Articles de revues sur le sujet « German sagas »

The existence of a “Migrant literature” is heavily debated in German studies, especially when it comes to authors like those of the third voice, who are socialized in Germany and speak German as their mother tongue. Nonetheless, novels that deal with migration and living with migrant backgrounds have similar characteristics. This article is primarily about the topic of crossing borders in such migrant novels by Olga Grjasnowa, Sasha Marianna Salzmann and Dimitrij Kapitelman. Which effects does border crossing have on characters with a migration background? The novels examined are not only characterized by a border crossing of migration from east to west, but actually even by multiple border crossings on different levels, that are always linked to each other. The literature of the third voice unites aspects of migration, but equally also aspects of adolescent literature and family sagas. That is shown, among other things, in the presentation and meaning of boundaries and their crossings as identity-creating moments and as coping strategies. Therefore, these border crosser stories enable new perspectives compared to conventional family sagas and adolescent literature.

The new rhombus-shaped cast amulet of the 10th century, made in the Borre style by means of the openwork metalworking technique, is a unique example of the Scandinavian jewelry tradition. The amulet originated from the region of the middle Dniester. The amulet and graffito are unique and they have no direct known analogies. This article is devoted to the study of semiotics and semantics of a zoomorphic pendant and elements of its image. The study carried out a structural-semantic analysis of the composition and individual elements of ornament through the paradigm of cosmological and cosmogonic representations of the ancient Germans. The work used the comparative method as well as a wide range of archaeological and literary sources. The picture stones and runic stones, Hogback stones, objects of material culture of the ancient Germans, results of comprehensive archaeological research, Old Norse songs about the gods and heroes of the “Younger Edda”, a set of Scandinavian sagas, Icelandic Viking sagas about Old Rus’ and materials from written sources of the XI– XIII Centuries were examined in detail and compared. The novelty of the research lies not only in the uniqueness of the new early medieval Scandinavian amulet, but also in the comparison and study of the object through the lens of the literary heritage of German- Scandinavian mythology. This approach was first applied in the detailed study of the “Gnezdovo-type” pendants. The methodological approach of the research and the historical-typological and semantic-semiotic analysis led to a scientific interpretation of the depicted story of the amulet within the context of the ancient Germanic mythological system and cosmogony.

During the First World War Hermann Gunkel wrote a study of ancient Israelite attitudes to warfare. The reader is introduced to a wild, warlike people, fighting for survival. Instead of folktale as the interpretative key he draws on real experiences of war. In the years that followed, German scholarship came to see war sagas as having their origins in the cult. Gunkel's book would have been out of place in this intellectual atmosphere. Another reason for the subsequent neglect of this study is that its occasional reference to contemporary experience of warfare could have been an embarrassment to his scholarly successors.

Abstract: Travel is often thought to be an adventure, an exploration, a way of knowing self and world, a break from the stresses of everyday life, a vacation. But there can be a dark side to travel, as in voyages that are part of invasion, conflict and enforced transport. Here, I wish to concentrate on conflict, domination, murder and genocide and do so, at various moments, by referring to the Norse sagas, including the encounter with the Skrælings in the New World and, more briefly, Columbus’ and the Spaniards’ violent treatment of the Natives in the New World and the German transport, torture and murder of Jews in the Shoah, or Holocaust.

Almost every national historiography has at one time or another emphasized a certain era dominated by the alleged extraordinary feats of particular individuals. Modern nationalists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries often sought support for their founding myths in their histories, exploiting imagery of heroic eras and their heroes for the needs of the present. The work of historians played an integral part of this mythmaking process. The German word Heldenzeitalter [Age of Heroes] is a concept with exactly such strong historiographical dimension. The term is not precise. It has variously been used to denote the mythic era of German sagas, the time of the Völkerwanderungen [migrations of peoples], and the Ostrogoth king Theodoric (sixth century). The same concept of an “age of heroes” is also fundamental to understanding Austrian historiography. This age constitutes a basic element of the Austrian national idea, and as with the other applications of the term “Age of Heroes,” the Austrian version, which was largely a nineteenth-century historiographical construct, was also fed by epics and poetry and myth making. The ruling Habsburg dynasty also actively supported the design of an Austrian Age of Heroes, at whose center could be found the figure of Prince Eugene of Savoy (1663–1736).

Introduction. In 1802–1803, Benjamin Bergmann made a trip to the Kalmyk steppes to collect historical, literary, and folklore material on the Kalmyks and the Kalmyk culture. The result of this journey was the 1804–1805 publication of “Nomadische Streifereien unter den Kalmüken in den Jahren 1802 und 1803” (Nomadic wanderings among Kalmyks in 1802–1803) in Riga, which up to the present day has not lost its importance as a source of information on the culture and life of the Kalmyks in the 18th and 19th centuries. The four-volume work contains translations of various texts from Kalmyk into German, including the two songs of the “Geser” epos. This is in fact the earliest translation of “Geser” songs into a European language. Data. The German translation of the two “Geser” songs published by Bergmann in his work has been used as the material for the present research. The aim of the article. Bergmann’s translation of the songs is often mentioned in scholarly publications, but so far, no Russian translation of the songs in full has been made. To facilitate the research of the Oirat-Kalmyk “Geser” and especially of the songs in question, this article presents their scientific translation into Russian made by the present author. Also, the article discusses the character of the Kalmyk originals of the epic songs. So far it has been believed that an oral retelling was the source for the German translation of the songs. However, there is sufficient evidence for a new hypothesis because the analysis of the data undertaken in this study indicates that apparently there was a written Oirat source for the translation. Conclusions. Besides the complete Russian translation of the “Geser” sagas offered here, the article puts forward the hypothesis of the written nature of the original source, which served as the basis for Bergmann’s German translation.

Old Norse sagas are simply in today, probably because they contain so much valuable and intriguing information about the world of the Icelanders and Vikings, and because they reflect deeply on mythological concepts and historical events, strongly colored by heroic deeds. This means that publishers of textbooks continue to demonstrate their willingness to produce English translations, such as the present one of The Saga of the Volsungs, which Jackson Crawford accompanies with a translation of The Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok. Henry Halliday Sparling (1890), Margaret Schlauch (1930), Ronald G. Finch (1965), Jesse L. Byock (1990 and 1999), and Kaaren Grimstad (2000), among others, had already offered English translations of the former, but none of them are listed by Crawford in his introduction. Translations into German, French, Italian, or other languages are also not considered, although there is a long tradition of comparable work that has been done many decades ago until today.

The Lay of the Nibelungs is a prominent literature work dating back to the early 13th century. It is a result of almost 10 century evolution of the material going back into the early Middle Ages. The material was also used by other Germanic peoples for development of Scandinavian sagas, Faroese and Danish ballads. The texts representing the story of the Nibelungs mark different stages of social and cultural development of the relevant Germanic peoples and are of a special interest for the historians dealing with the social history of Europe. The Lay of the Nibelungs, however, content not only contemporary features, like courteous rituals, but also archaic ones deriving from ancient lays and tales which are left unknown to us. The 19th century saw growing influence of the myth of the Nibelungs on German society with de La Mott Fouquet and Wagner creating the most eminent works updating the ancient lay. In the 20th century the Nibelungs-mentality shaped some aspects of Nazi ideology and was widely discussed by the leaders of the Third Reich.

The article compares the plots of the Ossetian Nart epic (the tale of Axsar and Axsartag, sons of Warxag, in which one of the brothers gets killed by a doubled or forked arrow due to a misunderstanding) and the Icelandic epic (the story of the accidental murder of Baldr by his blind brother Höd with a dart from a mistletoe shoot, in medieval illustrations to which the murder weapon is also depicted as forked sprout). The peculiarity of the plot (a strange, forked murder weapon), which was already incomprehensible to Ossetian storytellers and Icelandic medieval writers, is a typical example of “common oddity,” which can be a decisive argument when comparing folklore motifs for a common origin. In addition to the similarity of the plots, a commonality is found in the genealogy of the heroes of these legends, through which they fit into the mythological picture of the world of the corresponding traditions and in the mythological onomasticon: the parallelism of pairs Odin — Frigg / Freya (with her father Njord, the god of waters) and Warхag / Wastyrdg’i — Dzerassa (daughter of the god of waters Donbettyr), semantic similarities in the names of the heroes (‘Warrior,’ ‘Hero’) and the exact match in the names of their ancestors (Boræ — Buri, Bor). All these observations allow us to hypothesize for the presence of borrowed Gothic plots in the North German epic tradition, which also include the story of Hermanarich, Sunilda and her brothers, known from Jordanes’ Getica. It also leads us to explain why some sagas trace the location of the Ases and Odin ancestral home to the mouth of the Don. These German-Ossetian parallels do not go back to Indo-European antiquity but testify to the close Gothic–Alanic contacts in the northern Black Sea region in the 3rd–4th centuries.

AbstractThe pitfalls of the relationship between European and national judges constitute a well-travelled ground in literature, especially with regard to ‘sagas’ over the reconciliation of national sovereignty with EU law primacy. Hence, the contribution that this article is attempting to make is to explore the judicial understanding and potential of the concept of constitutional identity in the light of the newly-introduced Article 4(2) TEU by the Treaty of Lisbon, which makes it explicit that national identity encompasses constitutional specificity. A number of questions are raised and discussed. For instance: How has the Court of Justice of the European Union (CJEU) been adjudicating on issues pertaining to the constitutional identity of the Member States pre- and post-Lisbon? How far can Member States stretch the concept to avoid the tidal effect of EU law upon their legal systems? For the sake of clarity, two notions of constitutional identity are identified and presented in this article: One related to the CJEU’s case law, where ‘constitutional identity’ has been invoked by defending Member States as a qualified derogation from their EU law obligations (a ‘shield’) and another, inherent in the German Constitutional Court’s (BVerfG) use of ‘constitutional identity’ as a break to an unprecedented transfer of competences to the EU and a tool of judicial review of national implementation measures of secondary legislation (a sword). The arguments advanced hereafter suggest that the implications of identity retention as a ‘shield’ may not be far-reaching since the CJEU has, through a pragmatic use of the loyalty and proportionality principles, succeeded in reducing its effect to the bare minimum. On the other hand, as a judicial review mechanism, the German paradigm demonstrates that, as a ‘sword’, constitutional identity retention comprises, largely, a theoretical possibility. These assumptions aside, it is concluded that constitutional identity retention may provide both national judiciaries and legislatures with new opportunities to participate in trans-national constitutional development through monitoring and assessing the compatibility of the exercise of EU competence with the requirements of national constitutions.

Abstract The pitfalls of the relationship between European and national judges constitute a well-travelled ground in literature, especially with regard to ‘sagas’ over the reconciliation of national sovereignty with EU law primacy. Hence, the contribution that this article is attempting to make is to explore the judicial understanding and potential of the concept of constitutional identity in the light of the newly-introduced Article 4(2) TEU by the Treaty of Lisbon, which makes it explicit that national identity encompasses constitutional specificity. A number of questions are raised and discussed. For instance: How has the Court of Justice of the European Union (CJEU) been adjudicating on issues pertaining to the constitutional identity of the Member States pre- and post-Lisbon? How far can Member States stretch the concept to avoid the tidal effect of EU law upon their legal systems? For the sake of clarity, two notions of constitutional identity are identified and presented in this article: One related to the CJEU’s case law, where ‘constitutional identity’ has been invoked by defending Member States as a qualified derogation from their EU law obligations (a ‘shield’) and another, inherent in the German Constitutional Court’s (BVerfG) use of ‘constitutional identity’ as a break to an unprecedented transfer of competences to the EU and a tool of judicial review of national implementation measures of secondary legislation (a sword). The arguments advanced hereafter suggest that the implications of identity retention as a ‘shield’ may not be far-reaching since the CJEU has, through a pragmatic use of the loyalty and proportionality principles, succeeded in reducing its effect to the bare minimum. On the other hand, as a judicial review mechanism, the German paradigm demonstrates that, as a ‘sword’, constitutional identity retention comprises, largely, a theoretical possibility. These assumptions aside, it is concluded that constitutional identity retention may provide both national judiciaries and legislatures with new opportunities to participate in trans-national constitutional development through monitoring and assessing the compatibility of the exercise of EU competence with the requirements of national constitutions.

In this article, we examine the love–death dialectic through a mosaic of story and song. Layering personal narrative and musical chronicles about love, life, and death—from the heroic to the tedious, the passionate to the mundane, the tragic to the contented, the transgressive to the faithful, and fantasy to reality—we consider the marriage of love and loss in narratives where multiple instantiations of the truth mix and mingle. We use these disparate creations to evocatively dramatize the magnetic allure of endless, inexhaustible love in light of our inevitable extinction. The love impulse, says Becker, is the antithesis to the fearful losses that mark our long descent to the grave. Following Becker’s lead, we take the measure of idealized passion in enduring relationships and assert the catalytic dynamism of heroic transcendence in everyday intercourse. From the storybook tales we author with family, lovers, and other close conspirators, sagas of romance, lasting companionship, marriage, hearth and home, birth and death; to the songbook—with a focus on splatter platters—the trite songs of teenage tragedy and mayhem produced in the last half of the 20th century and still popular into the 21st—juxtaposed with German Romantic opera, we examine how celebrated artists, Brill Building songsmiths, and everyday dreamers aestheticize love, life, and death. In pillow talk, in conversational idylls, and in song, what we say about love tells us what it means to live, to desire, and to die.

The present study focuses on the decipherment and interpretation of the unique runic inscription carved on the zoomorphic pendant of Scandinavian jewelry traditions. The new Scandinavian zoomorphic pendant of 10th century, originating from the region of Middle Dniester, Republic of Moldova. The graffito and amulet have no direct analogies. In the research paper the runic inscription is interpreted as the protection magical spell. The runic inscription is based on the ideographic runes of the Elder and the Younger Futhark. The runic inscription of a similar nature with this combination of graphemes has not yet been known in runology, and is first encountered. The inscription made in Scandinavian runes is the first discovery of a runic inscription in Republic of Moldova and the same time is the first written evidence of the presence of the Vikings in the Dniester-Prut Region. The research methodology is based on a comparison of the runic formula of the zoomorphic amulet inscription with the known analogies of the runic formulas inscribed on various artifacts of ancient German material culture. As much as the inscription contains archaic runes of the Elder Futhark and runes of the Younger Futhark, the study used the approach of identifying the semantic load of the runes used as ideograms with the meaning of their own names. In the present research paper, the retrospective method is used in the most famous examples of Scandinavian runes of the Elder and Younger Futhark as ideograms in the described runic inscriptions of the amulet and incantation character. The comparative method is also applied between compare runes as ideograms of the present inscription and the same runes as ideograms in the other cases of use in the similar or analogical context. Comparative and retrospective methods are also applied in the search for analogies of the use of runes in the meaning of own names in mixed inscriptions made by means of a combinations of older and younger runes. The study widely involved a significant amount of scientific work in the field of methodology of reading and interpreting runic inscriptions of famous runologists of 20th and 21st centuries. In scientific work were used ancient German literary sources, such as: Old Norse, Old Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon runic poems, Old Icelandic sagas about the gods and heroes of the Elder Edda and materials from written sources of the 11th–13th centuries were examined in detail and compared in the context of “magic runes” and mythopoeic concepts in mithological considerations. The archaeological context of this research includes both a comprehensive description of the most unique amulet, and the general layer of the most significant finds of the Viking Age and traces of the Scandinavian cultural presence in the Slavic and Old Russian world of the early Middle Ages in the area of the Dniester-Prut interfluve of present-day territory of Moldova.

LA CUESTIÓN DEL RECONOCIMIENTO EN AMÉRICA LATINA PERSPECTIVAS Y PROBLEMAS DE LA TEORÍA POLÍTICO SOCIAL DE AXEL HONNETHGregor Sauerwald, Ricardo Salas Astraín (editor) Zweigniederlassung Zürich, lit Verlag (Serie discursos Germano-iberoamericanos), 2017. 278 páginas

The history of the early Germans is controversial terrain. This is known, though not invariably admitted. A few years ago, Klaus von See summed up the underlying predicament:Germans (Deutsche) have it hard with the origins of their national past. The oldest texts are not indigenous; they stem from Latin and Greek authors — Tacitus, Ammianus Marcellinus, Procopius. If stone vestiges are sought, one mostly has to be content with Celtic and Roman remains…. Supplementary efforts are made to unearth authentic Germanic monuments in large parts of Old Norse [literature]… — it being readily overlooked that the Edda and the sagas bear witness not to Germanic antiquity, but to the Scandinavian early and high Middle Ages, [and were] only written long after Christianization. As a result, studies of the early Germans are a difficult terrain for historical science….

Faking prehistoryForgery and self-deception in archaeologyThe object of this essay is to explain the significance of archaeological frauds in the perception of prehistory. The motives and consequences of the frauds concerned are illustrated by a series of case stories. These case stories span from quite harmless banal frauds, through unscrupulous ideological falsification of history, to the borderland between forgery and self-deception. It turns out that only a few archaeological frauds have been produced in order to make money or for similar purposes, while the majority are side products of nationalistic and patriotic conceptions. This implies that archaeology in a societal context is a powerful science even though this is hardly ever reflected in the size of economic provision for the discipline.The Cardiff Giant (fig. 1) emerged in 1869 in the State of New York. It was claimed by the finder, together with the owner of the land where the Giant was found, to be a fossil man, or maybe a statue of an ancient deity. Although it was denounced by most scientists as a hoax, people flocked to the sight. And the finder made large quantities of money by selling tickets and snacks to the visitors. After three months of financial success he admitted that the Giant was made of gypsum, and that he had buried it himself at dead of night.In the case of the Davenport Conspiracy (Iowa, 1877) the successful amateur archaeologist Jacob Gass excavated a number of slates covered with mysterious engravings. At first the local scientists were impressed, but it soon turned out that the slates were a hoax. It was later revealed that the hoax had not been perpetrated by Gass himself. Envious amateur scientists seeking to give him an untrustworthy image had planted the slates.The tale of the notorious Piltdown hoax began in 1908-15 in Sussex, England, when amateur archaeologist Charles Dawson found what seemed to be human fossil remains – pieces of a human skull, an ape-like jawbone and a number of teeth. Due to geological circumstances the remains were dated as late Pliocene or early Pleistocene and were claimed to represent the “missing link” (figs. 2-3). But in 1954 fluorine, uranium and nitrogen dating exposed the human skull as of relatively recent age and the jawbone as being that of a recent orang-utan. Both had been treated with pigment to make them look old and alike. The forger has never been identified, though many speculations have circulated. Thus the motives for the hoax are still unclear. The original motive might have been a quest for personal glory within the scientific elite. But the timing of the hoax (in the same period as that when the human fossils of Java and Heidelberg were found) was perfect for the promotion of the British Isles. Prior to Piltdown Man almost all British archaeological finds on the isles were Neolithic, or even later. But now the evidence for human presence there was suddenly parallel to the Continent.Ever since the “discovery” of the Kensington rune stone, in Minnesota, USA, in 1898, it has been debated whether the stone is genuine or not. Most reputable scientists, however, think of the stone as a falsification produced by Scandinavian immigrants (fig. 4). This stone is just one example of several archaeological frauds in North America, concerning “Viking” artefacts in particular, but there are also frauds relating to Indian cultural and religious relics. A certain group of frauds relates to the geology and fauna of America, as well as early human presence, motivated by desire to construct a picture of this part of the world being older than Europe (fig. 5). The majority of the North American frauds seem to be an attempt to redress an inferiority complex in relation to Europe (The Old World). Furthermore these frauds often seem to feature a layman rising against the scientific elite. It was even at one stage proposed that the authenticity of the Kensington Rune Stone should be put to the vote (!).The anarchy which characterises the North American frauds was not at all at present in the historical falsifications of Nazi-Germany. Though the purpose was roughly the same: to promote the nation’s ancient glory. At the launch of The Third Reich in 1933 the young archaeologist Hans Reinerth (fig. 7) was appointed to lead Reichsbund für Deutsche Vorgeschichte (The National Federation for German Prehistory), which was established under Albert Rosenberg’s Amt Rosenberg – the cultural department of Nazi-Germany. The aim of the Reichsbund was to promote the prehistory of Germanic culture and the idea of its superiority. The means were – among others – the monthly popular journal Germanen-Erbe (The Germanic Legacy) and the creation of museums of local archaeology and folk-lore. The journal contained articles and essays on excavations, research etc., deeply pervaded by nationalism and racism. And the museums had reconstructions on display that were far distant from the archaeological truth (fig. 6). All archaeologists, not just those who personally believed in the national-socialistic ideology, found that it was a good bargain – and almost a necessity – to support Nazi archaeology. The public funding of prehistoric archaeology was multiplied after 1933. In the period 1933-35 eight professorships in the discipline were established; archaeological departments were established at 25 universities; huge amounts were used on excavations and increases in wages. Before that prehistoric archaeology (i. e. North European archaeology) had been a low-status discipline compared with Classical and Near Oriental archaeology.On the rock of Runamo in Blekinge, Sweden, strange characters in rows have been known for ages (figs. 8-9). They were first mentioned by Saxo Grammaticus. Since then many attempts have been made to uncover whether this phenomenon was caused by Nature or by Man and – if the latter was the case – what the message might be. In 1832 the antiquarian Finnur Magnússon led an expedition to Runamo to expose the secret once and for all. Magnússon’s romantic mind and almost blind faith in the Norse sagas, along with the influence of the expedition’s unreliable geologist, J. G. Forchhammer, led him (after months of research) to the conclusion that the characters were runes referring to the epic battle of Bråvalla. This resulted in publication of a 700-page paper in 1841. But as early as 1844 the young Danish pioneer archaeologist J.J.A. Worsaae systematically rejected the thesis: the “runes” were in fact a natural phenomenon and Magnússon’s faith in Norse sagas as a historical source was outdated; furthermore his naive confidence in the geologist’s conclusions was unprofessional. The hitherto honoured antiquarian was subjected to public ridicule, became sick and died in debt three years later. This case is of course not a traditional forgery. But an individual’s subjective, romantic conception of his “national” prehistory – leading to self-deception – takes on the same nature as the majority of the forgeries and frauds mentioned here.The majority of archaeological frauds have ideological or patriotic undertones even though the motives may be selfish. The persistent character of the frauds – e.g. the North American hoaxes and the prehistory propaganda of Nazi-Germany – shows that archaeology is a mighty societal and political force. It is part of an ongoing battle over what is the truth about our prehistory.But what about today – is archaeological forgery a thing of the past? Of course in some totalitarian states falsification of history occurs, but in our world traditional forgery is probably a rare occurrence, primarily because of the high level of documentation and verification of archaeological material and its context. The “truth” about our prehistory is today mostly determined by the large – and still growing – number of experimental centres, open air museums etc., which are more or less trustworthy. In this popular dissemination of prehistory – live – stereotyped prejudices are often promoted. Thus, for example, the countless number of “Viking re-enactment museums” display too many identical replicas of the Oseberg tent; too many Hedeby houses; too many Ribe lots – all populated by souvenir selling Vikings and upper-class Vikings, dressed as if no common people and slaves ever existed in the Viking Age.Producing and displaying stereotyped prehistory to please the masses and to make money. This is perhaps the fashionable form of faking prehistory today.Ole Thirup Kastholm HansenInstitute of Archaeology and EthnologyUniversity of Copenhagen

Exploring Nazism and its relationship with science and scientists is undoubtedly one of the most interesting research lines for historians studying Germany, scientists, and the elites. Indeed, for a long time «Nazi science» was considered the work of a minority of sages on the edge of madness and perversion, committed to political atrocities, without it affecting the rest of the German scientific landscape. But these assertions were brought down by numerous studies. On the one hand, only a negligible part of scientists refused to work for Nazi Germany: less than 1 % of university graduates resigned after the Machtergreifung, meaning that 99 % of university professors continued working in Nazified institutions. Anthropologists, physicians, historians, sociologists, linguists, and geographers benefited from research programmes that turned their disciplines into «legitimising sciences», i.e., «combatant sciences». The more or less certified commitment of many prominent scientific figures, such as the psychiatrist Johann Asperger or the physicist Werner Heisenberg, is not that surprising when we contextualise it with the broader history of elites. The scientific field was no exception in 1930s Germany: 1990s social history proved that the elites’ adherence to the National Socialist party and the Nazi racial determinism was connected to the great appeal of Nazi ideology’s appeasing belief system, but also to the existence of elitist organisations that allowed these specific circles to find a place for entre-soi socialisation and self-preservation. This is one of the great paradoxes of 1990s historiography. After mercilessly but fairly responding to the problems in Hannah Arendt’s work regarding Nazi «totalitarianism», social historiography tended to quietly confirm that National Socialism came to power by following the electoral strategy of a popular party, but with the support of extremely well-educated militant elites. That is how the party adapted to the most significant characteristic of totalitarian regimes. In the eyes of German philosophy, this structure was considered an unprecedented alliance between the masses and the elite. Deep down, how else can we define institutions such as the SS, the Ahnenerbe, or the Sicherheitsdienst? Or the Volkswissenschaftliche Arbeitskreis (“Population Ethnoscience Work Circle”), which grouped university specialists and SS officers to study the populations of some Eastern European territories with the aim to legitimise their conquest? Nazi science is not just a collection of skulls from exterminated Jewish citizens, nor is it a group of experts condemning entire populations like the Krymchak – a Jewish ethnic group from the Caucasus –, or indulgent speeches at university ceremonies, or inhumane medical experiments like submerging Soviet officers into freezing water in concentration camps. Nazi science is equivalent to daily acceptance, to the slow and thorough penetration of resignation and the commitment to an ideology that permeates everything adorned as a hopeful utopia, a great addictive toxin to which the cultural elites are particularly sensitive.

AbstractCorporations are notoriously powerful actors in the current configuration of our globalized economy. Their activities play a key role in shaping a new age of ecological precarity—the Anthropocene. Much of this environmental damage occurs in cross-border settings, hampering victims’ access to legal remedies due to widespread corporate impunity and institutional hurdles in host states. Several transnational lawsuits have recently tested the willingness of European home state judiciaries to adjudicate the extraterritorial conduct of domestic corporations. To contribute to a more nuanced understanding of this novel phenomenon, this article analyzes three legal sagas from a comparative perspective: Vedanta v. Lungowe (England & Wales), Dooh v. Shell (The Netherlands) and Lliuya v. RWE (Germany). It argues that transnational tort suits remain a problematic vehicle for the attainment of procedural and substantial environmental justice. The inherent limitations of tort law, extra-legal hurdles to transnational litigation, and the socio-cultural contingency of legal institutions severely circumscribe the space for legal contestations of the corporate Anthropocene.

Depuis une dizaine d’années, Adrien Arcand a fait l’objet de divers ouvrages sur ses écrits fascistes et antisémites et son mouvement qui a attiré quelques centaines d’adeptes au Québec au cours des années 1930. Peu de choses ont été écrites au sujet de son influence et son rayonnement international. Dans les années 1930, Adrien Arcand s’est forgé une solide réputation parmi les chantres de l’antisémitisme dans le monde en participant activement à la diffusion des Protocoles des Sages de Sion, et en publiant La Clé du Mystère, une brochure hautement antisémite qui vise à prouver l’authenticité des Protocoles des Sages de Sion. Arrêté en 1940, puis emprisonné durant toute la Seconde Guerre mondiale, Adrien Arcand recouvre la liberté en 1945. Il continue de correspondre avec les têtes de pont de l’antisémitisme dans le monde : Henry Hamilton Beamish, Arnold Spencer Leese, sir Barry Domville, Gerald Hamilton, Robert Edmundson et Henry Coston jusqu’à sa mort en 1967. Son plus illustre admirateur, le négationniste germano-canadien Ernst Zündel, qui a été libéré en mars 2010 après avoir purgé une peine de sept ans de prison en Allemagne pour avoir nié l’existence de l’Holocauste, voyait Arcand comme son mentor.

<p>Sam Ortí, más conocido llanamente como Sam, es ya una página viva de la historia de la animación española. Su fulgurante carrera cuenta con éxitos como The Werepig (2008), Vicenta (2010), o la inevitable Encarna (2003), quizás el germen de toda su producción posterior. Sam nos ha abierto las puertas de su futuro estudio-museo en Valencia, llena de los escenarios de sus películas, convertidos en dioramas de exposición que han dado la vuelta al mundo, y nos ha contado las vicisitudes de su nuevo filme, Poseso (2014), que figura con honor como el tercer largometraje de stop-motion producido en nuestro país. Nieves Herranz nos habla de este futuro estreno, que ya ha recolectado significativos premios y menciones en los festivales de cine, y que sin duda no dejará a nadie indiferente en las salas.</p>

Neste artigo, pretendo fazer uma reflexão sobre a relação entre a antropologia, a história e a literatura e o seu papel na leitura dos processos sociais, a partir de: (1) uma abordagem de duas obras literárias - El Palacio de la Risa (2014), de Germán Marín e Nocturno de Chile (2000), de Roberto Bolaño; (2) dos elementos de terreno de uma visita a um dos locais de detenção clandestina, tortura e extermínio da ditadura chilena (1973-1990); (3) do cinema documental de Patricio Guzmán, Carmen Castillo e Pablo Salas. Através da sugestão conceptual de Daniel Bensaïd, exploro os limites da forclusão dos horizontes da expectativa, atribuível à supressão da ligação ao espaço da experiência, que conduz a uma anemia da razão crítica. Entre a ficção e o real, interrogo o encadeamento do imaginado, do imaginário e da realidade, e exploro a relação com os passados dolorosos, com o papel continuado do medo, bem como a sua superação, através dos mecanismos poderosos da memória colectiva no Chile.Palavras-chave: Antropología. História. Literatura. Forclusão. Chile.

Abstract. We propose the implementation of the Soil and Landscape Evolution Model (SaLEM) for the spatiotemporal investigation of soil parent material evolution following a lithologically differentiated approach. Relevant parts of the established Geomorphic/Orogenic Landscape Evolution Model (GOLEM) have been adapted for an operational Geographical Information System (GIS) tool within the open-source software framework System for Automated Geoscientific Analyses (SAGA), thus taking advantage of SAGA's capabilities for geomorphometric analyses. The model is driven by palaeoclimatic data (temperature, precipitation) representative of periglacial areas in northern Germany over the last 50 000 years. The initial conditions have been determined for a test site by a digital terrain model and a geological model. Weathering, erosion and transport functions are calibrated using extrinsic (climatic) and intrinsic (lithologic) parameter data. First results indicate that our differentiated SaLEM approach shows some evidence for the spatiotemporal prediction of important soil parental material properties (particularly its depth). Future research will focus on the validation of the results against field data, and the influence of discrete events (mass movements, floods) on soil parent material formation has to be evaluated.

Kirjutises esitletakse Eesti perekonnanimede tüüpi, kus nime lõpuosiseks on -mees. Perekonnanimede panekul 1822–1835 on nimesid lõpuga -mees (-mes) pandud rohkem kui 140 mõisas. Paljud neist on hääbunud, samas on seda tüüpi perekonnanimesid pandud/võetud ka XX sajandil: 1921–1922 Petserimaal ja Narvatagusel ning 1935–1940 nimede eestistamisel. Kirjutises on ära toodud kõik 63 mees-lõpulist perekonnanime, mis esinesid rahvastikuregistris aastal 2017, nimekandjate hulk sel aastal, nimede päritolu ja tekkekoht, enamasti mõisa täpsusega. Nenditakse, et nimetüüp lõpuga -mees on laen saksa keelest (tõlgitud on saksa perekonnanimede formant -mann ’mees, inimene’), ehkki vastavaid eeskujuks olevaid liitsõnu esineb ka eesti keeles (näiteks aumees, jahimees, kälimees, maamees, põllumees, sannamees, talumees, nimepanemise ajal arvatavasti juba ka laenuline kaupmees). Saksa keelest on enamasti siiski laenatud nii perekonnanimede struktuuritüüp kui ka sageli nimeosade leksika (mugand, laen või otsetõlge eesti keelde). Vaid iga kümnenda nime puhul võiks väita, et aluseks on eestikeelne liitsõna. Huvitaval kombel järgib mees-lõpuline perekonnanimetüüp levikuala, mis on kindlaks tehtud paljude murdenähtuste puhul. Abstract. Marja Kallasmaa and Fred Puss: A borrowed name type: surnames ending with ‑mees ‘man’. In the Population Register in 2017, there were 63 surnames ending with -mees ‘man’. The article presents the etymology of all these names. The Estonian surname type ending -mees has mostly been borrowed from German surnames with the name formant -mann. Estonian peasants received their surnames in the 19th century (about 31,000 surnames in 1822–1835, of those around 100 ending with -mees). Among those, there were around 5,020 occasions of surnames (around 2,000 different names) ending with -man(n), mostly in North Estonia. In 1935–1940, the peak of the Estonianization of surnames took place and 22 names ending with -mees were added. 1. Most of surnames ending with -mees are translation loans as Jõemees (Bachmann), Majamees (Hausmann), Metsmees (Waldmann), Mäemees (Bergmann), Nõmmemees (Heidemann), etc. In one surname, a partial translation of the first part has been found: Piirimees (Altegrenzmann). 2. Surnames with adapted first part: Valdmees (Waldmann), Kunstimees (Kunstmann). 3. There are different first parts of surnames in the islands of Hiiumaa and Saaremaa: in Hiiumaa, the first parts are toponyms, in Saaremaa, mostly adjectives. 4. Some surnames present the dialectal form versus standard language form: Mõtsmees and Metsmees (dialectal mõts, standard mets ‘forest’), Tepomees and Teppomees (standard male name Tepo, in the coastal dialect Teppo, same in the old spelling), Sannamees (standard saunamees ‘smallholder’). The surname written in 1835 – Maelzemees – has given three different present-day spellings: Mäeltsemees, Mältsamees and Määltsemees. 5. German influence is both structural and lexical (translation, adaptation, word selection). 6. Only around one tenth of the names come from Estonian compound words.

Abstract Historians have recently shown how the concept of ‘sustainability’ (Nachhaltigkeit) first emerged through statist ambitions to enfold nature into political economy in eighteenth-century Germany. Shifting the focus from forestry to mining, this article draws upon the case of Prussian mining official Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859) and the ‘Mining School’ he founded in Bad Steben to argue that sustainable resource management also entailed the strict discipline of labour relations and a programme of ‘psychological policy’. Humboldt's Mining School sought to address administrative concerns about ‘Raubbau’ – the rash exploitation of mineral resources ‘without consideration for the future’ – by cultivating a new generation of mine foremen loyal to the state and schooled in its protocol. Ostensibly, Humboldt wished to purge the industry of ‘superstitious’ folk knowledge that undermined the state's commitment to long-term exploitation. Yet analysis of mining songs and sagas suggests a striking analogy between official and vernacular understandings of resource extraction as an ethical matter. Thus, the environmental alarms sounded by German miners around 1800 were triggered by transgressions of a social nature; and political concerns about social order in the ‘mining state’ were constitutive of material concerns about natural resources.

On fols. 2–3 of British Library Add. MS. 11250 is an unusual text in the hand of bishop Gissur Einarsson with the title “Annotationes ex marginibus legisterij [T]horuardi legiferi quæ non transtuli in meum legisterium” (Annotations from the margins of the law-book of Þorvarður lögmaður Erlendsson which I did not copy into my law-book). The collection, which appears to be entirely unparalled, consists of short extracts from various texts: Icelandic and foreign laws, amendments, proverbs, sagas, jokes, wordplay and more. The texts are in Icelandic, Latin and German. The collection is here edited in its entirety for the first time and its contents discussed together with their connection to other texts and manuscripts. An attempt is also made to find the exemplar, though the conclusion is that this no longer exists, and it is suggested that this lost law-book was also among the sources used by Gottskálk Jónsson í Glaumbæ when compiling his miscellany, British Library Add. MS. 11242.

Лингвоним хатиагский (хатиаг æвзаг), неоднократно упоминаемый в текстах сказаний Нартовского эпоса, всегда привлекал к себе внимание исследователей, т.к. он является носителем исторически важной информации, релевантной для хронологической и географической локализации целого ряда сюжетов и сюжетных мотивов. Длительность истории возникновения и бытования эпоса, большая территориальная протяженность, обусловленная беспрецедентной миграционной активностью его создателей и носителей, привели к появлению достаточно большого числа альтернативных интерпретаций этого термина. Все они отвечают тем или иным требованиям к хатиагскому языку, выводимым из текстов сказаний. Основанием для существующих гипотез в первую очередь является фонетическое сходство с известными корнями, терминами. Большая их часть соотносят хатиагский с известными этнонимами, названиями народов, с которыми у сарматов, алан, осетин имели место контакты, подтвержденные историческими источниками. В статье рассматриваются существующие в настоящее время подходы. Нерешенность проблемы хатиагского языка позволяет продолжать разработку и уточнение существующих гипотез, выдвигать и формулировать новые. В работе предлагается в круг поиска этимона включить: самоназвание армян хай; первый элемент в обозначении языка восточно-иранских хотаносаков, у которых имеются близкородственные генетические связи с осетинским; а также название восточногерманского племени готов. Из данных трех авторских гипотез предпочтение отдается последней. The glossonym Hatiag (Hatiag ævzag), repeatedly mentioned in the texts of the narratives of the Narts’ epic, has constantly been in the focus of the researchers’ attention, due to the fact that it contains historically important information relevant to the chronological and geographical localization of the number of plots and plot motifs. The length of the history of the emergence and existence of the epic, spacious territories inhabited by its creators, pushed by their unprecedented migration activity account for the emergence of a sufficiently large number of alternative interpretations. All of them meet certain requirements for the Hatiag language, derived from the texts of the sagas. The basis for the existing hypotheses, in the first place, is a phonetic similarity of the linguonym with known roots, terms. Most of the hypotheses correlate Hatiag with well-known ethnonyms, the names of peoples with whom the Sarmatians, Alans, and Ossetians had contacts confirmed by the known historical sources. The article provides an overview of the etymologies, which have been so far advanced. The problem of the Hatiag language is still unsolved which allows us to continue the development and refinement of the existing hypotheses, to put forward and formulate new ones as well. The paper proposes to include in the terms of the search of the etymon: Hay, self-designation of the Armenian people, the long-term historical neighbors of the Alans; the first element of the designation of Eastern Iranian language of the Khotanese Sakas, who have closely related genetic ties with the proto-Ossetian; and the name of the East German tribe of Goths. From these three author's hypotheses, preference is given to the latter.

India is a treasure house of a wide variety of megaliths created by separate tribes at different time zones. Surprisingly among this colossal hoard of megaliths across the large landmass of India there are many which have their identical in Europe and Britain. The paper investigates these similarities in architectures of a few megaliths in the lands of Europe, Britain and India. These similarities are indeed a mystery. Why are so many megalithic monuments in these lands identical or nearly so? Could it be that it was the same people who created them or may be these are result of contacts between the people of these countries in some unknown antiquity? The paper studies the causes that may have given rise to these similar megaliths in India, Britain and Europe. In the process it delves into the oral traditions of a few megalith making proto-austroloid Kolarian Mundari tribes of India who recount sagas of their traversing for centuries during much ancient times in many far-off countries which many tribal gurus presume to be various regions of ancient Europe. This may sound preposterous but many European vernaculars as German, Flemish, Greek, Irish and English strangely consist of many words which are indeed Mundari in origin. Many human and place names in Europe shows similarity with austric Mundari words. The paper also discloses that several Mundari tribes in India and many European countries use exactly the same word for the same object. In addition, particular discussion centres on the meanings of the Mundari sasandiri and the folklore place-name Sasanbeda. All these indubitably advocate that such resemblances are not upshot of a meagre happenstance but has materialised as a consequence of a contact subsequent to the arrival of these tribes in Europe perhaps during the European Neolithic Era. This proposes that the tribal folklores of the proto-Australoid Kolarian Mundari tribes is possibly inherently correct and therefore deserve in-depth study. These types of Indian megaliths that are similar to that of Europe and Britain either remain to be dated or have been found to be of much later date than their western counterparts.

Chapagain, Prem Sagar. 2009. Agriculture and Environment in the Eastern Nepal Himalayas, VDMVerlag Dr. Muller, Germany, pp 166 + viii, acknowledgements, tables, figures, pictures, diagrams,reference and annex, paperback, price not quoted.DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.3126/ttp.v8i0.11519 The Third Pole: Journal of Geography Vol.8-10, pp. 73-74: 2010

The so-called was-w-construction in German has received a fair amount of attention in recent syntactic theorizing. Most of the discussion has focused on the properties of was. One line of research maintains that was is a scope marker that indicates the semantic scope of the wh-phrase in the embedded interrogative clause. The alternative view, usually referred to as the indirect analysis, was first developed with respect to Hindi (Dayal 1994) and then generalized to German (Dayal 1996). It holds that the was of the was-w-construction is associated not with the embedded wh-phrase, but rather with the embedded clause as a whole. Hinrichs and Nakazawa present some novel evidence in favor of an indirect analysis of the was-w construction. However, the main focus of their research is on two questions that by comparison have received little attention, namely: what is the set of matrix predicates that can enter into this construction, and how can one account for the curious fact that predicates that ordinarily do not license wh-complements allow such complements in the was-w-construction? On the basis of Ginzburg and Sag's verb classification (Ginzburg and Sag, in preparation) Hinrichs and Nakazawa identify a natural class of predicates that license this construction and utilize the notion of type coercion to account for the apparent mismatch between the syntactic form of the embedded interrogative and its semantic function.

Stargardt macular dystrophy (STGD1) is the most common form of inherited childhood blindness worldwide and for which no current treatments exist. It is an autosomal recessive disease caused by mutations in ABCA4. To date, a variety of gene supplementation approaches have been tested to create a therapy, with some reaching clinical trials. New technologies, such as CRISPR-Cas based editing systems, provide an exciting frontier for addressing genetic disease by allowing targeted DNA or RNA base editing of pathogenic mutations. ABCA4 has ∼1,200 known pathogenic mutations, of which ∼63% are transition mutations amenable to this editing technology. In this report, we screened the known “pathogenic” and “likely pathogenic” mutations in ABCA4 from available data in gnomAD, Leiden Open Variation Database (LOVD), and ClinVar for potential PAM sites of relevant base editors, including Streptococcus pyogenes Cas (SpCas), Staphylococcus aureus Cas (SaCas), and the KKH variant of SaCas (Sa-KKH). Overall, of the mutations screened, 53% (ClinVar), 71% (LOVD), and 71% (gnomAD), were editable, pathogenic transition mutations, of which 35–47% had “ideal” PAM sites. Of these mutations, 16–20% occur within a range of multiple PAM sites, enabling a variety of editing strategies. Further, in relevant patient data looking at three cohorts from Germany, Denmark, and China, we find that 44–76% of patients, depending on the presence of complex alleles, have at least one transition mutation with a nearby SaCas, SpCas, or Sa-KKH PAM site, which would allow for potential DNA base editing as a treatment strategy. Given the complexity of the genetic landscape of Stargardt, these findings provide a clearer understanding of the potential for DNA base editing approaches to be applied as ABCA4 gene therapy strategies.

Estancia hospitalaria prolongada asociada a mortalidad en Hospital Regional Docente de Trujillo, 2014 Prolonged hospital stay associated with mortality in Regional Teaching Hospital in Trujillo, 2014 Marie Herrera-Viloche, Edward Chávez-Cruzado, Carlos Barba-Chirinos, Germán Fiestas-Pflucker, Miguel Tresierra-Ayala Universidad Privada Antenor Orrego DOI: https://doi.org/10.33017/RevECIPeru2015.0010/ Resumen La estancia hospitalaria prolongada, considerada aquella que supera los 13 días, genera costos adicionales al hospital, deficiente accesibilidad a los servicios de hospitalización para nuevos pacientes y riesgos de adquirir infecciones intrahospitalarias, así como una crisis social y familiar. Este estudio pretende determinar si la estancia hospitalaria prolongada se encuentra asociada a mortalidad en los pacientes atendidos en las diferentes salas de hospitalización del Hospital Regional Docente de Trujillo en el 2014. Se registraron 11866 hospitalizaciones, y de estos 1193 tuvieron estancia hospitalaria prolongada, de los cuales el 56.58% fueron de sexo masculino y 43.42% de sexo femenino. Los departamentos de medicina y cirugía con 45.1% y 31.3% y los grupo etarios extremos mayores de 61 y menores de 20 con 29.76% y 27.75% fueron los que presentaron estancia hospitalaria prolongada. La asociación pacientes con estancia hospitalaria prolongada y mortalidad, nos da un Odds Radio de 3.276, con IC de 2.615-4.104, con una p=0.0000. Descriptores: Estancia hospitalaria prolongada, mortalidad Abstract Prolonged hospital stay, considered one that exceeds 13 days, generates additional costs to the hospital, poor access to inpatient services for new patients and risk of acquiring nosocomial infections, as well as social and family crisis. This study aims to determine the specialties and age groups associated with prolonged stay of Regional Hospital of Trujillo in 2014. 11866 hospitalizations were recorded, and of these 1193 had prolonged hospital stay, of which 56.58% were male and 43.42 % female. The departments of medicine and surgery with 45.1% and 31.3% and the extreme age group over 61 and under 20 with 29.76% and 27.75% were those with longer hospital stay. Patients with prolonged hospital stay and mortality, gives an odds ratio of 3.276, with IC 2615-4104, with p = 0.0000. Keywords: prolonged hospital stay

There is an old Danish fable that says that the Devil was watching when God created the earth, and that, as the creation progressed, he became increasingly agitated over the wondrous achievements he was made to witness. At the end of it all, the Devil turned to God, and said, ‘Now, watch this.’ He created Iceland. It’s a vision of the country that resembles my own. I have always thought of Iceland as the island apart. The place that came last in the earth’s construction, whoever the engineer, and so remains forever distant. Perhaps that’s because, for me, Iceland is a home far from home. It is the country that I am from, and the place to which I am always tending—in my reading, my travels, and my thoughts. But since we left when I was ten, I am only ever in Iceland for mere glimpses of the Devil’s work, and always leave wanting more, some kind of deeper involvement. Perhaps all of his temptations are like that. Iceland’s is an inverted landscape, stuck like a plug on the roof of the Earth, revealing all the violence and destruction of the layers beneath. The island expands as the tectonic plates beneath it move. It grows by ten centimetres a year, but in two different directions—one towards the States, and the other towards Europe. I have noticed something similar happening to me. Each year, the fissure is a little wider. I come to be more like a visitor, and less like the one returning to his birthplace. I last visited in February just gone, to see whether Iceland was still drifting away from me and, indeed, from the rest of the world. I was doing research in Germany, and set aside an extra week for Reykjavík, to visit friends and family, and to see whether things were really as bad as they appeared to be from Brisbane, where I have lived for most of my life. I had read countless bleak reports of financial ruin and social unrest, and yet I couldn’t suppress the thought that Iceland was probably just being Iceland. The same country that had fought three wars over cod; that offered asylum to Bobby Fischer when no-one else would take him; and that allowed Yoko Ono to occupy a small island near Reykjavík with a peace sculpture made of light. Wasn’t it always the country stuck out on its own, with a people who claimed their independent spirit, and self-reliance, as their most-prized values? No doubt, things were bad. But did Iceland really mean to tie itself closer to Europe as a way out of the economic crisis? And what would this mean for its much-cherished sense of apartness? I spent a week of clear, cold days talking to those who made up my Iceland. They all told me what I most wanted to hear—that nothing much had changed since the financial collapse in 2008. Yes, the value of the currency had halved, and this made it harder to travel abroad. Yes, there was some unemployment now, whereas before there had been none. And, certainly, those who had over-extended on their mortgages were struggling to keep their homes. But wasn’t this the case everywhere? If it wasn’t for Icesave, they said, no-one would spare a thought for Iceland. They were referring to the disastrous internet bank, a wing of the National Bank of Iceland, which had captured and then lost billions in British and Dutch savings. The result was an earthquake in the nation’s financial sector, which in recent years had come to challenge fishing and hot springs as the nation’s chief source of wealth. In a couple of months in late 2008, this sector all but disappeared, or was nationalised as part of the Icelandic government’s scrambling efforts to salvage the economy. Meanwhile, the British and Dutch governments insisted on their citizens’ interests, and issued such a wealth of abuse towards Iceland that the country must have wondered whether it wasn’t still seen, in some quarters, as the Devil’s work. At one point, the National Bank—my bank in Iceland—was even listed by the British as a terrorist organization. I asked whether people were angry with the entrepreneurs who caused all this trouble, the bankers behind Icesave, and so on. The reply was that they were all still in London. ‘They wouldn’t dare show their faces in Reykjavík.’ Well, that was new, I thought. It sounded like a different kind of anger, much more bitter than the usual, fisherman’s jealous awareness of his neighbours’ harvests. Different, too, from the gossip, a national addiction which nevertheless always struck me as being rather homely and forgiving. In Iceland, just about everyone is related, and the thirty or so bankers who have caused the nation’s bankruptcy are well-known to all. But somehow they have gone too far, and their exile is suspended only by their appearances in the newspapers, the law courts, or on the satirical T-shirts sold in main street Laugavegur. There, too, you saw the other side of the currency collapse. The place was buzzing with tourists, unusual at this dark time of year. Iceland was half-price, they had been told, and it was true—anything made locally was affordable, for so long unthinkable in Iceland. This was a country that had always prided itself on being hopelessly expensive. So perhaps what was being lost in the local value of the economy would be recouped through the waves of extra tourists? Certainly, the sudden cheapness of Iceland had affected my decision to come, and to stay in a hotel downtown rather than with friends. On my last full day, a Saturday, I joined my namesake Kári for a drive into the country. For a while, our conversation was taken up with the crisis: the President, Ólafur Ragnar Grímsson, had recently declined to sign a bill that ensured that Iceland repaid its debts to the British and Dutch governments. His refusal meant a referendum on the bill in the coming March. No-one doubted that the nation would say no. The terms were unfair. And yet it was felt that Iceland’s entry into the EU, and its adoption of the Euro in place of the failed krónur, were conditional on its acceptance of the blame apportioned by international investors, and Britain in particular. Britain, one recalled, was the enemy in the Cod Wars, when Iceland had last entered the international press. Iceland had won that war. Why not this one, as well? That Iceland should suddenly need the forgiveness and assistance of its neighbours was no surprise to them. The Danes and others had long been warning Icelandic bankers that the finance sector was massively over-leveraged and bound for failure at the first sign of trouble in the international economy. I remember being in Iceland at the time of these warnings, in May 2007. It was Eurovision Song Contest month, and there was great local consternation at Iceland’s dismal showing that year. Amid the outpouring of Eurovision grief, and accusations against the rest of Europe that it was block-voting small countries like Iceland out of the contest, the dire economic warnings from the Danes seemed small news. ‘They just didn’t like the útrásarvíkingar,’ said Kári. That is, the Danes were simply upset that their former colonial children had produced offspring of their own who were capable of taking over shops, football clubs, and even banks in main streets of Copenhagen, Amsterdam and London. With interests as glamorous as West Ham United, Hamleys, and Karen Millen, it is not surprising that the útrásarvíkingar, or ‘Viking raiders’, were fast attaining the status of national heroes. Today, it’s a term of abuse rather than pride. The entrepreneurs are exiled in the countries they once sought to raid, and the modern Viking achievement, rather like the one a thousand years before, is a victim of negative press. All that raiding suddenly seems vain and greedy, and the ships that bore the raiders—private jets that for a while were a common sight over the skies of Reykjavík—have found new homes in foreign lands. The Danes were right about the Icelandic economy, just as they’d been right about the Devil’s landscaping efforts. But hundreds of years of colonial rule and only six decades of independence made it difficult for the Icelanders to listen. To curtail the flight of the new Vikings went against the Icelandic project, which from the very beginning was about independence. A thousand years before, in the 870s, Iceland had been a refuge. The medieval stories—known collectively as the sagas—tell us that the island was settled by Norwegian chieftains who were driven out of the fjordlands of their ancestors by the ruthless King Harald the Fair-Haired, who demanded total control of Norway. They refused to humble themselves before the king, and instead took the risk of a new life on a remote, inhospitable island. Icelandic independence, which was lost in the 1260s, was only regained in full in 1944, after Denmark had fallen under German occupation. Ten years later, with the war over and Iceland in the full stride of its independence, Denmark began returning the medieval Icelandic manuscripts that it had acquired during the colonial era. At that point, says the common wisdom, Icelanders forgave the Danes for centuries of poor governance. Although the strict commercial laws of the colonial period had made it all but impossible for Icelanders to rise out of economic hardship, the Danes had, at least, given the sagas back. National sovereignty was returned, and so too the literature that dated back to the time the country had last stood on its own. But, most powerfully, being Icelandic meant being independent of one’s immediate neighbours. Halldór Laxness, the nation’s Nobel Laureate, would satirize this national characteristic in his most enduring masterpiece, Sjálfstætt fólk, or Independent People. It is also what the dominant political party of the independence period, Sjálfstæðisflokkurinn, The Independence Party, has long treasured as a political ideal. To be Icelandic means being free of interference. And in a country of independent people, who would want to stop the bankers on their raids into Europe? Or, for that matter, who was now going to admit that it was time to join Europe instead of emphasizing one’s apartness from it? Kári and I turned off the south road out of Reykjavík and climbed into the heath. From here, the wounds of the country’s geological past still dominated the surface of the land. Little wonder that Jules Verne claimed that the journey to the centre of the world began on Snæfellsnes, a peninsula of volcanoes, lava, and ice caps on a long arm of land that extends desperately from the west of the island, as if forever in hope of reaching America, or at the very least Greenland. It was from Snæfellsnes that Eirík the Red began his Viking voyages westwards, and from where his famous son Leif would reach Vínland, the Land of Vines, most probably Newfoundland. Eight hundred years later, during the worst of the nation’s hardships—when the famines and natural disasters of the late eighteenth century reduced the nation almost to extinction—thousands of Icelanders followed in Leif’s footsteps, across the ‘whale road’, as the Vikings called it, to Canada, and mainly Winnipeg, where they recreated Iceland in an environment arguably even more hostile than the one they’d left. At least there weren’t any volcanoes in Winnipeg. In Iceland, you could never escape the feeling that the world was still evolving, and that the Devil’s work was ongoing. Even the national Assembly was established on one of the island’s most visible outward signs of the deep rift beneath—where a lake had cracked off the heath around it, which now surrounded it as a scar-scape of broken rocks and torn cliffs. The Almannagjá, or People’s Gorge, which is the most dramatic part of the rift, stands, or rather falls apart, as the ultimate symbol of Icelandic national unity. That is Iceland, an island on the edge of Europe, and forever on the edge of itself, too, a place where unity is defined by constant points of separation, not only in the landscape as it crunches itself apart and pushes through at the weak points, but also in a persistently small social world—the population is only 320,000—that is so closely related that it has had little choice but to emphasise the differences that do exist. After a slow drive through the low hills near Thingvellir, we reached the national park, and followed the dirt roads down to the lake. It’s an exclusive place for summerhouses, many of which now seem to stand as reminders of the excesses of the past ten years: the haphazardly-constructed huts that once made the summerhouse experience a bit of an adventure were replaced by two-storey buildings with satellite dishes, spa baths, and the ubiquitous black Range Rovers parked outside—the latter are now known as ‘Game Overs’. Like so much that has been sold off to pay the debts, the luxury houses seem ‘very 2007,’ the local term for anything unsustainable. But even the opulent summerhouses of the Viking raiders don’t diminish the landscape of Thingvellir, and a lake that was frozen from the shore to about fifty metres out. At the shoreline, lapping water had crystallized into blue, translucent ice-waves that formed in lines of dark and light water. Then we left the black beach for the site of the old Assembly. It was a place that had witnessed many encounters, not least the love matches that were formed when young Icelanders returned from their Viking raids and visits to the courts of Scandinavia, Scotland, Ireland, and England. On this particular day, though, the site was occupied by only five Dutchmen in bright, orange coats. They were throwing stones into Öxará, the river that runs off the heath into the Thingvellir lake, and looked up guiltily as we passed. I’m not sure what they felt bad about—throwing stones in the river was surely the most natural thing to do. On my last night, I barely slept. The Saturday night street noise was too much, and my thoughts were taken with the ever-apart Iceland, and with the anticipation of my returning to Brisbane the next day. Reykjavík the party town certainly hadn’t changed with the financial crisis, and nor had my mixed feelings about living so far away. The broken glass and obscenities of a night out didn’t ease until 5am, when it was time for me to board the Flybus to Keflavík Airport. I made my way through the screams and drunken stumblers, and into the quiet of the dark bus, where, in the back, I could just make out the five Dutchmen who, the day before, Kári and I had seen at Thingvellir, and who were now fast asleep and emitting a perfume of vodka and tobacco smoke that made it all the way to the front. It had all seemed too familiar not to be true—the relentless Icelandic optimism around its independence, the sense that it would always be an up-and-down sort of a place anyway, and the jagged volcanoes and lava fields that formed the distant shadows of the half-hour drive to the airport. The people, like the landscape, were fixed on separation, and I doubted that the difficulties with Europe would force them in any other direction. And I, too, was on my way back, as uncertain as ever about Iceland and my place in it. I returned to the clinging heat and my own separation from home, which, as before, I also recognized as my homecoming to Brisbane. Isn’t that in the nature of split affinities, to always be nearly there but never quite there? In the weeks since my return, the Icelanders have voted by referendum to reject the deal made for the repayment of the Icesave debts, and a fresh round of negotiations with the British and Dutch governments begins. For the time being, Iceland retains its right to independence, at least as expressed by the right to sidestep the consequences of its unhappy raids into Europe. Pinning down the Devil, it seems, is just as hard as ever.

Introduction The recipe is more than just a list of ingredients and the instructions on how to prepare a particular dish. Recipes also are, as Janet Floyd and Laurel Foster argue, a form of narrative that tells a myriad of stories, “of family sagas and community, of historical and cultural moments and also of personal histories and narratives of self” (Floyd and Forster 2). Among the most intimate and personal sources of recipes are manuscript cookbooks. These typically contained original handwritten recipes created by the author as well as those shared by family and friends; some recipes were copied from published cookbooks or clipped out of newspapers and magazines. However, these books are more than a mere collection of recipes and domestic instructions, they also paint a unique and vivid picture of the life of their authors. These manuscript cookbooks were a common sight in many Australian colonial kitchens, yet they are a rarely examined and rich archival source that provides a valuable insight into foodways, material culture, and the lives and social relationships of the women who created them. This article will examine the manuscript cookbook created by Phillis Clark in the Darling Downs during the 1860s. Through a close examination of Clark’s manuscript cookbook, this article will explore colonial domestic habits and the cultural context in which they were formed. It will also highlight the historical value of manuscript cookbooks as social texts that chronicle daily life, both inside and outside the kitchen, in colonial Australia. A Colonial Woman Phillis Clark was born in Tasmania in 1836. She was the daughter of Charles Seal, the pioneer of the whaling industry in that state. In 1858 she married Charles George Clark, the eldest son of a well-known Tasmanian family. Both the Seal and Clark families were at the centre of social and political life in Tasmania. In 1861, the couple moved to Talgai, twenty two kilometres north-west of Warwick in the Darling Downs region of Queensland. Here, Charles Clark established himself as a storekeeper and became a partner in the Ellinthorp Steam Flour Mills, the first successful flour mill in Queensland (Waterson 3). He also represented Warwick in the Queensland Legislative assembly between 1871 and 1873. Clark’s brother, George Clark, also settled in the area together with his wife and family. In 1868, both families set up home in adjoining properties known as East Talgai and West Talgai. This joint property, with its well manicured gardens, English trees, and fruit orchard, has been described as a small oasis “in an empty, brown and dusty summer landscape” (Waterson, Squatter 19). The Manuscript Sometime during this period Clark began to compile her very own manuscript cookbook. The front of Clark’s manuscript is dated 1866, yet there is ample evidence to suggest that she began work on this manuscript some years earlier. Clark was scrupulous in acknowledging the sources of her recipes, a habit common to many manuscript cookbook authors (Newlyn 35). She also initialled her own creations, firstly with P.S., for her maiden name Phillis Seal, and later P.S.C. for Phillis Seal Clark, her married name. By 1866 Clarke had been married for eight years so it can be assumed that she commenced her manuscript some time before 1858. A number of the recipes that appear in the manuscript appear to be credited to people living in Tasmania. Furthermore, a number of the newspaper clippings found in her manuscript can be dated to before 1866, including one for 1861. The manuscript itself is a hard bound and lined notebook, sturdy enough to withstand the rigours of daily use in the kitchen. The majority of recipes are handwritten but there are also a number of recipes clipped from newspapers interspaced within the manuscript. The handwritten recipes are in a neat copperplate style and all appear to be written in the same hand. The recipes are not found in distinct sections, although there are some small clusters of particular types of recipes, highlighting the fact that they were added to the manuscript over a period of time. At the front of the manuscript there is a detailed index noting the page number on which each recipe is to be found. The recipes themselves follow the standard conventions of the period. The Sources The sources from which Clark gathered some of the recipes in her manuscript indicate the variety of texts that were available to her. There are a number of newspaper clippings pasted in the pages of her manuscript for a range of both recipes for foods as well as the so-called domestic remedies (medicines) and receipts for household products. Amongst the food recipes there are to be found instructions in the making of cream cheese in the Irish manner and a recipe for stewed shoulder of mutton as well as two different methods for preparing kangaroo. While it is impossible to fully know what newspapers all these clippings have been taken from, at least one of them came from the Darling Downs Gazette and General Advertiser and it is likely that some of them might also have come from a number of the local Warwick papers (one which was founded by her brother-in-law George Clark) that were in publication during Clark’s residence in the area. Clark also utilised a number of published cookbooks as sources for some of the recipes in her own manuscripts. Like most Australians until the last few decades of the nineteenth century, Clark would have mainly resorted to the British cookbooks that were available. The two most commonly acknowledged cookbooks in her manuscript were Enquire Within Upon Everything and Eliza Acton’s. Enquire Within Upon Everything was an immensely popular general household guide amassing eighty-nine editions in a little over forty years in print. It contained information on a plethora of subjects (over three thousand individual entries) including such topics as etiquette, first aid, domestic hints, and recipes. It first appeared on the British market in 1856, under the editorship of Robert Kemp Philp, and became available in Australia in the same year. Booksellers in the Darling Downs advertised copies of the book for the price of three shillings and six pence. Eliza Acton, for her part, was one of Britain’s leading cookbook authors. Her books were widely available throughout the colonies with copies advertised for sale by J. Walch and Sons booksellers in Hobart (‘Advertising’ 1). Extracts from her cookbook Modern Cookery for Private Families began to appear in Australian newspapers only months after it first was published in Britain in 1845 (‘Bullion’ 4). Although Modern Cookery did not provide any recipes directly catering for Australian conditions, its simple and straightforward approach to cookery made it an invaluable resource in the colonial kitchen. Such was the popularity and reputation of Acton’s work that in the preface to Australia’s first cookbook, The English and Australian Cookery Book, the author, Tasmanian born Edward Abbott, stated that he hoped that his cook book would posses “all the advantages of Mrs. Acton’s work” (Abbott vi). The range of printed sources contained within Clark’s manuscript indicate that women in colonial households were far from isolated from the culinary trends occurring in other parts of Australia and the wider British empire. The Recipes Like many Australian women of her class and generation, Phillis Clark reproduced the predominant British food culture in her kitchen. The great majority of recipes contained in her manuscript are for typically English dishes, particularly those for sweet dishes such as biscuits, cakes, and puddings. Plum pudding, trifle, and custard pudding are all featured in her book. As well, many of the savoury dishes such as curry, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding similarly reflect the British palate. In There is No Taste like Home: The Food of Empire, Adele Wessell argues that the maintenance of British food habits in Australia was a device to reaffirm “cultural and historical bonds and sustain a shared sense of British identity” (811). However, as in many other rural kitchens, native ingredients also found a place. Her manuscript included a number of recipes for the preparation of kangaroo and detailed instructions for the butchering of the animal. Clark’s recipe for “Jugged Hare or Kangaroo” bares a close resemblance to the one that appears in Edward Abbott’s cookbook. Clark’s father and Abbott were from the same, small social milieu in colonial Hobart and were both active in the same political causes. This raises the intriguing possibility that Phillis also knew Abbott and came into contact with some of his culinary ideas. Australians consumed all manners of native ingredients, not only as a matter of necessity but also as a matter of choice. The inclusion of freshly killed native game in Clark’s kitchen would have served to alleviate the monotony of the salted beef and mutton that were common staples during this period. The distinct Australian flavour that began to appear in manuscript cookbooks like Clark’s would later be replicated in their printed counterparts. Australian cookbooks published in the last decades of the nineteenth century demonstrate the importance of native ingredients in colonial kitchens (Singley 37). The Darling Downs region had been a popular destination for German migrants from the 1850s and Clark’s manuscript contained a number of recipes for German dishes. This included one for the traditional German Christmas cake Lebkuchen as well as for various German puddings and biscuits. Clark also included an elaborate recipe for making ham or bacon in the traditional Westphalian fashion. This was a laborious process that involved vigorously rubbing salt, sugar, and beer into the leg of ham every day for a fortnight after which it is then hung to dry for a couple of days and then smoked. Katie Hume, a fellow Darling Downs resident and a close friend of the extended Clark family described feeling like a “gute verstandige Hausfrau” (a good sensible housewife) after salting 112 pounds of pork she had purchased from a neighbour (152). While, unlike their counterparts in the Barossa valley in South Australia, the Germans who lived in the Darling Downs area did not leave a significant mark on the local culinary landscape, the inclusion of German recipes in Clark’s manuscript indicates that there was not only some cross-cultural transmission of culinary knowledge, but also some willingness to go beyond traditional British fare. Many, more mundane recipes also populate Clark’s manuscript. “Toad in a Hole”, “Mutton Pie” and “Stewed Sirloin” all merit an entry. Yet, even with such simple dishes, Clark demonstrated a keen eye for detail. This is attested by her method for the preparation of a simple dish of roasted pumpkin: “Cut into slices 1 inch thick and about 5 inches long, have ready a baking dish with boiling fat—lay the slices in it so that the fat will cover them and bake for 20 minutes (by fat I mean good dripping) Half an hour will not bake them too much. They ought to be brown” (Clark 13). Whilst Clark’s manuscript is not indicative of the foodways of all classes across Queensland society, it does provide some insight as to what was consumed at the table of a well-heeled rural household. As the wife of a prominent businessman and a local dignitary, Phillis Clark would have also undoubtedly been called upon to play the role of hostess and to entertain her husband’s commercial and political acquaintances. Her manuscript also reflects the overwhelmingly British nature of colonial Australian foodways despite the intrusion of some foreign dishes. As Anne Murcott argues, the preparation and consumption of food provides a way through which individuals can express the more abstract significance of cultural values and social systems (204). The Clark household also showed some interest in producing a broad range of products in the home. There are, for example, a number of recipes for beverages including those for non-alcoholic ginger beers and flavoured cordials. They were also far from abstemious, with recipes for wine, mead, and ale included in the manuscript. This last recipe was given to her by her brother Alfred who, according to Clark, “understands brewing and therefore I think it can be depended upon” (Clark 43). Clark also bottled her own fruit, made a wide range of jams, including grape and mock melon, as well as making her own butter, confectionery, and vinegar. The production of goods like these within the home indicates the level of self-reliance in many colonial households, particularly those finding themselves far from the convenience of shops and markets. Many culinary historians argue that there exists a significant time lag between the initial appearance and consumption of a particular dish in a society and its subsequent appearance in the pages of a cookbook. This time lag can be between forty and 150 years long (Mennell 44; Mason 23). However, manuscript cookbooks reflect the immediacy of eating practices. The very personal nature of manuscript cookbooks would suggest that the recipes included within their pages were ones that the author intended to use in her own kitchen. Moreover, from the reciprocal nature of recipe sharing that is evident from these types of cookbooks it can be concluded that the recipes in Clark’s manuscript were ones that, at least in her own social milieu, were in common usage. In her manuscript Clark clearly noted those recipes which she especially liked or otherwise found useful. Many recipes throughout the manuscript have been marked as “proved” indicating that Clark had used and tested them at some stage. A number of them have also been favourably annotated as being “delicious”, “very nice”, “the best”, and “very good”. Amongst the number of recipes for “Soda Cake” that feature in the manuscript Clarke clearly indicates that “Number 1 is the best”. However, she was not averse to commenting on recipes and altering them to suit her taste. In a recipe for “A nice light Cake”, for example, Clark noted that the addition of a “little peel and currants is an improvement” (89). This form of marginal intrusion was a common practice amongst many women and it can even be seen in the margins of many published cookbooks (Theophano 186). These annotations, according to Sandra Sherman, are not transgressive, since the manuscripts are not authored “by” anyone (Sherman 121). In fact, annotations personalise the recipe and confirm the compiler’s confidence in it (Sherman 121). Not Just Food: ‘Domestic Receipts’ As noted above, Clark’s manuscript contained more than just recipes for food and drink. Many of them are “Domestic Receipts” that reflect the complex nature of running a household in rural Australia. Some of Clark’s domestic receipts are in the form of newspaper clippings and are general instructions for the manufacture of simple household products such as a “ready to use glue” and a home-made tooth powder. Others are handwritten and copied from other domestic advice books or were given to Clark by family and friends. A recipe for manufacturing “blacking for stoves”, essential in the maintenance of cast iron stoves, was, for example, culled from Enquire Within Upon Everything. Here, with some authorial intrusion, Clark includes her own list of measured ingredients to prepare the mixture. An intriguing method for the “artificial preparation of ice” involving the use of ammonium nitrate and bicarbonate of soda was given to Clark by Mrs. McKeachie, the wife of Charles Clark’s business partner. Clark also showed an interest in beekeeping and in raising turkeys, with instructions for both these tasks included in her manuscript. The wide range of miscellaneous receipts featured in Clark’s book highlights the breadth of activities that were carried out in many homes in rural Australia. A hint of Clark’s artistic side is also in evidence, with detailed instructions on how to create delicate fern impressions on paper also included in her book. As with many other women in colonial Australia, Clark was expected to take on the role of caregiver when members of her family fell ill or were injured. Her manuscript included a number of recipes for “domestic remedies”, another common trope in books of this kind as well as in their printed counterparts. These remedies included recipes for a cough mixture composed of linseed, liquorice, and water and a liniment to treat rheumatism which was made by mixing rape seed oil and turpentine with a hefty dose of laudanum. Clark used olive oil in a number of medical recipes to treat burns and scalds. As well, treatments for diphtheria, cholera, and diarrhoea feature prominently in her manuscript. The Darling Downs had been subject to a number of outbreaks of dysentery and cholera during Clark’s residency in the area (Waterson, Squatter 71). For “a pain in the chest” Clark recommended the following: “a piece of brown paper spread with tallow and placed on the chest” (69).The inclusion of these domestic remedies and Clark’s obvious concerns for her family’s health is particularly poignant given her personal history. Her family was plagued by misfortune and illness and she lost three of her ten children in a six-year period including two within just months of each other. Clark herself would die during childbirth in 1874. Sharing and Caring The word “recipe” has its origins in the Latin recipere meaning to “receive”. In order to receive there has to be, by implication, someone doing the giving. A recipe signifies an exchange and a connection between individuals. The sharing of recipes was a common activity for many women in nineteenth century Australia. Wilhelmina Rawson, Queensland’s first published cookbook author, was keenly aware of the manner in which women shared recipes and culinary knowledge. This act of reciprocity, she argued, not only helped to ease the isolation of bush living but also allowed each individual to be “benefited by the cleverness of the whole number” (14). For many, food often has a deeply private and personal component, being prepared and consumed within the realm of the home. However, food is also a communal experience and is openly shared through rituals, feasts, the contexts in which it is bought and sold, and, most importantly, reciprocal exchange. In her manuscript, Clark acknowledged a number of different individuals as the source for the recipes she included within its pages. The convention of acknowledging the sources of recipes in manuscript cookbooks functions as a way to assert the recipe’s authority and to ensure that they are proven (Sherman 122). This act of acknowledgement also locates Clark within a social network of women who not only shared recipes but also, one can imagine, many of the vicissitudes of domestic life in a remote rural setting. In her study of women’s manuscript cookbooks, entitled Eat My Words: Reading Women’s Lives Through the Cookbooks They Wrote, Janet Theophano describes these texts as “the maps of the social and cultural life they inhabited” (13). This circulation of recipes allowed women to share their knowledge, skills, and creativity. Those who received and used these recipes not only engaged in a conversation with the writer of these recipes but also formed a connection with a broader community that allowed them to learn more about themselves and the world. Conclusion The manuscript cookbook created by Phillis Clark is a fascinating prism through which to explore domestic life in colonial Australia. The recipes contained in Clark’s manuscript reflect the eating habits of her own family and those of a particular social class in Queensland. They not only demonstrate the tenacity of British foodways in Australia but also show the degree of culinary adventurism that existed in some homes. The personal, almost autobiographical nature of manuscript cookbooks also provides an intimate view in the life of its creator. In the splattered pages of Phillis Clark’s book we can read the many travails, joys, and tragedies of her life. References Abbott, Edward. The English and Australian Cookery Book: Cookery for the Many, as Well as for the Upper Ten Thousand. London: Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, 1864. ‘Advertising’. Launceston Examiner 9 Mar. 1858: 1. ‘Boullion, The Common Soup of France’. The Sydney Morning Herald 22 Aug. 1845: 4. Clark, Phillis. “Manuscript Cookbook”. 1863 Floyd, Janet, and Laurel Forster. “The Recipe in Its Cultural Content.” The Recipe Reader: Narratives, Contexts, Traditions. Ed. Janet Floyd and Laurel Forster. Aldershot, Hants, England: Ashgate. 2003. Hume, Anna Kate. Katie Hume on the Darling Downs, a Colonial Marriage: Letters of a Colonial Lady, 1866-1871. Ed. Nancy Bonnin. Toowoomba: DDIP, 1985. Mason, Laura. Food Culture in Great Britain. Greenwood, 2004. Mennell, Stephen. All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and France from the Middle Ages to the Present. Oxford, UK: B. Blackwell, 1985. Murcott, Anne. “The Cultural Significance of Food and Eating”. Proceedings of the Nutrition Society 41.02 (1982): 203–10. Newlyn, Andrea K. “Redefining ‘Rudimentary’ Narrative: Women’s Nineteenth Century Manuscript Cookbooks”. The Recipe Reader: Narratives, Contexts, Traditions. Ed. Janet Floyd and Laurel Forster. Aldershot, Hants, England: Ashgate, 2003. Rawson, Wilhelmina. Australian Enquiry Book of Household and General Information: A Practical Guide for the Cottage, Villa and Bush Home. Melbourne: Pater and Knapton, 1894. Sherman, S. “‘The Whole Art and Mystery of Cooking’: What Cookbooks Taught Readers in the Eighteenth Century”. Eighteenth-Century Life 28.1 (2004): 115–35. Singley, Blake. “‘Hardly Anything Fit for Man to Eat’: Food and Colonialism in Australia.” History Australia 9.3 (2012): 27–42. Theophano, Janet. Eat My Words: Reading Women’s Lives Through the Cookbooks They Wrote. New York, N.Y: Palgrave, 2002. Waterson, D. B. “A Darling Downs Quartet”. Queensland Heritage 1.7 (1967): 3–14. Waterson, D. B. Squatter, Selector and Storekeeper: A History of the Darling Downs, 1859-93. Sydney: Sydney UP, 1968. Wessell, Adele. “There’s No Taste Like Home: The Food of Empire”. Exploring the British World: Identity, Cultural Production, Institutions. Ed. Kate Darian-Smith and Patricia Grimshaw. Melbourne: RMIT, 2004.

At last year’s Tour de France—the three-week cycling race—the winner of one stage was disqualified for allegedly obstructing a competitor. In newspapers and on social media, cycling fans immediately started a heated debate about the decision and about the actual course of events. They uploaded photographs and videos, which they had often edited and augmented with graphics to support their interpretation of the situation or to direct attention to some neglected detail (Simpson; "Tour de France").Due to their competitive character and their audience’s partisanship, modern media sports continuously create controversial moments like this, thereby providing ample opportunities for what Jason Mittell—with respect to complex narratives in recent TV drama—called “forensic fandom” ("Forensic;" Complex), in which audience members collectively investigate ambivalent or enigmatic elements of a media product, adding their own interpretations and explanations.Not unlike that of TV drama, sport’s forensic fandom is stimulated through complex forms of seriality—e.g. the successive stages of the Tour de France or the successive games of a tournament or a league, but also the repetition of the same league competition or tournament every (or, in the case of the Olympics, every four) year(s). To articulate their take on the disqualification of the Tour de France rider, fans refer to comparable past events, activate knowledge about rivalries between cyclists, or note character traits that they condensed from the alleged perpetrator’s prior appearances. Sport thus creates a continuously evolving and recursive storyworld that, like all popular seriality, proliferates across different media forms (texts, photos, films, etc.) and different media platforms (television, social media, etc.) (Kelleter).In the following I will use two examples (from 1908 and 1966) to analyse in greater detail why and how sport’s seriality and forensic attitude contribute to the highly dynamic “transmedia intertextuality” (Kinder 35) of media sport. Two arguments are of special importance to me: (1) While social media (as the introductory example has shown) add to forensic fandom’s proliferation, it was sport’s strongly serialized evaluation of performances that actually triggered the “spreadability” (Jenkins, Ford, and Green) of sport-related topics across different media, first doing so at the end of the 19th century. What is more, modern sport owes its very existence to the cross-media circulation of its events. (2) So far, transmedia has mainly been researched with respect to fictional content (Jenkins; Evans), yet existing research on documentary transmedia forms (Kerrigan and Velikovsky) and social media seriality (Page) has shown that the inclusion of non-fiction can broaden our knowledge of how storytelling sprawls across media and takes advantage of their specific affordances. This, I want to argue, ensures that sport is an insightful and important example for the understanding of transmedia world-building.The Origins of Sport, the Olympics 1908, and World-BuildingSome authors claim that it was commercial television that replaced descriptive accounts of sporting events with narratives of heroes and villains in the 1990s (Fabos). Yet even a cursory study of past sport reporting shows that, even back when newspapers had to explain the controversial outcome of the 1908 Olympic Marathon to their readers, they could already rely on a well-established typology of characters and events.In the second half of the 19th century, the rules of many sports became standardized. Individual events were integrated in organized, repetitive competitions—leagues, tournaments, and so on. This development was encouraged by the popular press, which thus enabled the public to compare performances from different places and across time (Werron, "On Public;" Werron, "World"). Rankings and tables condensed contests in easily comparable visual forms, and these were augmented by more narrative accounts that supplemented the numbers with details, context, drama, and the subjective experiences of athletes and spectators. Week by week, newspapers and special-interest magazines alike offered varying explanations for the various wins and losses.When London hosted the Olympics in 1908, the scheduled seriality and pre-determined settings and protagonists allowed for the announcement of upcoming events in advance and for setting up possible storylines. Two days before the marathon race, The Times of London published the rules of the race, the names of the participants, a distance table listing relevant landmarks with the estimated arrival times, and a turn-by-turn description of the route, sketching the actual experience of running the race for the readers (22 July 1908, p. 11). On the day of the race, The Times appealed to sport’s seriality with a comprehensive narrative of prior Olympic Marathon races, a map of the precise course, a discussion of the alleged favourites, and speculation on factors that might impact the performances:Because of their inelasticity, wood blocks are particularly trying to the feet, and the glitter on the polished surface of the road, if the sun happens to be shining, will be apt to make a man who has travelled over 20 miles at top speed turn more than a little dizzy … . It is quite possible that some of the leaders may break down here, when they are almost within sight of home. (The Times 24 July 1908, p. 9)What we see here can be described as a world-building process: The rules of a competition, the participating athletes, their former performances, the weather, and so on, all form “a more or less organized sum of scattered parts” (Boni 13). These parts could easily be taken up by what we now call different media platforms (which in 1908 included magazines, newspapers, and films) that combine them in different ways to already make claims about cause-and-effect chains, intentions, outcomes, and a multitude of subjective experiences, before the competition has even started.The actual course of events, then, like the single instalment in a fictional storyworld, has a dual function: on the one hand, it specifies one particular storyline with a few protagonists, decisive turning points, and a clear determination of winners and losers. On the other hand, it triggers the multiplication of follow-up stories, each suggesting specific explanations for the highly contingent outcome, thereby often extending the storyworld, invoking props, characters, character traits, causalities, and references to earlier instalments in the series, which might or might not have been mentioned in the preliminary reports.In the 1908 Olympic Marathon, the Italian Dorando Pietri, who was not on The Times’ list of favourites, reached the finish first. Since he was stumbling on the last 300 meters of the track inside the stadium and only managed to cross the finish line with the support of race officials, he was disqualified. The jury then declared the American John Hayes, who came in second, the winner of the race.The day after the marathon, newspapers gave different accounts of the race. One, obviously printed too hastily, declared Pietri dead; others unsurprisingly gave the race a national perspective, focusing on the fate of “their” athletes (Davis 161, 166). Most of them evaluated the event with respect to athletic, aesthetic, or ethical terms—e.g. declaring Pietri the moral winner of the race (as did Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in The Daily Mail of July 25). This continues today, as praising sport performers often figures as a last resort “to reconstruct unproblematic heroism” (Whannel 44).The general endeavour of modern sport to scrutinize and understand the details of the performance provoked competing explanations for what had happened: was it the food, the heat, or the will power? In a forensic spirit, many publications added drawings or printed one of the famous photographs displaying Pietri being guided across the finish line (these still regularly appear in coffee-table books on sports photography; for a more extensive analysis, see Stauff). Sport—just like other non-fictional transmedia content—enriches its storyworld through “historical accounts of places and past times that already have their own logic, practice and institutions” (Kerrigan and Velikovsky 259).The seriality of sport not only fostered this dynamic by starting the narrative before the event, but also by triggering references to past instalments through the contingencies of the current one. The New York Times took the biggest possible leap, stating that the 1908 marathon must have been the most dramatic competition “since that Marathon race in ancient Greece, where the victor fell at the goal and, with a wave of triumph, died” (The New York Times 25 July 1908, p. 1). Dutch sport magazine De Revue der Sporten (6 August 1908, p. 167) used sport’s seriality more soberly to assess Hayes’ finishing time as not very special (conceding that the hot weather might have had an effect).What, hopefully, has become clear by now, is that—starting in the late 19th century—sporting events are prepared by, and in turn trigger, varying practices of transmedia world-building that make use of the different media’s affordances (drawings, maps, tables, photographs, written narratives, etc.). Already in 1908, most people interested in sport thus quite probably came across multiple accounts of the event—and thereby could feel invited to come up with their own explanation for what had happened. Back then, this forensic attitude was mostly limited to speculation about possible cause-effect chains, but with the more extensive visual coverage of competitions, especially through moving images, storytelling harnessed an increasingly growing set of forensic tools.The World Cup 1966 and Transmedia ForensicsThe serialized TV live transmissions of sport add complexity to storytelling, as they multiply the material available for forensic proliferations of the narratives. Liveness provokes a layered and constantly adapting process transforming the succession of actions into a narrative (the “emplotment”). The commentators find themselves “in the strange situation of a narrator ignorant of the plot” (Ryan 87), constantly balancing between mere reporting of events and more narrative explanation of incidents (Barnfield 8).To create a coherent storyworld under such circumstances, commentators fall back on prefabricated patterns (“overcoming bad luck,” “persistence paying off,” etc.) to frame the events while they unfold (Ryan 87). This includes the already mentioned tropes of heroism or national and racial stereotypes, which are upheld as long as possible, even when the course of events contradicts them (Tudor). Often, the creation of “non-retrospective narratives” (Ryan 79) harnesses seriality, “connecting this season with last and present with past and, indeed, present with past and future” (Barnfield 10).Instant-replay technology, additionally, made it possible (and necessary) for commentators to scrutinize individual actions while competitions are still ongoing, provoking revisions of the emplotment. With video, DVD, and online video, the second-guessing and re-telling of elements—at least in hindsight—became accessible to the general audience as well, thereby dramatically extending the playing field for sport’s forensic attitude.I want to elaborate this development with another example from London, this time the 1966 Men’s Football World Cup, which was the first to systematically use instant replay. In the extra time of the final, the English team scored a goal against the German side: Geoff Hurst’s shot bounced from the crossbar down to the goal line and from there back into the field. After deliberating with the linesman, the referee called it a goal. Until today it remains contested whether the ball actually was behind the goal line or not.By 1966, 1908’s sparsity of visual representation had been replaced by an abundance of moving images. The game was covered by the BBC and by ITV (for TV) and by several film companies (in colour and in black-and-white). Different recordings of the famous goal, taken from different camera angles, still circulate and are re-appropriated in different media even today. The seriality of sport, particularly World Cup Football’s return every four years, triggers the re-telling of this 1966 game just as much as media innovations do.In 1966, the BBC live commentary—after a moment of doubt—pretty soberly stated that “it’s a goal” and observed that “the Germans are mad at the referee;” the ITV reporter, more ambivalently declared: “the linesman says no goal … that’s what we saw … It is a goal!” The contemporary newsreel in German cinemas—the Fox Tönende Wochenschau—announced the scene as “the most controversial goal of the tournament.” It was presented from two different perspectives, the second one in slow motion with the commentary stating: “these images prove that it was not a goal” (my translation).So far, this might sound like mere opposing interpretations of a contested event, yet the option to scrutinize the scene in slow motion and in different versions also spawned an extended forensic narrative. A DVD celebrating 100 years of FIFA (FIFA Fever, 2002) includes the scene twice, the first time in the chapter on famous controversies. Here, the voice-over avoids taking a stand by adopting a meta-perspective: The goal guaranteed that “one of the most entertaining finals ever would be the subject of conversation for generations to come—and therein lies the beauty of controversies.” The scene appears a second time in the special chapter on Germany’s successes. Now the goal itself is presented with music and then commented upon by one of the German players, who claims that it was a bad call by the referee but that the sportsmanlike manner in which his team accepted the decision advanced Germany’s global reputation.This is only included in the German version of the DVD, of course; on the international “special deluxe edition” of FIFA Fever (2002), the 1966 goal has its second appearance in the chapter on England’s World Cup history. Here, the referee’s decision is not questioned—there is not even a slow-motion replay. Instead, the summary of the game is wrapped up with praise for Geoff Hurst’s hat trick in the game and with images of the English players celebrating, the voice-over stating: “Now the nation could rejoice.”In itself, the combination of a nationally organized media landscape with the nationalist approach to sport reporting already provokes competing emplotments of one and the same event (Puijk). The modularity of sport reporting, which allows for easy re-editing, replacing sound and commentary, and retelling events through countless witnesses, triggers a continuing recombination of the elements of the storyworld. In the 50 years since the game, there have been stories about the motivations of the USSR linesman and the Swiss referee who made the decision, and there have been several reconstructions triggered by new digital technology augmenting the existing footage (e.g. King; ‘das Archiv’).The forensic drive behind these transmedia extensions is most explicit in the German Football Museum in Dortmund. For the fiftieth anniversary of the World Cup in 2016, it hosted a special exhibition on the event, which – similarly to the FIFA DVD – embeds it in a story of gaining global recognition for the fairness of the German team ("Deutsches Fußballmuseum").In the permanent exhibition of the German Football Museum, the 1966 game is memorialized with an exhibit titled “Wembley Goal Investigation” (“Ermittlung Wembley-Tor”). It offers three screens, each showing the goal from a different camera angle, a button allowing the visitors to stop the scene at any moment. A huge display cabinet showcases documents, newspaper clippings, quotes from participants, and photographs in the style of a crime-scene investigation—groups of items are called “corpus delicti,” “witnesses,” and “analysis.” Red hand-drawn arrows insinuate relations between different items; yellow “crime scene, do not cross” tape lies next to a ruler and a pair of tweezers.Like the various uses of the slow-motion replays on television, in film, on DVD, and on YouTube, the museum thus offers both hegemonic narratives suggesting a particular emplotment of the event that endow it with broader (nationalist) meaning and a forensic storyworld that offers props, characters, and action building-blocks in a way that invites fans to activate their own storytelling capacities.Conclusion: Sport’s Trans-Seriality Sport’s dependency on a public evaluation of its performances has made it a dynamic transmedia topic from the latter part of the 19th century onwards. Contested moments especially prompt a forensic attitude that harnesses the affordances of different media (and quickly takes advantage of technological innovations) to discuss what “really” happened. The public evaluation of performances also shapes the role of authorship and copyright, which is pivotal to transmedia more generally (Kustritz). Though the circulation of moving images from professional sporting events is highly restricted and intensely monetized, historically this circulation only became a valuable asset because of the sprawling storytelling practices about sport, individual competitions, and famous athletes in press, photography, film, and radio. Even though television dominates the first instance of emplotment during the live transmission, there is no primordial authorship; sport’s intense competition and partisanship (and their national organisation) guarantee that there are contrasting narratives from the start.The forensic storytelling, as we have seen, is structured by sport’s layered seriality, which establishes a rich storyworld and triggers ever new connections between present and past events. Long before the so-called seasons of radio or television series, sport established a seasonal cycle that repeats the same kind of competition with different pre-conditions, personnel, and weather conditions. Likewise, long before the complex storytelling of current television drama (Mittell, Complex TV), sport has mixed episodic with serial storytelling. On the one hand, the 1908 Marathon, for example, is part of the long series of marathon competitions, which can be considered independent events with their own fixed ending. On the other hand, athletes’ histories, continuing rivalries, and (in the case of the World Cup) progress within a tournament all establish narrative connections across individual episodes and even across different seasons (on the similarities between TV sport and soap operas, cf. O’Connor and Boyle).From its start in the 19th century, the serial publication of newspapers supported (and often promoted) sport’s seriality, while sport also shaped the publication schedule of the daily or weekly press (Mason) and today still shapes the seasonal structure of television and sport related computer games (Hutchins and Rowe 164). This seasonal structure also triggers wide-ranging references to the past: With each new World Cup, the famous goal from 1966 gets integrated into new highlight reels telling the German and the English teams’ different stories.Additionally, together with the contingency of sport events, this dual seriality offers ample opportunity for the articulation of “latent seriality” (Kustritz), as a previously neglected recurring trope, situation, or type of event across different instalments can eventually be noted. As already mentioned, the goal of 1966 is part of different sections on the FIFA DVDs: as the climactic final example in a chapter collecting World Cup controversies, as an important—but rather ambivalent—moment of German’s World Cup history, and as the biggest triumph in the re-telling of England’s World Cup appearances. In contrast to most fictional forms of seriality, the emplotment of sport constantly integrates such explicit references to the past, even causally disconnected historical events like the ancient Greek marathon.As a result, each competition activates multiple temporal layers—only some of which are structured as narratives. It is important to note that the public evaluation of performances is not at all restricted to narrative forms; as we have seen, there are quantitative and qualitative comparisons, chronicles, rankings, and athletic spectacle, all of which can create transmedia intertextuality. Sport thus might offer an invitation to more generally analyse how transmedia seriality combines narrative and other forms. Even for fictional transmedia, the immersion in a storyworld and the imagination of extended and alternative storylines might only be two of many dynamics that structure seriality across different media.AcknowledgementsThe two anonymous reviewers and Florian Duijsens offered important feedback to clarify the argument of this text.ReferencesBarnfield, Andrew. "Soccer, Broadcasting, and Narrative: On Televising a Live Soccer Match." Communication & Sport (2013): 326–341.Boni, Marta. "Worlds Today." World Building: Transmedia, Fans, Industries. Ed. Marta Boni. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2017. 9–27."Das Archiv: das Wembley-Tor." Karambolage, 19 June 2016. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://sites.arte.tv/karambolage/de/das-archiv-das-wembley-tor-karambolage>.The Daily Mail, 25 July 1908.Davis, David. Showdown at Shepherd’s Bush: The 1908 Olympic Marathon and the Three Runners Who Launched a Sporting Craze. 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"Peter Sagan’s 2017 Tour de France Disqualification Appeal Rejected by CAS." Bleacher Report. 6 July 2017. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://bleacherreport.com/articles/2720166-peter-sagans-2017-tour-de-france-disqualification-appeal-rejected-by-cas>.Stauff, Markus. "The Pregnant-Moment-Photograph: The London 1908 Marathon and the Cross-Media Evaluation of Sport Performances." Historical Social Research (forthcoming). The Times, 22 July 1908.The Times, 24 July 1908."Tour de France: Peter Sagan Disqualified for Elbowing Mark Cavendish." 4 July 2017. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/cycling/2017/07/04/demare-wins-tour-stage-as-cavendish-involved-in-nasty-crash/103410284/>.Tudor, Andrew. "Them and Us: Story and Stereotype in TV World Cup Coverage." European Journal of Communication 7 (1992): 391–413.Werron, Tobias. "On Public Forms of Competition." Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies 14.1 (2014): 62–76.———. "World Sport and Its Public. 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IntroductionThe role, function, and future of the Western public intellectual have been highly contested over the last three decades. The dominant discourse, which predicts the decline of the public intellectual, asserts the institutionalisation of their labour has eroded their authority to speak publicly to power on behalf of others; and that the commodification of intellectual performance has transformed them from sages, philosophers, and men of letters into trivial media entertainers, pundits, and ideologues. Overwhelmingly the crisis debates link the demise of the public intellectual to shifts in public culture, which was initially conceptualised as a literary and artistic space designed to liberate the awareness of citizens through critique and to reflect upon “the chronic and persistent issues of life, meaning and representation” (McGuigan 430). This early imagining of public culture as an exclusively civilising space, however, did not last and Jurgen Habermas documented its decline in response to the commodification and politicisation of culture in the 20th century. Yet, as social activism continued to flourish in the public sphere, Habermas re-theorised public culture as a more pluralistic site which simultaneously accommodates “uncritical populism, radical subversion and critical intervention” (436) and operates as both a marketplace and a “site of communicative rationality, mutual respect and understanding (McGuigan 434). The rise of creative industries expanded popular engagement with public culture but destabilised the authority of the public intellectual. The accompanying shifts also affected the function of the curator, who, like the intellectual, had a role in legislating and arbitrating knowledge, and negotiating and authorising meaning through curated exhibitions of objects deemed sacred and significant. Jennifer Barrett noted the similarities in the two functions when she argued in Museums and the Public Sphere that, because museums have an intellectual role in society, curators have a public intellectual function as they define publics, determine modes of engagement, and shape knowledge formation (150). The resemblance between the idealised role of the intellectual and the curator in enabling the critique that emancipates the citizen means that both functions have been affected by the atomisation of contemporary society, which has exposed the power effects of the imposed coherency of authoritative and universal narratives. Indeed, just as Russell Jacoby, Allan Bloom, and Richard Posner predicted the death of the intellectual, who could no longer claim to speak in universal terms on behalf of others, so museums faced their own crisis of relevancy. Declining visitor numbers and reduced funding saw museums reinvent themselves, and in moving away from their traditional exclusive, authoritative, and nation building roles—which Pierre Bourdieu argued reproduced the “existing class-based culture, education and social systems” (Barrett 3)—museums transformed themselves into inclusive and diverse sites of co-creation with audiences and communities. In the context of this change the curator ceased to be the “primary producer of knowledge” (Barrett 13) and emerged to reproduce “contemporary culture preoccupations” and constitute the “social imagery” of communities (119). The modern museum remains concerned with explaining and interrogating the world, but the shift in curatorial work is away from the objects themselves to a focus upon audiences and how they value the artefacts, knowledge, and experiences of collective shared memory. The change in curatorial practices was driven by what Peter Vergo called a new “museology” (Barrett 2), and according to Macdonald this term assumes that “object meanings are contextual rather than inherent” or absolute and universal (2). Public intellectuals and curators, as the custodians of ideas and narratives in the contemporary cultural industries, privilege audience reception and recognise that consumers and/or citizens engage with public culture for a variety of reasons, including critique, understanding, and entertainment. Curators, like public intellectuals, also recognise that they can no longer assume the knowledge and experience of their audience, nor prescribe the nature of engagement with ideas and objects. Instead, curators and intellectuals emerge as negotiators and translators of cultural meaning as they traverse the divides in public culture, sequestering ideas and cultural artefacts and constructing narratives that engage audiences and communities in the process of re-imagining the past as a way of providing new insights into contemporary challenges.Methodology In exploring the idea that the public intellectual acts as a curator of ideas as he or she defines and privileges the discursive spaces of public culture, this paper begins by providing an overview of the cultural context of the contemporary public intellectual which enables comparisons between intellectual and curatorial functions. Second, this paper analyses a random sample of the content of books, newspaper and magazine articles, speeches, and transcripts of interviews drawn from The Australian, The Age, The Sydney Morning Herald, The Sydney Institute, the ABC, The Monthly, and Quadrant published or broadcast between 1996 and 2007, in order to identify the key themes of the History Wars. It should be noted that the History War debates were extensive, persistent, and complex—and as they unfolded over a 13-year period they emerged as the “most powerful” and “most disputed form of public intellectual work” (Carter, Ideas 9). Many issues were aggregated under the trope of the History Wars, and these topics were subject to both popular commentary and academic investigation. Furthermore, the History Wars discourse was produced in a range of mediums including popular media sources, newspaper and magazine columns, broadcasts, blogs, lectures, and writers’ forums and publications. Given the extent of this discourse, the sample of articles which provides the basis for this analysis does not seek to comprehensively survey the literature on the History Wars. Rather this paper draws upon Foucault’s genealogical qualitative method, which exposes the subordinated discontinuities in texts, to 1) consider the political context of the History War trope; and 2) identify how intellectuals discursively exhibited versions of the nation’s identity and in the process made visible the power effects of the past. Public Intellectuals The underlying fear of the debates about the public intellectual crisis was that the public intellectual would no longer be able to act as the conscience of a nation, speak truth to power, or foster the independent and dissenting public debate that guides and informs individual human agency—a goal that has lain at the heart of the Western intellectual’s endeavours since Kant’s Sapere aude. The late 20th century crisis discourse, however, primarily mourned the decline of a particular form of public authority attached to the heroic universal intellectual formation made popular by Emile Zola at the end of the 19th century, and which claimed the power to hold the political elites of France accountable. Yet talk of an intellectual crisis also became progressively associated with a variety of general concerns about globalising society. Some of these concerns included fears that structural shifts in the public domain would lead to the impoverishment of the cultural domain, the end of Western civilisation, the decline of the progressive political left, and the end of universal values. It was also expected that the decline in intellectuals would also enable the rise of populism, political conservatism, and anti-intellectualism (Jacoby Bloom; Bauman; Rorty; Posner; Furedi; Marquand). As a result of these fears, the function of the intellectual who engages publicly was re-theorised. Zygmunt Bauman suggested the intellectual was no longer the legislator or arbiter of taste but the negotiator and translator of ideas; Michel Foucault argued that the intellectual could be institutionally situated and still speak truth to power; and Edward Said insisted the public intellectual had a role in opening up possibilities to resolve conflict by re-imagining the past. In contrast, the Australian public intellectual has never been declared in crisis or dead, and this is probably because the nation does not have the same legacy of the heroic public intellectual. Indeed, as a former British colony labelled the “working man’s paradise” (White 4), Australia’s intellectual work was produced in “institutionalised networks” (Head 5) like universities and knowledge disciplines, political parties, magazines, and unions. Within these networks there was a double division of labour, between the abstraction of knowledge and its compartmentalisation, and between the practical application of knowledge and its popularisation. As a result of this legacy, a more organic, specific, and institutionalised form of intellectualism emerged, which, according to Head, limited intellectual influence and visibility across other networks and domains of knowledge and historically impeded general intellectual engagement with the public. Fears about the health and authority of the public intellectual in Australia have therefore tended to be produced as a part of Antonio Gramsci’s ideological “wars of position” (Mouffe 5), which are an endless struggle between cultural and political elites for control of the institutions of social reproduction. These struggles began in Australia in the 1970s and 1980s over language and political correctness, and they reappeared in the 1990s as the History Wars. History Wars“The History Wars” was a term applied to an ideological battle between two visions of the Australian nation. The first vision was circulated by Australian Labor Party Prime Minister Paul Keating, who saw race relations as central to 21st century global Australia and began the process of dealing with the complex and divisive Indigenous issues at home. He established the Council for Aboriginal Reconciliation in 1991; acknowledged in the 1992 Redfern speech that white settlers were responsible for the problems in Indigenous communities; and commissioned the Bringing Them Home report, which was completed in 1997 and concluded that the mandated removal of Indigenous children from their families and communities throughout the 20th century had violated their human rights and caused long-term and systemic damage to Indigenous communities.The second vision of Australia was circulated by Liberal Prime Minister John Howard, who, after he came to power in 1996, began his own culture war to reconstruct a more conservative vision of the nation. Howard believed that the stories of Indigenous dispossession undermined confidence in the nation, and he sought to produce a historical view of the past grounded in “Judeo-Christian ethics, the progressive spirit of the enlightenment and the institutions and values of British culture” (“Sense of Balance”). Howard called for a return to a narrative form that valorised Australia’s achievements, and he sought to instil a more homogenised view of the past and a coherent national identity by reviewing high school history programs, national museum appointments, and citizenship tests. These two political positions framed the subsequent intellectual struggles over the past. While a number of issues were implicated in the battle, generally, left commentators used the History Wars as a way to circulate certain ideas about morality and identity, including 1) Australians needed to make amends for past injustices to Indigenous Australians and 2) the nation’s global identity was linked to how they dealt with Australia’s first people. In contrast, the political right argued 1) the left had misrepresented and overstated the damage done to Indigenous communities and rewritten history; 2) stories about Indigenous abuse were fragmenting the nation’s identity at a time when the nation needed to build a coherent global presence; and 3) no apology was necessary, because contemporary Australians did not feel responsible for past injustices. AnalysisThe war between these two visions of Australia was fought in “extra-curricular sites,” according to Stuart Macintyre, and this included newspaper columns, writers’ festivals, broadcast interviews, intellectual magazines like The Monthly and Quadrant, books, and think tank lectures. Academics and intellectuals were the primary protagonists, and they disputed the extent of colonial genocide; the legitimacy of Indigenous land rights; the impact of the Stolen Generation on the lives of modern Indigenous citizens; and the necessity of a formal apology as a part of the reconciliation process. The conflicts also ignited debates about the nature of history, the quality of public debates in Australia, and exposed the tensions between academics, public intellectuals, newspaper commentators and political elites. Much of the controversy played out in the national forums can be linked to the Bringing Them Home: National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families report Stolen Generation inquiry and report, which was commissioned by Keating but released after Howard came to office. Australian public intellectual and professor of politics Robert Manne critiqued the right’s response to the report in his 2001 Quarterly Essay titled “In Denial: The Stolen Generation and The Right”. He argued that there was a right-wing campaign in Australia that sought to diminish and undermine justice for Aboriginal people by discounting the results of the inquiry, underestimating the numbers of those affected, and underfunding the report’s recommendations. He spoke of the nation’s shame and in doing so he challenged Australia’s image of itself. Manne’s position was applauded by many for providing what Kay Schaffer in her Australian Humanities Review paper called an “effective antidote to counter the bitter stream of vitriol that followed the release of the Bringing Them Home report”. Yet Manne also drew criticism. Historian Bain Attwood argued that Manne’s attack on conservatives was polemical, and he suggested that it would be more useful to consider in detail what drives the right-wing analysis of Indigenous issues. Attwood also suggested that Manne’s essay had misrepresented the origins of the narrative of the Stolen Generation, which had been widely known prior to the release of the Stolen Generation report.Conservative commentators focused upon challenging the accuracy of those stories submitted to the inquiry, which provided the basis for the report. This struggle over factual details was to characterise the approach of historian Keith Windschuttle, who rejected both the numbers of those stolen from their families and the degree of violence used in the settlement of Australia. In his 2002 book The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Volume One, Van Diemen’s Land 1803–1847 he accused left-wing academics of exaggerating the events of Aboriginal history in order to further their own political agenda. In particular, he argued that the extent of the “conflagration of oppression and conflict” which sought to “dispossess, degrade, and devastate the Aboriginal people” had been overstated and misrepresented and designed to “create an edifice of black victimhood and white guilt” (Windschuttle, Fabrication 1). Manne responded to Windschuttle’s allegations in Whitewash: On Keith Windschuttle’s Fabrication of Aboriginal History, arguing that Windschuttle arguments were “unpersuasive and unsupported either by independent research or even familiarity with the relevant secondary historical literature” (7) and that the book added nothing to the debates. Other academics like Stephen Muecke, Marcia Langton and Heather Goodall expressed concerns about Windschuttle’s work, and in 2003 historians Stuart Macintyre and Anna Clark published The History Wars, which described the implications of the politicisation of history on the study of the past. At the same time, historian Bain Attwood in Telling the Truth About Aboriginal History argued that the contestation over history was eroding the “integrity of intellectual life in Australia” (2). Fractures also broke out between writers and historians about who was best placed to write history. The Australian book reviewer Stella Clarke wrote that the History Wars were no longer constructive discussions, and she suggested that historical novelists could colonise the territory traditionally dominated by professional historians. Inga Clendinnen wasn’t so sure. She wrote in a 2006 Quarterly Essay entitled “The History Question: Who Owns the Past?” that, while novelists could get inside events through a process of “applied empathy,” imagination could in fact obstruct the truth of reality (20). Discussion The History Wars saw academics engage publicly to exhibit a set of competing ideas about Australia’s identity in the nation’s media and associated cultural sites, and while the debates initially prompted interest they eventually came to be described as violent and unproductive public conversations about historical details and ideological positions. Indeed, just as the museum curator could no longer authoritatively prescribe the cultural meaning of artefacts, so the History Wars showed that public intellectuals could not adjudicate the identity of the nation nor prescribe the nature of its conduct. For left-wing public intellectuals and commentators, the History Wars came to signify the further marginalisation of progressive politics in the face of the dominant, conservative, and increasingly populist constituency. Fundamentally, the battles over the past reinforced fears that Australia’s public culture was becoming less diverse, less open, and less able to protect traditional civil rights, democratic freedoms, and social values. Importantly for intellectuals like Robert Manne, there was a sense that Australian society was less able or willing to reflect upon the moral legitimacy of its past actions as a part of the process of considering its contemporary identity. In contrast right-wing intellectuals and commentators argued that the History Wars showed how public debate under a conservative government had been liberated from political correctness and had become more vibrant. This was the position of Australian columnist Janet Albrechtsen who argued that rather than a decline in public debate there had been, in fact, “vigorous debate of issues that were once banished from the national conversation” (91). She went on to insist that left-wing commentators’ concerns about public debate were simply a mask for their discomfort at having their views and ideas challenged. There is no doubt that the History Wars, while media-orchestrated debates that circulated a set of ideological positions designed to primarily attract audiences and construct particular views of Australia, also raised public awareness of the complex issues associated with Australia’s Indigenous past. Indeed, the Wars ended what W.E.H Stanner had called the “great silence” on Indigenous issues and paved the way for Kevin Rudd’s apology to Indigenous people for their “profound grief, suffering and loss”. The Wars prompted conversations across the nation about what it means to be Australian and exposed the way history is deeply implicated in power surely a goal of both intellectual debate and curated exhibitions. ConclusionThis paper has argued that the public intellectual can operate like a curator in his or her efforts to preserve particular ideas, interpretations, and narratives of public culture. 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