gothic sensibility. Such constructions can, however, be described as Gothic, in that they make the roadway unfamiliar by inscribing onto it the memory of corporeal trauma and, in the process, re-creating their locations as vivid sites of pain and suffering. These are also enigmatic sites. Traffic levels are generally low along the flat or gently undulating terrain and many of these memorials are located in locations where there is no obvious explanation for the violence that occurred there. They are loci of contradictions, in that they are both more private than other memorials, in being designed, and often made and erected, by family and friends of the deceased, and yet more public, visible to all who pass by (Campbell). Cemeteries are set apart from their surroundings; the roadside memorial is, in contrast, usually in open view along a thoroughfare. In further contrast to cemeteries, which contain many relatively standardised gravesites, individual roadside memorials encapsulate and express not only the vivid grief of family and friends but also—when they include vehicle wreckage or personal artefacts from the fatal incident—provide concrete evidence of the trauma that occurred. While the majority of individuals interned in cemeteries are long dead, roadside memorials mark relatively contemporary deaths, some so recent that there may still be tyre marks, debris and bloodstains marking the scene. In 2008, when I was regularly travelling this roadway, I documented, and researched, the six then extant memorial sites that marked the locations of ten fatalities from 1999 to 2006. (These were all still in place in mid-2014.) The fatal incidents are very diverse. While half involved trucks and/or road trains, at least three were single vehicle incidents, and the deceased ranged from 13 to 84 years of age. Excell argues that scholarship on roadside memorials should focus on “addressing the diversity of the material culture” (‘Contemporary Deathscapes’) and, in these terms, the Leichhardt Highway memorials vary from simple crosses to complex installations. All include crosses (mostly, but not exclusively, white), and almost all are inscribed with the name and birth/death dates of the deceased. Most include flowers or other plants (sometimes fresh but more often plastic), but sometimes also a range of relics from the crash and/or personal artefacts. These are, thus, unsettling sights, not least in the striking contrast they provide with the highway and surrounding road reserve. The specific location is a key component of their ability to re-sensitise viewers to the dangers of the route they are travelling. The first memorial travelling northwards, for instance, is situated at the very point at which the highway begins, some 18 kilometres from Goondiwindi. Two small white crosses decorated with plastic flowers are set poignantly close together. The inscriptions can also function as a means of mobilising connection with these dead strangers—a way of building Secomb’s “haunted community”, whereby community in the post-colonial age can only be built once past “murderous death” (131) is acknowledged. This memorial is inscribed with “Cec Hann 06 / A Good Bloke / A Good hoarseman [sic]” and “Pat Hann / A Good Woman” to tragically commemorate the deaths of an 84-year-old man and his 79-year-old wife from South Australia who died in the early afternoon of 5 June 2006 when their Ford Falcon, towing a caravan, pulled onto the highway and was hit by a prime mover pulling two trailers (Queensland Police, ‘Double Fatality’; Jones, and McColl). Further north along the highway are two memorials marking the most inexplicable of road deaths: the single vehicle fatality (Connolly, Cullen, and McTigue). Darren Ammenhauser, aged 29, is remembered with a single white cross with flowers and plaque attached to a post, inscribed hopefully, “Darren Ammenhauser 1971-2000 At Rest.” Further again, at Billa Billa Creek, a beautifully crafted metal cross attached to a fence is inscribed with the text, “Kenneth J. Forrester / RIP Jack / 21.10.25 – 27.4.05” marking the death of the 79-year-old driver whose vehicle veered off the highway to collide with a culvert on the creek. It was reported that the vehicle rolled over several times before coming to rest on its wheels and that Forrester was dead when the police arrived (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Traffic Incident’). More complex memorials recollect both single and multiple deaths. One, set on both sides of the road, maps the physical trajectory of the fatal smash. This memorial comprises white crosses on both sides of road, attached to a tree on one side, and a number of ancillary sites including damaged tyres with crosses placed inside them on both sides of the road. Simple inscriptions relay the inability of such words to express real grief: “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed” and “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed / Forever in our hearts.” The oldest and most complex memorial on the route, commemorating the death of four individuals on 18 June 1999, is also situated on both sides of the road, marking the collision of two vehicles travelling in opposite directions. One memorial to a 62-year-old man comprises a cross with flowers, personal and automotive relics, and a plaque set inside a wooden fence and simply inscribed “John Henry Keenan / 23-11-1936–18-06-1999”. The second memorial contains three white crosses set side-by-side, together with flowers and relics, and reveals that members of three generations of the same family died at this location: “Raymond Campbell ‘Butch’ / 26-3-67–18-6-99” (32 years of age), “Lorraine Margaret Campbell ‘Lloydie’ / 29-11-46–18-6-99” (53 years), and “Raymond Jon Campbell RJ / 28-1-86–18-6-99” (13 years). The final memorial on this stretch of highway is dedicated to Jason John Zupp of Toowoomba who died two weeks before Christmas 2005. This consists of a white cross, decorated with flowers and inscribed: “Jason John Zupp / Loved & missed by all”—a phrase echoed in his newspaper obituary. The police media statement noted that, “at 11.24pm a prime mover carrying four empty trailers [stacked two high] has rolled on the Leichhardt Highway 17km north of Taroom” (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Truck Accident’). The roadside memorial was placed alongside a ditch on a straight stretch of road where the body was found. The coroner’s report adds the following chilling information: “Mr Zupp was thrown out of the cabin and his body was found near the cabin. There is no evidence whatsoever that he had applied the brakes or in any way tried to prevent the crash … Jason was not wearing his seatbelt” (Cornack 5, 6). Cornack also remarked the truck was over length, the brakes had not been properly adjusted, and the trip that Zupp had undertaken could not been lawfully completed according to fatigue management regulations then in place (8). Although poignant and highly visible due to these memorials, these deaths form a small part of Australia’s road toll, and underscore our ambivalent relationship with the automobile, where road death is accepted as a necessary side-effect of the freedom of movement the technology offers (Ladd). These memorials thus animate highways as Gothic landscapes due to the “multifaceted” (Haider 56) nature of the fear, terror and horror their acknowledgement can bring. Since 1981, there have been, for instance, between some 1,600 and 3,300 road deaths each year in Australia and, while there is evidence of a long term downward trend, the number of deaths per annum has not changed markedly since 1991 (DITRDLG 1, 2), and has risen in some years since then. The U.S.A. marked its millionth road death in 1951 (Ladd) along the way to over 3,000,000 during the 20th century (Advocates). These deaths are far reaching, with U.K. research suggesting that each death there leaves an average of 6 people significantly affected, and that there are some 10 to 20 per cent of mourners who experience more complicated grief and longer term negative affects during this difficult time (‘Pathways Through Grief’). As the placing of roadside memorials has become a common occurrence the world over (Klaassens, Groote, and Vanclay; Grider; Cohen), these are now considered, in MacConville’s opinion, not only “an appropriate, but also an expected response to tragedy”. Hockey and Draper have explored the therapeutic value of the maintenance of “‘continuing bonds’ between the living and the dead” (3). This is, however, only one explanation for the reasons that individuals erect roadside memorials with research suggesting roadside memorials perform two main purposes in their linking of the past with the present—as not only sites of grieving and remembrance, but also of warning (Hartig, and Dunn; Everett; Excell, Roadside Memorials; MacConville). Clark adds that by “localis[ing] and personalis[ing] the road dead,” roadside memorials raise the profile of road trauma by connecting the emotionless statistics of road death directly to individual tragedy. They, thus, transform the highway into not only into a site of past horror, but one in which pain and terror could still happen, and happen at any moment. Despite their increasing commonality and their recognition as cultural artefacts, these memorials thus occupy “an uncomfortable place” both in terms of public policy and for some individuals (Lowe). While in some states of the U.S.A. and in Ireland the erection of such memorials is facilitated by local authorities as components of road safety campaigns, in the U.K. there appears to be “a growing official opposition to the erection of memorials” (MacConville). Criticism has focused on the dangers (of distraction and obstruction) these structures pose to passing traffic and pedestrians, while others protest their erection on aesthetic grounds and even claim memorials can lower property values (Everett). While many ascertain a sense of hope and purpose in the physical act of creating such shrines (see, for instance, Grider; Davies), they form an uncanny presence along the highway and can provide dangerous psychological territory for the viewer (Brien). Alongside the townships, tourist sites, motels, and petrol stations vying to attract customers, they stain the roadway with the unmistakable sign that a violent death has happened—bringing death, and the dead, to the fore as a component of these journeys, and destabilising prominent cultural narratives of technological progress and safety (Richter, Barach, Ben-Michael, and Berman).Conclusion This investigation has followed Goddu who proposes that a Gothic text “registers its culture’s contradictions” (3) and, in profiling these memorials as “intimately connected to the culture that produces them” (Goddu 3) has proposed memorials as Gothic artefacts that can both disturb and reveal. Roadside memorials are, indeed, so loaded with emotional content that their close contemplation can be traumatising (Brien), yet they are inescapable while navigating the roadway. Part of their power resides in their ability to re-animate those persons killed in these violent in the minds of those viewing these memorials. In this way, these individuals are reincarnated as ghostly presences along the highway, forming channels via which the traveller can not only make human contact with the dead, but also come to recognise and ponder their own sense of mortality. While roadside memorials are thus like civic war memorials in bringing untimely death to the forefront of public view, roadside memorials provide a much more raw expression of the chaotic, anarchic and traumatic moment that separates the world of the living from that of the dead. While traditional memorials—such as those dedicated by, and to, Leichhardt—moreover, pay homage to the vitality of the lives of those they commemorate, roadside memorials not only acknowledge the alarming circumstances of unexpected death but also stand testament to the power of the paradox of the incontrovertibility of sudden death versus our lack of ability to postpone it. In this way, further research into these and other examples of Gothic memorialising practice has much to offer various areas of cultural study in Australia.ReferencesAdams, Brian. Sidney Nolan: Such Is Life. Hawthorn, Vic.: Hutchinson, 1987. Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety. “Motor Vehicle Traffic Fatalities & Fatality Rate: 1899-2003.” 2004. Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1973. Bisceglio, Paul. “How Social Media Is Changing the Way We Approach Death.” The Atlantic 20 Aug. 2013. Botting, Fred. Gothic: The New Critical Idiom. 2nd edition. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2014. 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"... sphincters have no souls."-- Germaine Greer. "Love." The Whole Woman. 222. "Place your hands on my (w?)hole, run your fingers through my soul..." -- Gary Stringer. "Place Your Hands." Glow. A remarkable pseudo-sodomitical sight gag in the Hollywood comedy film Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me brings to mainstream discourse two new queer desiring and desired figures: the man-fisting woman and the woman-fisted man. The simulated act of anal fisting occurs in a tent between leading male and female agents Austin Powers (Mike Myers) and Felicity Shagwell (Heather Graham). While Powers is on all fours, Shagwell inserts her hand and forearm into his utility bag and removes various objects including an opening umbrella and a gerbil. However, to a posse of astounded males hiding in the bushes, it appears in silhouette that Shagwell has inserted her fist into Power's rectum and is slowly removing the objects from deep inside his anal canal. This subversive heterosexual performance draws upon marginalised visual narratives of female and male sodomites. The queer man-fisting woman comprises a revolutionary feminist figure. Before surfacing to stake her claim in Austin Powers, the figure of the fisting woman gathered representational momentum in underground pornographic and erotic visual art discourses. Until recently, queer female sodomites penetrated males by finger or dildo, not by whole hand. For example, an erotic sadomasochistic (SM) drawing from the 1930s by Bernard Montorgueil (Néret backflap) depicts several clothed women stimulating the ani of various naked tied-up ejaculating men with small mechanical dildos. A pornographic photograph from the 1950s features a bikini-wearing woman with her strapped-on dildo in the anus of a naked reclining spread-legged man (Waugh 20). By the 1990s images of female-in-male fisting acts had appeared in coffee table art monographs. Jacqueline Kennedy's photograph Other Chambers (Salaman 138) depicts such a scene with only the braceleted arm and male torso showing. Andres Serranos' photograph The History of Sex (The Fisting) shows a fully-dressed erect woman with her fist in the anus of a naked man who poses on all fours at the bottom of the picture. One of Doris Kloster's SM photographs shows a man sandwiched between two women. The strapped-on dildo of one woman fills the man's mouth while that of the other woman projects into his rectum. These female sodomites seemingly merge the figures of the SM dominatrix and the female penetrator of males, to form a new creation that could be named the 'penetratrix'. Queer performance artist Annie Sprinkle, who (as "Queen of the Hellfire" SM club) fist-fucked a man up to her elbow (Heidenry 161), is one such pioneering penetratrix. Another is queer writer Zoë Schramm-Evans, who has documented her fistfucking relationship with a gay man in British journal, Body Politic. Schramm-Evans probably speaks for other penetratrices when she declares of her desires to fist the male anus: "I like a man who will lie on his back with his legs in the air -- who will offer his secrets in the way I offer mine. I consider this an equilibrium" (cited in Dowsett 28). The man-fisting penetratrix is a queer production that brings narratives of corporeal cross-sexual power relationships full circle: the penetrator is now the penetrated. The inscription of Felicity as 'top' would not work without Austin as 'bottom' -- a heterosexual male persona that embodies the pleasure of being penetrated by a female agent. The image of anal-receptive Austin draws on the pantheon of fisted gay, bisexual and heterosexual men that have featured in representations of the fisting female sodomite, such as those already mentioned. Other influential works might include Andres Serrano's photograph The History of Sex (Christiaan and Rose) (1996), which depicts a woman pressing the dildo worn over her vulva against a man's buttocks. The cover of Enema of the State, a compact disc by all-male heterosexual band Blink-182, contains a photograph of a smiling female nurse pulling a blue glove over her raised hand. The extended Shagwell-in-Powers fisting gag entails from a history of 'red hanky' SM representations of gay male anal erotica which has tested the diametric limits of the most dilatable orifice in the male body. Examples include Robert Mapplethorpe's photograph Helmut and Brooks, N.Y.C., 1978 (Danto plate 107), which shows one man's large forearm in another's anus, and the Mo' Bigga' Butt video which has two male hands in a male anus. One patron of the Hellfire reportedly could take "an entire rack of billiard balls up his rectum" (Heidenry 161). Such inter-male sexual practices produce "intense sexual pleasure while bypassing, to a greater or lesser extent, the genitals themselves" and involve "the eroticisation of non-genital regions of the body" (Halperin 47). In countenance to standard heterosexual productions in which "the phallus is monolithic and absolute", in these gay male productions "attraction to the penis, contextualized in a holistically eroticized body, is not always the focus of sexual desire" (Jackson 147). In Homosexual Desire, Guy Hocquenghem contended that the gay sauna, a private inter-male consensual sex sphere of the 1970s, would provide a pornutopian space for such "primary sexual communism" (111). In the contemporary popular screen production Austin Powers, the fisted man has become a public, post-orgasmic, de-phallicised object of heterosexual female desire. Man-fisting females and woman-fisted males con-fuse the modern sex/gender identities deployed this century to categorise desiring agents. At the end of his article "What Is Sexuality?", Gary Dowsett asks of the Schramm-Evans female-in-male fisting relationship, "in being fist-fucked by a woman is the gay man still homosexual? In committing sodomy with her arm, is Schramm-Evans still woman?" (29). We could ask similar questions about the gender identities and sexual desires of the queer women, men, and transgenderists, who have contributed to the imag(in)ing of the 'penetratrix'. The simple answer may be that all are 'bisexual/s'. However, gay, lesbian, bisexual and heterosexual categories of identity hinge upon desires for specific (similar and/or different) genital morphologies. These identities are upset by performances such as anal-fisting which inscribe organs with omnisexual, non-genital morphologies as objects of desire. In lesbian-in-gay fisting performances "not only has gender been exposed as a masquerade in the service of modern heterosexuality, sexuality has become a field of possibilities where the entanglements of bodies and pleasures and the manufacture of meaning are already bursting through their century-long confinement" (Dowsett 29). Feminists such as Germaine Greer have reformulated sexual metaphors to challenge narratives that define woman as castrated lack. In The Whole Woman, Greer explains that her earlier feminist text, The Female Eunuch, "attempted to provide a different version of female receptivity by speaking of the vagina ... as if it sucked on the penis and emptied it out rather than simply receiving the ejaculate" (39). She now notes that such "cunt-power" has "still to manifest itself". Instead, "penetration mania, the outsize dildo and the fist, [and] the world split open" (39) have manifested "in the last third of the twentieth century [when] more women were penetrated deeper and more often than in any preceeding era" (6). On all these accounts Greer is correct but offers only part of the story. Her desire to change (heterosexual) women's views of their (and male) anatomies is admirable, but such new (hetero)sexual metaphors alone may have negligible effects on male viewpoints. Let's also note that, in the last thirty years, more men were penetrated through the anus (and other orifices) deeper, wider, and more often than ever before (in medical and sexual, indeed, any contexts). Also significantly, more women actively penetrated more men (and more women) deeper, wider and more often than ever before. Man's world and body are also splitting open, and women, too, are wielding dildos and fists and medical equipment to make them split. Queer women who directly act on their desires to infiltrate male bodies (while doing as they desire with their own vulvae) also create cunt-power. It may be most difficult for theorists, including some queer theorists, who have cast the lesbian feminist "with or without dildo" as "the dreaded figure of castration and lack" (Probyn 46) to so typify a queer woman who twists her fist into a male anus. The potential power of the newly arrived male-fisting penetratrix is palpable for women and men. Thus, the penetratrix, as an image "freed from its post within a structure of law, lack, and signification, can begin to move all over the place. It then causes different ripples and affects, effects of desire and desirous affects. Turning away from the game of matching signifiers to signifieds, we can begin to focus on the movement of images as effecting and affecting movement" (Probyn 59). The moving image of Felicity Shagwell with her forearm supposedly in Austin Power's anus has the potential to unleash a new chain of queer sexual metaphors. It may be most difficult for theorists, including some queer theorists, who have cast the lesbian feminist "with or without dildo" as "the dreaded figure of castration and lack" (Probyn 46) to so typify a queer woman who twists her fist into a male anus. The potential power of the newly arrived male-fisting penetratrix is palpable for women and men. Thus, the penetratrix, as an image "freed from its post within a structure of law, lack, and signification, can begin to move all over the place. It then causes different ripples and affects, effects of desire and desirous affects. Turning away from the game of matching signifiers to signifieds, we can begin to focus on the movement of images as effecting and affecting movement" (Probyn 59). The moving image of Felicity Shagwell with her forearm supposedly in Austin Power's anus has the potential to unleash a new chain of queer sexual metaphors. What better way for men to understand some of the pleasure and pain involved in vaginal births or deep vaginal penetrations than to have (at least imagined) a large object going in and out of their rectum? Rather than trying to formulate such rhetoric, Greer claims that men are correct to resist regular ano-digital examinations for prostate problems. Now that heterosexual men have begun to experience physical insertions that rupture their monolithic masculinity, Greer discourages them. Critical reactions to the groundbreaking images of the male-penetrating female in Austin Powers have been mixed. In the national newspaper Evan Williams remarked rather uncomfortably that "the silhouetted extraction of assorted paraphernalia from Austin's backside -- go[es] on much too long". On national youth radio Michael Tunn rather excitedly praised the gag as "the funniest I've seen". At the cinema I attended, several adults giggled during the scene. I was bent over in hysterics while a young woman up behind me laughed most powerfully. Did the sudden stunned silence of a teenage male who had been sniggering with desire for Heather Graham's body hide his excited discomfort at the realisation of her phallic desiring power and his desire to be penetrated? Clearly, a chord had been struck deep within him. The positive subversive effects on children exposed to the graphic imaging of reversed bodily sex and gender rôles should also not be underestimated. The queer man-fisting woman reconfigures standard feminist sexual (pre)positions. To the heterocentric paradigm of woman-on-top and man-on-bottom have been added the queer figures of the woman-as-top and the man-as-bottom. The genito-centric anti-penetration agenda espoused in The Whole Woman denies the desires and effects of such man-penetrating female and woman-penetrated male agents. Austin Powers, on the other hand, celebrates these desiring figures in a climactic gender-fucking pièce de résistance. This Hollywood film only flirts with notions of fistfucking but is a credit to collaborating heterosexual actors Mike Myers and Heather Graham. Their queer simulated penetration scene comprises the film's most graphic and comedic representation of a (hetero)sexual act. At the end of the millennium, some women are taking matters of queer politics in hand, by raising their clenched feminist fists for a new sexual revolution. Some men are opening their ani wide to them and the pleasures and pains of (pomo)sexual equality, with rippling desires to become fulfilled queer male (w)holes. References Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me. Dir. M. Jay Roach. New Line Cinema, 1999. Blink-182. Enema of the State. MCA 1999. Danto, Arthur C. Mapplethorpe. New York: Random House, 1992. Dowsett, Gary. "What Is Sexuality?: A Bent Answer to a Straight Question." Meanjin 55.1 (1996): 16-30. Greer, Germaine. The Whole Woman. London: Doubleday. 1999. Halperin, David M. "Becoming Homosexual: Michel Foucault on the Future of Gay Writing." Island 63 (Winter 1995): 44-51. Heidenry, John. What Wild Ecstasy: The Rise and Fall of the Sexual Revolution. Port Melbourne, Vic.: William Heinemann, 1997. Hocquenghem, Guy. Homosexual Desire. 1972. Trans. Daniella Dangoor. Durham, N.C.: Duke UP, 1993. Jackson, Earl. "Explicit Instruction: Teaching Gay Male Sexuality in Literature Classes." Professions of Desire: Lesbian and Gay Studies in Literature. Ed. George E. Haggerty and Bonnie Zimmerman. New York: MLA, 1995: 136-155. Kloster, Doris. Doris Kloster: Photographs. Cologne: Benedikt Taschen, 1996. Mo' Bigga' Butt. Dir. Steven Scarborough. Plain Wrapped Video, 1997. Néret, Gilles, ed. Erotica Universalis. Cologne: Benedikt Taschen, 1996. Probyn, Elspeth. Outside Belongings. New York: Routledge, 1996. Salaman, Naomi, ed. What She Wants: Women Artists Look at Men. London: Verso, 1994. Schramm-Evans, Zoë. "Internal Politics." Body Politic 4 (1993). Serrano, Andres. The History of Sex (The Fisting). 1996. ---. The History of Sex (Christiaan and Rose). 1996. Stringer, Gary, voc. "Place Your Hands." Glow. By Reef. Sony, 1997. Tunn, Michael. Lunch. Triple J. 4JJJ, Brisbane. 28 June 1999. Waugh, Thomas. Hard to Imagine: Gay Male Eroticism in Photography and Film from Their Beginnings to Stonewall. New York: Columbia UP, 1996. Williams, Evan. "Knickers in a Twist." Weekend Australian Review 19-20 June 1999: 21. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Simon-Astley Scholfield. "Newly Desiring and Desired: Queer Man-Fisting Women." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.5 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/queer.php>. Chicago style: Simon-Astley Scholfield, "Newly Desiring and Desired: Queer Man-Fisting Women," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 5 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/queer.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Simon-Astley Scholfield. (1999) Newly desiring and desired: queer man-fisting women. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(5). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/queer.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction In a 1984 New York Times interview, Germaine Greer discussed the quite different views that have surrounded her supposed attitude towards sex. As she put it, “People seem to think I'm Hugh Hefner and that the reason women started having sex is because I told them to” (qtd. in De Lacy). This view had, however, shifted by the 1980s. As she told reporter Justine De Lacy, “Now they are saying that I'm against sex.” In this article, I tease out Greer’s remarks about the supposed transformation of her political persona. I do so with reference to her work on Suck Magazine, which was billed by its editors as “The First European Sex Paper,” and which was first published in 1969 (cited in Gleeson 86). The article has two key aims. The first is to demonstrate that Greer has not (as it might seem) transformed from a sexual revolutionary to an anti-sex ideologue. This view is too simplistic. The article’s second aim is to explore Greer’s significant but under-acknowledged contribution to feminist debates about pornography. Far from being strictly anti- or pro-porn, Greer’s work on Suck actually aligns with both of these positions, and it appeared before the feminist porn debates really gained traction. Germaine Greer as Sexual Revolutionary and/or Anti-Sex Ideologue? The apparent political transformation that Greer mentioned in 1984 has been particularly apparent since the 1990s. Since that decade, she has criticised pornography on several occasions. For example, in her book The Whole Woman (1999), Greer argued, “Pornography is the flight from woman, men’s denial of sex as a medium of communication . . .” (181). In an article published in The Guardian in 2000, Greer wrote, “Can [pornography] go too far? No, it can't. As far as male sexual fantasy is concerned there is no too far.” In a 2012 episode of the Australian current affairs program Q&A, Greer argued, “Pornography is the advertisement of prostitution.”Greer’s stance on pornography, and particularly her invocation of female sexual subordination, might seem to represent a radical shift from the political persona that she cultivated during the 1960s and 1970s. During that earlier period, Greer was arguing for female sexual empowerment. She posed nude for Suck. In 1971, the US magazine Life described Greer as a “saucy feminist that even men like” (qtd. in Wallace, unpaginated photograph). There is nothing “saucy” about her more recent anti-porn posture; this posture is not concerned with “empowerment” in any obvious way. Yet I would suggest that Greer at least anticipated this posture in her work on Suck. In that magazine, she did not frame sex as being entirely emancipatory. Rather, Greer argued for sexual liberation (particularly for women), but (in doing so) she also invoked the hierarchical gender roles that would later be invoked in anti-porn feminist arguments. Examining some of Greer’s contributions to Suck will make clear the important contribution that she has made to feminist debates about pornography. These are debates which she has not generally been associated with, or at least not to the extent that Andrea Dworkin and Catharine A. MacKinnon (both US feminists who have very publicly remonstrated against porn) have (see Dworkin; MacKinnon and Dworkin). The feminist porn debates gained ascendance during the late 1970s and early 1980s, and seem to have been liveliest in North America (see Bronstein; Duggan and Hunter; MacKinnon and Dworkin). These debates are significant because of what they say about the truly complex and contentious relationship between sex, gender, power, and representation. The feminist porn debates have been broad-ranging (Sullivan and McKee 10), though they tend to have been framed as polarised conflicts between anti-pornography feminists and “sex-positive”/“anti-censorship” feminists. For anti-pornography feminists, pornography always symptomatises and perpetuates gender hierarchy. Andrea Dworkin famously defined “pornography” as the graphic, sexually explicit subordination of women in pictures and/or words that also includes women presented dehumanized as sexual objects, things, or commodities; or women presented as sexual objects who enjoy pain or humiliation; or women presented as sexual objects who experience sexual pleasure in being raped; or women presented as sexual objects tied up or cut up or mutilated or bruised or physically hurt; or women presented in postures or positions of sexual submission, servility, or display; or women’s body parts—including but not limited to vaginas, breasts, buttocks—exhibited such that women are reduced to those parts; or women presented as whores by nature . . . (xxxiii) Conversely, sex-positive/anti-censorship feminists tend to assess pornography “on a case by case basis”; porn can range from woman-hating to politically progressive (McKee, Albury, and Lumby 22). For these feminists, attempts to legislate against pornography (for example, via the anti-porn ordinance drawn up in the US during the 1980s by Dworkin and MacKinnon) amount to censorship, and are not in the interest of women, feminism, or sexual liberation (Duggan and Hunter 29–39; and see also MacKinnon and Dworkin). Among the most striking aspects of Greer’s work on Suck is that it actually mobilises aspects of both these (loosely-defined) feminist positions, and appeared almost a decade before pornography became an issue of contention amongst feminists. This work was published not in North America, but in Europe; the Australian-born Greer was living in the United Kingdom at the time of that magazine’s publication, and indeed she has been described as “Britain’s . . . most well-known feminist” (Taylor 759; and see also Gleeson). Does Porn Suck? Greer co-founded Suck in 1969, the year before The Female Eunuch was published. Greer had already established a minor public profile through her journalistic contributions to the London-based Oz Magazine. Several of those contributions were written under the guise of “Dr G—the only groupie with a Ph.D in captivity,” and featured references to “groupiedom” and “cunt power” (qtd. in Gleeson 86). Suck was published in Amsterdam to circumvent “British censorship laws” (Wallace 15). The magazine was very much a product of the then-current sexual revolution, as suggested by the following passage from a 1971 editorial: “Our cause is sexual liberation. Our tactic is the defiance of censorship” (University of Melbourne Archives). Suck comprised sexually-explicit imagery (for example, nudity and shots of (hetero)sexual penetration) and similarly explicit articles. These articles are furnished with the vivid, deliberately provocative prose for which Greer is renowned.In some articles, Greer argues that women’s acceptance of their bodies constitutes a rebellion against patriarchy. In a 1971 article, she writes, “Primitive man feared the vagina . . . as the most magical of magical orifices of the body” (University of Melbourne Archives). The title of this piece is “Lady Love Your Cunt,” and indicates Greer’s view that patriarchal fears—or, as she puts it, the fears of “primitive man”—have contributed to stigma that has surrounded the vagina. Greer concludes thus: “Why not send a photograph of your own cunt, with your names labelled on?” (Whether any readers responded to this invitation remains unclear.) In “Bounce Titty Bounce,” she describes a “Mafia that controls the shapes of [women’s] bodies” (University of Melbourne Archives). This control is particularly evident in the brassiere, which Greer calls “a muzzle, a mask, binding joys and desires with wire and rubber and nylon and clips and cotton.” In a 1970 article entitled “Ladies get on top for better orgasms,” Greer opens with the statement: “The prevalence of the missionary position of fucking in the Western World [sic] seems to mean a widespread unfairness in sex.” She elaborates: Even if women were not . . . slighter than men, the missionary position would have little to commend it. The hands of the man are not free to play with his lover’s breasts or clitoris . . . because he must support himself, at least partially by them . . . The male ismin [sic] full control. Greer concedes that the “female on top position is perhaps the least popular of the alternatives to the missionary position.” The “female on top” position does, however, have advantages for women, one being that a woman “can arrive at a position to accept the cock without having to take her weight on her hands.” Greer’s best-known contribution to Suck is a selection of nude photographs that were published in a 1971 edition. In one shot, Greer is lying on her back, her legs behind her ears, her anus directly in front of the camera. In another shot, she is positioned in the same manner, although her anus and vagina are more central within the frame. In both shots, Greer is gazing directly into the camera and smiling. On one level, the textual and photographic examples described above—and, in fact, the very publication of Suck—suggest a rebellion against sexual repression. This rebellion was characteristic of the sexual revolution (Gleeson 86). Yet, in advocating female sexual empowerment, Greer distanced herself from the masculine bias of that movement. In her 1984 New York Times interview, Greer was quoted as saying that “. . . the sexual revolution never happened. Permissiveness happened, and that’s no better than repressiveness, because women are still being manipulated by men” (qtd. in De Lacy). Here, she anticipates arguments (e.g. Jeffreys) that the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s actually sanctioned (heterosexual) male desire and men’s sexual access to women. In Suck, then, Greer argued that women need to liberate themselves sexually, and not only be seen as instruments for male sexual liberation. Greer did pose nude, but, in doing so, she stared back into the camera/at the spectator—thus returning the gaze, rather than being objectified by this gaze (Mulvey). Greer has described her shots thus: “Face, pubes and anus, nothing decorative about it. Nothing sexy about it either. Confrontation was the name of the game” (qtd. in Gleeson 86). In 2013, Greer wrote of that photo shoot: “Women’s bodies were merchandised. Each week we saw a little more: nipples, then pussy . . . drip-feeding the masturbation fantasies of a [male] generation. My gesture aimed to short-circuit that process.” She has also been quoted as saying that she envisioned Suck as an “antidote to the exploitative papers like Screw and Hustler,” by “developing a new kind of erotic art, away from the tits ‘n’ ass and the peep show syndrome” (qtd. in Gleeson 86). Thus, Greer’s Suck contributions seem to foreshadow the “sex-positive” feminism that would emerge later in the 1970s in North America (e.g. Duggan and Hunter). Her work would also anticipate feminist uses of porn to explore female sexuality from specifically female and feminist perspectives (see Taormino et al.). A closer examination of these contributions, however, suggests a more complex picture. Witness Greer’s reference to the popularity of “missionary sex” as a reason for “widespread unfairness in sex,” or her description of a (presumably) male-dominated “Mafia” who control women’s bodies (for example, via the bra). In a newspaper interview that was published around the time of The Female Eunuch’s 1970 publication, Greer argued that sex needs to be “rescued” from the patriarchy by feminists. This is because sex under patriarchy has been characterised by the dichotomised positions of “powerful and powerless, masterful and mastered.” In this scenario, women are the ones who are “powerless” and “mastered.” The title of that interview is “Author Attacks Dominating Male” (University of Melbourne Archives).The above statements suggest a sexual landscape characterised by “potentially violent, dominant men and subordinated, silenced women” (Duggan and Hunter 7). In this landscape, sex is a site of gender inequality; and even something as apparently innocuous as underwear is used by men to control women. The pervasive sense of patriarchy invoked here would (as scholars such as Duggan and Hunter have argued) be invoked in much anti-pornography feminist writing. And Greer would go on to concur with the anti-porn stance, as the three pronouncements cited at the beginning of this article attest. (In Suck, Greer does not attempt to define “pornography,” and nor does she classify her contributions as being “pornography” or “anti-pornography.”)ConclusionI have argued that it is useful to revisit some of Germaine Greer’s contributions to Suck Magazine in order to reassess her apparent transformation from sexual revolutionary to anti-sex ideologue. These contributions (which include articles and photographs) are celebrations of female sexual empowerment and critiques of what Greer sees as a pervasive gender hierarchy. I have argued that this work is also useful in that it anticipates the feminist debates about pornography that would gain ascendance in North America almost a decade after Suck’s publication. Greer articulates arguments that would come to be aligned with both “sex-positive” and “anti-pornography” feminist discourses. To this extent, she has made an important and thus far largely unacknowledged contribution to these highly polarised feminist debates. ReferencesBronstein, Carolyn. Battling Pornography: The American Feminist Anti-Pornography Movement, 1976–1986. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2011.De Lacy, Justine. “Germaine Greer’s New Book Stirs a Debate.” The New York Times. 5 Mar. 1984. 21 Oct. 2015 <https://www.nytimes.com/books/99/05/09/specials/greer-debate.html>.Duggan, Lisa, and Nan D. Hunter, eds. “Introduction.” Sex Wars: Sexual Dissent and Political Culture. 10th Anniversary Edition. London: Routledge, 2006. 1–13.Dworkin, Andrea. Pornography: Men Possessing Women. New York: Plume, 1989. Gleeson, Kate. “From Suck Magazine to Corporate Paedophilia: Feminism and Pornograph—Remembering the Australian Way.” Women’s Studies International Forum 38 (2013): 83–96.Greer, Germaine. The Whole Woman. London: Transworld Publishers, 1999. ———. “Gluttons for Porn.” The Guardian 24 Sep. 2000. 21 Oct. 2015 <http://www.theguardian.com/books/2000/sep/24/society>.———. “As Women Bare All in Feminist Protest, Germaine Greer Asks: Is This Feminism?” News.com.au 17 Mar. 2013. 30 July 2016 <http://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/as-women-bare-all-in-feminist-protest-germaine-greer-asks-is-this-feminism/story-fneszs56-1226598414628>.Jeffreys, Sheila. Anticlimax: A Feminist Perspective on the Sexual Revolution. London: The Women’s Press, 1990. MacKinnon, Catharine A., and Andrea Dworkin, eds. In Harm’s Way: The Pornography Civil Rights Hearings. Massachusetts: Harvard UP, 1997. McKee, Alan, Katherine Albury, and Catharine Lumby. The Porn Report. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2008. Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Screen 16.3 (1975): 6–18. Q&A. “Politics and Porn in a Post-Feminist World.” First screened 19 Mar. 2012. 20 May 2016 <http://www.abc.net.au/tv/qanda/txt/s3451584.htm>.Suck Magazine. Copies held by Germaine Greer Archive, University of Melbourne. Sullivan, Rebecca, and Alan McKee. Pornography: Structures, Agency and Performance. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2015.Taormino, Tristan, Celine Parrenas Shimizu, Constance Penley, and Mireille Miller-Young, eds. The Feminist Porn Book: The Politics of Producing Pleasure. New York: Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2013.Taylor, Anthea. “Germaine Greer’s Adaptable Celebrity: Feminism, Unruliness, and Humour on the British Small Screen.” Feminist Media Studies 14.5 (2014): 759–74.University of Melbourne Archives, Germaine Greer archive. Undated. 2014.0038, Unit 216. File name “(Drawer 158) Press clippings about Germaine Greer.” “Author Attacks Dominating Male.” Interview with Germaine Greer. Interviewer and place of publication unknown. Unpaginated. ———. Undated. 2014.0038, Unit 219. File name “Bounce Titty Bounce.” “Bounce Titty Bounce.” Originally published in Suck Magazine. Viewed in unpublished manuscript form. Unpaginated. ———. 1971. 2014.0038, Unit 219. File name “Suck Editorial 1971?” “Editorial.” Suck Magazine. Issue number not provided. Unpaginated. ———. 1971. 2014.0038, Unit 219. File name: “Lady Love Your Cunt Suck.” “Lady Love Your Cunt.” Originally published in Suck Magazine. Viewed in unpublished manuscript form. Unpaginated. ———. Undated. 2014.0038, Unit 219. File name: “Suck Correspondence 73.” Untitled photographs of Germaine Greer. Originally published in Suck Magazine. Unpaginated. Wallace, Christine. Germaine Greer, Untamed Shrew. Sydney: Pan MacMillan, 1997.

This article reflects upon the process of the making and screening of an interactive short film called Textual @traction, which I wrote and directed. The film is 12 minutes long, 35mm film, and shows how a series of messages sent to a lost mobile phone inadvertently allows two gay men to declare their love for each other. In the form of a puzzle, the film denies sight of the crucial messages sent between the characters, messages which motivate their actions. However, through the simple use of SMS (Short Message System) text technology, the audience can receive each of these messages on their own mobile phones as they watch the film in the cinema. Billed as an interactive event with prior information for audience telephone registration, the film has been screened at cinemas, film festivals, and conferences as well as on broadcast television. To receive the text messages during the film, the phone owner is asked to send a message before the screening to a five-digit number that registers their telephone for the event. If audience members do not have a mobile phone, they must share with another audience member or try to solve the puzzle of the film without messages. Messages are sent to audience members’ mobile/cell phones from a laptop computer by a bulk SMS delivery programme, via an SMS gateway, directly to the appropriate national mobile telephone network provider, guaranteeing split-second accuracy. When appropriate and depending on the location of the screening, audience members can also choose the language of the messages when they register. Textual @traction was nominated for UK BAFTA Interactive Award 2005 and won the Best New Media: Interactive Award at the Celtic Film Festival 2005. It has been shown in a number of international film festivals, including the International Festival of New Film, in Split, Croatia 2004; the International Short Film Festival in Los Angeles 2005(Academy-listed); and the Atlantic Film Festival, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 2005. It had its broadcast premier, and world-first for an interactive film, on S4C (Sianel Pedwar Cymru), the Welsh Language Channel with its Welsh title, ‘Caru T x’, on 25 Jan. 2006. This article addresses the audience’s experience of this interactive event, speculating on the relative audience/user positions inherent in the two technologies (cinema and mobile telephone) and on whether or not their combination can be described as a collaboration. Underpinning this speculation is the assumption that modes of representation and communication construct the subject/user in specific ways and that the Textual @traction interactive event requires of the audience member to occupy both the position of cinema viewer and of phone user alternately during the event if they are to ‘complete’ the fiction. Following on from this assumption, I have set out a number of oppositions: Live/Dead, Social/Individual, Intimate/Anonymous, and Passive/Active, against which the differences between the two technologies and the ways they construct the viewer/user are posited. These polarities also allow exploration of the various aspects of the suspension of disbelief assumed by the viewer of the film and whether the interruption to the flow of images and sounds on the cinema screen by the actions required of the viewer to retrieve and read the telephone messages dismantles that suspension by spoiling the viewer’s identification with the characters, undermining their assumptions governing the world of the film, and shattering its temporal and spatial coherence. As writer and director of the film, my initial intention was not to set out to explore these questions at all. Once the story took shape and I saw the possibility that the only dialogue in the film was that delivered by text message, it was a short step (albeit, initially, a frivolous one!) to investigate the possibility of delivering those messages to the audience during the screening of the film. I dislike reading diegetic written text on the cinema screen, believing it to be a betrayal of cinema’s essential qualities: it is a medium of pictures and sounds, not words. Of course, once it became clear that it was going to be possible to send time-specific messages to the audience members, enabling them to simultaneously read the very same message the character on screen is reading, I soon became intrigued by the potential effect this would have on the audience. Would it ‘deepen’ the process of identification with the characters? None of the characters in the film are aware of each other’s identity when they communicate and thus the narrative unfolds with dramatic irony. Would the audience’s resulting privileged knowledge in relation to the characters be enhanced by the film’s interactive dimension, because the characters are ‘unaware’ that the audience members are reading ‘their messages’? The following explores these questions and is, to a large extent, a product of observation and analysis of the interactive event, post-event, and also includes reflection on comments from audience members that have attended the event. Live/Dead Textual @traction has been constructed according to the principles of classic continuity, with every shot contributing to the narrative chain. At the end of the film, there is closure, both the conventional culmination and the objective of the classic (Hollywood) narrative, the classic continuity approach. Textual @traction, like all forms of cinema—whether classic narrative, avant-garde, multi-screen, or home movie—is a record of past events. In this film we engage with re-animated past events at twenty-four still frames a second, willingly suppressing whatever knowledge and awareness of apparatus and artifice we possess. However, while knowledge of a process of construction and presentation are suppressed, there is no necessity for the viewer to believe that the events on screen are happening as we observe them. We know these events are in the past; rather, it is the knowledge of the active arrangement of these discreet, past events (shots, scenes, sequences…) into a natural flow that we necessarily suppress. This is achievable, of course, by our unconscious operation of a complex system that organises this flow into spatial, temporal, and narrative coherence. ‘Film language’ is the term given to this internalised vocabulary we bring to bear on a film to make sense of what we see and hear—modified in each film, some more than others. It allows us to understand spatial and temporal construction, to accept ellipses, parallel action and so on. It is a very complex system, which in classical continuity is mobilised in the service of the story and rendered invisible, so that a film unfolds as if conforming to natural laws (Bazin; Metz; Monaco). I made the decision at an early stage in the development process for Textual @traction that the film would do precisely this. While I wanted the film to be challenging and ‘experimental’, I believed its potential for breaking new ground resided in the realm of the juxtaposition/collaboration of the two technologies and its impact on the viewer’s engagement with the fictional world of the story. The messages would necessarily be disruptive of a mode of presentation that is sacrosanct (at least in mainstream cinema) and I thought the tighter the narrative chain, the more apparent the effects of this juxtaposition/collaboration would be. Disruption does occur when the viewer receives a message (there are eleven in all during the 12 minutes of the film) and it is at these points that the viewer becomes phone user and the recipient of a ‘live’ communication that is time-specific. Technically, each message is sent from the bulk-messaging programme to all the registered phones at the same time so that their arrival coincides with the arrival of the ‘same message’ in the on-screen character’s phone: audience member and on-screen character then read the same message simultaneously. To achieve this, the start time of the computer programme and the start time of the film projection in the cinema have to coincide exactly. One always presumes that text messages sent to our phones originate with a person, even those that are anonymous (news and sports alerts, etc.). The assumption underlying the use of the messages in Textual @traction is that, since according to the classic narrative cinema-effect we ‘become’ each character in order to understand what motivates their actions (identifying most energetically with the protagonist), receiving the same text messages they are receiving and reading them at the same time as they are is consistent with this process of identification, although stretching it to its limits. Crucial to the achievement of identification within the classic continuity approach is the point-of view shot, and it is this element that the messages ‘substitute’ or, perhaps, ‘literalise’ in the film (Bordwell 29-33; Branigan; Gaut 260-270). Conventionally in a film, when a character looks at something that is significant to the story, the look is followed on screen by the point-of-view shot, which shows the audience what is being seen by that character. In Textual @traction, point-of-view shots are deployed in this conventional manner. Moreover, as the main character in the film is a photographer whom we see taking photographs early in the film, the act of looking and the views he sees are, in fact, clearly foregrounded in a number of shot-reverse shot sequences. However, when we see characters looking at their phones and reading the messages they’ve been sent by other characters in the film, these shots are not followed by point-of-view shots that show the messages they are reading. Instead, the spectators in the cinema ‘enact’ their own point-of-view shot as they look at the same message on their phone screens in their hands. In a ‘literal’ sense, the audience members, at these points, ‘become’ the characters. Thus, in Textual @traction there is a two-fold process that reverses the live/dead polarity of cinema. Firstly, the arrival of the message in the audience-member’s phone transforms the past event on the screen to a live one. The suspension of disbelief in the viewer is heightened in order to accept the impossibility of acquiring the same knowledge the people on screen are acquiring, at the same time. Secondly, the viewer in the cinema, when reading the messages, ‘becomes’ the fictional character, performing a live enactment of the point-of view shot that is missing on screen. In both processes, phone technology bestows its live-ness to the dead world of the film—at least momentarily, until rational thought points out its absurdity. Social/Individual While going to the cinema is a social activity, the apparatus of cinema is organised in such a way as to individuate the cinema experience. The combination of the dimming of the auditorium lights to darkness and the seating arrangement encourages the viewer to suppress the awareness of others. The experience can then become intensely private. While there are physical and aural constraints on the viewer’s behaviour, imposed mainly to guarantee other viewers’ enjoyment (including, ordinarily, the prohibition of mobile phone use!), once seated and still, the viewer feels entitled to respond to the action on the screen in whatever way appropriate: they can smile, shudder, or weep with impunity. Additionally, the optics of the lens (the cinema projector reproducing the camera’s), in conjunction with the design of the auditorium itself, continues the tradition of Renaissance perspective in providing a single vanishing point that guarantees centrality to each viewer in relation to the scene depicted however many viewers there are in the cinema, wherever they are sitting. As far as the apparatus of cinema is concerned, there is no privileged view of the visual field displayed on the screen; each viewer in the auditorium see the same view, wherever they sit, centred and interpolated individually. Text-messaging is one-to-one communication par excellence. It takes speech telephone privacy one step further: even in a situation where both sender and receiver are in public spaces, surrounded by people, two-way communication can be completely private. When every member of the audience in a screening of Textual @traction receives text messages, they receive them at the same time as everyone else, and they assume they are receiving the same message. Emphasised by the cacophony of (individually-chosen) text alerts as each message reaches its destination within split seconds of each other, the simultaneity and the common address transforms what is usually an individual and private mode of communication into a collective, social one. At the same time, the individuating effect of the cinematic apparatus is undermined. Awareness of their counterparts’ presence returns, the light from individual phone screens illuminate the viewers’/phones users’ faces as they retrieve and read their messages and they look around the auditorium to compare their reactions with those of others. In those moments, the social/individual polarity as it relates to the two technologies is reversed: the phone’s from individual to social; cinema, from individuating to collectivising. Intimate/Anonymous While the apparatus of cinema individuates, the address of cinema is anonymous, making no adjustment for the individual (Baudry; Comolli; De Lauretis). Of course, there is specificity in the address of most cinema: the various genre of commercial film, as well as the varieties of independent and avant-garde films, presume certain audiences and address these audiences on the basis of a shared set of assumptions and expectations. These include individual films’ themes, the forms of narrative (or non-narrative), its variety of characters, the pleasures the films afford, and so on. However, cinema is not discursive. It cannot by ‘adjusted’ to suit the individual. The Intimate/Anonymous polarity is one that draws out the difference between a mode of representation, in this case cinema, and a mode of communication, text messaging. The former presents a completed artefact of some kind while the latter is a technology that allows for discursive activity between sender and receiver. Of course, various forms of interactive art are necessarily making this notion of the ‘artefact’ problematic, allowing the individual viewer to organise and re-organise narratives, modify environments, and create unique assemblages of images and sounds, often enabled by sophisticated computer programmes. During such interaction, individuals may create never-to-be repeated experiences brought about by complex, randomised interfaces. Nevertheless, these are examples of interaction with the artefact and while they may be unique, they are also anonymous. If discursive activity between users is achieved in these circumstances then the technology by definition becomes a mode of communication, however mediated by technology or programming. Telephone communication is all about individual address, both in spoken and text language. A text messages is either sent to elicit a response or it is the response. Unless it is an unsolicited, anonymous message, a text message is a specific and personal missive to the individual, its specificity arising from the sender’s knowledge of the receiver. Receiving such text messages during Textual @traction (and because of the sexual tenor of some of the messages, they are especially ‘personal’)—‘sent’ to the audience members ‘unwittingly’ by the individual fictional characters on screen—transforms the address of the film from anonymous to intimate, from general to individual. The intimacy associated with text messaging enhances our identification with the on-screen characters because we are given an insight into their motivations by being (voyeuristically) included what is generally a private discourse. For those who have experienced the Textual @traction interactive event and who have expressed an opinion about it, it does seem that it was this dimension of the experience that was a particular source of pleasure. Passive/Active In mainstream cinema we enter the auditorium and we sit down to face the screen, on which the film appears. While we watch and listen we may eat and drink, shout, weep, and laugh. We can also leave if we disapprove of the film or of the behaviour of others around us. While all these activities (and more) are possible, none will impact on what is happening on the screen, nor, crucially, on the flow of information that constructs our understanding of the characters’ actions and the narrative in general. In this respect, as an audience, we are effectively passive. The receiving of messages during Textual @traction invites the audience to collaborate actively in the final form of the narrative that is the interactive event, completing the fictional world constructed by film and text messages together. The information they receive by text message enhances their understanding of both character motivation and of the narrative in general. Without their activity, the film is a puzzle. Added to the conceptual activity that this involves, there is also the physical activity and the psychological adjustment: when the audience members’ message alert sounds, they have to undertake a number of keystrokes on their keypad in order to bring the message up on the phone screen, then they have to read the message and construe the message’s relevance to the characters on screen, before returning to the cinema-screen element of the event once more. Conclusion There is no doubt that the Textual @traction interactive event strains credulity, or, to put it another way, depends on an enhancement of the suspension of disbelief normally accustomed to by a cinema audience. The notion that on-screen characters are ‘unwittingly’ sending text messages to audience members and that they are reading them ‘at the same time’ is nothing short of absurd. Absurdity and its wilful disregard by the audience, however, is no stranger to cinema, as we know. What I have attempted to do in this paper is to account for the success of the Textual @traction interactive event, despite its absurdity, by identifying three forms of collaboration that it depends on: collaboration with the text in order to complete the fiction, a collaboration between cinema as a mode of representation and messaging as a mode of communication that the audience member enables, and a collaboration between cinema/subject and telephone/subject performed by each audience member. As I have indicated, when these collaborations take place, some of the habitual characteristics of both modes are transformed or modified: text messaging becomes a social rather than a private activity, while the apparatus of cinema transforms from one that individuates to one that collectivises. In addition, the address of cinema, normally anonymous, is bestowed with intimacy by the text messaging, and finally, a normally passive audience is active in their involvement to complete the fiction. References Baudry, Jean-Louis. “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus.” Film Quarterly 28.2 (Winter 1974-5): 39-47. Bazin, André. “The Evolution of the Language of the Cinema.” What Is Cinema? Trans. Hugh Gray. Berkeley: U of California P, 1967. 23-40. Branigan, Edward. “Formal Permutations of the Point-of-View Shot”. Screen 16.3 (1975): 54-64. Bordwell, D., J. Staiger, and K. Thompson. The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960. London: Routledge, 1985. Comolli, Jean-Louis. “Technique and Ideology: Camera, Perspective, Depth of Field.” Movies and Methods Vol. II. Ed, Bill Nichols. Berkeley: U of California P, 1985. 40-57. De Lauretis, T., and S. Heath. The Cinematic Apparatus. London: Macmillan, 1980. Gaut, Berys. “Identification and Emotion in Narrative Film.” Philosophy of Film and Motion Pictures: An Anthology. Ed. Noel Carroll and Jinhee Choi. London: Blackwell, 2006. Metz, Christian. Film Language. Trans. Michael Taylor. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1975 [2004]. Monaco, James. How to Read a Film. 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Morris, Ieuan. "Interruption/Interaction/Collaboration: A Critical Appraisal of the Textual @traction Interactive Event." M/C Journal 9.2 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0605/15-morris.php>. APA Style Morris, I. (May 2006) "Interruption/Interaction/Collaboration: A Critical Appraisal of the Textual @traction Interactive Event," M/C Journal, 9(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0605/15-morris.php>.