Journal articles on the topic 'Prosaics states'

Radiation transform models such as PROSAIL are widely used for crop canopy reflectance simulation and biophysical parameter inversion. The PROSAIL model basically assumes that the canopy is turbid homogenous media with a bare soil background. However, the canopy structure changes when crop growth stages develop, which is more or less a departure from this assumption. In addition, a paddy rice field is inundated most of the time with flooded soil background. In this study, field-scale paddy rice leaf area index (LAI), leaf cholorphyll content (LCC), and canopy chlorophyll content (CCC) were retrieved from unmanned-aerial-vehicle-based hyperspectral images by the PROSAIL radiation transform model using a lookup table (LUT) strategy, with a special focus on the effects of growth-stage development and soil-background signature selection. Results show that involving flooded soil reflectance as background reflectance for PROSAIL could improve estimation accuracy. When using a LUT with the flooded soil reflectance signature (LUTflooded) the coefficients of determination (R2) between observed and estimation variables are 0.70, 0.11, and 0.79 for LAI, LCC, and CCC, respectively, for the entire growing season (from tillering to heading growth stages), and the corresponding mean absolute errors (MAEs) are 21.87%, 16.27%, and 12.52%. For LAI and LCC, high model bias mainly occurred in tillering growth stages. There is an obvious overestimation of LAI and underestimation of LCC for in the tillering growth stage. The estimation accuracy of CCC is relatively consistent from tillering to heading growth stages.

Leaf angle is a critical structural parameter for retrieving canopy leaf area index (LAI) using the PROSAIL model. However, the traditional method using default leaf angle distribution in the PROSAIL model does not capture the phenological dynamics of canopy growth. This study presents a LAI retrieval method for corn canopies using PROSAIL model with leaf angle distribution functions referred from terrestrial laser scanning points at four phenological stages during the growing season. Specifically, four inferred maximum-probability leaf angles were used in the Campbell ellipsoid leaf angle distribution function of PROSAIL. A Lookup table (LUT) is generated by running the PROSAIL model with inferred leaf angles, and the cost function is minimized to retrieve LAI. The results show that the leaf angle distribution functions are different for the corn plants at different phenological growing stages, and the incorporation of derived specific corn leaf angle distribution functions distribute the improvement of LAI retrieval using the PROSAIL model. This validation is done using in-situ LAI measurements and MODIS LAI in Baoding City, Hebei Province, China, and compared with the LAI retrieved using default leaf angle distribution function at the same time. The root-mean-square error (RMSE) between the retrieved LAI on 4 September 2014, using the modified PROSAIL model and the in-situ measured LAI was 0.31 m2/m2, with a strong and significant correlation (R2 = 0.82, residual range = 0 to 0.6 m2/m2, p < 0.001). Comparatively, the accuracy of LAI retrieved results using default leaf angle distribution is lower, the RMSE of which is 0.56 with R2 = 0.76 and residual range = 0 to 1.0 m2/m2, p < 0.001. This validation reveals that the introduction of inferred leaf angle distributions from TLS data points can improve the LAI retrieval accuracy using the PROSAIL model. Moreover, the comparations of LAI retrieval results on 10 July, 26 July, 19 August and 4 September with default and inferred corn leaf angle distribution functions are all compared with MODIS LAI products in the whole study area. This validation reveals that improvement exists in a wide spatial range and temporal range. All the comparisons demonstrate the potential of the modified PROSAIL model for retrieving corn canopy LAI from Landsat imagery by inferring leaf orientation from terrestrial laser scanning data.

The 3-D Radiative Transfer Model (RTM) FLIGHT can represent scattering in open forest or savannas featuring underlying bare soils. However, FLIGHT might not be suitable for multilayered tree-grass ecosystems (TGE), where a grass understory can dominate the reflectance factor (RF) dynamics due to strong seasonal variability and low tree fractional cover. To address this issue, we coupled FLIGHT with the 1-D RTM PROSAIL. The model is evaluated against spectral observations of proximal and remote sensing sensors: the ASD Fieldspec® 3 spectroradiometer, the Airborne Spectrographic Imager (CASI) and the MultiSpectral Instrument (MSI) onboard Sentinel-2. We tested the capability of both PROSAIL and PROSAIL+FLIGHT to reproduce the variability of different phenological stages determined by 16-year time series analysis of Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer-Normalized Difference Vegetation Index (MODIS-NDVI). Then, we combined concomitant observations of biophysical variables and RF to test the capability of the models to reproduce observed RF. PROSAIL achieved a Relative Root Mean Square Error (RRMSE) between 6% to 32% at proximal sensing scale. PROSAIL+FLIGHT RRMSE ranged between 7% to 31% at remote sensing scales. RRMSE increased in periods when large fractions of standing dead material mixed with emergent green grasses —especially in autumn—; suggesting that the model cannot represent the spectral features of this material. PROSAIL+FLIGHT improves RF simulation especially in summer and at mid-high view angles.

This article presents findings from a rhetorical analysis of job advertisements posted by the fastest growing companies in the United States ( Inc. 5000 rankings). The analysis suggests that companies rely on standard rhetorical figures and share similar rhetorical visions of novelty that likely effect their organizational culture, paradoxically make them homogeneous, and potentially oversell positions that require prosaic job duties. Suggestions to authors of job advertisements include writing with fewer clichés and metaphors, since they tend to reify ageist stereotypes. Suggestions for job seekers include doing rhetorical analyses of advertisements and writing résumés so they comply with job advertisements’ creative rhetorical styles.

Prior work suggests that feeling small relative to nature (Nature-Self Size; NSS) and inclusion of nature in the self-concept (INS) are both associated with more pro-environmental attitudes. The present experiment asked whether exposure to stimuli eliciting awe—an emotion often evoked by extraordinary panoramic views of nature, characterized by subjective experience of “small self” and modulation of reliance on stored concepts—leads to increased NSS and/or INS, thereby promoting pro-environmental policy attitudes. Participants in this online experiment were randomly assigned to view photographs of extraordinary panoramic nature scenes, prosaic nature images, desirable foods, or neutral scenes before completing measures of INS, NSS, and support for environmental conservation policies. Analyses revealed that INS significantly mediated the effects of exposure to panoramic nature scenes (versus a neutral control) on pro-environmental policy attitudes; however, the same effect was observed for the prosaic nature and tasty foods images. Results suggest that exposure to awe-eliciting stimuli can promote pro-environmental attitudes via modulation of the self-concept, but this may be due to pleasant affect rather than awe per se. Future research with real-life stimuli and longitudinal designs is needed to further examine the lasting effects of awe and other emotional states on the self-concept and associated environmental attitudes.

The discussion about the quality of Environmental Sanitation (ES) services is currently highlighted because it is directly linked to the population's quality of life. Assessing the scope of SA services has become an important tool for the management of municipalities and states, as it allows the adaptation to the reality of the population to improve future planning, foreseeing the expansion of SA services. The Municipal Basic Sanitation Plan - PMSB was established by Law No. 11.455 / 2007 as an important planning tool for basic sanitation services. It consists of programs, projects and actions aimed at improving the conditions of services that constitute basic sanitation: water supply, sanitation, as well as urban solid waste management and urban river water. With the accelerated urban growth in the municipality of Maués and the intense aggressions to the environment, the PROSAI-MAUÉS ES indicators were identified and diagnosed, which propose improvements in the urban, environmental and basic sanitation conditions of the municipality with the recovery of Lagoas do Silver and Maresia, which for many years have suffered from pollution around the lagoons. The lagoons in question were chosen for the implementation of PROSAI-MAUÉS, explained by the occupation of its margins by low-income population installed on stilts, the existence of flood risk points and the need for renewal of this urban fragment of tourist importance. On-site research was conducted using observation techniques and photographic recording to describe the conditions of local sanitation services. The experience of the PROSAI-MAUÉS project indicates that it is necessary to seek the institutional strengthening of the entities involved with the local society since the early stages. from the initial planning and execution to the final phase of monitoring and follow-up of the services provided by the basic sanitation works, thus ensuring the sustainability of the Program for future generations.

Decades after release of the first PROSPECT + SAIL (commonly called PROSAIL) versions, the model is still the most famous representative in the field of canopy reflectance modelling and has been widely used to obtain plant biochemical and structural variables, particularly in the agricultural context. The performance of the retrieval is usually assessed by quantifying the distance between the estimated and the in situ measured variables. While this has worked for hundreds of studies that obtained canopy density as a one-sided Leaf Area Index (LAI) or pigment content, little is known about the role of the canopy geometrical properties specified as the Average Leaf Inclination Angle (ALIA). In this study, we exploit an extensive field dataset, including narrow-band field spectra, leaf variables and canopy properties recorded in seven individual campaigns for winter wheat (4x) and silage maize (3x). PROSAIL outputs generally did not represent field spectra well, when in situ variables served as input for the model. A manual fitting of ALIA and leaf water (EWT) revealed significant deviations for both variables (RMSE = 14.5°, 0.020 cm) and an additional fitting of the brown leaf pigments (Cbrown) was necessary to obtain matching spectra at the near infrared (NIR) shoulder. Wheat spectra tend to be underestimated by the model until the emergence of inflorescence when PROSAIL begins to overestimate crop reflectance. This seasonal pattern could be attributed to an attenuated development of ALIAopt compared to in situ measured ALIA. Segmentation of nadir images of wheat was further used to separate spectral contributors into dark background, ears and leaves + stalks. It could be shown that the share of visible fruit ears from nadir view correlates positively with the deviations between field spectral measurement and PROSAIL spectral outputs (R² = 0.78 for aggregation by phenological stages), indicating that retrieval errors increase for ripening stages. An appropriate model parameterization is recommended to assure accurate retrievals of biophysical and biochemical products of interest. The interpretation of inverted ALIA as physical leaf inclinations is considered unfeasible and we argue in favour of treating it as a free calibration parameter.

The positive symptoms of psychosis largely involve the experience of illusory social actors, and yet our current measures of social cognition, at best, only weakly predict their presence. We review evidence to suggest that the range of current approaches in social cognition is not sufficient to explain the fundamentally social nature of these experiences. We argue that social agent representation is an important organizing principle for understanding social cognition and that alterations in social agent representation may be a factor in the formation of delusions and hallucination in psychosis. We evaluate the feasibility of this approach in light of clinical and nonclinical studies, developmental research, cognitive anthropology, and comparative psychology. We conclude with recommendations for empirical testing of specific hypotheses and how studies of social cognition could more fully capture the extent of social reasoning and experience in both psychosis and more prosaic mental states.

The eel seems a prosaic animal lurking at the bottom of bodies of fresh water, but it has a most marvelous and surprising life cycle. Born in the Sargasso Sea, a vast sea in the Atlantic Ocean between Bermuda and the Azores, eel larvae may drift thousands of miles before entering fresh water rivers in Europe and North America. Here, they spend their adult lives until they return down river to the ocean, and the Sargasso, to mate and die. Conjecture about this life cycle has occupied naturalists since Aristotle, just as the eel has occupied cooks since Greek times. It has played an important role in the cuisines of cultures around the world. Although it has recently fallen from favor in the U.S. and the U.K., it commonly graced both English and North American tables for centuries. It provided protein for London's poor during the Middle Ages and was a primary food source for the Mayflower pilgrims and other early European settlers in the United States, where it had long been much appreciated by native American peoples.

Mapping crop variables at different growth stages is crucial to inform farmers and plant breeders about the crop status. For mapping purposes, inversion of canopy radiative transfer models (RTMs) is a viable alternative to parametric and non-parametric regression models, which often lack transferability in time and space. Due to the physical nature of RTMs, inversion outputs can be delivered in sound physical units that reflect the underlying processes in the canopy. In this study, we explored the capabilities of the coupled leaf–canopy RTM PROSAIL applied to high-spatial-resolution (0.015 m) multispectral unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) data to retrieve the leaf chlorophyll content (LCC), leaf area index (LAI) and canopy chlorophyll content (CCC) of sweet and silage maize throughout one growing season. Two different retrieval methods were tested: (i) applying the RTM inversion scheme to mean reflectance data derived from single breeding plots (mean reflectance approach) and (ii) applying the same inversion scheme to an orthomosaic to separately retrieve the target variables for each pixel of the breeding plots (pixel-based approach). For LCC retrieval, soil and shaded pixels were removed by applying simple vegetation index thresholding. Retrieval of LCC from UAV data yielded promising results compared to ground measurements (sweet maize RMSE = 4.92 µg/m2, silage maize RMSE = 3.74 µg/m2) when using the mean reflectance approach. LAI retrieval was more challenging due to the blending of sunlit and shaded pixels present in the UAV data, but worked well at the early developmental stages (sweet maize RMSE = 0.70 m2/m2, silage RMSE = 0.61 m2/m2 across all dates). CCC retrieval significantly benefited from the pixel-based approach compared to the mean reflectance approach (RMSEs decreased from 45.6 to 33.1 µg/m2). We argue that high-resolution UAV imagery is well suited for LCC retrieval, as shadows and background soil can be precisely removed, leaving only green plant pixels for the analysis. As for retrieving LAI, it proved to be challenging for two distinct varieties of maize that were characterized by contrasting canopy geometry.

Lyric poetry collides with the prose of history in Baudelaire's Petits poèmes en prose (1869), one of modernité's inaugural aesthetic projects. While the “prose poem” persists today with its own canons, anthologies, and journals, Baudelaire's poème en prose remains irreducible to the genre it is typically said to have originated. This essay makes a case for the generic singularity of Baudelaire's poème en prose by way of Paul de Man and Theodor Adorno, whose oblique references to Baudelaire's innovation are rich in unexamined implications, implications which illuminate the work of both theorists as much as they help us to understand the stakes of Baudelaire's prosaic experiment. The essay goes on to argue that modern lyric's rarefied aim for an autonomy beyond language's referential function persists critically, albeit paradoxically, in the seeming transparency of the Petits poèmes en prose, where poem and commodity collapse in an internal identification, while maintaining the distinctions of external disparities.

In this study, Sentinel-2 data were used for the retrieval of three key biophysical parameters of crops: leaf area index (LAI), leaf chlorophyll content (LCC), and leaf water content (LWC) for dominant crop types in the Czech Republic, including winter wheat (Triticum aestivum), spring barley (Hordeum vulgare), winter rapeseed (Brassica napus subsp. napus), alfalfa (Medicago sativa), sugar beet (Beta vulgaris), and corn (Zea mays subsp. Mays) in different stages of crop development. Artificial neural networks were applied in combination with an approach using look-up tables that is based on PROSAIL simulations to retrieve the biophysical properties tailored for each crop type. Crop-specific PROSAIL model optimization and validation were based upon a large dataset of in situ measurements collected in 2017 and 2018 in lowland of Central Bohemia region. For LCC and LAI, respectively, low relative root mean square error (rRMSE; 25%, 37%) was achieved. Additionally, a relatively strong correlation with in situ measurements (r = 0.80) was obtained for LAI. On the contrary, the results of the LWC parameter retrieval proved to be unsatisfactory. We have developed a generic tool for biophysical monitoring of agricultural crops based on the interpretation of Sentinel-2 satellite data by inversion of the radiation transfer model. The resulting crop condition maps can serve as precision agriculture inputs for selective fertilizer and irrigation application as well as for yield potential assessment.

Introduction. This work examines the role of silence along the lines of the theoretical considerations suggested by L. Wittgenstein and M. Heidegger. It also focuses on the role of communicative silence in each of the six functions of language in the structural model of communication put forward by Roman Jacobson. Other important types of functions are considered.Methodology and sources. Firstly, various philosophical and linguistic approaches towards the definition of silence are studied. Non-communicative silence, being outside the language domain, is differentiated from silence as part of communication, which is treated as a zero speech act in its own right. Finally, the paper analyzes the roles of communicative silence in the communicative model developed by Jacobson. Aesthetic function of silence is given special attention to. The poststructuralist view of silence is discussed.Results and discussion. Silence, acting as a linguistic sign, could convey information in the referential function; it could express emotions and personal experiences while performing the emotive function. As far as the conative function is concerned, silence serves to exert direct pressure on the addressee. Regarding the phatic function, silence acts as a means of establishing or discontinuing communication. Poetic silence focuses on the message for its own sake and manifests itself in repeating elements, such as syntactic pauses of various lengths and in differing contexts. Aesthetic function of silence is studied in a broader sense and involves the implementation of the motif of silence or “quietness” in a work of art. Silence becomes an important tool to study the acoustic, rhythmical potential of prosaic and poetic texts. With regard to silence in the metalinguistic function, it focuses primarily on the code of communication, i. e. on the language and its structure. The view of silence in psychoanalytical practice is also taken into account.Conclusion. The study of the phenomenon of silence allows to see a different number of functions it performs in situations when the speaker is either in a particular opposition to the speaker; or the situation is associated with a sense of respect, grief, humility. Silence could also accompany a number of emotive states, and perform a major role in prosaic and poetic texts when it stands out against the sounds that the main character hears around him allowing texts to bring out its acoustic properties. Psycho-analytical perspective allows to reveal more functions of silence.

The article is devoted to the creative heritage of A.S. Pushkin in the practice of teaching literature in China. In modern Pushkin studies, the teaching of the poet's works in the literary courses of schools and universities has not been given enough attention, and the study of the practice of teaching his poetic, prosaic and dramatic works in China is being carried out for the first time. Based on the information collected in the article, it was revealed that Pushkin's teaching in Chinese educational institutions took place in several stages. This allows us to trace the evolution of the study of topics, issues, and the ideological content of the poet's works included in the curriculum. At the turn of the 20th-21st centuries. Chinese primary and middle school students are accessible to Pushkin's poetic works, while they are often asked to compare similar images in Chinese poetry and Pushkin, and there covers all genres and all the main topics of the poet's work in teaching practice in Chinese universities. The article also reveals an interesting trend in Pushkin's teaching – the actualization of those facets of his heritage that help to comprehend modern times.

There is no More Sea Power. What Kind of Awe can a Fleet or an Aircraft Carrier inspire in the Nuclear Age, Whose Blasts have given a new character to military majesty and sublimity and whose marine vehicles are hidden beneath the waves? Nor do the ocean-girding voyages of global commerce offer a sense of majesty, the neat stacks of containers rising high above the decks being mere floating versions of the endless stacks at the prosaic, crane-filled ports of Busan, Long Beach, Elizabeth, or Singapore. The sea is full of transport, labor, and industry, but spectacle has moved elsewhere: what remains of the nautical in the visual media is the nostalgic sublimity of sinking ships or historical reenactments of blue-water glory. As if to underscore this vacuum of hegemonic maritime power in an age of shock and awe, the pirates of Puntland and Sulu still have their way in the Gulf of Aden and the Strait of Malacca, as they have for centuries. Latter-day posturing by the epigones of interstate maritime power contenders approaches farce, as in the struggle for the Arctic, joined by Russia, Canada, the United States, Denmark, and Norway, punctuated by Russian flags at the bottom of the sea and by the specter of Danish military incursion into what Canada claims as its sovereign territory (Craciun).

Recent Research On The Emergence Of civil society in Asia has illustrated that a range of nonstate actors have begun exercising a demonstrable influence on the politics of many countries in the region. Whether it be such grand manifestations as urban white collar workers or students mobilizing in South Korea to end the rule of Chun Doo Hwan (Lee 1993, 351); the urban Thai middle class uniting in the spring of 1992 to end the authoritarian Suchinda regime (Paribatra 1993); the more assertively political groups such as nongovernmental organizations in Korea, Thailand, and Taiwan working to protect the environment (Lee 1993; Paribatra 1993; Weller and Hsiao 1998); or the more prosaic groups of Chinese factory workers, entrepreneurs, crime syndicates, or qigong devotees slowly reworking the state's boundaries (Chamberlain 1993; Madsen 1993; McCormick, Su and Xiao 1992; Perry 1993; Wank 1995), nonstate actors are challenging the state's control over political life and attempting to redefine the political realm in ways that accommodate their own needs and interests. In Viet Nam, as Carlyle Thayer notes, the development of civil society is at a “nascent” stage in which there is still “little scope for the organisation of activity independent of the party-led command structures” (Thayer 1992, 111). However, despite their relative organizational weakness, Vietnamese citizens have begun asserting their own voice in politics. Emboldened by the 1986 Renovation (Dô'i Mó'i) policy's agenda toward “‘broadening democracy’” (Turley 1993a, 263), many Vietnamese have taken advantage of this opportunity to participate more directly in the political process.

Artistic patterns of old age expression in the works by Slovak authors Milo Urban, Július Barč-Ivan,Karol HorákThe cultural and social phenomenon of old age as an object of artistic literature from middle ages till contemporary period has been interpreted mostly ambivalently as asource of the wisdom as well as the weakness, experience and psychic degradation, the loss of authority and suffering. Within the various poetic methods realizing in the world and European literary production including Slovak literature, the rich reflections and different artistic patterns of an old age expression can be found. To manifest various forms of this cultural and social phenomenon in the literature three works from different social and historical periods representing various development stages of the Slovak literature will be analysed — the novella Staroba “Old Age” from the collection Výkriky bez ozveny “Yells without Echoing”, 1928 written by the prosaic writer and journalist Milo Urban, the tragedy Matka “Mother” written by prosaic and drama writer Július Barč-Ivan, and the play Cesta “Journey” written by prosaic and drama writer, literary and theatre scientist, university professor Karol Horák. The given texts prosaic one and two dramatic ones are integrated by common milieu with identical archetypal value — the world of Slovak village which is often described in the works by Slovak authors.Whereas the protagonist of the first work is an old village man tossing up between passionate desire to live and the awareness of the death inevitability, in the second and third work the key role is played by older women fulfilling their role of mothers. In Barč´s drama the mistaken fatalistic faith in predetermination of human fates leads towards the religious negativism and becomes the source of evil criminal act. As opposed to Barč´s play Matka the protagonist of Horák´s play Cesta, Kata Pohlodková, believes in the better future on the basis of Christian philosophy. The author stratifies his narration to produce the inward portrayal of aman in the extreme life situation on the background of historical events. Taking into consideration the miscellaneous aspects of this phenomenon, the research of this topic in the literary works is still open provoking the questions like — In which way is life represented in the literature through this phenomenon? Is this phenomenon presented stereotypically or are the generally valid stereotypes overcome? What is the influence of this phenomenon on aman and his/her attitude towards life transience? It can be generally accepted that the phenomenon of old age intervenes into human life and modifies it in abig way.Artystyczne ujęcie zjawiska starości w twórczości wybranych autorów słowackich Milo Urban, Július Barč-Ivan, Karol HorákSpołeczno-kulturowy fenomen starości w literaturze artystycznej od średniowiecza aż po współczesność interpretowany jest ambiwaletnie: z jednej strony jako źródło mądrości i doświadczenia, z drugiej zaś jako czas słabości, degradacji psychicznej, utraty autorytetu oraz cierpienia. W literaturze światowej, europejskiej, więc również, co oczywiste, w kontekście słowackim, stosunkowo często spotykamy się z refleksją na temat ostatniej fazy życia człowieka i z jej różnorodnym artystycznym opracowaniem. Za ilustrację możliwych literackich ujęć owego zjawiska posłużyły nam trzy dzieła autorów piszących po słowacku: nowela Staroba Starość ze zbioru Výkriky bez ozveny 1928; Okrzyki bez echa prozaika, tłumacza i dziennikarza Mila Urbana, tragedia Matka 1943 prozaika i dramatopisarza Júliusa Barča-Ivana oraz sztuka Cesta 1988; Droga dramatopisarza, prozaika, teatrologa i literaturoznawcy — profesora Karola Horáka. Wybrane utwory jeden prozatorski, dwa dramatyczne łączy pewien element archetypiczny — topos wsi słowackiej, skądinąd silnie obecny w rodzimej literaturze.Głównym bohaterem tekstu prozatorskiego jest uwięziony między pragnieniem życia a świadomością nieuniknionej śmierci mężczyzna, natomiast w przypadku dramatów kluczową rolę odgrywają starsze kobiety — matki. W dramacie Júliusa Barča-Ivana ślepe przekonanie o nieodwracalności ludzkiego losu prowadzi do zaprzeczenia religii i— w ostateczności — do zbrodni. Inaczej jest u Karola Horáka. Protagonistka sztuki Cesta Kata Pohlodková zgodnie z duchem filozofii chrześcijańskiej wierzy w lepszą przyszłość. Swoją opowieść autor wzbogaca, na tle wydarzeń historycznych pokazując introspektywę bohatera, który znalazł się w tragicznej sytuacji życiowej.Należy pamiętać o tym, że szeroki horyzont omawianego zjawiska, również dzięki jego wieloaspektowości, nie ogranicza pola badawczego, lecz wręcz przeciwnie — prowokuje do dalszych odkryć oraz prób odpowiedzi na liczne pytania. Bardzo interesująca wydaje się na przykład kwestia rzutowania starości na wizerunek życia w literaturze pięknej. Czy przedstawianie starości podlega powszechnie przyjętemu stereotypowi, czy mu się opiera, przełamuje go? Jaki wpływ ma starość na człowieka i świadomość przemijania? I tak dalej. Z pewnością jednak można stwierdzić, że omawiane przez nas zjawisko determinuje człowieka, określając i formując jego los.

The article classifies and highlights three stages spanning the last hundred years – pre-Soviet, Soviet and post-Soviet, of research and mythol- ogization of the life and creation of P.Tychyna, using the example of studying the philosophical attitudes of his early work in the Ukrainian state, the Ukrainian SSR, Ukraine and abroad. The specifics of the formation of the mentioned stages during 1918 – 2019 were systematically considered on materials, including little-known, studies of more than fifty representatives of domestic and foreing tychynology, as well as a wide range of materi- als of the poetic, prosaic, scientific-journalistic and epistolary heritage of P. Tychyna and his contemporary colleagues. In the context of this review an attempt was made of critical interdisciplinary analysis – cultural and philosophical and literary, of the ideological foundations and the results of the modernist and postmodern mythologization of the early creativity of P. Tychyna as the leading creator and symbol of Ukrainian Modernist and Socialist-Realistic literature and, in general, cultural development. The article identifies three leading aspects of defining and studying the philosophical foundations of P. Tychyna's early work in the twentieth – early twenty first centuries: 1) the absence of the formulation and systematic development of the topic in P. Tychyna studies, except for the initial attempts at each of its stages, so far; 2) the narrow specialty of individual attempts at such research, first of all, almost entirely literary or linguistic, but not professional philosophical and cultural philosophical; 3) the dominant conditionality of the major achievements of almost all of these studies, mainly the Soviet period, the political environment of the development of national humanities and, as a consequence, the consistent isolationist-Soviet-anti-European mythology of P. Tychyna's creative figure and heritage. In view of this, the development of this topic in the context of an interdisciplinary, critically-demythologizing scientific search, formed in the contemporary P. Tychyna studies, has been identified as promising.

The article discusses the literary-critical and national political activity of the outstanding Ukrainian poet and states figure Yevhen Malaniuk, using a corpus of his literary-critical essays. The author analyzes the oeuvre of diasporic writers in comparison with that of indigenous Ukrainian poets and prosaists who lived under the yoke of ideological prejudices and persecutions of the Soviet era, a symbiosis of “socialist realism” with stillborn “modernism”. Yearning for their homeland, Ukrainian diasporic writers created images of Ukraine the Vision, Ukraine the Dream, Ukraine the Goal, and an ideological political myth of a nation state. Yevhen Malaniuk fulfilled this philosophical and political objective brilliantly. His mythological thinking generated the concept of Ukraine the Hellas as a phenomenon of global importance. From his perspective, only by the glorious heroics of patriots and passionaries is it possible to foster national awareness. However, even with titans such as Taras Shevchenko, Bohdan Khmelnytskyi, Ivan Mazepa, and Symon Petliura, Ukrainian society was nevertheless unable to grasp such heroic endeavors adequately. Outstanding Ukrainian cultural activists never succeeded in viewing reality from a critical perspective. The poet debunks Russian colonialism and castigates Russian pro-imperial literature, the “split” Hohol, the chauvinistic propaganda of Russian culture. Yevhen Malaniuk’s oeuvre is seen as occupying a unique role in our literature

The legal relationships between the physician and the patient involve a duty to maintain the confindentiality of information concerning the patient’s health which is based upon the acting legislation and case law. The non-fulfillment of the said duty mostly brings to civil or criminal responsibility. However, both legislation and case law of various states bear a substantial number of exemptions from the duty of medical confidentiality. With the enhancement of patient’s role in decision-making concerning his treatment, various issues concerning his data privacy arose. Apart from his data privacy maintenance, there is an issue of the patient’s right to access to his medical records. The purpose of access may not be as prosaic as it may initially look like, as in various jurisprudence, including the case law of international courts, plaintiffs frequently applied to courts to obtain an order for medical records productions so as to file an action against hospitals for negligence. Hence, medical records would be used as evidence of negligence at trial. The positions of the United States courts and the courts in Europe (the given paper embraces several trials from Germany and Portugal) may have divergencies concerning direct access to medical data, proprietary status of the health records, a right to access of third parties and its conditions, the categories of personal data banned from patient’s access under certain circumstances etc. The issue of access to medical records in known in the ECJ jurisprudence since the mid 70s, especially in a number of judgments wherein the plaintiffs sued various EEC bodies attempting to impugn the decision of their human resourse department concerning their ineligibility of holding a certain position in the structures of EEC – therein, the defendants did not give reasonable justifications for the such decisions and didn’t present any medical documentation to the prospective plaintiffs as a proof of their unfitness for office. Since the 1980s, similar actions were filed to the European Court of Human Rights. In some cases, not only the issue of the patient’s right to inspection of the respective health records was risen, but the aspect of accessing the information on plaintiff’s biological forbearers as well (trials of Odievre v. France and Godelli v. Italy).

As a result of the latest findings in the archives of Russia and the United States, the correspondence between Mikhail Zenkevich and Orville Wright is published for the first time (the originals in English are supplemented with the Russian translations). This correspondence was conducted between 1932–1933, which correlates to the time period Zenkevich was working on the first biography of the pioneer aviators in Russian, Brat’ia Rait (The Wright Brothers, 1933). Also included are excerpts from the letters of foreign literati and colleagues, such as Michael Gold, Harold Heslop, Maurice Becker, Helen Black, as well as domestic correspondents, K. K. Kuraev among them. The article deliberates upon the direct influence of the materials provided by O. Wright on the book. A review of the holdings on the theme of aviation in Zenkevich’s fund (IRLI Pushkinskii Dom) is provided. The examination of the little- known biographical details, as well as the parts of the poet’s epistolary legacy and his prosaic works, adds to the analysis. Taken together, this all has allowed for substantiation of certain presumptions about other possible sources of the book. The article interprets some literary features of Brat’ia Rait by tracing the development of the theme of aviation in the earlier poems by this former Acmeist, and by drawing parallels with some of his later short and long poems, such as “Al’timetr. Tragorel’ef” (Altimeter. Tragic Relief) and “Torzhestvo aviatsii” (The Triumph of Aviation), and a short novel “Na strezhen’” (On the River Bend) and fictional memoirs Muzhitskii Sfinks (The Peasant Sphinx). Finally, some intertextual parallels between “The Triumph of Aviation” and Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” translated by Zenkevich, are revealed. The conclusion is made that the materials received from O. Wright have subsequently influenced the long poem “The Triumph of Aviation” and other works by Zenkevich. The publication is equipped with detailed notes, commentaries and illustrations.

Introduction. The article explores the image-symbol of water, the semiotic means of its realization in the novels by American writers of different ethnoidentity Toni Morrison “Beloved” and Joyce Carol Oates “Black water”. An image-symbol is understood as such a sign, which is a component of the semiotic fabric of literary prose text, endowed with significantethno-cultural information and is considered to be an ethno-cultural image-symbol. The specifics of contemporary American multicultural prosaic texts is in their relating to the mythology, ethnocultural customs and traditions, beliefs of ethnicity living on the territory of the contemporary United States. Various cultural codes are accumulated in the text canvas of literary works, which serve as markers of belonging to a particular culture. The symbol of water depicts the archetypal knowledge of American and African-American ethnicity about worldview and cultural memory. It encodes the various ethno-cultural and axiological values and their hierarchy inherent in the studied ethnicities. The image symbol of water from texts of contemporary American writers of different ethnic identity is a sign of the ethno-cultural worldview and world perception of African-American and American people and embodies different ethno-cultural codes.Purpose. The article aims at linguosemiotic constructing the image-symbol of water in contemporary American multicultural prose.Methods. The paper is based on such scope of methods, as textual and contextual analysis, the linguosemiotic method, the method of contrastive and descriptive analysis, the linguocultural method and the method of linguistic interpretation the semiotic sense of the image-symbol.Results. In the novel “Beloved” by T. Morrison, the symbolic significance of water is revealed to characterize the novel's main character, Beloved, who symbolizes the individual and collective past of the African American people. The symbolic meaning of water in Joyce Carol Oates's novel “Black water” is radically rethought and, unlike the analyzed novel by T. Morrison,is the epitome of dark matter that robs a young girl of her life. Linguosemiotic features of the analyzed symbol are identified in the paper.Conclusion. The descriptive-contrastive analysis of the image-symbol of water in the texts of American writers of different ethnical identity has allowed us to characterize the different semiotic properties of this symbol in Toni Morrison, in which it symbolizes a return to life, resurrection and rebirth, and in Joyce Carol Oates's novel, in which it is highlighted thesymbolic meaning of death. It is found that in the analyzed texts, the image-symbol of water serves as a marker of change in the status of the character, and its symbolic characteristics reproduce the transition from one state to another, from one reality to another. The perspectiveof our further investigation will be working out the methods and ways of decoding the hidden meanings in literary multicultural texts with ethnocultural sense, the study of multilevel textual means of creating the literary images of resilient women as components of the literary space.Therefore, each linguistic sign is regarded as a component of the semiotic fabric of the prosaic text, endowed with meaningful ethno-cultural information and considered as ethno-cultural image-symbol.

Non-photosynthetic vegetation (NPV) biomass has been identified as a priority variable for upcoming spaceborne imaging spectroscopy missions, calling for a quantitative estimation of lignocellulosic plant material as opposed to the sole indication of surface coverage. Therefore, we propose a hybrid model for the retrieval of non-photosynthetic cropland biomass. The workflow included coupling the leaf optical model PROSPECT-PRO with the canopy reflectance model 4SAIL, which allowed us to simulate NPV biomass from carbon-based constituents (CBC) and leaf area index (LAI). PROSAIL-PRO provided a training database for a Gaussian process regression (GPR) algorithm, simulating a wide range of non-photosynthetic vegetation states. Active learning was employed to reduce and optimize the training data set. In addition, we applied spectral dimensionality reduction to condense essential information of non-photosynthetic signals. The resulting NPV-GPR model was successfully validated against soybean field data with normalized root mean square error (nRMSE) of 13.4% and a coefficient of determination (R2) of 0.85. To demonstrate mapping capability, the NPV-GPR model was tested on a PRISMA hyperspectral image acquired over agricultural areas in the North of Munich, Germany. Reliable estimates were mainly achieved over senescent vegetation areas as suggested by model uncertainties. The proposed workflow is the first step towards the quantification of non-photosynthetic cropland biomass as a next-generation product from near-term operational missions, such as CHIME.

The legal relationships between the physician and the patient involve a duty to maintain the confidentiality of information concerning the patient’s health which is based upon the acting legislation and case law. The non-fulfillment of the said duty mostly brings to civil or criminal responsibility. However, both legislation and case law of various states bear a substantial number of exemptions from the duty of medical confidentiality. With the enhancement of the patient’s role in decision-making concerning his treatment, various issues concerning his data privacy arose. Apart from his data privacy maintenance, there is an issue with the patient’s right to access his medical records. The purpose of access may not be as prosaic as it may initially look like, as in various jurisprudence, including the case-law of international courts, plaintiffs frequently applied to courts to obtain an order for medical records productions so as to file an action against hospitals for negligence. Hence, medical records would be used as evidence of negligence at trial. The positions of the United States courts and the courts in Europe (the given paper embraces several trials from Germany and Portugal) may have divergencies concerning direct access to medical data, the proprietary status of the health records, a right to access of third parties, and its conditions, the categories of personal data banned from patient’s access under certain circumstances, etc. The issue of access to medical records in known in the ECJ jurisprudence since the mid-70s, especially in a number of judgments wherein the plaintiffs sued various EEC bodies attempting to impugn the decision of their human resources department concerning their ineligibility of holding a certain position in the structures of EEC – therein, the defendants did not give reasonable justifications for such decisions and didn’t present any medical documentation to the prospective plaintiffs as a proof of their unfitness for office. Since the 1980s, similar actions were filed to the European Court of Human Rights. In some cases, not only the issue of the patient’s right to inspection of the respective health records was risen, but the aspect of accessing the information on the plaintiff’s biological forbearers as well (trials of Odievre v. France and Godelli v. Italy). Keywords: Medical records, data privacy, a right to access to medical records, medical confidentiality, medical negligence, the proprietary status of health records.

The purpose of this work was to explore the packaging labels of products consumed in everyday life by students, seeing them as textual and geographic and biological information genres and thus, through them, introduce the curricular contents in ten (10) 1st year classes of the Integrated Technical Education of CEFET-MG, in Belo Horizonte - MG, Brazil, in an interdisciplinary view in the subjects of Geography and Biology. Topics concerning the progress of industrialization in the Brazilian territory and the quality of products were discussed, especially those consumed by the population (nutritional data and its technical vocabulary, processing of industrialized foods, malnutrition and food exports, expansion of agribusiness...), associating them with the movement of globalization of the world economy. Among the topics studied, we also highlight: history and spatialization of industry, transformation of geographic space, stages of Brazilian industrialization, urbanization, concentration of infrastructure, consumer market, internationalization of the economy, labor qualification, degree of nationalization by industrial sector, privatization, industrial decentralization, precariousness of labor rights, among others. Exercises were carried out based on the data collected using printed maps, in addition to the use of the Google Earth app, devices used to locate industries in the country, which also contributes to a better perception of cartographic images. In a didactic investigation that combined prosaic resources - packaging labels - with geotechnology - the Google Earth application, the need for diversification of instruments and methodologies used in the classroom is evidenced, which together with adequate planning can help students to achieve meaningful learning, as happened in this reported experience. The theoretical-methodological foundations that guided this work are present, especially, in the theories of David Ausubel and Jerome Bruner.

The purpose of this work was to explore the packaging labels of products consumed in everyday life by students, seeing them as textual and geographic and biological information genres and thus, through them, introduce the curricular contents in ten (10) 1st year classes of the Integrated Technical Education of CEFET-MG, in Belo Horizonte - MG, Brazil, in an interdisciplinary view in the subjects of Geography and Biology. Topics concerning the progress of industrialization in the Brazilian territory and the quality of products were discussed, especially those consumed by the population (nutritional data and its technical vocabulary, processing of industrialized foods, malnutrition and food exports, expansion of agribusiness...), associating them with the movement of globalization of the world economy. Among the topics studied, we also highlight: history and spatialization of industry, transformation of geographic space, stages of Brazilian industrialization, urbanization, concentration of infrastructure, consumer market, internationalization of the economy, labor qualification, degree of nationalization by industrial sector, privatization, industrial decentralization, precariousness of labor rights, among others. Exercises were carried out based on the data collected using printed maps, in addition to the use of the Google Earth app, devices used to locate industries in the country, which also contributes to a better perception of cartographic images. In a didactic investigation that combined prosaic resources - packaging labels - with geotechnology - the Google Earth application, the need for diversification of instruments and methodologies used in the classroom is evidenced, which together with adequate planning can help students to achieve meaningful learning, as happened in this reported experience. The theoretical-methodological foundations that guided this work are present, especially, in the theories of David Ausubel and Jerome Bruner.

Leaf area index (LAI) and canopy chlorophyll density (CCD) are key biophysical and biochemical parameters utilized in winter wheat growth monitoring. In this study, we would like to exploit the advantages of three canonical types of spectral vegetation indices: indices sensitive to LAI, indices sensitive to chlorophyll content, and indices suitable for both parameters. In addition, two methods for joint retrieval were proposed. The first method is to develop integration-based indices incorporating LAI-sensitive and CCD-sensitive indices. The second method is to create a transformed triangular vegetation index (TTVI2) based on the spectral and physiological characteristics of the parameters. PROSAIL, as a typical radiative transfer model embedded with physical laws, was used to build estimation models between the indices and the relevant parameters. Validation was conducted against a field-measured hyperspectral dataset for four distinct growth stages and pooled data. The results indicate that: (1) the performance of the integrated indices from the first method are various because of the component indices; (2) TTVI2 is an excellent predictor for joint retrieval, with the highest R2 values of 0.76 and 0.59, the RMSE of 0.93 m2/m2 and 104.66 μg/cm2, and the RRMSE (Relative RMSE) of 12.76% and 16.96% for LAI and CCD, respectively.

Predicting leaf nitrogen content (LNC) using unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) images is of great significance. Traditional LNC prediction methods based on empirical and mechanistic models have limitations. This study aimed to propose a new LNC prediction method based on combining deep learning methods and mechanistic models. Wheat field experiments were conducted to make plants with different LNC values. The LNC and UAV hyperspectral images were collected during the critical growth stages of wheat. Based on these data, a method combining the deep multitask learning method and the N-based PROSAIL model was proposed and compared with traditional LNC prediction methods, including spectral index (SI), partial least squares regression (PLSR) and artificial neural network (ANN) methods. The results show that the new proposed method obtained the best LNC prediction results, with R2, RMSE and RMSE% values of 0.79, 20.86 μg/cm2 and 18.63%, respectively, during calibration and 0.82, 18.40 μg/cm2 and 16.92%, respectively, during validation. The other methods obtained R2, RMSE and RMSE% values between 0.29 and 0.68, 25.71 and 38.52 μg/cm2 and 22.95 and 34.39%, respectively, during calibration and between 0.43 and 0.74, 22.79 and 33.55 μg/cm2 and 20.96 and 30.86%, respectively, during validation. Thus, this study provides an accurate LNC prediction tool for precise nitrogen (N) management in the field.

In a 2009 interview, architect Peter St John of Caruso St John Architects defined a good architect as one who makes few compromises, highlighting precise instructions as imperative in achieving this. An architectural project, St John stated, 'is far more likely to work well if you put an enormous effort into defining what you want, to achieve quality’. At Caruso St John Architects' 2006 entrance addition to the Victoria and Albert Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green, London [1], the precise specification of mortar and mastic joints throughout a cut-stone facade was employed to define expectations of quality in the constructed facade. These specifications, written in accordance with the recommendations of professional practice, set out stringent expectations of dimensional perfection. When dimensional variations during design development and construction threatened to disrupt these expectations, the precise definition of quality shifted, becoming less defined by dimensional perfection and more reliant upon the ‘architectural intentions’ underpinning the project. In referencing conceptual, ideological, historical and technological intentions which were difficult definitively to express, this critical phrase – ‘architectural intentions’ – is examined here in terms of its ambiguity in the context of the written specification [2].Ambiguity in the written specification is emphatically rejected by regulatory and advisory bodies in the architectural profession, which frequently advise that the written specification must provide, above all else, certainty. In The Architects' Journal in 1989, author Francis Hall went as far as describing the properly drafted specification as the ‘one certain opportunity’ for an architect to set down a ‘definitive and enforceable expression of standard and quality’. ‘Properly drafted’ is typically translated as a prosaic language, specifically devoid of poetic content. The ability of the unambiguous written specification to convey adequately the poetic content of architectural intentions has, however, been under critique since its inception.

This Article explores the previously overlooked role of relational contracting in forming and maintaining public-private partnerships. Relational contracting generally describes firms using formal but legally non-binding agreements to collaborate on shared objectives. Why do parties invest in forming elaborate contracts that they do not—and cannot—enforce in court? Contract theory suggests that the very act of contracting is relationship-building; it generates commitment, trust, cooperation, a win-win philosophy, and strengthened communication. Writing down goals and intentions allows parties to clarify expectations while maintaining flexibility for unforeseen conditions. This Article demonstrates that agencies also use relational contracting— creating unenforceable written agreements to build relationships with external actors. To shed light on agencies’ use of relational contracting, this Article provides a novel review of the recovery planning process required by the Endangered Species Act. A surprising finding emerges: private groups are providing crucial resources and logistical support to prevent the extinction of endangered species. Tribes, states, nongovernmental organizations, and sportsmen’s groups are providing necessary resources to further agency action. By orchestrating private action through recovery planning documents, the agency can garner the resources necessary to undertake species translocations, which it could not unilaterally facilitate. Although the plans are not judicially enforceable, they nevertheless play a coordinating and commitment-generating role in facilitating private actors to engage in recovery efforts. This example highlights the broader trend of relational contracting building and formalizing relationships between agency and non-agency actors. Environmental impact statements, forest management plans, and recovery plans for endangered species are all examples of such “relational contracts” governing inter-agency and private-public collaborations. Viewed in this light, seemingly prosaic planning documents are, in fact, a crucial component in facilitating many agency collaborations. Descriptively, this account adds institutional detail to literatures on new governance and public-private partnerships. Normatively, it raises questions about whether the benefits of contracting offsets the potential distributional inequities and mechanisms to shroud government actions created by the practice.

This study proposes a method for determining the optimal image date to improve the evaluation of cultivated land quality (CLQ). Five vegetation indices: leaf area index (LAI), difference vegetation index (DVI), enhanced vegetation index (EVI), normalized difference vegetation index (NDVI), and ratio vegetation index (RVI) are first retrieved using the PROSAIL model and Gaofen-1 (GF-1) images. The indices are then introduced into four regression models at different growth stages for assessing CLQ. The optimal image date of CLQ evaluation is finally determined according to the root mean square error (RMSE). This method is tested and validated in a rice growth area of Southern China based on 115 sample plots and five GF-1 images acquired at the tillering, jointing, booting, heading to flowering, and milk ripe and maturity stage of rice in 2015, respectively. The results show that the RMSEs between the measured and estimated CLQ from four vegetation index-based regression models at the heading to flowering stage are smaller than those at the other growth stages, indicating that the image date corresponding with the heading to flowering stage is optimal for CLQ evaluation. Compared with other vegetation index-based models, the LAI-based logarithm model provides the most accurate estimates of CLQ. The optimal model is also driven using the GF-1 image at the heading to flowering stage to map CLQ of the study area, leading to a relative RMSE of 14.09% at the regional scale. This further implies that the heading to flowering stage is the optimal image time for evaluating CLQ. This study is the first effort to provide an applicable method of selecting the optimal image date to improve the estimation of CLQ and thus advanced the literature in this field.

Phenotyping provides important support for corn breeding. Unfortunately, the rapid detection of phenotypes has been the major limiting factor in estimating and predicting the outcomes of breeding programs. This study was focused on the potential of phenotyping to support corn breeding using unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) images, aiming at mining and deepening UAV techniques for comparing phenotypes and screening new corn varieties. Two geometric traits (plant height, canopy leaf area index (LAI)) and one lodging resistance trait (lodging area) were estimated in this study. It was found that stereoscopic and photogrammetric methods were promising ways to calculate a digital surface model (DSM) for estimating corn plant height from UAV images, with R2 = 0.7833 (p < 0.001) and a root mean square error (RMSE) = 0.1677. In addition to a height estimation, the height variation was analyzed for depicting and validating the corn canopy uniformity stability for different varieties. For the lodging area estimation, the normalized DSM (nDSM) method was more promising than the gray-level co-occurrence matrix (GLCM) textural features method. The estimation error using the nDSM ranged from 0.8% to 5.3%, and the estimation error using the GLCM ranged from 10.0% to 16.2%. Associations between the height estimation and lodging area estimation were done to find the corn varieties with optimal plant heights and lodging resistance. For the LAI estimation, the physical radiative transfer PROSAIL model offered both an accurate and robust estimation performance both at the middle (R2 = 0.7490, RMSE = 0.3443) and later growing stages (R2 = 0.7450, RMSE = 0.3154). What was more exciting was that the estimated sequential time series LAIs revealed a corn variety with poor resistance to lodging in a study area of Baogaofeng Farm. Overall, UAVs appear to provide a promising method to support phenotyping for crop breeding, and the phenotyping of corn breeding in this study validated this application.

SUMMARY August Wilhelm Schlegel’s (1767–1845) distinction between synthetic und analytic languages, first set out in 1818, has had great effect on language typology. By neglecting the intellectual context in which it was originally conceived, however, Schlegel’s distinction is presented misleadingly. His frame was early romantic theory of language re-poetization in which he is assuming three stages of development: First, every language is originally poetic, which means that at the beginning of mankind all human faculties of mind — sensuality, imagination, reason, etc. — operated in harmonic unison. Then, in the second stage of development, language is changing to a prosaic condition, i.e., it is losing its poetic qualities (though never completely) while it is moulded for the purposes of reason. Yet this does not mean that it could or should not become poetic again; in fact this kind of restitution is exactly what Schlegel regards as desirable. While he does not intend to restitute the original stage, he wants to give language a new quality by uniting original poeticity and prosa. This program is analogous to the literary theory of Early German Romanticism and its program of a ‘progressive universal poetry’ (“progressive Universalpoesie”), set out by A. W. Schlegel’s younger brother, Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829). Whereas for Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), all languages are of comparable value and can serve equally as objects of language studies, A. W. Schlegel’s typological distinction is a judgmental one. Its implication is to re-synthetize the analytic languages, which for him is equivalent with (re)improving them. As a result, one may rightly ask whether A. W. Schlegel should be counted among the founders of comparative linguistics and language typology as it is usually done in the history of linguistics.RESUMÉ La distinction entre langues synthétiques et analytiques que August Wilhelm Schlegel (1767–1845) a exposée pour la première fois en 1818, a eu un grand effet sur la typologie des langues. Mais on s’en est servi injustement parce qu’on néglige le contexte des idées, dans lequel elle fut d’abord conçue. Il s’agit d’une théorie de Schlegel qui vise à la ‘repoétisation’ de la langue et qui distingue trois degrés d’évolution de la langue: chaque langue est à l’origine poétique, c’est-à-dire qu’au début de l’histoire de la conscience humaine, toutes les facultés de l’homme — la sensualité, l’imagination, la raison etc. — opérèrent en concordance harmonique. Ensuite, la langue devient prosaïque, c’est-à-dire qu’étant cultivée pour les buts du raisonnement, elle perd sa poéticité (bien que jamais complètement). Cela ne veut pas dire, cependant, que la langue ne pourrait et ne devrait pas redevenir poétique de nouveau; précisément cela est l’intention de Schlegel. Il ne veut pas, toutefois, restituer l’état original, mais donner à la langue une qualité nouvelle par la synthèse de la poéticité d’origine et de la prose. Ce programme est précisément analogue à la théorie littéraire du premier romantisme allemand avec son idée de la poésie universelle progressive — ‘progressive Universalpoesie’ — que Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829), le frère cadet d’August Wilhelm Schlegel, a développé. Dans la pensée d’un auteur comme Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), toutes les langues se valent et sont dignes d’étude. La distinction de Schlegel, par contre, introduit une hiérarchie et implique l’effort d’une ‘résynthétisation’, qui, aux yeux de l’auteur, signifie l’amélioration de la langue. Considérée ainsi, la question se pose, si Schlegel peut à juste titre compter parmi les pères fondateurs de la linguistique comparée et de la typologie des langues comme on le fait traditionellement dans les histoires de la linguistique.ZUSAMMENFASSUNG August Wilhelm Schlegels (1767–1845) 1818 zum ersten Mal vorgetragene Unterscheidung von synthetischen und analytischen Sprachen hat in der Sprachtypologie große Wirkung entfaltet. Sie wird allerdings in historisch gesehen unangemessener Weise aufgegriffen, wenn der geistesgeschichtliche Kontext vernachlässigt wird, in dem sie entstanden ist. Es handelt sich dabei um Schlegels frühromantische Theorie von der Repoetisierung der Sprache, die drei Stufen der Sprachentwicklung annimmt: Jede Sprache ist erstens ursprünglich poetisch, was hier soviel heißt, als daß zu Beginn der Geschichte des menschlichen Bewußtseins alle Vermögen des Menschen — Sinnlichkeit, Phantasie, Verstand usw. — in harmonischer Übereinstimmung gewirkt haben. Sie wird zweitens prosaisch, d.h., sie verliert ihre Poetizität (wenngleich nie völlig) im Zuge ihrer Ausbildung zu Verstandeszwecken. Das heißt drittens jedoch nicht, daß sie nicht wieder poetisch werden könne und solle; genau dies ist Schlegels Anliegen. Er will freilich nicht den Ausgangszustand als solchen wiederherstellen, sondern der Sprache durch eine Synthesis von ursprünglicher Poetizität und Prosa eine neue Qualität geben. Dieses Programm findet seine genaue Analogie in der frühromantischen Literaturtheorie und ihrem Postulat einer ‘progressiven Universalpoesie’, das Schlegels Bruder Friedrich (1772–1829) aufgestellt hat. Während für einen Autor wie Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835) alle Sprachen gleichermaßen wertvoll und in gleichem Maße Gegenstand des Sprachstudiums sind, beinhaltet Schlegels Unterscheidung eine Wertung und impliziert Arbeit an einer Resynthetisierung, das heißt für ihn: einer Verbesserung der Sprache. Die Frage stellt sich, ob Schlegel unter diesem Aspekt zu Recht zu den Gründervätern der vergleichenden Sprachwissenschaft und der Sprachtypologie gezählt werden kann.

Continuous and accurate estimates of crop canopy leaf area index (LAI) and chlorophyll content are of great importance for crop growth monitoring. These estimates can be useful for precision agricultural management and agricultural planning. Our objectives were to investigate the joint retrieval of corn canopy LAI and chlorophyll content using filtered reflectances from Sentinel-2 and MODIS data acquired during the corn growing season, which, being generally hot and rainy, results in few cloud-free Sentinel-2 images. In addition, the retrieved time series of LAI and chlorophyll content results were used to monitor the corn growth behavior in the study area. Our results showed that: (1) the joint retrieval of LAI and chlorophyll content using the proposed joint probability distribution method improved the estimation accuracy of both corn canopy LAI and chlorophyll content. Corn canopy LAI and chlorophyll content were retrieved jointly and accurately using the PROSAIL model with fused Kalman filtered (KF) reflectance images. The relation between retrieved and field measured LAI and chlorophyll content of four corn-growing stages had a coefficient of determination (R2) of about 0.6, and root mean square errors (RMSEs) ranges of mainly 0.1–0.2 and 0.0–0.3, respectively. (2) Kalman filtering is a good way to produce continuous high-resolution reflectance images by synthesizing Sentinel-2 and MODIS reflectances. The correlation between fused KF and Sentinel-2 reflectances had an R2 value of 0.98 and RMSE of 0.0133, and the correlation between KF and field-measured reflectances had an R2 value of 0.8598 and RMSE of 0.0404. (3) The derived continuous KF reflectances captured the crop behavior well. Our analysis showed that the LAI increased from day of year (DOY) 181 (trefoil stage) to DOY 236 (filling stage), and then increased continuously until harvest, while the chlorophyll content first also increased from DOY 181 to DOY 236, and then remained stable until harvest. These results revealed that the jointly retrieved continuous LAI and chlorophyll content could be used to monitor corn growth conditions.

Abstract. Plant phenological development is orchestrated through subtle changes in photoperiod, temperature, soil moisture and nutrient availability. Presently, the exact timing of plant development stages and their response to climate and management practices are crudely represented in land surface models. As visual observations of phenology are laborious, there is a need to supplement long-term observations with automated techniques such as those provided by digital repeat photography at high temporal and spatial resolution. We present the first synthesis from a growing observational network of digital cameras installed on towers across Europe above deciduous and evergreen forests, grasslands and croplands, where vegetation and atmosphere CO2 fluxes are measured continuously. Using colour indices from digital images and using piecewise regression analysis of time series, we explored whether key changes in canopy phenology could be detected automatically across different land use types in the network. The piecewise regression approach could capture the start and end of the growing season, in addition to identifying striking changes in colour signals caused by flowering and management practices such as mowing. Exploring the dates of green-up and senescence of deciduous forests extracted by the piecewise regression approach against dates estimated from visual observations, we found that these phenological events could be detected adequately (RMSE < 8 and 11 days for leaf out and leaf fall, respectively). We also investigated whether the seasonal patterns of red, green and blue colour fractions derived from digital images could be modelled mechanistically using the PROSAIL model parameterised with information of seasonal changes in canopy leaf area and leaf chlorophyll and carotenoid concentrations. From a model sensitivity analysis we found that variations in colour fractions, and in particular the late spring `green hump' observed repeatedly in deciduous broadleaf canopies across the network, are essentially dominated by changes in the respective pigment concentrations. Using the model we were able to explain why this spring maximum in green signal is often observed out of phase with the maximum period of canopy photosynthesis in ecosystems across Europe. Coupling such quasi-continuous digital records of canopy colours with co-located CO2 flux measurements will improve our understanding of how changes in growing season length are likely to shape the capacity of European ecosystems to sequester CO2 in the future.

Abstract. Plant phenological development is orchestrated through subtle changes in photoperiod, temperature, soil moisture and nutrient availability. Presently, the exact timing of plant development stages and their response to climate and management practices are crudely represented in land surface models. As visual observations of phenology are laborious, there is a need to supplement long-term observations with automated techniques such as those provided by digital repeat photography at high temporal and spatial resolution. We present the first synthesis from a growing observational network of digital cameras installed on towers across Europe above deciduous and evergreen forests, grasslands and croplands, where vegetation and atmosphere CO2 fluxes are measured continuously. Using colour indices from digital images and using piecewise regression analysis of time-series, we explored whether key changes in canopy phenology could be detected automatically across different land use types in the network. The piecewise regression approach could capture the start and end of the growing season, in addition to identifying striking changes in colour signals caused by flowering and management practices such as mowing. Exploring the dates of green up and senescence of deciduous forests extracted by the piecewise regression approach against dates estimated from visual observations we found that these phenological events could be detected adequately (RMSE < 8 and 11 days for leaf out and leaf fall respectively). We also investigated whether the seasonal patterns of red, green and blue colour fractions derived from digital images could be modelled mechanistically using the PROSAIL model parameterised with information of seasonal changes in canopy leaf area and leaf chlorophyll and carotenoid concentrations. From a model sensitivity analysis we found that variations in colour fractions, and in particular the late spring "green hump" observed repeatedly in deciduous broadleaf canopies across the network, are essentially dominated by changes in the respective pigment concentrations. Using the model we were able to explain why this spring maximum in green signal is often observed out of phase with the maximum period of canopy photosynthesis in ecosystems across Europe. Coupling such quasi-continuous digital records of canopy colours with co-located CO2 flux measurements will improve our understanding of how changes in growing season length are likely to shape the capacity of European ecosystems to sequester CO2 in the future.

This paper aims to explore the literary creations of the Czech poet Julius Zeyer (1841–1901) within the complexity of his poetic works, except dramas. The poet, prosaist, and dramatist Julius Zeyer ranks among the classic Czech authors active in the second half of the 19th century. Literary historians traditionally link him with the Lumír generation but he is often grouped also with the New Romantics contributing to periodicals Ruch, Lumír, and Květy, or, possibly, with the ‘sensitives’ of the 19th-century European culture.His works comprise texts of indisputable, time-honoured value, beside the texts on the verge of conventional fiction. Quantitatively, the literary production of Julius Zeyer comprises more than two thirds of epic works; almost two fifths are dramas; only a few of them are (purely) lyrical poems representing just a fraction of his comprehensive output. The proportions of the explored poetry and prose also feature two-third ratio in favour of prose against (in Zeyer, mostly epic) poetry.The starting point of our search for specific features of his authorial style was the accentuation of Zeyer’s “epicism” and “lyricism” in references, i.e. throughout the overall reception of the poet’s texts, regardless of literary genres, often coexisting in contradictory meanings. Specifically, this study aims at the identification and linguistic analysis of selected devices to convey epic and lyric aspects in Zeyer’s epic poetry and prose.Despite the dominant representation of epics and prose, Zeyer’s style shows distinctly lyrical features, even within the extent of his production as a whole. The lyrical nature of his epic works is enhanced by his exclusively visual imagery, purposely different from common speech, with stylistically marked bookish and archaic elements, bearing the marks of literary art nouveau.In the middle and final stages of the poet’s creative career, his lyricism is enhanced by the changing rhythm of his narrative accentuated by the receding textual dramatization; by a greater share of non-narrative segments in the story; and through the tension ensuing from the contrasts between subjectivity / objectivity; between personification / impersonality; or between outer / inner perspective of the narrative, based on the linguistic form of concrete fictional texts and on the concrete perspective in which the story is actually mediated. Displayed in all of his literary works, lyricism is a characteristic and permanent feature of Julius Zeyer’s authorial style.

<p>Mixed vegetation systems such as wood pastures and shrubby pastures are vital for extensive and sustainable livestock production as well as for the conservation of biodiversity and provision of ecosystem services, and are mostly located in areas that are expected to be more strongly affected by climate change. However, the structural characteristics, phenology, and the optical properties of the vegetation in these mixed -ecosystems such as savanna-like ecosystems in the Iberian Peninsula which combines herbaceous and/or shrubby understory with a low density tree cover, constitute a serious challenge for the remote sensing studies. This work combines physical and empirical methods to improve the estimation of essential vegetation variables: leaf area index (<em>LAI</em>, m² / m² ), leaf (C_ab,leaf, μg / cm² ) and canopy(C_ab,canopy, g / m²) chlorophyll content, and leaf (C_{m, leaf}, g / cm² ) and canopy (C_m,canopy, g / m² ) dry matter content in a dehesa ecosystem. For this purpose, a spectral simulated database for the four main phenological stages of the highly dynamic herbaceous layer (summer senescence, autumn regrowth, greenness peak and beginning of senescence), was built by coupling PROSAIL and FLIGHT radiative transfer models. This database was used to calibrate different predictive models based on vegetation indices (VI) proposed in the literature which combine different spectral bands; as well as Partial Least Squares Regression (PLSR) using all bands in the simulated spectral range (400-2500 nm). PLSR models offered greater predictive power (<em>R²</em> ≥ 0.93, <em>RRMSE</em> ≤ 10.77 %) both for the leaf and canopy- level variables. The results suggest that directional and geometric effects control the relationships between simulated reflectance factors and the foliar parameters. High seasonal variability is observed in the relationship between biophysical variables and IVs, especially for <em>LAI</em> and <em>C_ab</em>, which is confirmed in the PLSR analysis. The models developed need to be validated with spectral data obtained either with proximal or remote sensors.</p>

BackgroundPatients with chronic kidney disease (CKD) are at increased risk for developing gout1 and vice versa.2 Those with both gout and CKD present distinct challenges for patients and physicians because of the high prevalence of other comorbidities and restrictions on gout medication use, including non-steroidal anti-inflammatories3,4 and some oral urate-lowering therapies (ULTs).5 This unique patient population has not been well characterized using real-world data.ObjectivesThis retrospective chart review study of patients with coincident gout and CKD was conducted to better understand patient characteristics and treatment patterns of this population. This study is unique in that patient data were obtained from nephrologists, allowing a glimpse of how they view gout and its management.Methods111 nephrologists provided de-identified medical record data of their most-recently seen advanced (stage 3─5) CKD patients. Patients met study criteria for gout if any of the following were true: gout listed as a comorbidity, ULT use, or visible tophi or gout flares documented. A patient’s gout was determined to be uncontrolled if they had serum uric acid >6 mg/dL in addition to ≥1 visible tophus, ≥2 gout flares in the past year, or gouty arthritis (≥1 tender or swollen joint). Characteristics of this unique population were examined, along with gout management patterns. Differences between patients with controlled and uncontrolled gout were also investigated using data from patients’ most recent evaluation.Results173 patients with stages 3-5 CKD and who met study criteria for gout were included. Mean age was 58.3±18.1 years and BMI averaged 32.0 ± 11.8 kg/m2. A higher than expected proportion of patients were female (47%). The most common comorbidities were hypertension (85%), diabetes mellitus (47%), anemia of CKD (42%), CKD-mineral bone disorder (41%), ischemic heart disease (23%), and congestive heart failure (21%). Mean CKD duration was 4.1 ± 5.5 years, mean estimated glomerular filtration rate (eGFR) at most recent visit was 32.3 ± 13.9 ml/min/1.73 m2, and 62% were using a ULT. 23 patients (13%) had uncontrolled gout (48% female, 63.1 ± 16.4 years, mean eGFR 32.0 ± 14.6 ml/min/1.73 m2), all of whom had been prescribed a ULT. Compared with controlled gout patients, uncontrolled patients had higher rates of pulmonary hypertension (14% vs. 4%), gout-related chronic pain in the 12-months prior to data collection (63% vs. 42%), and joint involvement (joint swelling, tenderness, flexibility loss, and/or damage/lesions on x-ray; 26% vs. 9%). Colchicine was also used more frequently in uncontrolled gout patients (26% vs. 7%).ConclusionThe coincident gout with advanced CKD population described here shows unique differences from the general gout population, including a high proportion of females (47%). Given that women have a lower likelihood of developing gout at the same serum uric acid level,6 this finding was particularly surprising (general gout population: 67% male7). Importantly, nearly 40% of included patients were not utilizing a ULT, leaving them susceptible to developing the painful and debilitating sequalae of uncontrolled gout. Additionally, 41% of the study population had a CKD-related mineral bone disorder, indicating that patients with coincident gout and CKD may have bones that are more vulnerable to gout-related bone damage. Our study confirms a high prevalence of gout and its associated comorbidities in patients with advanced CKD and suggests another nephrology education opportunity to highlight the potential benefits of gout monitoring, earlier intervention, and management.References[1]Safiri S, et al. Arthritis Rheumatol 2020;72:1916-27.[2]Feig DI. Curr Opin Nephrol Hypertens 2009; 18: 526–530.[3]Stamp LK, et al. Nat Rev Rheumatol. 2021; 17(10): 633–641.[4]Wallace SL, et al. J Rheumatol 1991; 18(2): 264-9.[5]Abdelatif AA and Elkhalili N. Am J Ther 2014; 21: 523-34.[6]Bhole V, et al. Arthritis Rheum 2010;62:1069-76.[7]Francis-Sedlak M, et al. Rheumatol Ther 2021;8:183-97.Disclosure of InterestsLeonard Stern Speakers bureau: Horizon Therapeutics, Consultant of: Horizon Therapeutics, Richard Johnson Shareholder of: Colorado Research Partners LLC and XORTX Therapeutics, Speakers bureau: Horizon Therapeutics, Consultant of: Horizon Therapeutics, Payam Shakouri Speakers bureau: Horizon Therapeutics and Relypsa, Consultant of: Horizon Therapeutics, Amod Athavale Grant/research support from: Horizon Therapeutics, Brian LaMoreaux Shareholder of: Horizon Therapeutics, Employee of: Horizon Therapeutics, Brad Marder Shareholder of: Horizon Therapeutics, Employee of: Horizon Therapeutics, Sreedhar Mandayam Shareholder of: Medingenii Capital LLC and Prosalus Capital LLC, Speakers bureau: Otsuka and Alexion, Consultant of: US Renal Care and Aurinia, Grant/research support from: Travere, Norvartis, Omeros, Roche, Vertex, Equillium, Goldfinch Bio, and Pfizer

This paper explores the passionate attachments that underpin subjection to political authority. It does so through an examination of the ways residents of the Jordanian city of Ma‘an are formed by, respond to and live with stateness. Rather than unpacking the prosaic practices through which the state comes to appear as an external structure, it probes the forms of agency and affective connection that emerge from life amidst these practices, exploring some of their effects and conditions of possibility. Far from calling for the Jordanian state’s downfall or demise, Ma‘anis call for the state’s redemption, in a circuitous cycle that only intensifies their conviction in an object of desire that so dependably thwarts their aspirations. Drawing on the work of Judith Butler and Lauren Berlant, this paper argues that while the assurances and consolations the state offers can be entered into in any number of ways, subjectivities in its midst may very well be marked by a constitutive ambivalence that is difficult to escape.

Abstract Background Fractional vegetation cover (FVC) is an important parameter for evaluating crop-growth status. Optical remote-sensing techniques combined with the pixel dichotomy model (PDM) are widely used to estimate cropland FVC with medium to high spatial resolution on the ground. However, PDM-based FVC estimation is limited by effects stemming from the variation of crop canopy chlorophyll content (CCC). To overcome this difficulty, we propose herein a “fan-shaped method” (FSM) that uses a CCC spectral index (SI) and a vegetation SI to create a two-dimensional scatter map in which the three vertices represent high-CCC vegetation, low-CCC vegetation, and bare soil. The FVC at each pixel is determined based on the spatial location of the pixel in the two-dimensional scatter map, which mitigates the effects of CCC on the PDM. To evaluate the accuracy of FSM estimates of the FVC, we analyze the spectra obtained from (a) the PROSAIL model and (b) a spectrometer mounted on an unmanned aerial vehicle platform. Specifically, we use both the proposed FSM and traditional remote-sensing FVC-estimation methods (both linear and nonlinear regression and PDM) to estimate soybean FVC. Results Field soybean CCC measurements indicate that (a) the soybean CCC increases continuously from the flowering growth stage to the later-podding growth stage, and then decreases with increasing crop growth stages, (b) the coefficient of variation of soybean CCC is very large in later growth stages (31.58–35.77%) and over all growth stages (26.14%). FVC samples with low CCC are underestimated by the PDM. Linear and nonlinear regression underestimates (overestimates) FVC samples with low (high) CCC. The proposed FSM depends less on CCC and is thus a robust method that can be used for multi-stage FVC estimation of crops with strongly varying CCC. Conclusions Estimates and maps of FVC based on the later growth stages and on multiple growth stages should consider the variation of crop CCC. FSM can mitigates the effect of CCC by conducting a PDM at each CCC level. The FSM is a robust method that can be used to estimate FVC based on multiple growth stages where crop CCC varies greatly.

The focus of literary scholars on the prosaic part of the heritage of Yuri Yanovskiy leads to a lack of such attention to the dramatic part of the author’s work. Therefore, the study of dramatic texts by Yanovskiy is relevant for modern literary criticism, both for researching and rethinking the period in which Yanovskiy lived, and for understanding his contribution to Ukrainian literature as in general. The article analyzes the correspondence of Yuri Yanovskiy and Pavel Zenkevich from September 1931 to April 1932. The evidence regarding changes in the text of the play “Zaoviovnyky” is revealed and examined. Four sources of influence on changes in the text were revealed - the requirements of the Repertoire Committee, the requirements of the Korsh Theater, under the leadership of the artistic part Dmitry Talnikov, and the private-professional views of Yanovsky's colleagues - Nikolai Kulish and Pavel Zenkevich. Changes were made after the Repertoire Committee, in general approving the play, nevertheless put forward requirements for changes, and Talnikov, being interested in the play as a potential part of the repertoire, also discussed the necessary changes with the author. The changes were made in two stages - firstly by the author himself, and then after proofreading and together with Kulish. The changes affected all the actions in the play, and, as indicated by the author in the correspondence, the fourth action, in particular, was almost rewritten. Individual characters have also changed - Franz, Milli, Wenger, Franz’s mother, and old shepherd. The question about the main idea of the play became discursive in correspondence. Thus, Zenkevich and Talnikov saw the question about buying or building a factory as the main philosophical question of the work, while the author himself noted that this question was posed only for a specific situation and was resolved dialectically. The study reveals an important part of the creative history of «Zaoviovnyky», but it turns out to be necessary to continue the study of the history of the play in particular, and the dramatic heritage of Yanovskiy in general.

This paper has been constructed in a variety of working environments; some physical, some virtual, some merely perceptual. At an ever increasing rate, both work and leisure for the informationally-overexposed in contemporary, "post-modern" western cultures are taking place in a heterogeneous assemblage of working and living environments. At this point, I want to specifically consider the personal computer as a domestic space, one that mirrors, oddly and specifically, the ways that we relate to our own personal living spaces. I'm considering the domestic because I want to get away from some of the more outlandish configurations of virtual spaces in critical writing. These configurations in such writing tend to suggest that virtual spaces are utopian and transform our relationships with mundane reality. The mirroring I want to talk about is instead an illustration of the way we incorporate the virtual with the real in quite prosaic ways. One of the traditional conceptualisations of the divide between the private and the public sphere is to consider it as a distinction between play and work, although obviously this kind of distinction has the greatest currency when gender roles are highly specified in different spheres (and indeed the notion of culture as a bifurcated structure at all has less currency in postmodernity). The personal computer, being a multi-purpose computational and communication system, is capable of taking on many roles, depending on how its software infrastructure has been furnished. The kinds of distinctions we impose on its use have much stronger interactions at the wider cultural level. In Europe and in countries such as Australia and New Zealand, the so-called "personal home computer" of the 1980s held a much greater sway over the domestic market than it did in the United States, simply because buyers at the time had much less invested in the distinction between machines for work and for play. But shifting working patterns have forced machines that can do the work to go into places where they might not have been accepted before. And the clear distinctions of usage (work vs. play) have begun to blur in quite complex ways. But certain aspects of a computer's function have not quite managed to catch up... Despite the now unremarkable ubiquity of the personal computer in the home, the metaphors for data organisation in modern operating systems are clearly evolved from business office layouts. Discrete packages of information are "files", organised into "folders", "directories", or "drawers". Graphical User Interface (GUI) based operating systems further the metaphor, drawing files as sheets of paper with the corner folded, stored in manilla folders or filing cabinet drawers, which are accessed from a "desktop". These metaphorical associations of data types and programs suit the corporate office environment rather better, it could be argued, than the domestic environment, regardless of whatever actual use the computer is put to at home. I want to parallel two quite distinct and seemingly very different activities, by way of an illustration of how we arrange our data and our personal lives. The first is moving house. The second is re-installing Windows. Long time computer users will know what I'm talking about here, but for other, more fortunate types, I'll explain. The Windows operating system for PCs controls everything about the computer, from the way a piece of software can save data to the hard drive, to making sure the cursor and the mouse are in sync. Before a piece of software, such as a word processor, can be used normally, it must be copied to the hard drive of the computer and made to communicate with the operating system. This, in Windows, involves the operating system registering the location and function of every file that makes the software work. The more programs the user adds, the more this "registry" gets filled up, and the greater the chance that the data held in the registry breaks in some way. Eventually, the operating system grinds to a halt, and the computer seems barely functional. At which point, the only solution is to save all the user's data to a separate location, wipe the contents of the hard drive, and reloading all the software, starting with the operating system. This process is intensely tedious, and occasionally disastrous. Sometimes, programs only work due to very precise and unrepeatable combinations of driver software. Occasionally, the user might forget to back up all their data, and lose important files. Idiosyncratic settings that give the machine a unique personality for the user will invariably vanish. There can be any number of important reasons for moving house, but typically they don't involve the fact that the owner has broken the old one. However, in some way, the house is less fit for residence than it was previously. So it is with a computer re-installation. The level of psychic trauma associated with a move may be far greater than that with a reformat, but it is quantitatively, not qualitatively so. And just as a new house can be a breath of fresh air (even literally), a newly installed operating system will seem to fly through activities that it once wheezed through, even if the underlying hardware is the same. A computer is a domestic space for power-users. It has to be cleaned, maintained, customised and made unique. Like a house, it is a text that has inscribed on it every change and renovation that the occupant has seen fit to implement within it. Although the metaphors of operating systems encourage us to think of data structures as we think of office stationary and equipment, the context of the usage and the attachments we form with these abstract structures colour the way we construct their environments. This is even starting to feed into the design of user interfaces. Music software is increasingly beginning to resemble hi-fi gear in its graphical designs. Image viewers have control panels like VCRs. I don't think that this can be reduced to a notion of form following function. Often these new interfaces actually get in the way of efficient operation of the software. But considered semiotically, they relate very strongly to our patterns of interaction with living environments. Computers are tremendously widespread in western nations, and yet we are in a transitional period. They are colonising domestic spaces, creating new forms of spatiality that are domestic but both physical and virtualised. Moves have been underway for several years to bring this colonisation to an apotheosis, a state of ubiquitous computing, whereby computers become seamlessly and invisibly integrated into all domestic and working environments. Early attempts have included the "WebTV" project, a mostly unsuccessful attempt to turn the TV into an Internet browser. If such a change does come about, it will almost certainly transform the way we interact with our computing technology again, and this time, in unrecognisable ways. References Poole, Steven. Trigger Happy: The Inner Life of Video Games. London: Forth Estate, 2000. Weiser, Mark. "Ubiquitous Computing." 12 Dec. 2000 <http://www.ubiq.com/hypertext/weiser/UbiHome.php>. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Nick Caldwell. "Virtual Domesticity: Renewing the Notion of Cybernetic Living and Working Environments." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.6 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0012/virtual.php>. Chicago style: Nick Caldwell, "Virtual Domesticity: Renewing the Notion of Cybernetic Living and Working Environments," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 6 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0012/virtual.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Nick Caldwell. (2000) Virtual Domesticity: Renewing the Notion of Cybernetic Living and Working Environments. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(6). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0012/virtual.php> ([your date of access]).

During World War II, the Soviet Union’s food supply was in a state of crisis. Hitler’s army had occupied the agricultural heartlands of Ukraine and Southern Russia in 1941 and, as a result, agricultural production for the entire nation had plummeted. Soldiers in Red Army, who easily ate the best rations in the country, subsisted on a daily allowance of just under a kilogram of bread, supplemented with meat, tea, sugar and butter when and if these items were available. The hunger of the Red Army and its effect on the morale and strength of Europe’s eastern warfront were causes for concern for the Soviet government and its European and American allies. The one country with a food surplus decided to do something to help, and in 1942 the United States agreed to send thousands of pounds of meat, cheese and butter overseas to help feed the Red Army. After receiving several shipments of the all-American spiced canned meat SPAM, the Red Army’s quartermaster put in a request for a more familiar canned pork product, Russian tushonka. Pound for pound, America sent more pigs overseas than soldiers during World War II, in part because pork was in oversupply in the America of the early 1940s. Shipping meat to hungry soldiers and civilians in war torn countries was a practical way to build business for the U.S. meat industry, which had been in decline throughout the 1930s. As per a Soviet-supplied recipe, the first cans of Lend-Lease tushonka were made in the heart of the American Midwest, at meatpacking plants in Iowa and Ohio (Stettinus 6-7). Government contracts in the meat packing industry helped fuel economic recovery, and meatpackers were in a position to take special request orders like the one for tushonka that came through the lines. Unlike SPAM, which was something of a novelty item during the war, tushonka was a food with a past. The original recipe was based on a recipe for preserved meat that had been a traditional product of the Ural Mountains, preserved in jars with salt and fat rather than by pressure and heat. Thus tushonka was requested—and was mass-produced—not simply as a convenience but also as a traditional and familiar food—a taste of home cooking that soldiers could carry with them into the field. Nikita Khrushchev later claimed that the arrival of tushonka was instrumental in helping the Red Army push back against the Nazi invasion (178). Unlike SPAM and other wartime rations, tushonka did not fade away after the war. Instead, it was distributed to the Soviet civilian population, appearing in charity donations and on the shelves of state shops. Often it was the only meat product available on a regular basis. Salty, fatty, and slightly grey-toned, tushonka was an unlikely hero of the postwar-era, but during this period tushonka rose from obscurity to become an emblem of socialist modernity. Because it was shelf stable and could be made from a variety of different cuts of meat, it proved an ideal product for the socialist production lines where supplies and the pace of production were infinitely variable. Unusual in a socialist system of supply, this product shaped production and distribution lines, and even influenced the layout of meatpacking factories and the genetic stocks of the animals that were to be eaten. Tushonka’s initial ubiquity in the postwar Soviet Union had little to do with the USSR’s own hog industry. Pig populations as well as their processing facilities had been decimated in the war, and pigs that did survive the Axis invasion had been evacuated East with human populations. Instead, the early presence of tushonka in the pig-scarce postwar Soviet Union had everything to do with Harry Truman’s unexpected September 1945 decision to end all “economically useful” Lend-Lease shipments to the Soviet Union (Martel). By the end of September, canned meat was practically the only product still being shipped as part of Lend-Lease (NARA RG 59). Although the United Nations was supposed to distribute these supplies to needy civilians free of cost, travelers to the Soviet Union in 1946 spotted cans of American tushonka for sale in state shops (Skeoch 231). After American tushonka “donations” disappeared from store shelves, the Soviet Union’s meat syndicates decided to continue producing the product. Between its first appearance during the war in 1943, and the 1957 announcement by Nikita Khrushchev that Soviet policy would restructure all state animal farms to support the mass production of one or several processed meat products, tushonka helped to drive the evolution of the Soviet Union’s meat packing industry. Its popularity with both planners and the public gave it the power to reach into food commodity chains. It is this backward reach and the longer-term impacts of these policies that make tushonka an unusual byproduct of the Cold War era. State planners loved tushonka: it was cheap to make, the logistics of preparing it were not complicated, it was easy to transport, and most importantly, it served as tangible evidence that the state was accomplishing a long-standing goal to get more meat to its citizenry and improving the diet of the average Soviet worker. Tushonka became a highly visible product in the Soviet Union’s much vaunted push to establish a modern food regime intended to rival that of the United States. Because it was shelf-stable, wartime tushonka had served as a practical food for soldiers, but after the war tushonka became an ideal food for workers who had neither the time nor the space to prepare a home-cooked meal with fresh meat. The Soviet state started to produce its own tushonka because it was such an excellent fit for the needs and abilities of the Soviet state—consumer demand was rarely considered by planners in this era. Not only did tushonka fit the look and taste of a modern processed meat product (that is, it was standard in texture and flavor from can to can, and was an obviously industrially processed product), it was also an excellent way to make the most of the predominant kind of meat the Soviet Union had the in the 1950s: small scraps low-grade pork and beef, trimmings leftover from butchering practices that focused on harvesting as much animal fat, rather than muscle, from the carcass in question. Just like tushonka, pork sausages and frozen pelmeny, a meat-filled pasta dumpling, also became winning postwar foods thanks to a happy synergy of increased animal production, better butchering and new food processing machines. As postwar pigs recovered their populations, the Soviet processed meat industry followed suit. One official source listed twenty-six different kinds of meat products being issued in 1964, although not all of these were pork (Danilov). An instructional manual distributed by the meat and milk syndicate demonstrated how meat shops should wrap and display sausages, and listed 24 different kinds of sausages that all needed a special style of tying up. Because of packaging shortages, the string that bound the sausage was wrapped in a different way for every type of sausage, and shop assistants were expected to be able to identify sausages based on the pattern of their binding. Pelmeny were produced at every meat factory that processed pork. These were “made from start to finish in a special, automated machine, human hands do not touch them. Which makes them a higher quality and better (prevoskhodnogo) product” (Book of Healthy and Delicious Food). These were foods that became possible to produce economically because of a co-occurring increase in pigs, the new standardized practice of equipping meatpacking plants with large-capacity grinders, and freezers or coolers and the enforcement of a system of grading meat. As the state began to rebuild Soviet agriculture from its near-collapse during the war, the Soviet Union looked to the United States for inspiration. Surprisingly, Soviet planners found some of the United States’ more outdated techniques to be quite valuable for new Soviet hog operations. The most striking of these was the adoption of competing phenotypes in the Soviet hog industry. Most major swine varieties had been developed and described in the 19th century in Germany and Great Britain. Breeds had a tendency to split into two phenotypically distinct groups, and in early 20th Century American pig farms, there was strong disagreement as to which style of pig was better suited to industrial conditions of production. Some pigs were “hot-blooded” (in other words, fast maturing and prolific reproducers) while others were a slower “big type” pig (a self-explanatory descriptor). Breeds rarely excelled at both traits and it was a matter of opinion whether speed or size was the most desirable trait to augment. The over-emphasis of either set of qualities damaged survival rates. At their largest, big type pigs resembled small hippopotamuses, and sows were so corpulent they unwittingly crushed their tiny piglets. But the sleeker hot-blooded pigs had a similarly lethal relationship with their young. Sows often produced litters of upwards of a dozen piglets and the stress of tending such a large brood led overwhelmed sows to devour their own offspring (Long). American pig breeders had been forced to navigate between these two undesirable extremes, but by the 1930s, big type pigs were fading in popularity mainly because butter and newly developed plant oils were replacing lard as the cooking fat of preference in American kitchens. The remarkable propensity of the big type to pack on pounds of extra fat was more of a liability than a benefit in this period, as the price that lard and salt pork plummeted in this decade. By the time U.S. meat packers were shipping cans of tushonka to their Soviet allies across the seas, US hog operations had already developed a strong preference for hot-blooded breeds and research had shifted to building and maintaining lean muscle on these swiftly maturing animals. When Soviet industrial planners hoping to learn how to make more tushonka entered the scene however, their interpretation of american efficiency was hardly predictable: scientifically nourished big type pigs may have been advantageous to the United States at midcentury, but the Soviet Union’s farms and hungry citizens had a very different list of needs and wants. At midcentury, Soviet pigs were still handicapped by old-fashioned variables such as cold weather, long winters, poor farm organisation and impoverished feed regimens. The look of the average Soviet hog operation was hardly industrial. In 1955 the typical Soviet pig was petite, shaggy, and slow to reproduce. In the absence of robust dairy or vegetable oil industries, Soviet pigs had always been valued for their fat rather than their meat, and tushonka had been a byproduct of an industry focused mainly on supplying the country with fat and lard. Until the mid 1950s, the most valuable pig on many Soviet state and collective farms was the nondescript but very rotund “lard and bacon” pig, an inefficient eater that could take upwards of two years to reach full maturity. In searching for a way to serve up more tushonka, Soviet planners became aware that their entire industry needed to be revamped. When the Soviet Union looked to the United States, planners were inspired by the earlier competition between hot-blooded and big type pigs, which Soviet planners thought, ambitiously, they could combine into one splendid pig. The Soviet Union imported new pigs from Poland, Lithuania, East Germany and Denmark, trying valiantly to create hybrid pigs that would exhibit both hot blood and big type. Soviet planners were especially interested in inspiring the Poland-China, an especially rotund specimen, to speed up its life cycle during them mid 1950s. Hybrdizing and cross breeding a Soviet super-pig, no matter how closely laid out on paper, was probably always a socialist pipe dream. However, when the Soviets decided to try to outbreed American hog breeders, they created an infrastructure for pigs and pig breeding that had a dramatic positive impact of hog populations across the country, and the 1950s were marked by a large increase in the number of pigs in the Soviet union, as well as dramatic increases in the numbers of purebred and scientific hybrids the country developed, all in the name of tushonka. It was not just the genetic stock that received a makeover in the postwar drive to can more tushonka; a revolution in the barnyard also took place and in less than 10 years, pigs were living in new housing stock and eating new feed sources. The most obvious postwar change was in farm layout and the use of building space. In the early 1950s, many collective farms had been consolidated. In 1940 there were a quarter of a million kolkhozii, by 1951 fewer than half that many remained (NARA RG166). Farm consolidation movements most often combined two, three or four collective farms into one economic unit, thus scaling up the average size and productivity of each collective farm and simplifying their administration. While there were originally ambitious plans to re-center farms around new “agro-city” bases with new, modern farm buildings, these projects were ultimately abandoned. Instead, existing buildings were repurposed and the several clusters of farm buildings that had once been the heart of separate villages acquired different uses. For animals this meant new barns and new daily routines. Barns were redesigned and compartmentalized around ideas of gender and age segregation—weaned baby pigs in one area, farrowing sows in another—as well as maximising growth and health. Pigs spent less outside time and more time at the trough. Pigs that were wanted for different purposes (breeding, meat and lard) were kept in different areas, isolated from each other to minimize the spread of disease as well as improve the efficiency of production. Much like postwar housing for humans, the new and improved pig barn was a crowded and often chaotic place where the electricity, heat and water functioned only sporadically. New barns were supposed to be mechanised. In some places, mechanisation had helped speed things along, but as one American official viewing a new mechanised pig farm in 1955 noted, “it did not appear to be a highly efficient organisation. The mechanised or automated operations, such as the preparation of hog feed, were eclipsed by the amount of hand labor which both preceded and followed the mechanised portion” (NARA RG166 1961). The American official estimated that by mechanizing, Soviet farms had actually increased the amount of human labor needed for farming operations. The other major environmental change took place away from the barnyard, in new crops the Soviet Union began to grow for fodder. The heart and soul of this project was establishing field corn as a major new fodder crop. Originally intended as a feed for cows that would replace hay, corn quickly became the feed of choice for raising pigs. After a visit by a United States delegation to Iowa and other U.S. farms over the summer of 1955, corn became the centerpiece of Khrushchev’s efforts to raise meat and milk productivity. These efforts were what earned Khrushchev his nickname of kukuruznik, or “corn fanatic.” Since so little of the Soviet Union looks or feels much like the plains and hills of Iowa, adopting corn might seem quixotic, but raising corn was a potentially practical move for a cold country. Unlike the other major fodder crops of turnips and potatoes, corn could be harvested early, while still green but already possessing a high level of protein. Corn provided a “gap month” of green feed during July and August, when grazing animals had eaten the first spring green growth but these same plants had not recovered their biomass. What corn remained in the fields in late summer was harvested and made into silage, and corn made the best silage that had been historically available in the Soviet Union. The high protein content of even silage made from green mass and unripe corn ears prevented them from losing weight in the winter. Thus the desire to put more meat on Soviet tables—a desire first prompted by American food donations of surplus pork from Iowa farmers adapting to agro-industrial reordering in their own country—pushed back into the commodity supply network of the Soviet Union. World War II rations that were well adapted to the uncertainty and poor infrastructure not just of war but also of peacetime were a source of inspiration for Soviet planners striving to improve the diets of citizens. To do this, they purchased and bred more and better animals, inventing breeds and paying attention, for the first time, to the efficiency and speed with which these animals were ready to become meat. Reinventing Soviet pigs pushed even back farther, and inspired agricultural economists and state planners to embrace new farm organizational structures. Pigs meant for the tushonka can spent more time inside eating, and led their lives in a rigid compartmentalization that mimicked emerging trends in human urban society. Beyond the barnyard, a new concern with feed-to weight conversions led agriculturalists to seek new crops; crops like corn that were costly to grow but were a perfect food for a pig destined for a tushonka tin. Thus in Soviet industrialization, pigs evolved. No longer simply recyclers of human waste, socialist pigs were consumers in their own right, their newly crafted genetic compositions demanded ever more technical feed sources in order to maximize their own productivity. Food is transformative, and in this case study the prosaic substance of canned meat proved to be unusually transformative for the history of the Soviet Union. In its early history it kept soldiers alive long enough to win an important war, later the requirements for its manufacture re-prioritized muscle tissue over fat tissue in the disassembly of carcasses. This transformative influence reached backwards into the supply lines and farms of the Soviet Union, revolutionizing the scale and goals of farming and meat packing for the Soviet food industry, as well as the relationship between the pig and the consumer. References Bentley, Amy. Eating for Victory: Food Rationing and the Politics of Domesticity. Where: University of Illinois Press, 1998. The Book of Healthy and Delicious Food, Kniga O Vkusnoi I Zdorovoi Pishche. Moscow: AMN Izd., 1952. 161. Danilov, M. M. Tovaravedenie Prodovol’stvennykh Tovarov: Miaso I Miasnye Tovarye. Moscow: Iz. Ekonomika, 1964. Khrushchev, Nikita. Khrushchev Remembers. New York: Little, Brown & Company, 1970. 178. Long, James. The Book of the Pig. London: Upcott Gill, 1886. 102. Lush, Jay & A.L. Anderson, “A Genetic History of Poland-China Swine: I—Early Breed History: The ‘Hot Blood’ versus the ‘Big Type’” Journal of Heredity 30.4 (1939): 149-56. Martel, Leon. Lend-Lease, Loans, and the Coming of the Cold War: A Study of the Implementation of Foreign Policy. Boulder: Westview Press, 1979. 35. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG 59, General Records of the Department of State. Office of Soviet Union affairs, Box 6. “Records relating to Lend Lease with the USSR 1941-1952”. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG166, Records of the Foreign Agricultural Service. Narrative reports 1940-1954. USSR Cotton-USSR Foreign trade. Box 64, Folder “farm management”. Report written by David V Kelly, 6 Apr. 1951. National Archive and Records Administration (NARA). RG 166, Records of the Foreign Agricultural Service. Narrative Reports 1955-1961. Folder: “Agriculture” “Visits to Soviet agricultural installations,” 15 Nov. 1961. Skeoch, L.A. Food Prices and Ration Scale in the Ukraine, 1946 The Review of Economics and Statistics 35.3 (Aug. 1953), 229-35. State Archive of the Russian Federation (GARF). Fond R-7021. The Report of Extraordinary Special State Commission on Wartime Losses Resulting from the German-Fascist Occupation cites the following losses in the German takeover. 1948. Stettinus, Edward R. Jr. Lend-Lease: Weapon for Victory. Penguin Books, 1944.

Mobile In many countries, more people have mobile phones than they do fixed-line phones. Mobile phones are one of the fastest growing technologies ever, outstripping even the internet in many respects. With the advent and widespread deployment of digital systems, mobile phones were used by an estimated 1, 158, 254, 300 people worldwide in 2002 (up from approximately 91 million in 1995), 51. 4% of total telephone subscribers (ITU). One of the reasons for this is mobility itself: the ability for people to talk on the phone wherever they are. The communicative possibilities opened up by mobile phones have produced new uses and new discourses (see Katz and Aakhus; Brown, Green, and Harper; and Plant). Contemporary soundscapes now feature not only voice calls in previously quiet public spaces such as buses or restaurants but also the aural irruptions of customised polyphonic ringtones identifying whose phone is ringing by the tune downloaded. The mobile phone plays an important role in contemporary visual and material culture as fashion item and status symbol. Most tragically one might point to the tableau of people in the twin towers of the World Trade Centre, or aboard a plane about to crash, calling their loved ones to say good-bye (Galvin). By contrast, one can look on at the bathos of Australian cricketer Shane Warne’s predilection for pressing his mobile phone into service to arrange wanted and unwanted assignations while on tour. In this article, I wish to consider another important and so far also under-theorised aspect of mobile phones: text. Of contemporary textual and semiotic systems, mobile text is only a recent addition. Yet it is already produces millions of inscriptions each day, and promises to be of far-reaching significance. Txt Txt msg ws an acidnt. no 1 expcted it. Whn the 1st txt msg ws sent, in 1993 by Nokia eng stdnt Riku Pihkonen, the telcom cpnies thought it ws nt important. SMS – Short Message Service – ws nt considrd a majr pt of GSM. Like mny teks, the *pwr* of txt — indeed, the *pwr* of the fon — wz discvrd by users. In the case of txt mssng, the usrs were the yng or poor in the W and E. (Agar 105) As Jon Agar suggests in Constant Touch, textual communication through mobile phone was an after-thought. Mobile phones use radio waves, operating on a cellular system. The first such mobile service went live in Chicago in December 1978, in Sweden in 1981, in January 1985 in the United Kingdom (Agar), and in the mid-1980s in Australia. Mobile cellular systems allowed efficient sharing of scarce spectrum, improvements in handsets and quality, drawing on advances in science and engineering. In the first instance, technology designers, manufacturers, and mobile phone companies had been preoccupied with transferring telephone capabilities and culture to the mobile phone platform. With the growth in data communications from the 1960s onwards, consideration had been given to data capabilities of mobile phone. One difficulty, however, had been the poor quality and slow transfer rates of data communications over mobile networks, especially with first-generation analogue and early second-generation digital mobile phones. As the internet was widely and wildly adopted in the early to mid-1990s, mobile phone proponents looked at mimicking internet and online data services possibilities on their hand-held devices. What could work on a computer screen, it was thought, could be reinvented in miniature for the mobile phone — and hence much money was invested into the wireless access protocol (or WAP), which spectacularly flopped. The future of mobiles as a material support for text culture was not to lie, at first at least, in aping the world-wide web for the phone. It came from an unexpected direction: cheap, simple letters, spelling out short messages with strange new ellipses. SMS was built into the European Global System for Mobile (GSM) standard as an insignificant, additional capability. A number of telecommunications manufacturers thought so little of the SMS as not to not design or even offer the equipment needed (the servers, for instance) for the distribution of the messages. The character sets were limited, the keyboards small, the typeface displays rudimentary, and there was no acknowledgement that messages were actually received by the recipient. Yet SMS was cheap, and it offered one-to-one, or one-to-many, text communications that could be read at leisure, or more often, immediately. SMS was avidly taken up by young people, forming a new culture of media use. Sending a text message offered a relatively cheap and affordable alternative to the still expensive timed calls of voice mobile. In its early beginnings, mobile text can be seen as a subcultural activity. The text culture featured compressed, cryptic messages, with users devising their own abbreviations and grammar. One of the reasons young people took to texting was a tactic of consolidating and shaping their own shared culture, in distinction from the general culture dominated by their parents and other adults. Mobile texting become involved in a wider reworking of youth culture, involving other new media forms and technologies, and cultural developments (Butcher and Thomas). Another subculture that also was in the vanguard of SMS was the Deaf ‘community’. Though the Alexander Graham Bell, celebrated as the inventor of the telephone, very much had his hearing-impaired wife in mind in devising a new form of communication, Deaf people have been systematically left off the telecommunications network since this time. Deaf people pioneered an earlier form of text communications based on the Baudot standard, used for telex communications. Known as teletypewriter (TTY), or telecommunications device for the Deaf (TDD) in the US, this technology allowed Deaf people to communicate with each other by connecting such devices to the phone network. The addition of a relay service (established in Australia in the mid-1990s after much government resistance) allows Deaf people to communicate with hearing people without TTYs (Goggin & Newell). Connecting TTYs to mobile phones have been a vexed issue, however, because the digital phone network in Australia does not allow compatibility. For this reason, and because of other features, Deaf people have become avid users of SMS (Harper). An especially favoured device in Europe has been the Nokia Communicator, with its hinged keyboard. The move from a ‘restricted’, ‘subcultural’ economy to a ‘general’ economy sees mobile texting become incorporated in the semiotic texture and prosaic practices of everyday life. Many users were already familiar with the new conventions already developed around electronic mail, with shorter, crisper messages sent and received — more conversation-like than other correspondence. Unlike phone calls, email is asynchronous. The sender can respond immediately, and the reply will be received with seconds. However, they can also choose to reply at their leisure. Similarly, for the adept user, SMS offers considerable advantages over voice communications, because it makes textual production mobile. Writing and reading can take place wherever a mobile phone can be turned on: in the street, on the train, in the club, in the lecture theatre, in bed. The body writes differently too. Writing with a pen takes a finger and thumb. Typing on a keyboard requires between two and ten fingers. The mobile phone uses the ‘fifth finger’ — the thumb. Always too early, and too late, to speculate on contemporary culture (Morris), it is worth analyzing the textuality of mobile text. Theorists of media, especially television, have insisted on understanding the specific textual modes of different cultural forms. We are familiar with this imperative, and other methods of making visible and decentring structures of text, and the institutions which animate and frame them (whether author or producer; reader or audience; the cultural expectations encoded in genre; the inscriptions in technology). In formal terms, mobile text can be described as involving elision, great compression, and open-endedness. Its channels of communication physically constrain the composition of a very long single text message. Imagine sending James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake in one text message. How long would it take to key in this exemplar of the disintegration of the cultural form of the novel? How long would it take to read? How would one navigate the text? Imagine sending the Courier-Mail or Financial Review newspaper over a series of text messages? The concept of the ‘news’, with all its cultural baggage, is being reconfigured by mobile text — more along the lines of the older technology of the telegraph, perhaps: a few words suffices to signify what is important. Mobile textuality, then, involves a radical fragmentation and unpredictable seriality of text lexia (Barthes). Sometimes a mobile text looks singular: saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’, or sending your name and ID number to obtain your high school or university results. Yet, like a telephone conversation, or any text perhaps, its structure is always predicated upon, and haunted by, the other. Its imagined reader always has a mobile phone too, little time, no fixed address (except that hailed by the network’s radio transmitter), and a finger poised to respond. Mobile text has structure and channels. Yet, like all text, our reading and writing of it reworks those fixities and makes destabilizes our ‘clear’ communication. After all, mobile textuality has a set of new pre-conditions and fragilities. It introduces new sorts of ‘noise’ to signal problems to annoy those theorists cleaving to the Shannon and Weaver linear model of communication; signals often drop out; there is a network confirmation (and message displayed) that text messages have been sent, but no system guarantee that they have been received. Our friend or service provider might text us back, but how do we know that they got our text message? Commodity We are familiar now with the pleasures of mobile text, the smile of alerting a friend to our arrival, celebrating good news, jilting a lover, making a threat, firing a worker, flirting and picking-up. Text culture has a new vector of mobility, invented by its users, but now coveted and commodified by businesses who did not see it coming in the first place. Nimble in its keystrokes, rich in expressivity and cultural invention, but relatively rudimentary in its technical characteristics, mobile text culture has finally registered in the boardrooms of communications companies. Not only is SMS the preferred medium of mobile phone users to keep in touch with each other, SMS has insinuated itself into previously separate communication industries arenas. In 2002-2003 SMS became firmly established in television broadcasting. Finally, interactive television had arrived after many years of prototyping and being heralded. The keenly awaited back-channel for television arrives courtesy not of cable or satellite television, nor an extra fixed-phone line. It’s the mobile phone, stupid! Big Brother was not only a watershed in reality television, but also in convergent media. Less obvious perhaps than supplementary viewing, or biographies, or chat on Big Brother websites around the world was the use of SMS for voting. SMS is now routinely used by mainstream television channels for viewer feedback, contest entry, and program information. As well as its widespread deployment in broadcasting, mobile text culture has been the language of prosaic, everyday transactions. Slipping into a café at Bronte Beach in Sydney, why not pay your parking meter via SMS? You’ll even receive a warning when your time is up. The mobile is becoming the ‘electronic purse’, with SMS providing its syntax and sentences. The belated ingenuity of those fascinated by the economics of mobile text has also coincided with a technological reworking of its possibilities, with new implications for its semiotic possibilities. Multimedia messaging (MMS) has now been deployed, on capable digital phones (an instance of what has been called 2.5 generation [G] digital phones) and third-generation networks. MMS allows images, video, and audio to be communicated. At one level, this sort of capability can be user-generated, as in the popularity of mobiles that take pictures and send these to other users. Television broadcasters are also interested in the capability to send video clips of favourite programs to viewers. Not content with the revenues raised from millions of standard-priced SMS, and now MMS transactions, commercial participants along the value chain are keenly awaiting the deployment of what is called ‘premium rate’ SMS and MMS services. These services will involve the delivery of desirable content via SMS and MMS, and be priced at a premium. Products and services are likely to include: one-to-one textchat; subscription services (content delivered on handset); multi-party text chat (such as chat rooms); adult entertainment services; multi-part messages (such as text communications plus downloads); download of video or ringtones. In August 2003, one text-chat service charged $4.40 for a pair of SMS. Pwr At the end of 2003, we have scarcely registered the textual practices and systems in mobile text, a culture that sprang up in the interstices of telecommunications. It may be urgent that we do think about the stakes here, as SMS is being extended and commodified. There are obvious and serious policy issues in premium rate SMS and MMS services, and questions concerning the political economy in which these are embedded. Yet there are cultural questions too, with intricate ramifications. How do we understand the effects of mobile textuality, rewriting the telephone book for this new cultural form (Ronell). What are the new genres emerging? And what are the implications for cultural practice and policy? Does it matter, for instance, that new MMS and 3rd generation mobile platforms are not being designed or offered with any-to-any capabilities in mind: allowing any user to upload and send multimedia communications to other any. True, as the example of SMS shows, the inventiveness of users is difficult to foresee and predict, and so new forms of mobile text may have all sorts of relationships with content and communication. However, there are worrying signs of these developing mobile circuits being programmed for narrow channels of retail purchase of cultural products rather than open-source, open-architecture, publicly usable nodes of connection. Works Cited Agar, Jon. Constant Touch: A Global History of the Mobile Phone. Cambridge: Icon, 2003. Barthes, Roland. S/Z. Trans. Richard Miller. New York: Hill & Wang, 1974. Brown, Barry, Green, Nicola, and Harper, Richard, eds. Wireless World: Social, Cultural, and Interactional Aspects of the Mobile Age. London: Springer Verlag, 2001. Butcher, Melissa, and Thomas, Mandy, eds. Ingenious: Emerging youth cultures in urban Australia. Melbourne: Pluto, 2003. Galvin, Michael. ‘September 11 and the Logistics of Communication.’ Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies 17.3 (2003): 303-13. Goggin, Gerard, and Newell, Christopher. Digital Disability: The Social Construction of Digital in New Media. Lanham, MA: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003. Harper, Phil. ‘Networking the Deaf Nation.’ Australian Journal of Communication 30. 3 (2003), in press. International Telecommunications Union (ITU). ‘Mobile Cellular, subscribers per 100 people.’ World Telecommunication Indicators <http://www.itu.int/ITU-D/ict/statistics/> accessed 13 October 2003. Katz, James E., and Aakhus, Mark, eds. Perpetual Contact: Mobile Communication, Private Talk, Public Performance. Cambridge: Cambridge U P, 2002. Morris, Meaghan. Too Soon, Too Late: History in Popular Culture. Bloomington and Indianapolis: U of Indiana P, 1998. Plant, Sadie. On the Mobile: The Effects of Mobile Telephones on Social and Individual Life. < http://www.motorola.com/mot/documents/0,1028,296,00.pdf> accessed 5 October 2003. Ronell, Avital. The Telephone Book: Technology—schizophrenia—electric speech. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1989. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Goggin, Gerard. "‘mobile text’" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/03-goggin.php>. APA Style Goggin, G. (2004, Jan 12). ‘mobile text’. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 7, <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0401/03-goggin.php>

IntroductionContemporary societies are increasingly becoming sites in which it is more difficult for people to respectfully negotiate disagreements about human diversity. This is exemplified by people who must oppose oppressive social conventions that marginalise them because they identify as belonging to one or more minority groups. One of the key factors in this dynamic is how people’s being in particular sites impacts their being as a person. The “fate of the stranger” is shaped by the spaces they inhabit and people are labelled as “insiders or outsiders” (Amin Land 2); for many people this means our societies are sites of dissatisfaction. For example, in some sites asylum seekers and refugees are referred to as “co-habitant and potential citizen,” while in other sites they are referred to as “impure and threats” (Amin Land 2). This process of defining a person’s being is also experienced by people who are “multi-abled, multi-sexed, multi-sexual, or multi-faith” (Garbutt 275). This article provides a reading of the Human Library in relation to contemporary understandings of space from human geographers such as Ash Amin, as a way of rethinking our everyday spaces as sites for protesting the marginalisation of difference. It primarily draws on my researching and organising Human Libraries across Australia.Protest can employ both instrumental and expressive forms of activism. Instrumental activism aims to change law or policy, gain improvements in living conditions, and win important human services. Expressive activism is often understood as a continuum of political acts extending from lawful demonstrations through to violent activities. Recent studies demonstrate that protest has developed beyond such conventional forms (Dalton, Van Sickle, and Weldon). Contemporary protest includes such things as: acts of spontaneity (Snow and Moss); advocating rights via cultural rather than political protest (Bruce); and activating spatial politics by engaging in urban public spaces to highlight long-standing socio-spatial inequalities (Marom).These examples demonstrate the tension that exists within contemporary protest. While some people accuse expressive activism of being “a thing-for-itself that is not aimed at producing results”, others recognise that “both expressive and instrumental activism are necessary and important” (Maddison and Scalmer 69-71). Far from being self-interested, protest that adopts expressive activism offers its practitioners an important tool:Expressive activism is oriented towards the construction, reconstruction and/or transformation of norms, values, identities and ways of living and being. It is not just about ‘who we are’ […] but also about ‘how we are’ in the world, consequently requiring evaluation of ‘what we do’ and ‘how we do it’. (Stammers 164-165)This understanding of expressive activism provides a useful lens for reading the Human Library as a means of rethinking everyday spaces as sites for protesting the marginalisation of difference. This is particularly so because the Human Library, as an activist organisation dedicated to increasing respect for difference, is situated within the contemporary anti-prejudice movement (Stammers; Chesters and Welsh; Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'").Introducing the Human LibraryHuman Libraries transform the spaces provided by traditional libraries into spaces that challenge contemporary socio-spatial dynamics. Human Libraries provide people (Readers) with a safe space in which they can choose another person (a volunteer known as a Human Book) and engage in a conversation or ‘reading’ about the way that people perceive and experience difference. Readers choose their Human Books from a catalogue of titles and descriptions which are developed by each Human Book.and express something about how they identify. For example, titles include such things as belonging to sexual minority groups, living with physical or mental impairment, or belonging to different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Each ‘reading’ is defined by three rules: 1) you may raise any topic or ask any question; 2) a ‘reading’ is a dialogue so Human Books ask their Readers questions too; and 3) each person may decline to answer any question and to end the reading at any time. Using this method, Human Libraries protest the way in which socio-spatial norms marginalise people who are different. They enact a form of expressive activism that reconstructs the way that norms are used in local sites to marginalise different ways of living and being. This reconstruction of the relationship between norms and sites enables people to be “who we are” and “how we are” without having to be inauthentic about “what we do” and “how we do it” (Stammers 164-165).The first Human Library took place at the Roskilde Festival (Denmark) in the summer of 2000 and as an international activist organisation within the anti-prejudice movement, has since become active in over 80 countries and used in a variety of local community sites thus demonstrating its ability to “transcend borders and be adapted to different situations” (Abergel et al. 13). It now operates in such diverse settings as local libraries, universities, schools, music and cultural festivals and workplaces. Participants’ (Organisers, Readers and Human Books) reflections on their experiences of engaging in Human Libraries helps to illustrate how they perceive Human Libraries as sites that challenge socio-spatial norms.Human Libraries enable people to create sites that reverse our usual social interactions. The following phrases, used by participants to describe their contact with the Human Library, illustrate this. An Organiser, whose local government job requires her to develop projects that encourage interactions between in-groups and out-groups, explains that Human Libraries bring people who usually live “on the margins […] into the centre of the page” and that “the powerful people […] who are usually in the centre” are required to listen to different experiences. Likewise, Human Books describe themselves as being “totally open” in order to encourage their Readers to ask about topics that society labels as “taboo”. Readers illustrate how they encounter Human Libraries in ways that the other spaces in their day-to-day lives function. One Reader talks about “stumbling upon” a Human Library within a community event and describes this as “a kind of a stroke of brilliance to catch people at a place like that rather than in a more conventional library setting”. Other Readers emphasise the significance of this type of encounter when they explain that they “probably wouldn’t just go and bother someone in the street” and that participating in a Human Library has provided a type of conversation “that doesn’t happen in any other way”. The outcome of this is highlighted by a Reader who explains that she pushed herself “to go beyond […] just a polite social conversation” because the Human Library “lays it all out there and says, we’re here to talk” (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'" 124-132). These descriptions of people’s experiences of Human Libraries demonstrate how they perceive Human Libraries as spaces that enable them to have conversations with people they would not normally speak to about topics they would usually feel unable to speak about. Their examples are better appreciated when considered along with the scholarship on the interconnectedness of space and intergroup relations.The Interconnectedness of Space and Intergroup RelationsA multiplicity of spaces shape people’s everyday lives. The everyday refers to the “flow of routine” often defined by such mundane habitual practices as going to work, crossing streets and shopping (Dirksmeier and Helbrecht 495). Who a person is, where a person lives, the spaces a person can enter and move about, and how a person is treated in those spaces are intertwined. Belonging is not an abstract concept; as people move in and out of different spaces they demonstrate how belonging is “experienced differentially, and the pleasures and powers it confers are not distributed evenly but [are] linked to relations of inequality and practices of social exclusion” (Noble and Poynting 490). This warns us against romanticizing the urban space of the city and regarding it over-simplistically as neutral and accessible to all, as a space of open flow and untroubled human interaction and as a natural catalyst for proximate reflexivity (Noble and Poynting; Amin and Thrift; Amin Land; Priest et al.).Acknowledging the negative impacts inherent in the interconnectedness of the city and intergroup relations, some scholars have moved their attention from examining integration at the macrospatial level of society to studying the microecology of segregation (Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux; Dixon, Tredoux and Clack; Alexander and Tredoux; Priest et al.; Thomas; Dandy and Pe-Pua; Dixon and Durrheim; Durrheim et al.). This shifts the focus from a primary interest in the city and the neighbourhood to a closer examination of people’s everyday life spaces. This focus examines how members of different groups “share proximity and co-presence” (Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux 2) and engage in informal practices that uphold barriers (Alexander and Tredoux; Dixon and Durrheim). For example, people were observed as they shared spaces such as beaches, school cafeterias and university class rooms and were found to use these spaces in ways that enacted segregation along lines of race, ethnicity, age, and gender. In examples such as these, everyday life spaces are seen to function in ways that (re)instate borders around difference through everyday spatial practices and they act as sites in which “informal segregation practices can be enacted and reproduced” (Priest et al. 32). The shift in scholarly interest to the microecology of segregation serves my interest in how we might use everyday spaces as sites to contest segregation. The following discusses three everyday spaces that serve this interest.The Space of the Everyday UrbanThe macrospatial terrain of the world’s cities and towns is increasingly defined by difference and their public spaces are often spaces of “visibility and encounter between strangers” (Amin "Ethnicity" 967). Negotiating difference is a natural part of living in these large urban spaces and it is an increasingly more common experience in, what was previously, the typically homogenous setting of rural communities. This process of negotiation occurs most noticeably within the microecology of the “everyday urban,” a context defined by the interconnection of everyday spaces and intergroup relations (Alexander and Tredoux; Durrheim et al.; Dixon and Durrheim). It is here that we find “the micropolitics of everyday social contact and encounter” (Amin "Ethnicity" 959). These everyday spaces include our streets, parks, malls, and cafes, and they are often described as shared spaces of freedom, mingling, and serendipitous encounters. However, while spaces such as these can place people from diverse backgrounds and groups in close proximity, it is important not to overstate their effectiveness in helping people negotiate difference (Wise; Noble "Cosmopolitan Habits"; Priest et al.; Valentine "Living"). This is the case because urban public spaces can carry a reverse side to the provision of proximity. They are often “spaces of transit with very little contact between strangers” (Amin "Ethnicity" 967). As such, urban public spaces do not naturally serve our need to negotiate our everyday encounters with others (Amin and Thrift; Amin, Massey, and Thrift; Rosaldo; Amin "Ethnicity").This illuminates the need to rethink our everyday public spaces and start to unsettle and shift how some spaces act to perpetuate negative and habitual socio-spatial norms which encourage avoidance rather than provide spaces to contest inequality and inequity (Alexander and Tredoux; Durrheim et al.; Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux; Dixon and Durrheim; Wise). Participants at Human Libraries demonstrate that they recognise this when they explain that they do not feel able to approach and speak with people who are different in everyday spaces such as the street, public transport and shops. They point out that they feel that socio-spatial norms dictate that it is rude, impolite or intrusive to approach strangers and people who are different in public spaces and to begin a conversation, especially about difference (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'"). Examples such as this signal how everyday urban spaces embody socio-spatial norms and practices that impede people’s capacity to engage in everyday acts that protest the marginalisation of difference. This clarifies why “even in the most carefully designed and inclusive spaces, the marginalised and the prejudiced stay away” (Amin "Ethnicity" 968). This alerts us to the need to better appreciate what occurs in other everyday spaces in which people associate even more closely.Spaces and the MicropublicOther everyday spaces in which people spend a significant amount of time are spaces of association, referred to as micropublics (Amin "Ethnicity"; Noble "Cosmopolitan Habits"). They include those places in which we work, study, play sports, and recreate. Micropublics function as spaces of habitual engagement, interdependence and “prosaic negotiations” (Amin "Ethnicity" 969). For example, we attend our place of work on a daily basis which requires us to communicate and interact with our colleagues as well as navigate other forms of elementary social etiquette. In this way, micropublics often bring people from diverse backgrounds and identity groups together in spaces that require them to interact with people who are different to themselves. In practice, however, the contact people undertake in their micropublics tends to be illusory and includes practices of informal segregation (Dixon and Durrheim; Alexander and Tredoux; Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux). This highlights that “co-presence and collaboration are two very different things” and that micropublics do not immediately serve as sites for protesting the marginalisation of difference (Amin Land 59).Participants at Human Libraries share experiences taken from their own work places and schools and suggest that the codes of civility that are enforced within these micropublics make it difficult, if not impossible, to engage in certain conversations. For example, Readers at Human Libraries disclose that they do not feel comfortable discussing issues of physical impairment or mental illness with colleagues who live with disability and mental illness. Similarly, high school students explain that they feel unable to discuss what it means to be gay, lesbian or bisexual with their fellow-students who identity as LGBTQI (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'"). Examples such as these demonstrate how micropublics embody “degrees and modalities of familiarity and strangeness” (Noble "Strange Familiarities" 33) and that even though they may embody degrees of collaboration and contribute to a shift in the way people develop various forms of familiarity, they do not naturally lend themselves to protesting the way in which codes of civility camouflage disrespect for difference. These experiences alert us to the way that our everyday spaces and the norms attached to them contribute to defining what it means to be and to belong.Spaces and BeingPeople’s experiences of marginalisation in public spaces illuminates how people’s freedom to be in particular spaces and their being – their humanity – are intimately connected. This happens as people who are made to feel that they should not be in a space are sent the message that they do not have the right to be at all (Noble and Poynting). Valentine ("Prejudice" 531) explains how this is demonstrated by the way some people speak about other people who are different in relation to public and private spaces:Individuals stated that they believed in individual freedom and were not prejudiced against minority groups and yet saw no contradiction in then expressing hostility towards seeing lesbians and gay men kissing on the street, or women wearing the hijab in their neighbourhood or feeling uncomfortable at the sight of a disabled person in public or being inconvenienced by disabled access provisions.This response reveals how some people frame acceptance of minority groups using the criteria of invisibility and how spatial norms define “appropriate embodied ways of being in public space” (Valentine "Prejudice" 532). This exemplifies how some people regard it as tolerable for minority groups to express their difference at home but not in public because this would be considered as imposing “their way of life” upon majority people, thus transgressing spatial norms about appropriate embodied ways of being in public spaces.People who participate at Human Libraries as Readers illustrate this dynamic when they share how, during the course of their everyday lives, they have come in contact with people with disabilities or met people who identify as gay, lesbian or transgender and have recognised negative feelings within themselves such as discomfort, embarrassment, or have refused to recognise a person’s authentic identity. They also admit to hiding these feelings in public but expressing them once they return home (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'"; Kudo et al.). Similarly, people who volunteer as Human Books speak about their experiences of being in public spaces and feeling unsafe or the target of negative treatment. For example, Human Books who identify as gay comment that they need to do a “safety check” before showing signs of physical affection in public; Human Books whose physical appearance does not align with social constructs of gender relate that they have been banned from using public toilets; and Human Books with eating disorders speak about being labelled as “crazy” (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'"; Watson "Being a Human Book"). Behaviours such as these demonstrate how people who are different are defined and treated as lesser beings in public spaces and are relegated to segregated micropublics such as their homes as well as groups and clubs dedicated to particular minorities.Conclusion: Rethinking Our SpacesThe above discussion includes a number of findings that are informative when thinking about how our everyday spaces might act as sites for protesting the marginalisation of difference. The following offers a concluding discussion about how we might approach such a project, paying particular attention to what we can learn from the Human Library.Firstly, Human Libraries exemplify the need to develop sites that protest the way in which our everyday public spaces do not naturally serve our need to negotiate our everyday encounter with difference (Noble and Poynting; Amin and Thrift; Amin Strangers; Priest et al.). Readers indicate that Human Libraries are spaces that make it possible for them to meet people they don’t feel able to approach in other everyday public spaces. As such, Human Libraries illuminate the importance of developing sites that protest social and spatial norms by enabling “encounter between strangers” (Amin "Ethnicity" 967).Secondly, Human Libraries protest the space of the micropublic as sites that are illusory, superficial, and bearers of informal segregation (Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux; Dixon, Tredoux and Clack; Alexander and Tredoux; Priest et al.; Thomas; Dandy and Pe-Pua; Dixon and Durrheim; Durrheim et al.). They achieve this by being sites in which no topic or question is taboo and that welcome and value respectful conversations about difference. Readers are able to speak to Human Books about differences such as what it is like to live with physical impairment, to be lesbian and/or to be an immigrant or a refugee. Their conversations are much deeper than the superficial conversations they feel restricted to within the confines of their everyday micropublics which enables them to protest codes of civility that render conversations about the marginalisation of difference as unacceptable (Watson "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer'"; Watson "Being a Human Book").Thirdly, Human Libraries provide sites that protest the way in which other spaces define people who are different as lesser beings because Human Libraries are spaces in which every person has the right to be their authentic self. They are spaces that make it possible for people to be 'who we are’ by authentically being ‘how we are’ (Stammers 164-165). They shed a light on the way that a person’s being is sometimes distorted by how they experience being in a particular space and in doing so protest spatial norms that divide, marginalise and diminish people by marginalising them via the criteria of invisibility (Clack, Dixon, and Tredoux; Dixon and Durrheim; Thomas). For this reason, Human Libraries can be regarded as safe spaces to meet people who are different and bring people from the margins of society to its centre as sites that protest the marginalisation of difference.ReferencesAbergel, Ronni, et al. Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover? The Living Library Organiser's Guide. Budapest: Council of Europe 2005.Alexander, Lameez, and Colin Tredoux. "The Spaces between Us: A Spatial Analysis of Informal Segregation at a South African University." Journal of Social Issues 66.2 (2010): 367-86.Amin, Ash. "Ethnicity and the Multicultural City: Living with Diversity." Environment and Planning A 34.6 (2002): 959-80.———. Land of Strangers. Cambridge: Polity, 2012.———, D. Massey, and Nigel Thrift. Cities for the Many Not the Few. Bristol: Policy P, 2000.———, and Nigel Thrift. Cities: Reimagining the Urban. Cambridge: Polity, 2002.Bruce, Katherine Mcfarland. "LGBT Pride as a Cultural Protest Tactic in a Southern City." Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 42.5 (2013): 608-35.Clack, Beverley, John Dixon, and Colin Tredoux. "Eating Together Apart: Patterns of Segregation in a Multi-Ethnic Cafeteria." Journal of Community & Applied Social Psychology 15.1 (2005): 1-16.Dalton, Russell, Alix Van Sickle, and Steven Weldon. "The Individual–Institutional Nexus of Protest Behaviour." Brit. J. Polit. Sci. 40.1 (2010): 51-73.Dandy, Justine, and Rogelia Pe-Pua. "Beyond Mutual Acculturation." Zeitschrift für Psychologie 221.4 (2013): 232-41.Dirksmeier, Peter, and Ilse Helbrecht. "Everyday Urban Encounters as Stratification Practices." City 19.4 (2015): 486-98.Dixon, John, and Kevin Durrheim. "Contact and the Ecology of Racial Division: Some Varieties of Informal Segregation." British Journal of Social Psychology 42.1 (2003): 1-23.———, Colin Tredoux, and Beverley Clack. "On the Micro-Ecology of Racial Division: A Neglected Dimension of Segregation." South African Journal of Psychology 35.3 (2005): 395-411.Durrheim, Kevin, et al. "From Exclusion to Informal Segregation: The Limits to Racial Transformation at the University of Natal." Social Dynamics 30.1 (2004): 141-69.Garbutt, Rob. "The Living Library: Some Theoretical Approaches to a Strategy for Activating Human Rights and Peace." Activating Human Rights and Peace: Universal Responsibility Conference 2008 Conference Proceedings. Ed. Rob Garbutt.Kudo, Kazuhiro, et al. "Bridging Difference through Dialogue: Preliminary Findings of the Outcomes of the Human Library in a University Setting." 2011 Shanghai International Conference on Social Science. Maddison, Sarah, and Sean Scalmer. Activist Wisdom: Practical Knowledge and Creative Tension in Social Movements. Sydney: UNSW P, 2006.Marom, Nathan. "Activising Space: The Spatial Politics of the 2011 Protest Movement in Israel." Urban Studies 50.13 (2013): 2826-41.Noble, Greg. "Cosmopolitan Habits: The Capacities and Habitats of Intercultural Conviviality." Body & Society 19.2-3 (2013): 162-85.———. "Strange Familiarities: A Response to Ash Amin's Land of Strangers." Identities 20.1 (2013): 31-36.———, and Scott Poynting. "White Lines: The Intercultural Politics of Everyday Movement in Social Spaces." Journal of Intercultural Studies 31.5 (2010): 489-505.Priest, Naomi, et al. "Patterns of Intergroup Contact in Public Spaces: Micro-Ecology of Segregation in Australian Communities." Societies 4.1 (2014): 30-44.Rosaldo, R. "Cultural Citizenship, Inequality and Multiculturalism." Race, Identity, and Citizenship. Eds. R. Torres, L. Miron, and J. Inda. Oxford: Blackwell, 1999.Snow, David A., and Dana M. Moss. "Protest on the Fly: Toward a Theory of Spontaneity in the Dynamics of Protest and Social Movements." American Sociological Review 79.6 (2014): 1122-43.Stammers, Neil. Human Rights and Social Movements. London: Pluto P, 2009.Thomas, Mary E. "‘I Think It's Just Natural’: The Spatiality of Racial Segregation at a US High School." Environment and Planning A 37.7 (2005): 1233-48.Valentine, Gill. "Living with Difference: Reflections on Geographies of Encounter." Progress in Human Geography 32.3 (2008): 323-37.———. "Prejudice: Rethinking Geographies of Oppression." Social & Cultural Geography 11.6 (2010): 519-37.Watson, Greg. "Being a Human Book: Conversations for Rupturing Prejudice." Rites of Spring. Ed. Julie Lunn. Perth: Black Swan P, 2017.———. "'You Shouldn't Have to Suffer for Being Who You Are': An Examination of the Human Library Strategy for Challenging Prejudice and Increasing Respect for Difference." Curtin University, 2015.Wise, Amanda. "Hope in a Land of Strangers." Identities 20.1 (2013): 37-45.

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