Journal articles on the topic 'Theaters, ireland, dublin'

The economies of theatre and performance in Ireland in the 1890s depended on various intersections of cultural and nationalist politics, but they also depended on Ireland's position within the wider circulation of English, European, and U.S. touring companies. This essay traces Herbert Beerbohm Tree's production of Henrik Ibsen's An Enemy of the People from London to New York and Dublin. Tree's decision to stage the play is a key moment because it moves Ibsen's work out of small, independent theatres and into a major touring company's repertoire. At the same time, especially while on tour in Ireland and the U.S., Tree's performance techniques and business practices obscured almost all of the qualities in Ibsen's work that had made him so controversial and had inspired the independent theaters in the first place. Following Tree's production illuminates two important shaping conditions for theatrical writers and entrepreneurs at the turn of the century: the demands for “stage business” within a burgeoning London-based commercial touring circuit and the effects of the experience of empire on performances of “parochial” languages.

This essay investigates the conditions and consequences of Thomas Sheridan's attempt to bar spectators from behind the scenes at the Theatre-Royal in Dublin's Smock Alley. Sheridan succeeded in revoking the “freedom of the scenes”—a privilege by which aristocratic men were allowed to roam the green room, dressing rooms, and stage during the performance—because Dublin was the cultural and political center of a colonial society whose members were struggling for control over the spaces outside the theater. The reform provoked a conflict known as the Kelly riots, which began with a spectator's attempted rape of an actress in Sheridan's production of John Vanbrugh's Aesop. Contextualizing the Kelly riots in the political and cultural situation of eighteenth-century Ireland, this article illuminates the role that the theater plays in the construction of subjectivity and in the interrelation among gender, class, and national identities.

This article outlines the popularity - and financial success - of an eighteenth-century Dublin puppet theatre that threatened mainstream theatres of the time. Randall Stretch’s puppet theatre, in Dublin’s Capel Street, became the centrepiece for satirical and political commentary of the day. Stretch’s theatre caught the attention of Dean Swift and his circle and is commemorated in satirical verse of the period. For decades, Dubliners used the phrase ‘This is more of Stretch’s Show’ to refer to anything outlandish or incredible. The article underlines the power of the puppet theatre as a satirical device and the extent to which it can rival mainstream theatre.

This article analyses David Ireland’s 2016 play, Cyprus Avenue, in which Eric, a middle-aged Ulster Unionist, becomes convinced that his infant granddaughter is Gerry Adams. Ireland is a Belfast-born actor and playwright whose works – Can’t Forget about You (2013) and Ulster American (2018) – have recently generated critical acclaim and debate. Cyprus Avenue, directed by Vicky Featherstone, opened in February at the Abbey Theatre Dublin as part of the theatre’s 1916 commemorative programme, before transferring to the Royal Court. With attention to the nuances of these production conditions, the ways in which Ireland’s play unravels a crisis of northern Irish identity in a post-Agreement context in relation to temporality and gender are explored. Particular attention is focused on how ontological crisis is presented through dislocated, non-linear experiences of time that are enacted within a scenographically crafted space. This crisis is at once personal and impersonal – a metaphor for a northern state of being – and is brutally distilled in acts of violence against women. I will argue that the ideological dimensions to the affective mechanisms of the play and its performance at the Abbey Theatre in 2016 and beyond are deeply ambivalent and deserve scrutiny.

This essay examines the politics of the disturbances and riots that rocked Philip Astley's Dublin Amphitheatre, the site of Ireland's first circus, during the 1790s. Astley received the first legal recognition for his circus from a colonial administration in Ireland because of the loyalism of his entertainments and, throughout the 1790s, his Dublin Amphitheatre worked to mobilize the Irish masses in the interest of the crown and the empire. But, as this essay shows, these loyalist entertainments were also repeatedly disrupted by the counter-theatre of the Jacobin-inspired group, the United Irishmen, who used this site to rally support not only for the Irish nationalist revolution but also for the broader democratic revolution then being staged all around the Atlantic rim.

So close was the relationship between women and the Irish literary and theatrical renaissance that the severely diminished feminist role in contemporary Irish cultural and theatrical life contrasts all the more revealingly with the early achievements. In this article, which is an expanded version of a paper given at the 1990 conference of the International Federation for Theatre Research at Glasgow University, Steve Wilmer etches in the historical perspective, notably the significance of women's writing to the nationalist as well as the suffragist movement, and outlines the present situation, in which the solid advances being made by women directors and administrators are only slowly being reflected in an increase in women's theatre writing and support for feminist theatre groups, let alone the assumption of real theatrical power. Steve Wilmer teaches in the Samuel Beckett Centre at Trinity College Dublin, and is the author of several plays, including Scenes from Soweto.

On 1 February 2014, Ireland's best-known queer performer, drag artist Panti (Rory O'Neill), delivered a ten-minute speech on the main stage of the Abbey Theatre following a production of James Plunkett's play The Risen People (1958). The oration was the last instalment in a series of so-called ‘Noble Calls’ programmed by the national theatre, in which invited artists, activists and public intellectuals spoke after the production about an issue of pressing concern. Plunkett's drama explores the impact on a family of the 1913 Dublin Lockout, during which approximately 20,000 people took to the streets in an industrial dispute over working conditions. Marking the centenary of the event, the production and its Noble Calls commemorated the original incident, while also encouraging reflection on the state of contemporary Ireland, and the public's aspirations for a country deeply affected by recent social, cultural and economic upheavals.

This essay presents a case for Maura Laverty’s play Tolka Row (1951) to be recognised as a highly-accomplished prototype of the soap opera in Ireland. It argues that Tolka Row is an important Irish iteration of a quintessentially modern form that swept across Europe and the rest of the world in tandem with advances in broadcasting in the twentieth century. The analysis focuses on the unique way in which the play portrays the lived experiences of working-class women through unadorned, everyday ‘talk’. The innovative approach to dialogue in Tolka Row situates the play as an important precursor to the development of the television serial in Ireland – not merely due to its popularity and working-class milieu, as has been acknowledged in the past, but due to its creative formal characteristics. This paper thus suggests a reassessment of the legacy of the Gate Theatre, which has to date been defined primarily in relation to its production of avant-garde plays. While the Gate has been widely acknowledged as a bastion of European modernism in Ireland, Tolka Row forms part of the theatre’s contribution to the development of a different kind of response to modernization, in the form of popular culture. By drawing on previously unexplored archival material which shows evidence of significant cuts to the original script, this paper suggests that the directors of Gate Theatre Productions – Hilton Edwards and Micheál mac Líammóir – either denied or disavowed the extent to which a more popular drama could impact Irish theatre and society. Keywords: Gate Theatre, Maura Laverty, Tolka Row, serial, soap, popular culture, consciousness raising.

The Dublin Gate Theatre Company’s repertory of international, often experimental plays offers perhaps the clearest distinction between the Gate and the Abbey in the mid-twentieth century. A growing body of scholarship focuses on how Hilton Edwards and Micheál mac Liammóir deployed innovative, non-realistic staging techniques and brought to Ireland design elements associated with European artists. The Gate’s international remit can also be seen in its production of plays not merely authored by foreign playwrights, but focused on issues outside the conventional purview of Irish politics, including anti-Semitism and totalitarianism. Throughout his career, Hilton Edwards often sought out non-realistic dramaturgies to critique modern institutions. Some of the plays chosen by Edwards and mac Liammóir were so provocative, socially-conscious, and politically-charged that they challenged the prevailing ethos in Catholic Ireland and incurred the wrath of the Catholic Cinema and Theatre Patrons’ Association. Edwards’ exposure to Bertolt Brecht’s plays, theories, and the 1956 London performances by the Berliner Ensemble prompted not only his production of Mother Courage in 1959 and Saint Joan of the Stockyards two years later, but also his greater willingness to comment on theatre, for example on the radio and in his book The Mantle of Harlequin (1958). Edwards shared with Brecht an awareness of music as integral to performance and a vision of theatre unconstrained by realism and the proscenium arch. Although the Gate repertory of new productions in the post-Emergency era may appear unsurprising, that perspective is informed by the half century in which dramatists such as Arthur Miller and Brecht emerged canonical figures. Hilton Edwards’ direction of Mother Courage and Saint Joan of the Stockyards advanced the Gate’s internationalism and helped to reshape the political nature of Irish theatre. Keywords: Hilton Edwards, Dublin Gate Theatre, Bertolt Brecht, Irish theatre, theatre and politics, Brechtian

This essay reveals the centrality of commedia dell’arte in defining the Gate’s theatrical style in the first four decades of its existence. In its theatricality, as well as its emphasis on the international and the queer, Hilton Edwards and Micheál mac Liammóir found the commedia dell’arte to be an ideal theatrical precedent for their own ambitions and practice. Drawing on materials in the Gate Theatre Digital Archive, NUI Galway, newspaper archives, research by Christopher FitzSimons, David Clare and Nicola Morris and the books of Edwards and mac Liammóir this article charts the origins of their engagement with and conception of the commedia dell’arte and its manifestation in their writings and theatre productions. Building on the work of Eibhear Walshe and Richard Pine on mac Liammóir’s adoption of masks of identity, it is also argues that both Edwards and mac Liammóir assumed the masks of Harlequin and Pierrot, in their writing and performing in order to reveal and shape their queer identities. This examination confirms how embedded European theatrical practice was in the stagecraft of one of Ireland’s premiere theatres and in so doing allows for networks of international artistic influence to be traced in the development of contemporary Irish performance. Keywords: Gate Theatre Dublin, Irish theatre, commedia dell’arte, queer, Hilton Edwards, Micheál mac Liammóir, modernism.

AbstractIreland is currently at the mid-point of what has been termed The Decade of Centenaries, where citizens, artists, the Irish diaspora, and the tourist industry are encouraged to come together and reflect on the Ireland of one hundred years ago. The years 1912–1922 reflect some of the most significant moments in Ireland’s history, the centerpiece of which is considered to be the 1916 Easter Rising. State-led commemorations of these events have thus far been dominated by narratives around patriotism, nationalism, republicanism, and neoliberalism. There has been little to no state interest in interrogating any significant challenging of the historical events themselves, or indeed any significant exploration of any progress, changes, or diversification that may have emerged since these events. Much of the available state funding in the arts sector has been earmarked for artists to engage specifically with the commemorative schedule, thus restricting the theme of artistic output. This essay analyses how two participatory performances, which took place during the 2016 Dublin Theatre Festival, problematised the state-led narratives and illuminated divergent histories surrounding the 1916 Easter Rising: These Rooms by ANU Productions and CoisCéim Dance Theatre, and It’s Not Over by THEATREclub.

This essay analyses Selina Cartmell’s first season as artistic director of Dublin’s Gate theatre, in 2018 in relation to the development of neoliberalism in Ireland and the part played by the European Union in this process. Key social and political contexts are identified in order to frame this analysis, including the concentration of power in the upper-classes distinctive of neoliberalism; the relevance of historical memory in Irish culture; the restructuring of the Irish Arts Council in consequence of post-2008 austerity; and, the influence of #WakingTheFeminists’ protests against the marginalisation of women in the Irish theatre. It is argued that Selina Cartmell successfully fostered the reception of a grassroots movement (#WakingTheFeminists) into a mainstream institution (the Gate, Dublin). However, attention is brought to a pattern of homologation to neoliberal hegemony within such reception, determined by the influences of national (Irish) and supranational (EU) interventions. The article concludes with a reflection on the possibility of counter-performances resistant to neoliberal hegemony within the current Irish and European cultural industry and in the new contexts of the Covid 19 pandemic. Keywords: Gate Theatre Dublin; Irish Theatre; #WakingTheFeminists; European austerity; Celtic Tiger.

Reappropriating the iconography of “America” as portrayed in Melville's Moby-Dick, the New York-based Radiohole offers in Fluke what Steve Luber dubs a hyperreal performance. The hyperreal is also what happened to Sara Brady when she rode through Dublin with the international trio Rimini Protokoll as they reimagined the journey as a trek from Bulgaria to Ireland. The last Critical Act takes place in Tangier where Khalid Amine found Zoubeir Ben Bouchta's Lalla J'mila a negotiation of the terrains of law, gender, and “place-specific” theatre.

Reappropriating the iconography of “America” as portrayed in Melville's Moby-Dick, the New York-based Radiohole offers in Fluke what Steve Luber dubs a hyperreal performance. The hyperreal is also what happened to Sara Brady when she rode through Dublin with the international trio Rimini Protokoll as they reimagined the journey as a trek from Bulgaria to Ireland. The last Critical Act takes place in Tangier where Khalid Amine found Zoubeir Ben Bouchta's Lalla J'mila a negotiation of the terrains of law, gender, and “place-specific” theatre.

Reappropriating the iconography of “America” as portrayed in Melville's Moby-Dick, the New York-based Radiohole offers in Fluke what Steve Luber dubs a hyperreal performance. The hyperreal is also what happened to Sara Brady when she rode through Dublin with the international trio Rimini Protokoll as they reimagined the journey as a trek from Bulgaria to Ireland. The last Critical Act takes place in Tangier where Khalid Amine found Zoubeir Ben Bouchta's Lalla J'mila a negotiation of the terrains of law, gender, and “place-specific” theatre.

For more than three decades, John Jordan (1930–88) was one of the most astute and perceptive literary critics in Ireland. As editor of the magazine Poetry Ireland in the Sixties he helped to revive Dublin as a significant literary centre, maintaining friendships with Patrick Kavanagh, Brendan Behan, and Austin Clarke. Himself a poet in the late modernist mode and a writer of witty and idiosyncratic short stories about the bohemian Dublin of the Forties and Fifties, Jordan was equally well-known as a drama critic, a staunch advocate of the later plays of Sean O'Casey, a defender of Joyce and Beckett, and a champion of the work of women authors including Kate O'Brien and the playwright Teresa Deevy. A child prodigy who corresponded with the famous English drama critic James Agate and evaluated play scripts for Edwards and MacLiammóir at the Gate Theatre, where he also acted, John Jordan distinguished himself as a scholarship student at Pembroke College Oxford and at UCD, where he lectured brilliantly on English literature. He was also a noted broadcaster on radio and TV programmes such as the Thomas Davis Lectures, Sunday Miscellany, and the TV book programme Folio.

This essay considers two unpublished plays written by Hazel Ellis in the 1930s and produced by the Gate Theatre, Dublin, where Ellis had started out as an actor. While the two plays appear to have little in common, the substance of each echoes the public debate in Ireland at the time regarding marriage, divorce, and women in the workplace. These were the years leading up to the adoption of the 1937 Constitution, which sanctified the nuclear family and the central role of the wife and mother within it as the moral cornerstone of society. In both plays the female characters struggle to make meaningful choices within a restrictive, patriarchal environment. Portrait in Marble (1936) is a historical biographical drama dealing with Lord Byron’s turbulent relationships with two very different women: his lover, the outrageous (and married) Lady Caroline Lamb, and his wife, the intellectual and prudent Annabella Milbanke, who eventually chooses to separate from her husband. Women without Men (1938) features an all-female cast and is set in the teachers’ sitting room of a private girls’ boarding school modelled on the French School in Bray, Co. Wicklow, which Ellis had attended. It focusses on the anxieties, obsessions and grievances of the school’s teachers, all of whom are unmarried. This essay considers Ellis’ plays in the context of contemporary newspaper reporting about the low marriage rate in Ireland, legislation curtailing the right of married women to work in certain positions (the ‘marriage bar’), and the clerical and legal debate concerning divorce. Keywords: Hazel Ellis, Gate Theatre Dublin, Irish theatre, women, marriage, divorce, marriage bar.

This round-table discussion, edited by Eva Urban and Lisa FitzGerald, took place on 5 July 2019 as part of the conference ‘New Romantics: Performing Ireland and Cosmopolitanism on the Anniversary of Human Rights’ organized by the editors at the Brian Friel Theatre, Queen’s University Belfast. Lisa FitzGerald is a theatre historian and ecocritic who completed postdoctoral fellowships at the Centre de Recherche Bretonne et Celtique (CRBC), Université Rennes 2 and the Rachel Carson Centre for Environment and Society, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich. She is the author of Re-Place: Irish Theatre Environments (Peter Lang, 2017) and Digital Vision and the Ecological Aesthetic (forthcoming, Bloomsbury, 2020). Eva Urban is a Senior Research Fellow at the Senator George J. Mitchell Institute for Global Peace, Security, and Justice, Queen’s University Belfast, and an Associate Fellow of the Institute of Irish Studies, QUB. She is the author of Community Politics and the Peace Process in Contemporary Northern Irish Drama (Peter Lang, 2011) and La Philosophie des Lumières dans le Théâtre Breton: Tradition et Influences (Université de Rennes, 2019). Rosemary Jenkinson is a Belfast playwright and writer of five short story collections. Her plays include The Bonefire (Rough Magic), Planet Belfast (Tinderbox), White Star of the North, Here Comes the Night (Lyric), Lives in Translation (Kabosh Theatre Company), and Michelle and Arlene (Accidental Theatre). Her writing for radio includes Castlereagh to Kandahar (BBC Radio 3) and The Blackthorn Tree (BBC Radio 4). She has received a Major Individual Artist Award from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland to write a memoir. Tom Maguire is Head of the School of Arts and Humanities at Ulster University and has published widely on Irish and Scottish theatre and in the areas of Theatre for Young Audiences and Storytelling Performance. His heritage research projects include the collection Heritage after Conflict: Northern Ireland (Routledge, 2018, co-edited with Elizabeth Crooke). David Grant is a former Programme Director of the Dublin Theatre Festival and was Artistic Director of the Lyric Theatre in Belfast. He has worked extensively as a theatre director throughout Ireland and is co-investigator of an AHRC-funded research project into Arts for Reconciliation. He lectures in drama at Queen’s University Belfast.

This creative essay examines how visual culture and Alice Milligan’s re-animation of the Tableaux as a radical form of theatre practice operated as a link between ideas of national culture and revolutionary feminism in Ireland. But the tableaux had other elective affinities too. Theatre, photography and the magic lantern were the most immediately obvious of these; but cinema and art installation are by now also recognizably among them. The moving cinematic image is in fact a series of still pictures which give the effect of movement. As silent films became more popular in Ireland in the early years of the twentieth century they were called ‘living pictures’, the name also used to describe tableaux. But even in the era of the early silent film, directors often suspended action to jolt the viewer into another interpretative realm. We see this in Griffith’s 1909 film A Corner in Wheat — where a shot of a bread queue looks like the film has stopped. Early photography was vital to Alice Milligan’s practice: she raised funds for the first magic lantern for the Gaelic League (first used in Donegal); travelled the country taking photographs of people and sites; projected glass slides as part of community tableaux shows; and Maud Gonne’s early play Dawn uses 3 of her tableaux. During the 1897 royal visit to Dublin, James Connolly, Milligan and Maud Gonne used a magic lantern to project onto Dublin’s city walls photographs of famine that they had witnessed in the west of Ireland.

This essay draws upon the work of Judith Butler, Sara Ahmed, and Germaine Greer to consider the #MeToo movement and its reflection in the work of the author's students and the scandal at Dublin's Gate Theatre. Taking competing conceptions of freedom as they are materialised in this activism as it starting point, the essay questions intergenerational feminist ideas about the nature of freedom and its relationship to fear and to harassment. The essay returns to the feminist principle that ‘the personal is the political’ to reflect on women's lived experiences of threat and harassment, and young women's resistance to their objectification.

Rachael Baptist, a black woman, was a celebrated singer in the pleasure gardens of Dublin in the 1750s. Subsequently, between 1757 and 1767, she claimed to have ‘performed in London, Bath, and the other principal parts of England, with universal applause’. Some of these English concerts can be documented from contemporary newspapers; but there is no definite record of her having performed in Bath or London. However there are a number of references to an unnamed black woman singer associated with Samuel Foote, the proprietor of the Haymarket Theatre in London in the 1760s, who was probably Rachael Baptist. She returned to Ireland in the autumn of 1767 and over the following winters gave a series of concerts in Irish provincial towns. Her career shows that a black woman could enjoy celebrity as a singer at the height of the slave trade and her colour not preclude the recognition of her talents.

This article examines Amanda Coogan’s Floats in the Aether (2018-19) in relation to ‘home rule’, broadly interpreted to encompass the agitation for Irish women’s citizenship and autonomy. Between November 2018 and January 2019 Irish performance artist Amanda Coogan staged performances with 100 women and girls responding to the exhibition Markievicz: Portraits and Propaganda. This was the first performance artwork commissioned by the National Gallery of Ireland (NGI). The exhibition and Coogan’s commission marked the centenary of women’s suffrage (1918), the election of Constance Markievicz (1868-1927) to British House of Parliament (1918), and the formation of the first Dáil (1919). A revolutionary feminist, socialist and republican, Markievicz was an enigmatic figure who, as an artist, carefully crafted images of herself using performative photography to construct a public persona. Floats in the Aether included secondary school students, the Dublin Theatre of the Deaf, a choir and sitting female parliamentarians including two former Tánaistí, Cabinet Ministers and TDs. This essay argues that Coogan’s performances, situated at the intersection of historical and institutional critiques, offer new perspectives on ‘home rule’ with regards to Irish women’s history, gendered spaces and the struggle for gender equality.

In this article Holly Maples examines how the controversy surrounding the ragtime dance craze in the United States allowed women to renegotiate acceptable gendered behaviour in the public sphere. In the early 1910s many members of the public performed acts of resistance to convention by dancing in the workplace, on the street, and in public halls. Civic institutions and private organizations sought to censor and control both the public space of the dance hall and the bodies of its participants. The controlling of social dance was an attempt to restrain what those opposed to the dances saw as unrestrained and indecent physical behaviour by the nation's youth, primarily targeting ragtime dancing's ‘moral degradation’ of young women. It was not merely the public nature of the dancing that was seen as dangerous to women, however, but the dances themselves, many of which featured chaotic, off-centred choreography, with either highly sexualized behaviour, as seen in the tango and the apache dance, or clumsy, un-gendered movement, popular in the animal dances of the day. Through ragtime dancing, women performed acts of rupture on their bodies and the urban cityscape, transforming social dancing into public statements of gendered resistance. Holly Maples is a lecturer in Drama at the University of East Anglia. Both a theatre practitioner and a scholar, she trained as an actress at Central School of Speech and Drama in London and completed her PhD in Theatre Studies at Trinity College Dublin. Her book, Culture War: Conflict, Commemoration, and the Contemporary Abbey Theatre, has recently been published in the ‘Reimagining Ireland’ series by Peter Lang.

Continuity of the supply chain is an integral element in the safe and timely delivery of health services. Lean Six Sigma (LSS), a continuous improvement approach, aims to drive efficiencies and standardisation in processes, and while well established in the manufacturing and supply chain industries, also has relevance in healthcare supply chain management. This study outlines the application of LSS tools and techniques within the supply chain of an Operating Room (OR) setting in a private hospital in Dublin, Ireland. A pre-/post-intervention design was employed following the Define, Measure, Analyse, Improve, Control (DMAIC) framework and applying LSS methodology to redesign the current process for stock management both within the OR storage area and within a pilot OR suite, through collaborative, inclusive, and participatory engagement with staff. A set of improvements were implemented to standardise and streamline the stock management in both areas. The main outcomes from the improvements implemented were an overall reduction in the value of stock held within the operating theatre by 17.7%, a reduction in the value of stock going out of date by 91.7%, and a reduction in the time spent by clinical staff preparing stock required for procedures by 45%, all demonstrating the effectiveness of LSS in healthcare supply chain management.

Christopher Murray, Philip Edwards, and Rebecca Steinburger have examined the ways in which the Irish Dramatic Revival drew on the example and plays of Shakespeare. Their emphasis falls on Yeats and O'Casey, both of whom have written extensively on Shakespeare in their prose essays and autobiographies. The allusions to Shakespeare by Synge are much briefer and more cryptic. And yet there is a deep and complex relationship between Shakespeare and Synge, as this essay will indicate. The one writer who has paired the two is James Joyce, in the Library chapter of Ulysses, set in the same year that Ireland's National Theatre was founded. The essay also looks at the neglected fact that Synge, while an undergraduate at Trinity College, Dublin, took lectures on Shakespeare from Professor Edward Dowden and made copious extracts from Dowden's Shakespeare: His Mind and Art. The essay goes on to examine Synge's key remarks on Shakespeare in relation to Irish writers and to compare the return of the dead father in The Playboy of the Western World and Hamlet.

ObjectivePublic engagement and science communication are growing as an important forum in the design and dissemination of research. The B!RTH programme is a partnership that uses theatre in combination with scientific expert panel discussions to raise awareness about the global inequality in women’s health and access to healthcare. As part of this project, we assessed the views and experiences of audiences participating in B!RTH events.DesignWe conducted a multi-site mixed-methods survey using paper-based questionnaires.SettingsData were collected at four B!RTH theatre and science events: Dublin (Ireland), Edinburgh (Scotland), Geneva (Switzerland) and Liverpool (England) after the performance of four plays and three expert panel discussions.ParticipantsAll audience members.MethodsDescriptive analysis was conducted for the responses to the closed-ended survey questions, and thematic analysis was used for written free text provided.ResultsThe estimated response rate was 42%; 363 members of the audiences responded. Most respondents had been emotionally moved by the performances (92.8%) and felt challenged and provoked (80.7%). Many respondents (73.6%) agreed that their eyes had been opened by new ideas. Five themes emerged from the free-text analysis: (1) an expression of thanks and positive feedback on the content and performance of the plays, (2) the benefit of and innovative use of art and science, (3) personal feelings in response to the plays and panel discussions, (4) the need for action and (5) suggestions for use of the plays and panel discussions in schools and universities to ‘bring to life the human story behind the statistics’.ConclusionsThe B!RTH programme highlights how art and science can be used in partnership and is an effective tool to engage the public, to deliver key messages and to raise awareness about inequalities in global maternal and reproductive healthcare issues.

Frank McGuinness and Marina Carr are two of Ireland's leading contemporary playwrights, and these books are the first full-length edited collections to be dedicated exclusively to their work. While both have been the subject of numerous journal articles and book chapters, and two monographs have previously been published on McGuinness, the volume edited by Cathy Leeney and Anna McMullan marks the first full-length book on Carr. Each book offers new essays as well as those previously published elsewhere. While both volumes treat a wide variety of the playwrights' oeuvres, and both approach the material from several theoretical perspectives, the book on Carr is more accurately named in that it focuses on theatrical productions and reception of Carr's work alongside analyses of her dramatic texts.

The Dublin career of Tommaso Giordani as a theatre musician and composer is well known, but almost nothing has been known of his role in directing music at the Roman-Catholic chapel in Francis Street, Dublin, in the time of Archbishop John Thomas Troy. This article brings to light the fact that, when his musical library was auctioned at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it included a manuscript of the Messa per dodici cori con organo composed in 1774 by Gregorio Ballabene. The performance of such a work would be remarkable in Ireland at this date, and the existence of a copy is remarkable enough. In 1827 it was auctioned among the possessions of the parish priest of Francis Street Chapel, but where it went is not known.

04–473Adler, Renatte K. and Loughrin-Sacco, Steven J. (San Diego State U., USA). Internships for American undergraduates: acquiring language and cross-cultural skills for a global market. Journal of Language for International Business (Glendale, Arizona, USA), 15, 1 (2004), 30–40.04–474Allum, Paul (Rikkyo U., Tokyo, Japan; Email: allum@rikkyo.ac.jp). Evaluation of CALL: initial vocabulary learning. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 488–501.04–475Barcroft, Joe (Washington U., USA; Email: barcroft@artsci.wustl.edu). Effects of sentence writing in second language lexical acquisition. Second Language Research (London, UK), 20, 4 (2004), 303–334.04–476Belz, Julie (Pennsylvania State U., USA; Email: jab63@psu.edu). Learner corpus analysis and the development of foreign language proficiency. System (Oxford, UK), 32, 4 (2004), 577–591.04–477Benati, Alessandro (U. Greenwich, UK; Email: A.Benati@gre.ac.uk). The effects of processing instruction and its components on the acquisition of gender agreement in Italian. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 2 (2004), 67–80.04–478Bitchener, John (Auckland U. of Technology, New Zealand; Email: john.bitchener@aut.ac.nz). The relationship between the negotiation of meaning and language learning: a longitudinal study. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 2 (2004), 81–95.04–479Blin, Francoise (Dublin City U., Ireland; Email: francoise.blin@dcu.ie). CALL and the development of learner autonomy: towards an activity-theoretical perspective. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 377–395.04–480Boehringer, Michael, Bongartz, Christiane and Gramberg, Anne-Katrin (U. Waterloo, Canada). Language learning and intercultural training: the impact of cultural primers on learners and non-learners of German. Journal of Language for International Business (Glendale, Arizona, USA), 15, 2, (2004), 1–18.04–481Cartes-Henriquez, Ninette, Solar Rodriguez, M. I. and Quintana Letelier, R. (U. de Concepcion, Correo, Chile; Email: ncartes@udec.cl). Electronic texts or learning through textbooks: an experimental study. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 539–557.04–482Church, Ruth Breckinridge, Ayman-Nolley, Saba and Mahootian, Shahrzad (Northeastern Illinois U., USA; Email: rbchurch@neiu.edu). The role of gesture in bilingual education: does gesture enhance learning?International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism (Clevedon, UK), 7, 4 (2004), 303–319.04–483Clyne, Michael, Isaakidis, Tina, Liem, Irene and Rossi Hunt, Claudia (U. of Melbourne, Australia; Email: mgclyne@unimelb.edu.au). Developing and sharing community language resources through secondary school programmes. International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism (Clevedon, UK), 7, 4 (2004), 255–278.04–484Cohen, Andrew D. (U. Minnesota, USA; Email: adcohen@umn.edu). The learner's side of foreign language learning: where do styles, strategies, and tasks meet?International Review of Applied Linguistics for Language Teaching (Berlin, Germany), 41 (2003), 279–291.04–485Cziko, Gary A. (U. of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, USA; Email: garycziko.net). Electronic tandem language learning (eTandem): a third approach to Second Language Learning for the 21st century. CALICO Journal (Texas, USA), 22, 1 (2004), 25–39.04–486DiFino, Sharon M. and Lombardino, Linda J. (U. of Florida, USA). Language learning disabilities: the ultimate foreign language challenge. Foreign Language Annals (Alexandria, VA, USA), 37, 3 (2004), 390–400.04–487Dubreil, Sebastien (U. of Notre Dame, Indiana, USA; Email: sdubreil@nd.edu), Herron, Carol and Cole, Steven B. An empirical investigation of whether authentic web sites facilitate intermediate-level French language students' ability to learn culture. CALICO Journal (Texas, USA), 22, 1 (2004), 41–61.04–488Duppenthaler, Peter M. (Tezukayama Gakuin U., Japan). Journal writing and the question of transfer of skills to other types of writing. JALT Journal (Tokyo, Japan), 26, 2 (2004), 172–188.04–489Egbert, Joy and Yang, Yu-Feng (Washington State U., USA; Email: jegbert@wsu.edu). Mediating the digital divide in CALL classrooms: promoting effective language tasks in limited technology contexts. ReCall (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 280–291.04–490Elder, Catherine (Monash U., Australia) and Manwaring, Diane. The relationship between metalinguistic knowledge and learning outcomes among undergraduate Students of Chinese. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 3 (2004), 145–162.04–491Ewald, Jennifer D. (Saint Joseph's U., USA; Email: jewald@sju.edu). A classroom forum on small group work: L2 learners see, and change, themselves. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 3 (2004), 163–179.04–492García, Paula (Northern Arizona U., USA; Email: pg4@dana.ucc.nau.edu). Developmental differences in speech act recognition: a pragmatic awareness study. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 2 (2004), 96–115.04–493Gearon, Margaret (Monash U., Australia; Email: margaret.gearon@education.monash.edu.au). Learner strategies for filling the knowledge gap during collaborative tasks. Babel – Journal of the AFMLTA (Queensland, Australia), 39, 1 (2004), 26–34.04–494Grantham O'Brien, Mary (U. of Calgary, Canada). Pronunciation matters. Die Unterrichtspraxis (New Jersey, USA), 37, 1 (2004), 1–9.04–495Gruba, Paul (U. of Melbourne, Australia). Designing tasks for online collaborative language learning. Prospect (Sydney, Australia), 19, 2 (2004), 72–81.04–496Harris, Vee and Grenfell, Michael (U. London, UK; Email: m.grenfell@soton.ac.uk). Language-learning strategies: a case for cross-curricular collaboration. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 2 (2004), 116–130.04–497Heift, Trude (Simon Fraser U., Canada; Email: heift@sfu.ca). Corrective feedback and learner uptake in CALL. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 416–431.04–498Hruska, Barbara (U. of Tampa, Florida). Constructing gender in an English dominant kindergarten: implications for second language learners. TESOL Quarterly (Alexandria, VA, USA), 38, 3 (2004), 459–485.04–499Hubbard, Philip and Bradin Siskin, Claire (Stanford U., California, USA; Email: phubbard@stanford.edu). Another look at tutorial CALL. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 448–461.04–500Hyland, Fiona (U. of Hong Kong, China; Email: hylandf@hkucc.hku.hk). Learning autonomously: contextualising out-of-class English language learning. Language Awareness (Clevedon, UK), 13, 3 (2004), 180–202.04–501Kasper, Gabriele (U. of Hawai'i at Manoa, USA; Email: gkasper@hawaii.edu). Participant orientations in German conversation-for-learning. The Modern Language Journal (Malden, MA, USA), 88, 4 (2004), 551–567.04–502Kim, Yong Suk (Korean U. of Technology and Education; Email: yongkim@kut.ac.kr). Exploring the role of integrative orientation in a Korean EFL environment. English Teaching (Anseonggun, Korea), 59, 3 (2004) 77–91.04–503Lapkin, Sharon and Swain, Merrill (U. of Toronto, Canada). What underlies immersion students' production: the case ofavoir besoin de. Foreign Language Annals (Alexandria, VA, USA), 37, 3 (2004), 349–355.04–504Lever, Tim (U. of Sydney, Australia). AMEP students online: The view from morning self-access. Prospect (Sydney, Australia), 19, 2 (2004), 39–55.04–505Malcolm, Diane (Arab Gulf U. in Bahrain). Why should learners contribute to the self-access centre?ELT Journal (Oxford, UK), 58, 4 (2004), 346–354.04–506Noelle, Lamy (The Open U., UK; Email: m.n.lamy@open.ac.uk). Oral conversations online: redefining oral competence in synchronous environments. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 520–538.04–507Park, Gi-Pyo (Soonchunhyang U., Korea). Comparison of L2 listening and reading comprehension by university students learning English in Korea. Foreign Language Annals (Alexandria, VA, USA), 37, 3 (2004), 448–458.04–508Riley, Jean, Burrell, Andrew and McCallum, Bet (U. of London, UK; Email: j.riley@ioe.ac.uk). Developing the spoken language skills of reception class children in two multicultural, inner-city primary schools. British Educational Research Journal (London, UK), 30, 5 (2004), 657–672.04–509Ryan-Scheutz, Colleen and Colangelo, Laura M. (U. of Notre Dame, USA). Full-scale theatre production and foreign language learning. Foreign Language Annals (Alexandria, VA, USA), 37, 3 (2004), 374–389.04–510Sealey, Alison and Thompson, Paul (U. of Reading, UK). ‘What do you call the dull words?’ Primary school children using corpus-based approaches to learn about language. English in Education (Sheffield, UK), 38, 1 (2004), 80–91.04–511Stewart, Melissa A. and Pertusa, Inmaculada (Western Kentucky U., USA). Gains to language learners from viewing target language closed-captioned films. Foreign Language Annals (Alexandria, VA, USA), 37, 3 (2004), 438–447.04–512Thomas, Alain (U. of Guelph, Canada; Email: thomas@uoguelph.ca). Phonetic norm versus usage in advanced French as a second language. International Review of Applied Linguistics for Language Teaching (Berlin, Germany), 42, 4 (2004), 365–382.04–513Van Berkel, Ans (Free U. Amsterdam, The Netherlands; Email: aj.van.berkel@let.vu.nl). Learning to spell in English as a second language. International Review of Applied Linguistics for Language Teaching (Berlin, Germany), 42 (2004), 239–257.04–514Ward, Monica (Dublin City U., Ireland; Email: mward@computing.dcu.edu.ie). The additional uses of CALL in the endangered language context. ReCALL (Cambridge, UK), 16, 2 (2004), 345–359.04–515Yamamori, Koyo, Isoda, Takamichi, Hiromori, Tomohito and Oxford, Rebecca L. (National I. Educational Policy Research, Japan; Email: koyo@nier.go.jp). Using cluster analysis to uncover L2 learner differences in strategy use, will to learn, and achievement over time. International Review of Applied Linguistics for Language Teaching (Berlin, Germany), 41 (2003), 381–409.04–516You, Xiaoye (Purdue U., USA; Email: youx@purdue.edu). “The choice made from no choice”: English writing instruction in a Chinese University. Journal of Second Language Writing (New York, USA), 13, 2 (2004), 97–110.

By the 12th century, coffee was extensively cultivated in Yemen, and qawha and cahveh, hot beverages made from roast and ground coffee beans, became popular in the Islamic world over the next 300 years. Commercial production of coffee outside Yemen started in Sri Lanka in the 1660s, Java in the 1700s, and Latin America in 1715, and this production has associations with histories of colonial expansion and slavery. Introduced to Europe in the 17th century, coffee was described by Robert Burton in the section of his 1628 Anatomy of Melancholy devoted to medicines as “an intoxicant, a euphoric, a social and physical stimulant, and a digestive aid” (quoted in Weinberg and Bealer xii). Today, more than 400 billion cups of coffee are consumed each year. Coffee is also an ingredient in a series of iconic dishes such as tiramisu and, with chocolate, makes up the classic mocha mix. Coffee production is widespread in tropical and sub-tropical countries and it is the second largest traded world commodity; second only to oil and petroleum. The World Bank estimates that more than 500 million people throughout the world depend on coffee for their livelihoods, and 25 million of these are coffee farmers. Unfortunately, these farmers typically live and work in substandard conditions and receive only a small percentage of the final price that their coffee is sold for. The majority of coffee farmers are women and they face additional challenges, frequently suffering from abuse, neglect, and poverty, and unable to gain economic, social, or political power in either their family’s coffee businesses or their communities. Some farm coffee under enslaved or indentured conditions, although Fair Trade regimes are offering some lessening of inequalities. At the opposite end of the scale, a small, but growing, number of high-end producers market gourmet sustainable coffee from small-scale, environmentally-aware farming operations. For many in the West today, however, coffee is not about the facts of its production; coffee is all about consumption, and is now interwoven into our contemporary cultural and social habits. Caffeine, found in the leaves, seeds, and fruit of the coffee tree, is an addictive psychoactive substance, but has overcome resistance and disapproval around the world and is now unregulated and freely available, without licence. Our gastronomic sophistication is reflected in which coffee, brewing method, and location of consumption is chosen; our fast-paced lifestyles in the range of coffee-to-go options we have; and our capitalist orientation in the business opportunities this popularity has offered to small entrepreneurs and multinational franchise chains alike. Cafés and the meeting, mingling, discussions, and relaxing that occur there while drinking coffee, are a contemporary topic of reflection and scholarship, as are the similarities and differences between the contemporary café and its earlier incarnations, including, of course, the Enlightenment coffee house. As may be expected from a commodity which has such a place in our lives, coffee is represented in many ways in the media—including in advertising, movies, novels, poetry, songs and, of course, in culinary writing, including cookbooks, magazines, and newspapers. There are specialist journals and popular serials dedicated to expounding and exploring the fine grain detail of its production and consumption, and food historians have written multiple biographies of coffee’s place in our world. So ubiquitous, indeed, is coffee, that as a named colour, it popularly features in fashion, interior design, home wares, and other products. This issue of M/C Journal invited contributors to consider coffee from any relevant angle that makes a contribution to our understanding of coffee and its place in culture and/or the media, and the result is a valuable array of illuminating articles from a diverse range of perspectives. It is for this reason that we chose an image of coffee cherries for the front cover of this issue. Co-editor Jill Adams has worked in the coffee industry for over ten years and has a superb collection of coffee images that ranges from farmers in Papua New Guinea to artfully shot compositions of antique coffee brewing equipment. In making our choice, however, we felt that Spencer Franks’s image of ripe coffee cherries at the Skybury Coffee Plantation in Far North Queensland, Australia, encapsulates the “fruitful” nature of the response to our call for articles for this issue. While most are familiar, moreover, with the dark, glossy appearance and other sensual qualities of roasted coffee beans, fewer have any occasion to contemplate just how lovely the coffee tree is as a plant. Each author has utilised the idea of “coffee” as a powerful springboard into a fascinating range of areas, showing just how inseparable coffee is from so many parts of our daily lives—even scholarly enquiry. In our first feature article, Susie Khamis profiles and interrogates the Nespresso brand, and how it points to the growing individualisation of coffee consumption, whereby the social aspect of cafés gives way to a more self-centred consumer experience. This feature valuably contrasts the way Starbucks has marketed itself as a social hub with the Nespresso boutique experience—which as Khamis explains—is not a café, but rather a club, a trademarked, branded space, predicated on highly knowledgeable and, therefore, privileged patrons. Coffee drinking is also associated with both sobriety and hangover cures, with cigarettes, late nights, and music. Our second feature, by Jon Stewart, looks at how coffee has become interwoven into our lives and imaginations through the music that we listen to—from jazz to blues to musical theatre numbers. It examines the influence of coffee as subject for performers and songwriters in three areas: coffee and courtship rituals, the stimulating effects of caffeine, and the politics of coffee consumption, claiming that coffee carries a cultural and musicological significance comparable to that of other drugs and ubiquitous consumer goods that are often more readily associated with popular music. Diana Noyce looks at the short-lived temperance movement in Australia, the opulent architecture of the coffee palaces built in that era, what was actually drunk in them, and their fates as the temperance movement passed into history. Emma Felton lyrically investigates how “going for a coffee” is less about coffee and more about how we connect with others in a mobile world, when flexible work hours are increasingly the norm and more people are living alone than any other period in history. Felton also introducess a theme that other writers also engage with: that the café also plays a role in the development of civil discourse and civility, and plays an important role in the development of cosmopolitan civil societies. Ireland-based Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire surveys Dublin—that tea drinking city—and both the history of coffee houses and the enduring coffee culture it possesses; a coffee culture that seems well assured through a remarkable win for Ireland in the 2008 World Barista Championships. China has also always been strongly associated with tea drinking but Adel Wang introduces readers to the emerging, and unique, café and coffee culture of that country, as well as some of the proprietors who are bringing about this cultural change. Australia, also once a significant consumer of tea, shifted to a preference for coffee over a twenty year period that began with the arrival of American Servicemen in Australia during World War II. Jill Adams looks at the rise of coffee during that time, and the efforts made by the tea industry to halt its market growth. These strong links between tea and coffee are reflected in Duncan Barnes, Danielle Fusco, and Lelia Green’s thought-provoking study of how coffee is marketed in Bangladesh, another tea drinking country. Ray Oldenberg’s influential concept of the “third place” is referred to by many authors in this collection, but Anthony McCosker and Rowan Wilken focus on this idea. By using a study of how Polish composer, Krzysztof Penderecki, worked in his local café from 9 in the morning to noon each day, this article explores the interrelationship of café space, communication, creativity, and materialism. Donna Lee Brien brings us back to the domestic space with her article on how the popular media of cookery books and magazines portray how coffee was used in Australian cooking at mid-century, in the process, tracing how tiramisu triumphed over the trifle. By exploring the currently fashionable practice of “direct trade” between roasters and coffee growers Sophie Sunderland offers a fresh perspective on coffee production by powerfully arguing that feeling (“affect”) is central to the way in which coffee is produced, represented and consumed in Western mass culture. Sunderland thus brings the issue full circle and back to Khamis’s discussion, for there is much feeling mobilised in the marketing of Nespresso. We would like to thank all the contributors and our generous and erudite peer reviewers for their work in the process of putting together this issue. We would also like to specially thank Spencer Franks for permission to use his image of coffee cherries as our cover image. We would lastly like to thank you the general editors of M/C Journal for selecting this theme for the journal this year.References Oldenburg, Ray, ed. Celebrating the Third Place: Inspiring Stories about the “Great Good Places” At the Heart of Our Communities. New York: Marlowe & Company 2001.Weinberg, Bennett Alan, and Bonnie K Bealer. The World of Caffeine. New York and London: Routledge, 2001.

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare “It’s Greek to me,” you are quoting Shakespeare.Bernard LevinPsoriatic arthritis, in its acute or “generalised” stage, is unbearably painful. Exacerbating the crippling of the joints, the entire surface of the skin is covered with lesions only moderately salved by anti-inflammatory ointment, the application of which is as painful as the ailment it seeks to relieve: NURSE MILLS: I’ll be as gentle as I can.Marlow’s face again fills the screen, intense concentration, comical strain, and a whispered urgency in the voice over—MARLOW: (Voice over) Think of something boring—For Christ’s sake think of something very very boring—Speech a speech by Ted Heath a sentence long sentence from Bernard Levin a quiz by Christopher Booker a—oh think think—! Really boring! A Welsh male-voice choir—Everything in Punch—Oh! Oh! — (Potter 17-18)Marlow’s collation of boring things as a frantic liturgy is an attempt to distract himself from a tumescence that is both unwanted and out of place. Although bed-ridden and in constant pain, he is still sensitive to erogenous stimulation, even when it is incidental. The act of recollection, of garnering lists of things that bore him, distracts him from his immediate situation as he struggles with the mental anguish of the prospect of a humiliating orgasm. Literary lists do many things. They provide richness of detail, assemble and corroborate the materiality of the world of which they are a part and provide insight into the psyche and motivation of the collator. The sheer desperation of Dennis Potter’s Marlow attests to the arbitrariness of the list, the simple requirement that discrete and unrelated items can be assembled in linear order, without any obligation for topical concatenation. In its interrogative form, the list can serve a more urgent and distressing purpose than distraction:GOLDBERG: What do you use for pyjamas?STANLEY: Nothing.GOLDBERG: You verminate the sheet of your birth.MCCANN: What about the Albigensenist heresy?GOLDBERG: Who watered the wicket in Melbourne?MCCANN: What about the blessed Oliver Plunkett?(Pinter 51)The interrogative non sequitur is an established feature of the art of intimidation. It is designed to exert maximum stress in the subject through the use of obscure asides and the endowing of trivial detail with profundity. Harold Pinter’s use of it in The Birthday Party reveals how central it was to his “theatre of menace.” The other tactic, which also draws on the logic of the inventory to be both sequential and discontinuous, is to break the subject’s will through a machine-like barrage of rhetorical questions that leave no time for answers.Pinter learned from Samuel Beckett the pitiless, unforgiving logic of trivial detail pushed to extremes. Think of Molloy’s dilemma of the sucking stones. In order for all sixteen stones that he carries with him to be sucked at least once to assuage his hunger, a reliable system has to be hit upon:Taking a stone from the right pocket of my greatcoat, and putting it in my mouth, I replaced it in the right pocket of my greatcoat by a stone from the right pocket of my trousers, which I replaced with a stone from the left pocket of my trousers, which I replaced by a stone from the left pocket of my greatcoat, which I replaced with the stone that was in my mouth, as soon as I had finished sucking it. Thus there were still four stones in each of my four pockets, but not quite the same stones. And when the desire to suck took hold of me again, I drew again on the right pocket of my greatcoat, certain of not taking the same stone as the last time. And while I sucked it I rearranged the other stones in the way I have just described. And so on. (Beckett, Molloy 69)And so on for six pages. Exhaustive permutation within a finite lexical set is common in Beckett. In the novel Watt the eponymous central character is charged with serving his unseen master’s dinner as well as tidying up afterwards. A simple and bucolic enough task it would seem. But Beckett’s characters are not satisfied with conjecture, the simple assumption that someone must be responsible for Mr. Knott’s dining arrangements. Like Molloy’s solution to the sucking stone problem, all possible scenarios must be considered to explain the conundrum of how and why Watt never saw Knott at mealtime. Twelve possibilities are offered, among them that1. Mr. Knott was responsible for the arrangement, and knew that he was responsible for the arrangement, and knew that such an arrangement existed, and was content.2. Mr. Knott was not responsible for the arrangement, but knew who was responsible for the arrangement, and knew that such an arrangement existed, and was content.(Beckett, Watt 86)This stringent adherence to detail, absurd and exasperating as it is, is the work of fiction, the persistence of a viable, believable thing called Watt who exists as long as his thought is made manifest on a page. All writers face this pernicious prospect of having to confront and satisfy “fiction’s gargantuan appetite for fact, for detail, for documentation” (Kenner 70). A writer’s writer (Philip Marlow) Dennis Potter’s singing detective struggles with the acute consciousness that words eventually will fail him. His struggle to overcome verbal entropy is a spectre that haunts the entire literary imagination, for when the words stop the world stops.Beckett made this struggle the very stuff of his work, declaring famously that all he wanted to do as a writer was to leave “a stain upon the silence” (quoted in Bair 681). His characters deteriorate from recognisable people (Hamm in Endgame, Winnie in Happy Days) to mere ciphers of speech acts (the bodiless head Listener in That Time, Mouth in Not I). During this process they provide us with the vocabulary of entropy, a horror most eloquently expressed at the end of The Unnamable: I can’t go on, you must go on, I’ll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on. (Beckett, Molloy 418)The importance Beckett accorded to pauses in his writing, from breaks in dialogue to punctuation, stresses the pacing of utterance that is in sync with the rhythm of human breath. This is acutely underlined in Jack MacGowran’s extraordinary gramophone recording of the above passage from The Unnamable. There is exhaustion in his voice, but it is inflected by an urgent push for the next words to forestall the last gasp. And what might appear to be parsimony is in fact the very commerce of writing itself. It is an economy of necessity, when any words will suffice to sustain presence in the face of imminent silence.Hugh Kenner has written eloquently on the relationship between writing and entropy, drawing on field and number theory to demonstrate how the business of fiction is forever in the process of generating variation within a finite set. The “stoic comedian,” as he figures the writer facing the blank page, self-consciously practices their art in the full cognisance that they select “elements from a closed set, and then (arrange) them inside a closed field” (Kenner 94). The nouveau roman (a genre conceived and practiced in Beckett’s lean shadow) is remembered in literary history as a rather austere, po-faced formalism that foregrounded things at the expense of human psychology or social interaction. But it is emblematic of Kenner’s portrait of stoicism as an attitude to writing that confronts the nature of fiction itself, on its own terms, as a practice “which is endlessly arranging things” (13):The bulge of the bank also begins to take effect starting from the fifth row: this row, as a matter of fact, also possesses only twenty-one trees, whereas it should have twenty-two for a true trapezoid and twenty-three for a rectangle (uneven row). (Robbe-Grillet 21)As a matter of fact. The nouveau roman made a fine if myopic art of isolating detail for detail’s sake. However, it shares with both Beckett’s minimalism and Joyce’s maximalism the obligation of fiction to fill its world with stuff (“maximalism” is a term coined by Michel Delville and Andrew Norris in relation to the musical scores of Frank Zappa that opposes the minimalism of John Cage’s work). Kenner asks, in The Stoic Comedians, where do the “thousands on thousands of things come from, that clutter Ulysses?” His answer is simple, from “a convention” and this prosaic response takes us to the heart of the matter with respect to the impact on writing of Isaac Newton’s unforgiving Second Law of Thermodynamics. In the law’s strictest physical sense of the dissipation of heat, of the loss of energy within any closed system that moves, the stipulation of the Second Law predicts that words will, of necessity, stop in any form governed by convention (be it of horror, comedy, tragedy, the Bildungsroman, etc.). Building upon and at the same time refining the early work on motion and mass theorised by Aristotle, Kepler, and Galileo, inter alia, Newton refined both the laws and language of classical mechanics. It was from Wiener’s literary reading of Newton that Kenner segued from the loss of energy within any closed system (entropy) to the running silent out of words within fiction.In the wake of Norbert Wiener’s cybernetic turn in thinking in the 1940s, which was highly influenced by Newton’s Second Law, fiction would never again be considered in the same way (metafiction was a term coined in part to recognise this shift; the nouveau roman another). Far from delivering a reassured and reassuring present-ness, an integrated and ongoing cosmos, fiction is an isometric exercise in the struggle against entropy, of a world in imminent danger of running out of energy, of not-being:“His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat…” Four nouns, and the book’s world is heavier by four things. One, the hat, “Plasto’s high grade,” will remain in play to the end. The hand we shall continue to take for granted: it is Bloom’s; it goes with his body, which we are not to stop imagining. The peg and the overcoat will fade. “On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off.” Four more things. (Kenner 87)This passage from The Stoic Comedians is a tour de force of the conjuror’s art, slowing down the subliminal process of the illusion for us to see the fragility of fiction’s precarious grip on the verge of silence, heroically “filling four hundred empty pages with combinations of twenty-six different letters” (xiii). Kenner situates Joyce in a comic tradition, preceded by Gustave Flaubert and followed by Beckett, of exhaustive fictive possibility. The stoic, he tells us, “is one who considers, with neither panic nor indifference, that the field of possibilities available to him is large perhaps, or small perhaps, but closed” (he is prompt in reminding us that among novelists, gamblers and ethical theorists, the stoic is also a proponent of the Second Law of Thermodynamics) (xiii). If Joyce is the comedian of the inventory, then it is Flaubert, comedian of the Enlightenment, who is his immediate ancestor. Bouvard and Pécuchet (1881) is an unfinished novel written in the shadow of the Encyclopaedia, an apparatus of the literate mind that sought complete knowledge. But like the Encyclopaedia particularly and the Enlightenment more generally, it is fragmentation that determines its approach to and categorisation of detail as information about the world. Bouvard and Pécuchet ends, appropriately, in a frayed list of details, pronouncements and ephemera.In the face of an unassailable impasse, all that is left Flaubert is the list. For more than thirty years he constructed the Dictionary of Received Ideas in the shadow of the truncated Bouvard and Pécuchet. And in doing so he created for the nineteenth century mind “a handbook for novelists” (Kenner 19), a breakdown of all we know “into little pieces so arranged that they can be found one at a time” (3): ACADEMY, FRENCH: Run it down but try to belong to it if you can.GREEK: Whatever one cannot understand is Greek.KORAN: Book about Mohammed, which is all about women.MACHIAVELLIAN: Word only to be spoken with a shudder.PHILOSOPHY: Always snigger at it.WAGNER: Snigger when you hear his name and joke about the music of the future. (Flaubert, Dictionary 293-330)This is a sample of the exhaustion that issues from the tireless pursuit of categorisation, classification, and the mania for ordered information. The Dictionary manifests the Enlightenment’s insatiable hunger for received ideas, an unwieldy background noise of popular opinion, general knowledge, expertise, and hearsay. In both Bouvard and Pécuchet and the Dictionary, exhaustion was the foundation of a comic art as it was for both Joyce and Beckett after him, for the simple reason that it includes everything and neglects nothing. It is comedy born of overwhelming competence, a sublime impertinence, though not of manners or social etiquette, but rather, with a nod to Oscar Wilde, the impertinence of being definitive (a droll epithet that, not surprisingly, was the title of Kenner’s 1982 Times Literary Supplement review of Richard Ellmann’s revised and augmented biography of Joyce).The inventory, then, is the underlining physio-semiotics of fictional mechanics, an elegiac resistance to the thread of fiction fraying into nothingness. The motif of thermodynamics is no mere literary conceit here. Consider the opening sentence in Borges:Of the many problems which exercised the reckless discernment of Lönnrot, none was so strange—so rigorously strange, shall we say—as the periodic series of bloody events which culminated at the villa of Triste-le-Roy, amid the ceaseless aroma of the eucalypti. (Borges 76)The subordinate clause, as a means of adjectival and adverbial augmentation, implies a potentially infinite sentence through the sheer force of grammatical convention, a machine-like resistance to running out of puff:Under the notable influence of Chesterton (contriver and embellisher of elegant mysteries) and the palace counsellor Leibniz (inventor of the pre-established harmony), in my idle afternoons I have imagined this story plot which I shall perhaps write someday and which already justifies me somehow. (72)In “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote,” a single adjective charmed with emphasis will do to imply an unseen network:The visible work left by this novelist is easily and briefly enumerated. (Borges 36)The annotation of this network is the inexorable issue of the inflection: “I have said that Menard’s work can be easily enumerated. Having examined with care his personal files, I find that they contain the following items.” (37) This is a sample selection from nineteen entries:a) A Symbolist sonnet which appeared twice (with variants) in the review La conque (issues of March and October 1899).o) A transposition into alexandrines of Paul Valéry’s Le cimitière marin (N.R.F., January 1928).p) An invective against Paul Valéry, in the Papers for the Suppression of Reality of Jacques Reboul. (37-38)Lists, when we encounter them in Jorge Luis Borges, are always contextual, supplying necessary detail to expand upon character and situation. And they are always intertextual, anchoring this specific fictional world to others (imaginary, real, fabulatory or yet to come). The collation and annotation of the literary works of an imagined author (Pierre Menard) of an invented author (Edmond Teste) of an actual author (Paul Valéry) creates a recursive, yet generative, feedback loop of reference and literary progeny. As long as one of these authors continues to write, or write of the work of at least one of the others, a persistent fictional present tense is ensured.Consider Hillel Schwartz’s use of the list in his Making Noise (2011). It not only lists what can and is inevitably heard, in this instance the European 1700s, but what it, or local aural colour, is heard over:Earthy: criers of artichokes, asparagus, baskets, beans, beer, bells, biscuits, brooms, buttermilk, candles, six-pence-a-pound fair cherries, chickens, clothesline, cockles, combs, coal, crabs, cucumbers, death lists, door mats, eels, fresh eggs, firewood, flowers, garlic, hake, herring, ink, ivy, jokebooks, lace, lanterns, lemons, lettuce, mackeral, matches […]. (Schwartz 143)The extended list and the catalogue, when encountered as formalist set pieces in fiction or, as in Schwartz’s case, non-fiction, are the expansive equivalent of le mot juste, the self-conscious, painstaking selection of the right word, the specific detail. Of Ulysses, Kenner observes that it was perfectly natural that it “should have attracted the attention of a group of scholars who wanted practice in compiling a word-index to some extensive piece of prose (Miles Hanley, Word Index to Ulysses, 1937). More than any other work of fiction, it suggests by its texture, often by the very look of its pages, that it has been painstakingly assembled out of single words…” (31-32). In a book already crammed with detail, with persistent reference to itself, to other texts, other media, such formalist set pieces as the following from the oneiric “Circe” episode self-consciously perform for our scrutiny fiction’s insatiable hunger for more words, for invention, the Latin root of which also gives us the word inventory:The van of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboard tabard, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. They are followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor Dublin, the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of estate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of the saints of finance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the bishop of Down and Connor, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the chief rabbi, the Presbyterian moderator, the heads of the Baptist, Anabaptist, Methodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary secretary of the society of friends. (Joyce, Ulysses 602-604)Such examples demonstrate how Joycean inventories break from narrative as architectonic, stand-alone assemblages of information. They are Rabelaisian irruptions, like Philip Marlow’s lesions, that erupt in swollen bas-relief. The exaggerated, at times hysterical, quality of such lists, perform the hallucinatory work of displacement and condensation (the Homeric parallel here is the transformation of Odysseus’s men into swine by the witch Circe). Freudian, not to mention Stindberg-ian dream-work brings together and juxtaposes images and details that only make sense as non-sense (realistic but not real), such as the extraordinary explosive gathering of civic, commercial, political, chivalric representatives of Dublin in this foreshortened excerpt of Bloom’s regal campaign for his “new Bloomusalem” (606).The text’s formidable echolalia, whereby motifs recur and recapitulate into leitmotifs, ensures that the act of reading Ulysses is always cross-referential, suggesting the persistence of a conjured world that is always already still coming into being through reading. And it is of course this forestalling of Newton’s Second Law that Joyce brazenly conducts, in both the textual and physical sense, in Finnegans Wake. The Wake is an impossible book in that it infinitely sustains the circulation of words within a closed system, creating a weird feedback loop of cyclical return. It is a text that can run indefinitely through the force of its own momentum without coming to a conclusion. In a text in which the author’s alter ego is described in terms of the technology of inscription (Shem the Penman) and his craft as being a “punsil shapner,” (Joyce, Finnegans 98) Norbert Wiener’s descriptive example of feedback as the forestalling of entropy in the conscious act of picking up a pencil is apt: One we have determined this, our motion proceeds in such a way that we may say roughly that the amount by which the pencil is not yet picked up is decreased at each stage. (Wiener 7) The Wake overcomes the book’s, and indeed writing’s, struggle with entropy through the constant return of energy into its closed system as a cycle of endless return. Its generative algorithm can be represented thus: “… a long the riverrun …” (628-3). The Wake’s sense of unending confounds and contradicts, in advance, Frank Kermode’s averring to Newton’s Second Law in his insistence that the progression of all narrative fiction is defined in terms of the “sense of an ending,” the expectation of a conclusion, whereby the termination of words makes “possible a satisfying consonance with the origins and with the middle” (Kermode 17). It is the realisation of the novel imagined by Silas Flannery, the fictitious author in Italo Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveller, an incipit that “maintains for its whole duration the potentiality of the beginning” (Calvino 140). Finnegans Wake is unique in terms of the history of the novel (if that is indeed what it is) in that it is never read, but (as Joseph Frank observed of Joyce generally) “can only be re-read” (Frank 19). With Wiener’s allegory of feedback no doubt in mind, Jacques Derrida’s cybernetic account of the act of reading Joyce comes, like a form of echolalia, on the heels of Calvino’s incipit, his perpetual sustaining of the beginning: you stay on the edge of reading Joyce—for me this has been going on for twenty-five or thirty years—and the endless plunge throws you back onto the river-bank, on the brink of another possible immersion, ad infinitum … In any case, I have the feeling that I haven’t yet begun to read Joyce, and this “not having begun to read” is sometimes the most singular and active relationship I have with his work. (Derrida 148) Derrida wonders if this process of ongoing immersion in the text is typical of all works of literature and not just the Wake. The question is rhetorical and resonates into silence. And it is silence, ultimately, that hovers as a mute herald of the end when words will simply run out.Post(script)It is in the nature of all writing that it is read in the absence of its author. Perhaps the most typical form of writing, then, is the suicide note. In an extraordinary essay, “Goodbye, Cruel Words,” Mark Dery wonders why it has been “so neglected as a literary genre” and promptly sets about reviewing its decisive characteristics. Curiously, the list features amongst its many forms: I’m done with lifeI’m no goodI’m dead. (Dery 262)And references to lists of types of suicide notes are among Dery’s own notes to the essay. With its implicit generic capacity to intransitively add more detail, the list becomes in the light of the terminal letter a condition of writing itself. The irony of this is not lost on Dery as he ponders the impotent stoicism of the scribbler setting about the mordant task of writing for the last time. Writing at the last gasp, as Dery portrays it, is a form of dogged, radical will. But his concluding remarks are reflective of his melancholy attitude to this most desperate act of writing at degree zero: “The awful truth (unthinkable to a writer) is that eloquent suicide notes are rarer than rare because suicide is the moment when language fails—fails to hoist us out of the pit, fails even to express the unbearable weight” (264) of someone on the precipice of the very last word they will ever think, let alone write. Ihab Hassan (1967) and George Steiner (1967), it would seem, were latecomers as proselytisers of the language of silence. But there is a queer, uncanny optimism at work at the terminal moment of writing when, contra Dery, words prevail on the verge of “endless, silent night.” (264) Perhaps when Newton’s Second Law no longer has carriage over mortal life, words take on a weird half-life of their own. Writing, after Socrates, does indeed circulate indiscriminately among its readers. There is a dark irony associated with last words. When life ceases, words continue to have the final say as long as they are read, and in so doing they sustain an unlikely, and in their own way, stoical sense of unending.ReferencesBair, Deirdre. Samuel Beckett: A Biography. London: Jonathan Cape, 1978.Beckett, Samuel. Molloy Malone Dies. The Unnamable. London: John Calder, 1973.---. Watt. London: John Calder, 1976.Borges, Jorge Luis. Labyrinths. Selected Stories & Other Writings. Ed. Donald A. Yates & James E. Irby. New York: New Directions, 1964.Calvino, Italo. If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller. Trans. William Weaver, London: Picador, 1981.Delville, Michael, and Andrew Norris. “Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and the Secret History of Maximalism.” Ed. Louis Armand. Contemporary Poetics: Redefining the Boundaries of Contemporary Poetics, in Theory & Practice, for the Twenty-First Century. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2007. 126-49.Derrida, Jacques. “Two Words for Joyce.” Post-Structuralist Joyce. Essays from the French. Ed. Derek Attridge and Daniel Ferrer. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1984. 145-59.Dery, Mark. I Must Not think Bad Thoughts: Drive-by Essays on American Dread, American Dreams. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2012.Frank, Joseph, “Spatial Form in Modern Literature.” Sewanee Review, 53, 1945: 221-40, 433-56, 643-53.Flaubert, Gustave. Bouvard and Pécuchet. Trans. A. J. KrailSheimer. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Flaubert, Gustave. Dictionary of Received Ideas. Trans. A. J. KrailSheimer. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Hassan, Ihab. The Literature of Silence: Henry Miller and Samuel Beckett. New York: Knopf, 1967.Joyce, James. Finnegans Wake. London: Faber and Faber, 1975.---. Ulysses. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1992.Kenner, Hugh. The Stoic Comedians. Berkeley: U of California P, 1974.Kermode, Frank. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Narrative Fiction. New York: Oxford U P, 1966.‪Levin, Bernard. Enthusiasms. London: Jonathan Cape, 1983.MacGowran, Jack. MacGowran Speaking Beckett. Claddagh Records, 1966.Pinter, Harold. The Birthday Party. London: Methuen, 1968.Potter, Dennis. The Singing Detective. London, Faber and Faber, 1987.Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Jealousy. Trans. Richard Howard. London: John Calder, 1965.Schwartz, Hillel. Making Noise. From Babel to the Big Bang and Beyond. New York: Zone Books, 2011.Steiner, George. Language and Silence: New York: Atheneum, 1967.Wiener, Norbert. Cybernetics, Or Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1965.

Biology teaches us that organisms adapt—or don’t; sociology claims that people adapt—or don’t. We know that ideas can adapt; sometimes even institutions can adapt. Or not. Various papers in this issue attest in exciting ways to precisely such adaptations and maladaptations. (See, for example, the articles in this issue by Lelia Green, Leesa Bonniface, and Tami McMahon, by Lexey A. Bartlett, and by Debra Ferreday.) Adaptation is a part of nature and culture, but it’s the latter alone that interests me here. (However, see the article by Hutcheon and Bortolotti for a discussion of nature and culture together.) It’s no news to anyone that not only adaptations, but all art is bred of other art, though sometimes artists seem to get carried away. My favourite example of excess of association or attribution can be found in the acknowledgements page to a verse drama called Beatrice Chancy by the self-defined “maximalist” (not minimalist) poet, novelist, librettist, and critic, George Elliot Clarke. His selected list of the incarnations of the story of Beatrice Cenci, a sixteenth-century Italian noblewoman put to death for the murder of her father, includes dramas, romances, chronicles, screenplays, parodies, sculptures, photographs, and operas: dramas by Vincenzo Pieracci (1816), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1819), Juliusz Slowacki (1843), Waldter Landor (1851), Antonin Artaud (1935) and Alberto Moravia (1958); the romances by Francesco Guerrazi (1854), Henri Pierangeli (1933), Philip Lindsay (1940), Frederic Prokosch (1955) and Susanne Kircher (1976); the chronicles by Stendhal (1839), Mary Shelley (1839), Alexandre Dumas, père (1939-40), Robert Browning (1864), Charles Swinburne (1883), Corrado Ricci (1923), Sir Lionel Cust (1929), Kurt Pfister (1946) and Irene Mitchell (1991); the film/screenplay by Bertrand Tavernier and Colo O’Hagan (1988); the parody by Kathy Acker (1993); the sculpture by Harriet Hosmer (1857); the photograph by Julia Ward Cameron (1866); and the operas by Guido Pannain (1942), Berthold Goldschmidt (1951, 1995) and Havergal Brian (1962). (Beatrice Chancy, 152) He concludes the list with: “These creators have dallied with Beatrice Cenci, but I have committed indiscretions” (152). An “intertextual feast”, by Clarke’s own admission, this rewriting of Beatrice’s story—especially Percy Bysshe Shelley’s own verse play, The Cenci—illustrates brilliantly what Northrop Frye offered as the first principle of the production of literature: “literature can only derive its form from itself” (15). But in the last several decades, what has come to be called intertextuality theory has shifted thinking away from looking at this phenomenon from the point of view of authorial influences on the writing of literature (and works like Harold Bloom’s famous study of the Anxiety of Influence) and toward considering our readerly associations with literature, the connections we (not the author) make—as we read. We, the readers, have become “empowered”, as we say, and we’ve become the object of academic study in our own right. Among the many associations we inevitably make, as readers, is with adaptations of the literature we read, be it of Jane Austin novels or Beowulf. Some of us may have seen the 2006 rock opera of Beowulf done by the Irish Repertory Theatre; others await the new Neil Gaiman animated film. Some may have played the Beowulf videogame. I personally plan to miss the upcoming updated version that makes Beowulf into the son of an African explorer. But I did see Sturla Gunnarsson’s Beowulf and Grendel film, and yearned to see the comic opera at the Lincoln Centre Festival in 2006 called Grendel, the Transcendence of the Great Big Bad. I am not really interested in whether these adaptations—all in the last year or so—signify Hollywood’s need for a new “monster of the week” or are just the sign of a desire to cash in on the success of The Lord of the Rings. For all I know they might well act as an ethical reminder of the human in the alien in a time of global strife (see McGee, A4). What interests me is the impact these multiple adaptations can have on the reader of literature as well as on the production of literature. Literature, like painting, is usually thought of as what Nelson Goodman (114) calls a one-stage art form: what we read (like what we see on a canvas) is what is put there by the originating artist. Several major consequences follow from this view. First, the implication is that the work is thus an original and new creation by that artist. However, even the most original of novelists—like Salman Rushdie—are the first to tell you that stories get told and retold over and over. Indeed his controversial novel, The Satanic Verses, takes this as a major theme. Works like the Thousand and One Nights are crucial references in all of his work. As he writes in Haroun and the Sea of Stories: “no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born of old” (86). But illusion of originality is only one of the implications of seeing literature as a one-stage art form. Another is the assumption that what the writer put on paper is what we read. But entire doctoral programs in literary production and book history have been set up to study how this is not the case, in fact. Editors influence, even change, what authors want to write. Designers control how we literally see the work of literature. Beatrice Chancy’s bookend maps of historical Acadia literally frame how we read the historical story of the title’s mixed-race offspring of an African slave and a white slave owner in colonial Nova Scotia in 1801. Media interest or fashion or academic ideological focus may provoke a publisher to foreground in the physical presentation different elements of a text like this—its stress on race, or gender, or sexuality. The fact that its author won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for poetry might mean that the fact that this is a verse play is emphasised. If the book goes into a second edition, will a new preface get added, changing the framework for the reader once again? As Katherine Larson has convincingly shown, the paratextual elements that surround a work of literature like this one become a major site of meaning generation. What if literature were not a one-stage an art form at all? What if it were, rather, what Goodman calls “two-stage” (114)? What if we accept that other artists, other creators, are needed to bring it to life—editors, publishers, and indeed readers? In a very real and literal sense, from our (audience) point of view, there may be no such thing as a one-stage art work. Just as the experience of literature is made possible for readers by the writer, in conjunction with a team of professional and creative people, so, arguably all art needs its audience to be art; the un-interpreted, un-experienced art work is not worth calling art. Goodman resists this move to considering literature a two-stage art, not at all sure that readings are end products the way that performance works are (114). Plays, films, television shows, or operas would be his prime examples of two-stage arts. In each of these, a text (a playtext, a screenplay, a score, a libretto) is moved from page to stage or screen and given life, by an entire team of creative individuals: directors, actors, designers, musicians, and so on. Literary adaptations to the screen or stage are usually considered as yet another form of this kind of transcription or transposition of a written text to a performance medium. But the verbal move from the “book” to the diminutive “libretto” (in Italian, little book or booklet) is indicative of a view that sees adaptation as a step downward, a move away from a primary literary “source”. In fact, an entire negative rhetoric of “infidelity” has developed in both journalistic reviewing and academic discourse about adaptations, and it is a morally loaded rhetoric that I find surprising in its intensity. Here is the wonderfully critical description of that rhetoric by the king of film adaptation critics, Robert Stam: Terms like “infidelity,” “betrayal,” “deformation,” “violation,” “bastardisation,” “vulgarisation,” and “desecration” proliferate in adaptation discourse, each word carrying its specific charge of opprobrium. “Infidelity” carries overtones of Victorian prudishness; “betrayal” evokes ethical perfidy; “bastardisation” connotes illegitimacy; “deformation” implies aesthetic disgust and monstrosity; “violation” calls to mind sexual violence; “vulgarisation” conjures up class degradation; and “desecration” intimates religious sacrilege and blasphemy. (3) I join many others today, like Stam, in challenging the persistence of this fidelity discourse in adaptation studies, thereby providing yet another example of what, in his article here called “The Persistence of Fidelity: Adaptation Theory Today,” John Connor has called the “fidelity reflex”—the call to end an obsession with fidelity as the sole criterion for judging the success of an adaptation. But here I want to come at this same issue of the relation of adaptation to the adapted text from another angle. When considering an adaptation of a literary work, there are other reasons why the literary “source” text might be privileged. Literature has historical priority as an art form, Stam claims, and so in some people’s eyes will always be superior to other forms. But does it actually have priority? What about even earlier performative forms like ritual and song? Or to look forward, instead of back, as Tim Barker urges us to do in his article here, what about the new media’s additions to our repertoire with the advent of electronic technology? How can we retain this hierarchy of artistic forms—with literature inevitably on top—in a world like ours today? How can both the Romantic ideology of original genius and the capitalist notion of individual authorship hold up in the face of the complex reality of the production of literature today (as well as in the past)? (In “Amen to That: Sampling and Adapting the Past”, Steve Collins shows how digital technology has changed the possibilities of musical creativity in adapting/sampling.) Like many other ages before our own, adaptation is rampant today, as director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman clearly realised in creating Adaptation, their meta-cinematic illustration-as-send-up film about adaptation. But rarely has a culture denigrated the adapter as a secondary and derivative creator as much as we do the screenwriter today—as Jonze explores with great irony. Michelle McMerrin and Sergio Rizzo helpfully explain in their pieces here that one of the reasons for this is the strength of auteur theory in film criticism. But we live in a world in which works of literature have been turned into more than films. We now have literary adaptations in the forms of interactive new media works and videogames; we have theme parks; and of course, we have the more common television series, radio and stage plays, musicals, dance works, and operas. And, of course, we now have novelisations of films—and they are not given the respect that originary novels are given: it is the adaptation as adaptation that is denigrated, as Deborah Allison shows in “Film/Print: Novelisations and Capricorn One”. Adaptations across media are inevitably fraught, and for complex and multiple reasons. The financing and distribution issues of these widely different media alone inevitably challenge older capitalist models. The need or desire to appeal to a global market has consequences for adaptations of literature, especially with regard to its regional and historical specificities. These particularities are what usually get adapted or “indigenised” for new audiences—be they the particularities of the Spanish gypsy Carmen (see Ioana Furnica, “Subverting the ‘Good, Old Tune’”), those of the Japanese samurai genre (see Kevin P. Eubanks, “Becoming-Samurai: Samurai [Films], Kung-Fu [Flicks] and Hip-Hop [Soundtracks]”), of American hip hop graffiti (see Kara-Jane Lombard, “‘To Us Writers, the Differences Are Obvious’: The Adaptation of Hip Hop Graffiti to an Australian Context”) or of Jane Austen’s fiction (see Suchitra Mathur, “From British ‘Pride’ to Indian ‘Bride’: Mapping the Contours of a Globalised (Post?)Colonialism”). What happens to the literary text that is being adapted, often multiple times? Rather than being displaced by the adaptation (as is often feared), it most frequently gets a new life: new editions of the book appear, with stills from the movie adaptation on its cover. But if I buy and read the book after seeing the movie, I read it differently than I would have before I had seen the film: in effect, the book, not the adaptation, has become the second and even secondary text for me. And as I read, I can only “see” characters as imagined by the director of the film; the cinematic version has taken over, has even colonised, my reader’s imagination. The literary “source” text, in my readerly, experiential terms, becomes the secondary work. It exists on an experiential continuum, in other words, with its adaptations. It may have been created before, but I only came to know it after. What if I have read the literary work first, and then see the movie? In my imagination, I have already cast the characters: I know what Gabriel and Gretta Conroy of James Joyce’s story, “The Dead,” look and sound like—in my imagination, at least. Then along comes John Huston’s lush period piece cinematic adaptation and the director superimposes his vision upon mine; his forcibly replaces mine. But, in this particular case, Huston still arguably needs my imagination, or at least my memory—though he may not have realised it fully in making the film. When, in a central scene in the narrative, Gabriel watches his wife listening, moved, to the singing of the Irish song, “The Lass of Aughrim,” what we see on screen is a concerned, intrigued, but in the end rather blank face: Gabriel doesn’t alter his expression as he listens and watches. His expression may not change—but I know exactly what he is thinking. Huston does not tell us; indeed, without the use of voice-over, he cannot. And since the song itself is important, voice-over is impossible. But I know exactly what he is thinking: I’ve read the book. I fill in the blank, so to speak. Gabriel looks at Gretta and thinks: There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. … Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter. (210) A few pages later the narrator will tell us: At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. (212) This joy, of course, puts him in a very different—disastrously different—state of mind than his wife, who (we later learn) is remembering a young man who sang that song to her when she was a girl—and who died, for love of her. I know this—because I’ve read the book. Watching the movie, I interpret Gabriel’s blank expression in this knowledge. Just as the director’s vision can colonise my visual and aural imagination, so too can I, as reader, supplement the film’s silence with the literary text’s inner knowledge. The question, of course, is: should I have to do so? Because I have read the book, I will. But what if I haven’t read the book? Will I substitute my own ideas, from what I’ve seen in the rest of the film, or from what I’ve experienced in my own life? Filmmakers always have to deal with this problem, of course, since the camera is resolutely externalising, and actors must reveal their inner worlds through bodily gesture or facial expression for the camera to record and for the spectator to witness and comprehend. But film is not only a visual medium: it uses music and sound, and it also uses words—spoken words within the dramatic situation, words overheard on the street, on television, but also voice-over words, spoken by a narrating figure. Stephen Dedalus escapes from Ireland at the end of Joseph Strick’s 1978 adaptation of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man with the same words as he does in the novel, where they appear as Stephen’s diary entry: Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. … Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. (253) The words from the novel also belong to the film as film, with its very different story, less about an artist than about a young Irishman finally able to escape his family, his religion and his country. What’s deliberately NOT in the movie is the irony of Joyce’s final, benign-looking textual signal to his reader: Dublin, 1904 Trieste, 1914 The first date is the time of Stephen’s leaving Dublin—and the time of his return, as we know from the novel Ulysses, the sequel, if you like, to this novel. The escape was short-lived! Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man has an ironic structure that has primed its readers to expect not escape and triumph but something else. Each chapter of the novel has ended on this kind of personal triumphant high; the next has ironically opened with Stephen mired in the mundane and in failure. Stephen’s final words in both film and novel remind us that he really is an Icarus figure, following his “Old father, old artificer”, his namesake, Daedalus. And Icarus, we recall, takes a tumble. In the novel version, we are reminded that this is the portrait of the artist “as a young man”—later, in 1914, from the distance of Trieste (to which he has escaped) Joyce, writing this story, could take some ironic distance from his earlier persona. There is no such distance in the film version. However, it stands alone, on its own; Joyce’s irony is not appropriate in Strick’s vision. His is a different work, with its own message and its own, considerably more romantic and less ironic power. Literary adaptations are their own things—inspired by, based on an adapted text but something different, something other. I want to argue that these works adapted from literature are now part of our readerly experience of that literature, and for that reason deserve the same attention we give to the literary, and not only the same attention, but also the same respect. I am a literarily trained person. People like me who love words, already love plays, but shouldn’t we also love films—and operas, and musicals, and even videogames? There is no need to denigrate words that are heard (and visualised) in order to privilege words that are read. Works of literature can have afterlives in their adaptations and translations, just as they have pre-lives, in terms of influences and models, as George Eliot Clarke openly allows in those acknowledgements to Beatrice Chancy. I want to return to that Canadian work, because it raises for me many of the issues about adaptation and language that I see at the core of our literary distrust of the move away from the written, printed text. I ended my recent book on adaptation with a brief examination of this work, but I didn’t deal with this particular issue of language. So I want to return to it, as to unfinished business. Clarke is, by the way, clear in the verse drama as well as in articles and interviews that among the many intertexts to Beatrice Chancy, the most important are slave narratives, especially one called Celia, a Slave, and Shelley’s play, The Cenci. Both are stories of mistreated and subordinated women who fight back. Since Clarke himself has written at length about the slave narratives, I’m going to concentrate here on Shelley’s The Cenci. The distance from Shelley’s verse play to Clarke’s verse play is a temporal one, but it is also geographic and ideological one: from the old to the new world, and from a European to what Clarke calls an “Africadian” (African Canadian/African Acadian) perspective. Yet both poets were writing political protest plays against unjust authority and despotic power. And they have both become plays that are more read than performed—a sad fate, according to Clarke, for two works that are so concerned with voice. We know that Shelley sought to calibrate the stylistic registers of his work with various dramatic characters and effects to create a modern “mixed” style that was both a return to the ancients and offered a new drama of great range and flexibility where the expression fits what is being expressed (see Bruhn). His polemic against eighteenth-century European dramatic conventions has been seen as leading the way for realist drama later in the nineteenth century, with what has been called its “mixed style mimesis” (Bruhn) Clarke’s adaptation does not aim for Shelley’s perfect linguistic decorum. It mixes the elevated and the biblical with the idiomatic and the sensual—even the vulgar—the lushly poetic with the coarsely powerful. But perhaps Shelley’s idea of appropriate language fits, after all: Beatrice Chancy is a woman of mixed blood—the child of a slave woman and her slave owner; she has been educated by her white father in a convent school. Sometimes that educated, elevated discourse is heard; at other times, she uses the variety of discourses operative within slave society—from religious to colloquial. But all the time, words count—as in all printed and oral literature. Clarke’s verse drama was given a staged reading in Toronto in 1997, but the story’s, if not the book’s, real second life came when it was used as the basis for an opera libretto. Actually the libretto commission came first (from Queen of Puddings Theatre in Toronto), and Clarke started writing what was to be his first of many opera texts. Constantly frustrated by the art form’s demands for concision, he found himself writing two texts at once—a short libretto and a longer, five-act tragic verse play to be published separately. Since it takes considerably longer to sing than to speak (or read) a line of text, the composer James Rolfe keep asking for cuts—in the name of economy (too many singers), because of clarity of action for audience comprehension, or because of sheer length. Opera audiences have to sit in a theatre for a fixed length of time, unlike readers who can put a book down and return to it later. However, what was never sacrificed to length or to the demands of the music was the language. In fact, the double impact of the powerful mixed language and the equally potent music, increases the impact of the literary text when performed in its operatic adaptation. Here is the verse play version of the scene after Beatrice’s rape by her own father, Francis Chancey: I was black but comely. Don’t glance Upon me. This flesh is crumbling Like proved lies. I’m perfumed, ruddied Carrion. Assassinated. Screams of mucking juncos scrawled Over the chapel and my nerves, A stickiness, as when he finished Maculating my thighs and dress. My eyes seep pus; I can’t walk: the floors Are tizzy, dented by stout mauling. Suddenly I would like poison. The flesh limps from my spine. My inlets crimp. Vultures flutter, ghastly, without meaning. I can see lice swarming the air. … His scythe went shick shick shick and slashed My flowers; they lay, murdered, in heaps. (90) The biblical and the violent meet in the texture of the language. And none of that power gets lost in the opera adaptation, despite cuts and alterations for easier aural comprehension. I was black but comely. Don’t look Upon me: this flesh is dying. I’m perfumed, bleeding carrion, My eyes weep pus, my womb’s sopping With tears; I can hardly walk: the floors Are tizzy, the sick walls tumbling, Crumbling like proved lies. His scythe went shick shick shick and cut My flowers; they lay in heaps, murdered. (95) Clarke has said that he feels the libretto is less “literary” in his words than the verse play, for it removes the lines of French, Latin, Spanish and Italian that pepper the play as part of the author’s critique of the highly educated planter class in Nova Scotia: their education did not guarantee ethical behaviour (“Adaptation” 14). I have not concentrated on the music of the opera, because I wanted to keep the focus on the language. But I should say that the Rolfe’s score is as historically grounded as Clarke’s libretto: it is rooted in African Canadian music (from ring shouts to spirituals to blues) and in Scottish fiddle music and local reels of the time, not to mention bel canto Italian opera. However, the music consciously links black and white traditions in a way that Clarke’s words and story refuse: they remain stubbornly separate, set in deliberate tension with the music’s resolution. Beatrice will murder her father, and, at the very moment that Nova Scotia slaves are liberated, she and her co-conspirators will be hanged for that murder. Unlike the printed verse drama, the shorter opera libretto functions like a screenplay, if you will. It is not so much an autonomous work unto itself, but it points toward a potential enactment or embodiment in performance. Yet, even there, Clarke cannot resist the lure of words—even though they are words that no audience will ever hear. The stage directions for Act 3, scene 2 of the opera read: “The garden. Slaves, sunflowers, stars, sparks” (98). The printed verse play is full of these poetic associative stage directions, suggesting that despite his protestations to the contrary, Clarke may have thought of that version as one meant to be read by the eye. After Beatrice’s rape, the stage directions read: “A violin mopes. Invisible shovelsful of dirt thud upon the scene—as if those present were being buried alive—like ourselves” (91). Our imaginations—and emotions—go to work, assisted by the poet’s associations. There are many such textual helpers—epigraphs, photographs, notes—that we do not have when we watch and listen to the opera. We do have the music, the staged drama, the colours and sounds as well as the words of the text. As Clarke puts the difference: “as a chamber opera, Beatrice Chancy has ascended to television broadcast. But as a closet drama, it play only within the reader’s head” (“Adaptation” 14). Clarke’s work of literature, his verse drama, is a “situated utterance, produced in one medium and in one historical and social context,” to use Robert Stam’s terms. In the opera version, it was transformed into another “equally situated utterance, produced in a different context and relayed through a different medium” (45-6). I want to argue that both are worthy of study and respect by wordsmiths, by people like me. I realise I’ve loaded the dice: here neither the verse play nor the libretto is primary; neither is really the “source” text, for they were written at the same time and by the same person. But for readers and audiences (my focus and interest here), they exist on a continuum—depending on which we happen to experience first. As Ilana Shiloh explores here, the same is true about the short story and film of Memento. I am not alone in wanting to mount a defence of adaptations. Julie Sanders ends her new book called Adaptation and Appropriation with these words: “Adaptation and appropriation … are, endlessly and wonderfully, about seeing things come back to us in as many forms as possible” (160). The storytelling imagination is an adaptive mechanism—whether manifesting itself in print or on stage or on screen. The study of the production of literature should, I would like to argue, include those other forms taken by that storytelling drive. If I can be forgiven a move to the amusing—but still serious—in concluding, Terry Pratchett puts it beautifully in his fantasy story, Witches Abroad: “Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling.” In biology as in culture, adaptations reign. References Bloom, Harold. The Anxiety of Influence. New York: Oxford University Press, 1975. Bruhn, Mark J. “’Prodigious Mixtures and Confusions Strange’: The Self-Subverting Mixed Style of The Cenci.” Poetics Today 22.4 (2001). Clarke, George Elliott. “Beatrice Chancy: A Libretto in Four Acts.” Canadian Theatre Review 96 (1998): 62-79. ———. Beatrice Chancy. Victoria, BC: Polestar, 1999. ———. “Adaptation: Love or Cannibalism? Some Personal Observations”, unpublished manuscript of article. Frye, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Toronto: CBC, 1963. Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968. Hutcheon, Linda, and Gary R. Bortolotti. “On the Origin of Adaptations: Rethinking Fidelity Discourse and “Success”—Biologically.” New Literary History. Forthcoming. Joyce, James. Dubliners. 1916. New York: Viking, 1967. ———. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. 1916. Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1960. Larson, Katherine. “Resistance from the Margins in George Elliott Clarke’s Beatrice Chancy.” Canadian Literature 189 (2006): 103-118. McGee, Celia. “Beowulf on Demand.” New York Times, Arts and Leisure. 30 April 2006. A4. Rushdie, Salman. The Satanic Verses. New York: Viking, 1988. ———. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. London: Granta/Penguin, 1990. Sanders, Julie. Adaptation and Appropriation. London and New York: Routledge, 160. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Cenci. Ed. George Edward Woodberry. Boston and London: Heath, 1909. Stam, Robert. “Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Adaptation.” Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. 1-52. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hutcheon, Linda. "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production." M/C Journal 10.2 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>. APA Style Hutcheon, L. (May 2007) "In Defence of Literary Adaptation as Cultural Production," M/C Journal, 10(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0705/01-hutcheon.php>.