Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „1856-57”

This paper explores relations between Blandowski, Krefft and the Aborigines during the 1856-57 Murray River expedition. As with many scientific enterprises in Australia, Aboriginal knowledge made a substantial contribution to the success of the expedition. While Blandowski generously acknowledged this, Krefft, who was responsible for the day to day running of the camp, maintained his distance from the Aborigines. The expedition context provides an insight into tensions between Blandowski and Krefft, and also into the complexities of the colonial project on the Murray River, which involved Aborigines, pastoralists, missionaries and scientists.

El escrito gira en torno tanto a la campaña militar de 1856-°©‐‑ 57, como también de la figura del héroe nacional Juan Santamaría, como eje primordial de la creación artística al servicio de la invención civilista proyectada por los “padres” del Estado Liberal en Costa Rica. En estas páginas se abordan algunos de los productos artísticos que surgieron a propósito de la Campaña del 56, entre ellos el Monumento Nacional y la Estatua de Juan Santamaría, como también referentes iconográficos de la gesta patria en la labor plástica de Enrique Echandi y Francisco Amighetti, artistas de gran relevancia en la historia del arte costarricense.

THE 150th Anniversary of William Blandowski’s 1856-57 expedition to the Murray River provided the opportunity for the Royal Society of Victoria to hold a symposium to reassess the significance of Blandowski’s life and career before, during and after his time in Australia. Despite Blandowski’s significant role in the early years of the Royal Society, few of its members had heard of Blandowski and even fewer knew of his work as an artist and naturalist. This was part of the impetus behind the symposium. Another was to make information on the Murray River expedition available to residents of northwest Victoria and southwest New South Wales, the area where most of its collecting took place.

Dominated by a settler heritage, South African history has forgotten or degraded many Africans who had a significant impact on the region. The more recent liberal and radical schools also suffer from this tragic inheritance. Maqoma, a nineteenth century Xhosa chief who fought the expansionist Cape Colony in three frontier wars, has been a victim of similar distortion. He has been characterized as a drunken troublemaker and cattle thief who masterminded an unprovoked irruption into the colony in 1834 and eventually led his subjects into the irrational Cattle Killing catastrophe of 1856/57 in which thousands of Xhosa slaughtered their herds on the command of a teenage prophetess. Recently, the validity of this portrayal has been questioned. Alan Webster has demonstrated that, throughout the 1820s and early 1830s, Maqoma attempted to placate voracious European raiders by sending them cattle tribute. Only after the British army and Boer commandos had forced his Jingqi chiefdom off its land for the third time did this ruler order retaliatory stock raids against the colony in late 1834.

Resumo: No século XIX, o Brasil e o Rio da Prata assumem uma posição central quanto ao gênero épico: a polêmica sobre A Confederação dos Tamoios (1856) foi acompanhada da publicação de um amplo número de poemas, excedido apenas pela quantidade de textos publicados na região do Rio da Prata. O contato entre os dois espaços culturais tem sido explorado nos últimos anos. Os épicos brasileiros e rio-platenses se inspiraram mutuamente. Há, por exemplo, contribuições teóricas de autores rio-platenses - exilados no Brasil - que tematizam “o Brasil” nos seus textos. O exemplo mais importante neste contexto é o poema épico Cantos del peregrino (1846-57), do argentino José Mármol, que usa o motivo do “tropical” para estilizar o Brasil como espaço de inspiração, favorecendo a poesia heroica, comparando-a com as condições climáticas da Argentina, árida e carente de estímulos poéticos. Neste estudo, exploramos o contato dos épicos rio-platenses (Juan María Gutiérrez, José Mármol) e brasileiros (Joaquim Norberto Souza Silva), focando o discurso teórico e como se articula em paratextos (prólogos, notas de rodapé, glossários) e em passagens autorreflexivas nos poemas épicos.

Daniel Clinton, “Line and Lineage: Visual Form in Herman Melville’s Pierre and Timoleon” (pp. 1–29) This essay examines Herman Melville’s reflections on form, line, and perspective in his novel Pierre (1852) and his poems on art and architecture in Timoleon (1891), a late book of verse partly inspired by his tour of the Mediterranean during 1856–57. I argue that Melville arrives at his understanding of literary form through the language of optical perspective, particularly the terms of “foreshortening” and “outline.” I compare Melville’s figurative conception of outline with the artistic theories and practices of William Blake, George Cumberland, John Ruskin, and the artist John Flaxman, whose illustrations of Homer and Dante feature prominently in Pierre. Widely circulated as engravings by Tommaso Piroli and others, Flaxman’s clean-lined drawings fascinate Melville because they emphasize implied narrative rather than optical verisimilitude. Melville responds to a romantic discourse that positions “outline” on the conceptual boundary between sense-perception and free-floating thought, as a mediating term between competing notions of art’s truth. In both his fiction and poetry, Melville’s reflection on the materiality of pictures doubles as a reflection on the materiality of thought. The formal features of visual art suggest the workings of the mind as it flattens unconscious possibilities and disparate truths into a manageable picture of the world.

Thằn lằn bóng đuôi dài Eutropis longicaudatus (Hallowell, 1856) là một loài có ích trong các hệ sinh thái ở cạn. Tuy nhiên, nhiều đặc điểm thông tin về phương thức hoạt động và đặc điểm dinh dưỡng của loài này ở vùng nghiên cứu là chưa được biết đến. Trên cơ sở phân tích 142 mẫu gồm 57 con đực và 85 con cái nhận thấy thấy: con đực có một vệt màu đen chạy dọc hai bên thân và có màu nhạt hơn con cái. Con đực có các gốc đùi to hơn con cái cùng kích thước, đặc biệt gốc đùi sau lớn hơn con cái khá nhiều; phần bụng con cái trưởng thành lớn hơn con đực cùng kích thước chiều dài cơ thể (SVL). Thời gian dành cho hoạt động săn mồi chiếm tỷ lệ cao nhất với 65,3%, thời gian phơi nắng là 13,4%, rình mồi 13,7%, thời gian còn lại chúng dành cho các phương thức khác như đánh nhau, giao phối, nằm trong hang. Thời gian trung bình cho hoạt động phơi nắng, rình mồi của con cái lớn hơn con đực. Chỉ số quan trọng của các loại thức ăn được loài Thằn lằn bóng đuôi dài tiêu thụ lớn nhất là ấu trùng côn trùng với IRI = 14,88, bộ Nhện là 13,33; bộ Cánh thẳng là 11,64. Đây là các loại con mồi rất quan trọng đối với Thằn lằn bóng đuôi dài.

Wilhelm Blandowski was the first zoologist employed by the Victorian Government, being appointed Officer of the Museum of Natural History by Governor La Trobe on 1 April 1854. Although he remained in this position for less than four years he left an important legacy by beginning the documentation of Victoria’s mammalian fauna before the full impact of European pastoralism and feral animals had become apparent. In particular, the 1856-57 zoological survey expedition to the lower Murray-Darling region provided a unique insight into the mammalian community that existed there before European occupation triggered a sudden decline in mammal species diversity, as happened progressively across the southern two thirds of Australia over the subsequent 90 years. Of the 34 mammal taxa recorded by the Blandowski Expedition, ten are extinct, nine no longer occur in the region, four are still present but with greatly reduced and fragmented distributions, seven have broad distributions in the region little changed since Blandowski’s time, although severely fragmented, and the remaining four have probably expanded their distributions. The contributions of Blandowski and his assistant Gerard Krefft to our understanding of the nature and causes of these mammal declines are examined and discussed. Unfortunately, the surviving contemporary documentation of the Expedition and the associated specimens is inadequate to shed much light on the factors that triggered the initial mammal declines, but the results do not support recent suggestions that predation by the introduced house cat Felis catus was pivotal.

Wilhelm Blandowski is best known for the scandal that surrounded his attempts to name a number of new species of freshwater fish after prominent members of the Victorian scientific establishment. Although this 19th Century anecdote is diverting, it belies, I believe, the significant contribution that the first paid Victorian government zoologist made to the ichthyology of the Murray-Darling Basin. Although his claim to new species was exaggerated, his collections, assisted by Gerard Krefft were the most diverse to that date. There is no doubt – because Blandowski tells us as much – that the expedition’s success in collecting so many species, as well as information on distribution, habitat, size and diet, can be attributed to the knowledge of the local Aboriginal people, the Nyeri Nyeri. That Blandowski realised that this knowledge existed and acknowledged it, is unusual for the time. The information provided, although broadly consistent with what we know of the species’ current habits, is scanty and there is some uncertainty as to the location where most of the species were collected. Interpretations based on illustrations, written descriptions and extant specimens suggest that many species that were collected in 1856/57 no longer occur in that region of the Murray-Darling Basin. Blandowski’s collections also hint at the possibility that the distribution of the spotted galaxias, Galaxias truttaceus Valenciennes 1846, normally considered coastal, may have formerly extended much further up into freshwater.

Objetivos: Conocer la sexualidad en los adultos mayores, a partir de una revisión de investigaciones previas, realizadas en el ámbito internacional; Material y métodos: investigación no experimental, cualitativa, descriptiva retrospectiva, transversal. Se han utilizado como instrumentos de recojo de información fichas, y como técnicas la observación, el análisis, y la síntesis, el método seleccionado fue el deductivo. Se revisaron 15 investigaciones realizadas en diversos países referidas a la sexualidad del adulto mayor. Resultados: Se han encontrado algunas descripciones sobre actitudes sexuales, en diversos pueblos con anterioridad al año 100 Antes de Cristo, y recién en el siglo XX se empieza a investigar la sexualidad desde el punto de vista científico, con los aportes de Balzac, Jung (1969) y Sigmund Freud (1856-1939). Existen factores y mitos que afectan y están relacionados con la sexualidad del adulto mayor. La existencia de un declive gradual con la edad, en la actividad e interés sexual, en el caso de los varones se produce a partir de los 60 años, la actividad sexual más frecuente son las caricias y tocamientos, seguidas del coito, también se observa una mayor actividad sexual en las mujeres mayores que han tenido intensa actividad sexual en la juventud. Un alto número (74% hombres, 42% mujeres) practican la masturbación, la relevancia del sexo decae a partir de los 56 años de edad, llegando a considerarse como nada o poco importante en el 57% de las personas mayores de 65 años. Conclusiones: La sexualidad incluye todas las formas de expresión, desde la aproximación, el tacto, la intimidad emocional, la compañía, la masturbación y no solamente el coito. Es un aspecto importante que en la vejez debe continuar siendo una fuente de placer y no una fuente de inquietud y frustración.

This short paper proposes toconsider the transition fromBleak House(1852–53) toLittle Dorrit(1856–57) as a phase of particular significance in Dickens's debate with himself over the claims, benefits, and pitfalls of national and wider forms of belonging. I elideHard Times(1854) because it seems to me that with the composition ofBleak HouseDickens had definitively arrived at the conviction that the twenty-number monthly novel was that one of his novelistic forms best suited to sustained exploration and testing of capacious social networks making claims upon individuals' identification and loyalty. InBleak House– as I have argued inDisorienting Fiction: The Autoethnographic Work of Nineteenth-Century British Novels(2005) – Dickens responds to the false universalism of the Great Exhibition of 1851 by producing his most restrictively “national” of novels, programmatically and demonstratively shutting out a wider world in order to produce an image of Britain that negatively foreshadows the kind of autarkic, autotelic fantasies of single cultures associated with the classic functionalist ethnography of the early twentieth century, as practiced by such luminaries as Bronislaw Malinowski and Franz Boas. “Negatively” is key here, since anticipations of ethnography in nineteenth-century British (autoethnographic) fiction typically involve representation of the nation as “a form ofanticulturewhose features define by opposition the ideals [later] attributed to genuine cultures” (Buzard,Disorienting21). Whereas the fast-disappearing genuine culture of ethnographic literature was credited with the integrated totality of “a sturdy plant growth, each remotest leaf and twig of which is organically fed by the sap at the core” (Sapir 90–93), Britain's culture vouchsafed inBleak Houseand exemplified in the tentacular Court of Chancery presents “a state of disastrous and inescapable interconnection,” “a culture-like vision of social totality that is simply marked with a minus sign” (Buzard,Disorienting21).

COVID-19, the disease caused by the SARS-CoV-2 virus, can cause shortness of breath, lung damage, and impaired respiratory function. Containing the virus has proven difficult, in large part due to its high transmissibility during the pre-symptomatic incubation. The study’s aim was to determine if changes in respiratory rate could serve as a leading indicator of SARS-CoV-2 infections. A total of 271 individuals (age = 37.3 ± 9.5, 190 male, 81 female) who experienced symptoms consistent with COVID-19 were included– 81 tested positive for SARS-CoV-2 and 190 tested negative; these 271 individuals collectively contributed 2672 samples (days) of data (1856 healthy days, 231 while infected with COVID-19 and 585 while negative for COVID-19 but experiencing symptoms). To train a novel algorithm, individuals were segmented as follows; (1) a training dataset of individuals who tested positive for COVID-19 (n = 57 people, 537 samples); (2) a validation dataset of individuals who tested positive for COVID-19 (n = 24 people, 320 samples); (3) a validation dataset of individuals who tested negative for COVID-19 (n = 190 people, 1815 samples). All data was extracted from the WHOOP system, which uses data from a wrist-worn strap to produce validated estimates of respiratory rate and other physiological measures. Using the training dataset, a model was developed to estimate the probability of SARS-CoV-2 infection based on changes in respiratory rate during night-time sleep. The model’s ability to identify COVID-positive individuals not used in training and robustness against COVID-negative individuals with similar symptoms were examined for a critical six-day period spanning the onset of symptoms. The model identified 20% of COVID-19 positive individuals in the validation dataset in the two days prior to symptom onset, and 80% of COVID-19 positive cases by the third day of symptoms.

ABSTRACTThe kinetics of Breinlia booliati infection in 3 inbred rat strains (Lewis, Wistar and Sprague Dawley) were investigated. One group of rats was infected as neonates (less than 24 hours of age) with third-stage larvae of B. booliati and the other group was infected as juveniles (4 weeks of age). The results showed that infection in the neonates were significantly different from the infection in the juveniles. The 60 rats infected as neonates, when necropsied between 8 to 10 months postinfection, yielded adult worms. The 2 neonatal infection groups of Lewis and Wistar strains showed highest susceptibility to the infections. The mean prepatent period was 85 days. Ninety to 95% of the infected rats were patent with microfilaraemia and a large percentage (33 to 47%) of them had high microfilaraemia counts exceeding 3000 mff/20 mm3 of blood and larger sizes (mean 157·11 mm for female adult worms and 61·88 mm for male adult worms. The adult worms were distributed equally in both the pleural (57%) and peritoneal cavity (43%). In most aspects, the neonatal infection group of the Sprague-Dawley strain was intermediate in susceptibility between the 2 neonatal infection groups of the Lewis and Wistar strains and the 3 juvenile infection groups. In contrast to neonatal infection groups, the 3 juvenile infection groups exhibited low infection rates (37%, 58% and 47% for the Lewis, Wistar and Sprague Dawley strains respectively), longer prepatent periods (mean 101 days), lower recovery rates (2 to 4%), lower adult worm loads (mean 0·4 to 0·8 female worms, and 0·2 to 0·8 male worms per rat), and smaller sizes (mean 141·24 mm for female adult worms and 53·75 mm for male adult worms). Forty-four to 57% of these infected rats harboured either single male or single female adult worms in the body cavity. Most (92%) of the adult worms recovered from the juvenile infection groups resided in the pleural cavity and the remaining 8% were recovered from the peritoneal cavity. Microfilaraemia could be detected in only 3/20 Lewis rats, 5/20 Wistar rats and 5/20 Sprague Dawley rats. The mean peak microfilaraemia of the 3 pooled juvenile infection groups was 632 mff/20 mm3 of blood, ranging from 7 mff/20 mm3 to 1856 mmf/20 mm3. Our results indicate that the susceptibility to B. booliati infection in white rats is both genetic and age-associated. The responses of the 2 distinct infection groups to B. booliati infections are discussed.

An annotated catalogue of the Nepticulidae and Opostegidae of mainland France (including Monaco) and Corsica is presented. All previous literature records are given and interpreted where necessary. We provide detailed records for material collected and studied by us. A total of 150 species of Nepticulidae and 6 species of Opostegidae are listed. All but one Nepticulidae are recorded from mainland France, 46 Nepticulidae and 2 Opostegidae are listed for Corsica, and two Nepticulidae and one Opostegidae for Monaco. The following species are recorded for the first time from France (mainland only): Stigmella carpinella (Heinemann, 1862), S. vimineticola (Frey, 1856), Trifurcula (Glaucolepis) magna A. & Z. LaštÁvka, 1997 and Ectoedemia hexapetalae (SzÝcs, 1957); Parafomoria halimivora Van Nieukerken, 1985 also is reported for France on re-interpretation of earlier literature records of P. helianthemella. New for mainland France but known from Corsica is Ectoedemia heringella (Mariani, 1939). New for Corsica, but previously known from France are: Stigmella luteella (Stainton, 187), Trifurcula (Levarchama) eurema (Tutt, 1899), T. (Trifurcula) josefklimeschi Van Nieukerken, 1990, T. (T.) calycotomella A. & Z. LaštÁvka, 1997, Bohemannia quadrimaculella (Boheman, 1853), and Ectoedemia (Ectoedemia) occultella (Linnaeus, 1767). The following species are removed from the list: Stigmella pretiosa (Heinemann, 1862) and S. poterii (Stainton, 1857), both from mainland France and Corsica, and Trifurcula (Trifurcula) pallidella (Duponchel, 1839) from mainland France, but it does occur in Corsica. The occurrence in France of Stigmella stelviana (Weber, 1938), Trifurcula (T.) serotinella (Herrich-Schäffer, 1855), and Ectoedemia arcuatella (Herrich-Schäffer, 1855) is confirmed, and for 15 species previously recorded in checklists, we provide the first detailed records for mainland France, and for four species for Corsica. The following new host records are given: Stigmella centifoliella (Zeller, 1848) reared from Alchemilla sp. (from label data of Chrétien); T. (Glaucolepis) magna reared from Thymus (from label data of Chrétien); T. (T.) silviae mines were found on Onobrychis viciifolia. The female genitalia of T. magna are illustrated and described for the first time. A lectotype is selected for Nepticula teucriella Chrétien, 1914 (now in Trifurcula (Glaucolepis)). The type locality for Trifurcula luteola is established to be in Alpes-de-Haute-Provence and not in Aude. The richest départements are: 66-Pyrenées-Orientales with 70 species, 77- Seine-et-Marne with 65 species, 68-Haut-Rhin with 58 and 33-Gironde with 57.

Abstract Abstract 333 Background: Standard chemotherapy for elderly AML patients results in a median overall survival of only about one year. Case reports and early phase I/II data have shown that the kinase inhibitor Sorafenib might show clinical benefit for Flt3-ITD-positive AML patients (Metzelder S Blood 2009; 113:6567) and that its addition to standard chemotherapy is feasible (Ravandi F JCO 2010; 28:1856). Sorafenib is a potent Raf, c-Kit and FLT3 inhibitor that may also affect AML blasts and bone marrow (BM) stroma cells via VEGFR and PDGFR-β inhibition. Therefore, we performed a multicenter, randomized, placebo-controlled, double-blind phase II trial in elderly (>60 y) AML patients analyzing the effect of Sorafenib in addition to standard chemotherapy and as a maintenance therapy for up to one year. Methods: 197 AML patients in 16 centers received up to two cycles of standard 7+3 induction chemotherapy plus two cycles of consolidation therapy with intermediate dose (6 × 1g/sqm) AraC. Before start of treatment, they were randomly assigned to receive either placebo or Sorafenib (400 mg bid between the cycles and after chemotherapy for up to one year after start of induction). The primary aim was to compare the event-free survival (EFS) of the two treatment groups. Secondary end points were to compare EFS and overall survival (OS) of predefined subgroups according to NPM and FLT3 mutation status and toxicity of treatment. Results: Among the 197 evaluable patients, 102 pts received Sorafenib and 95 pts placebo. EFS and OS were not significantly different between the two treatment groups (placebo vs. Sorafenib: EFS: Median: 7 vs. 5 months, hazard Ratio (HR): 1.261(p=0.13); OS: Median: 15 vs. 13 months, HR 1.025 (p=0.89)). CR or blast clearance without complete blood count recovery was observed in 49 (48%) and 9 (8.8%) Sorafenib patients and 57 (60%) and 4 (4.2%) placebo pts, respectively. Exploratory subgroup analyses did not reveal any significant difference between the treatment groups but showed a tendency towards decreased EFS in the Sorafenib arm for NPM1-wild type AML cases. Flt3-ITD mutations were found in 28 out of 197 patients (14.2%), in line with the reported incidence in the target population. No differences in EFS or OS were to be noted in this small patient population. Also, CR rate was not improved by the study drug in this subgroup of patients. Sorafenib was relatively well tolerated. The most frequent adverse events (AE) ≥grade 3 were febrile neutropenia, pneumonia in neutropenia, sepsis, diarrhea, skin rash, mucositis, hypertension (77 vs 74, 54 vs 35, 15 vs 15, 17 vs 6, 14 vs 7, 9 vs 6, 8 vs 5 events in the Sorafenib vs the placebo group). A hand-foot-skin reaction (≥grade 3) was noted in 5 vs 0 events in Sorafenib vs control pts. There was a trend of slower regeneration of leukocytes and thrombocytes within the Sorafenib arm compared to the control arm after the first and second induction course but not after consolidation cycles. Conclusion: Although the combination regimen appeared to be feasible and tolerable in elderly AML pts, Sorafenib treatment did not improve EFS or OS in this unselected elderly AML patient population. Further studies should focus on selected AML target populations for Sorafenib, especially FLT3-ITD+ AML patients. Disclosures: Off Label Use: Sorafenib (multikinase inhibitor) is given in combination with standard chemotherapy in elderly AML patients. (See title of the abstract!).

Abstract Abstract 1856 Background: Lenalidomide has proven to be a highly effective treatment in relapsed multiple myeloma (MM), particularly when used in combination with dexamethasone. However, over 30% of patients with myeloma have renal insufficiency and as lenalidomide is renally excreted, little information is available about its use in myeloma patients with impaired kidney function. Defining a safe and effective dose of lenalidomide in this context is critical. Objective: We undertook this study to establish the maximum tolerated dose of lenalidomide in three cohorts of patients with different levels of impaired renal function: Group A - patients with creatinine clearance (CrCl) between 30 and 60 mL/min, Group B - patients with CrCl <30 mL/min not on dialysis, and Group C - patients with CrCl < 30mL/min who are on dialysis. Secondary endpoints included response rate, progression free survival and overall survival. Methods: Eligible patients had previously treated MM with renal impairment defined as creatinine clearance < 60 mL/min measured within 21 days prior to registration. Patients previously treated with lenalidomide were required to demonstrate clinical response (any duration) or stable disease with progression-free interval of > 6 months from start of that therapy. All patients received dexamethasone 40 mg orally on days 1, 8, 15 and 22 of a 28-day cycle. Prophylactic anticoagulation consisted of either 81 mg or 325 mg per day of aspirin. Patients also received lenalidomide orally every 1 or 2 days on days 1 through 21 of a 28-day cycle, as described below (Table 1). Starting doses were as in US Product Insert. Dose escalation follows a standard 3+3 design. Results: There have been 23 patients enrolled into groups and cohorts as shown in Table 1. Median age was 73 (range 49–89) and 13 (57%) were women. ISS stage was advanced in all patients, 0 in stage 1, 4 (18%) in stage 2 and 19 (82%) in stage 3. The regimen was well tolerated. Indeed, the MTD has not been reached in any of the groups, as no DLTs have occurred to date. The most commonly reported clinical adverse events (all grades, independent of attribution) across all patients included infections, hyperglycemia, constipation, dizziness, hyponatremia, hypocalcemia and tremor. Hematological toxicities (grade 3–4) occurred in 13 out of 21 pts (62%), mostly neutropenia and thrombocytopenia. Grade 3–4 events at least possibly related to the regimen occurred in 70% and included pneumonia (26%) and otitis media (9%). Response was seen in 14 patients, resulting in an overall response rate of 61%. CR was seen in 1 patient (4%), VGPR in 2 patients (9%), PR in 11 patients (43%), and SD for 9 patients. With median follow-up of 15.5 months, median progression-free survival is 9.8 months and median overall survival is 22 months. Conclusion: Lenalidomide and dexamethasone is a safe and effective regimen in patients with multiple myeloma and renal insufficiency. It is also very well tolerated, although cytopenias are common but manageable. MTD has yet to be reached in each group, allowing for higher doses to be given than previously thought, including 25mg daily (for 21/28 days) in patients with CrCl 30–60 mL/min, 25 mg every other day (for 21/28 days) in patients with CrCl < 30 mL/min not on dialysis, and 10mg daily (for 21/28 days) in patients with CrCl < 30 mL/min on dialysis. These results will provide needed, clinically relevant dosing for lenalidomide in MM patients with renal insufficiency. Disclosures: Kaufman: Millenium: Consultancy; Onyx: Consultancy; Celgene: Consultancy; Novartis: Consultancy.

Abstract Background: Second-line salvage chemotherapy(CT) followed by high-dose (HD) CT and autologous stem cells reinfusion (ASCT) is standard treatment forR/R HL patients, although long-term cure can be achieved in only half of them, depending on risk factors. Chemosensitivity to salvage CT before ASCT, mainly represented by a negative PET scan, is highly predictive of a favorable outcome. The availability of new markers of prognosis, like the measurement of the serum chemokineTARC, could help identifying those patients who may require further treatment, i.e. new drugs like Brentuximab Vedotin or Nivolumab or Pembrolizumab, before ASCT, in order to achieve a durable remission.Therefore we planned to prospectively evaluate the prognostic role of serum TARC levels collected at different time points in cHL R/R patients. Methods: Serum TARC levels were measured by commercially available ELISA test kits (R & D Systems, Minneapolis, USA) in 41 patients treated with IGEV (ifosfamide, gemcitabine, vinorelbine, prednisone) salvage CT, followed by myeloablative B(F)EAM (carmustine, (fotemustine), etoposide, cytosine arabinoside, melphalan) + ASCT at Istituto Nazionale Tumori of Milan, Italy, from January 2007 to December 2013. The 99th centile of TARC distribution in a group of 156 independent healthy subjects corresponding to 800 pg/mL, was considered as cut-off value discriminating between normal and abnormal TARC values. TARC evaluation was performed before starting salvage CT(T0), after the first IGEV cycle (T1) and before ASCT (T-preASCT). The Wilcoxon Mann Whitney test was used to analyze TARC as a function of patient and disease characteristics and PET results. Kaplan-Meyer curves and log-rank test were used to assess differences in PFS according to TARC levels. Cox model was used for multivariate analysis. Results: Main patient characteristics at relapse/progression were as follows: males/females: 19/22, median age: 31 years (range,19-69), B symptoms: 34%, bulky disease: 27%, stage III/IV: 39%, extra nodal involvement: 34%, refractory vs relapsed < 12 months vs relapsed ≥ 12 months: 49% vs 34% vs 17%. Median (IQ range) T0, T1 and T-preASCT were: 1856 (8801-9983) pg/mL, 1148 (544-2532) pg/mL and 829 (454-1725) pg/mL, respectively. Patients with bulky disease had higher median T0 than their counterpart (3241 vs 1462 pg/mL; p=.016). Median T-preASCT was significantly higher in patients with refractory disease compared to relapse < or ≥ 12 months (1100 vs 595, vs 548 pg/mL, p=.027). A positive PET was recorded in 57.5% of patients after 2 IGEV cycles and in 32% before ASCT. Forty-one percent of patients needed ≥ 2 salvage CT before ASCT and 63% had ≥ 2 risk factors. At each time point, median TARC values were significantly higher in PET-2 positive patients compared to their counterpart (T0: 3238 vs 1310; T1: 1866 vs 624; T-preASCT: 908 vs 544; pg/mL). Median (IQ range)T-preASCT levels were significantly higher in patients with a positive PET before ASCT:1091 (596-10578) pg/mL compared to those with a negative one: 651 (447-964) pg/mL. After a median follow-up of 65 months, 5-year PFS and OS (95% CI) were 70 (57-88)% and 84 (72-98)%, respectively. In univariate analysis T-preASCT > 2000 pg/mL, PET-2, PET-preASCT, ≥ 2 risk factors and ≥ 2 salvage CT lines significantly affected PFS. In multivariate analysis only T-preASCT > 2000 pg/mL was significantly associated with a poor PFS (HR 6.65, CI95% 1.12-39.35, p=0.036) as shown in Figure 1. Conclusions: Results of this single institution prospective study suggest that a cheap and easy to perform test, like serum TARC levels measurement before ASCT, may help to ameliorate the identification of those patients at risk of failing ASCT, for whom anticipated use of new active drugs, like anti-CD30 immunoconjugates and/or anti-PD1 blockers, should be explored, in order to improve the cure rate of ASCT. Figure 1 PFS according to TARC levels Figure 1. PFS according to TARC levels Disclosures No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

AbstractOnly a few weeks after seeing the Frans Hals portrait of Jaspar Schade in the 1962 exhibition in Haarlem, the author came upon it again in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Waller in Utrecht (Figs. 1 and 2, Note I). He learnt that this particular painting had been in Mr. Waller's family for nearly a century and that it was a copy of the one now in Prague. The story was that the latter had been sold by Mr. Waller's grandfather Beukerfrom his country-house 'Zandbergen', which he had bought in 1865, to his friend P.E.H. Praetorius, on condition that the latter had a copy painted as a replacement. According to a written statement of 1934 by Mr. Waller's mother, the original by Frans Hals had always been at 'Zandbergen' and there was even a legend that the house would fall down, if it were removed. Her father, who was not interested in paintings according to the statement, had sold it to Praetorius at his request. The family had understood, erroneously as it turns out, that Praetorius had sold it on to Cologne and that it had later gone to America. In testing the truth of all this the author discovered first that the house is marked with the name of 'Den Heer Schade' on a map of the Utrecht area by Bernard de Roij published by Nicolaas Visscher in Amsterdam in 1696 (Fig.3, Note 4). The road on which it stands had been projected in 1652, Schade being one of those who acquired a parcel of land along it in return for laying that portion out, planting it and maintaining it and also building a side road on either side of his plot. Part of the agreement also was that he was exempted from paying taxes for 25 years. Schade (1623-,92), a member of a family of considerable standing, held various high offices in the church and province of Utrecht and was a delegate to the States-General in 1672. He was extremely rich and noted for his extravagant lifestyle, particularly as regards clothes (Notes 12-14). His house passed to his eldest son, who in 1701 left it to his brother-in-law Jacob Noirot. Between the latter, who sold it in 1740, and the Beuker family 'Zandbergen' (Fig. 4) had nine different owners. The museum in Prague acquired the portrait of Jaspar Schade in 1890 from Prince Liechtenstein, who had bought it in Paris on 14 March 1881 at the sale of the collection of John W. Wilson, an Englishman then living in Brussels. A. J. van de Ven tried without success to trace its history before that time (Note 18) and this was also unknown to Seymour Slive, although in his catalogue raisonné of Hals' work he mentions that it was shown at an exhibition of Wilson's collection in Brussels in 1873 (Note 20). In an article of the same year on Wilson's collection in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts Charles Tardieu remarked that Wilson had lived in Holland for thirty years and that his residence was obviously in Haarlem, from where the best pictures in his collection came. In his article on the portrait Van de Ven enlarged on the coals of arms on the frame, which were Schade's eight quarterings, but in an arbitrary order. The director of the Prague museum had told him that the frame was a 19th-century one and that the confusion had arisen during its making. A description of the frame in 1875 reveals that the arms were in their correct place then (Note 25), while the frame of the copy has the same arms in the right order, except that the left and right sides are transposed. Thus the present Prague frame must have been made after 1875, while the copy was presumably made and framed at the time the painting left 'Zandbergen'. John W. Wilson (1815-83) was born in Brussels of Thomas Wilsorz, who moved to Haarlem in 1833 and started a cotton factory there. John lived at Hillegom from 1856 to 1868, but after that moved back to Haarlem for a short time up to, but no later than 1870. He must have been very wealthy, as he also bought a lot of land in the area. How he acquired his collection of paintings is not known, as he appears to have kept it quiet until the exhibition of 1873. The catalogue of this covered 164 pictures; 76 of them, painted by 57 different artists, were of the Dutch School. Five pictures, all authentic, were by Frans Hals (Note 29). P.E.H. Praetorius (1791-1876, Fig.5) was a cousin of Beuker's. He moved from Haarlem to Amsterdam in or before 1829 and spent the rest of his life there. He was a broker and banker, an amateur painter and a great connoisseur of paintings, who played a prominent part in art societies in Amsterdam. He was also a member of the Supervisory Committee of the Rijksmuseum from 1844 and Chairman of its Board of Management from 1852 to 1875 (Note 33). His earliest paintings were copies of 17th-century works and he says in an appendix to his memoirs of 1869 that his last five works, done in 1865 and I 866, included a copy of Frans Hals' portrait of Willem van Heythuyzen. While it is clear that Jaspar Schade was the builder of 'Zandbergen', it is odd that the painting is never mentioned in any of the deeds of sale, detailed though these are. This suggests that it was so firmly fixed in its place - in the downstairs corridor over the door to the salon - as to be regarded as part of the fabric of the house. The price paid by Praetorius for the painting is not known, but he bought it at a period when Frans Hals' reputation had shot upwards again, after a long period of decline. This return to favour emerges clearly from Tardieu's comments, from the records of copyists in the Rijksmuseum (Note 37) and, of course, from Wilson's predilection. No evidence can be found of the painting's passing from Praetorius to Wilson, but the two must have known each other. The identity of the painter of the copy is also unknown. Mrs. Waller's statement mentions J. W. Pieneman, but he can be ruled out, as he died in 1853 and his son Nicolaas in 1860. The most likely candidate at the moment would seem to be Praetorius himself.

AbstractAmong the extensive collection of pen sketches by Johannes Stradanus (Bruges 1523-Florence 1605) in the Cooper-Hewitt Museum of Design and the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York (Notes 1,2) are thirteen hitherto unknown compositions which prove to be preliminary studies for eleven detailed drawings and two engravings. Inscriptions identify them as scenes from the life of St. Giovanni Gualberto and they belong to a set which must originally have consisted of al least fifteen illustrations. St. Giovanni Gualberto of Florence (Note 4), who died in 1073, is mainly known as a powerful reformer of the church, who set himsef above all to root out corruption and simony, and as the founder of the Benedictine Order of Vallombrosa. His cult enjoyed a revival during the Counter-Reformation, witness the decoration in 1580 of the chapel at Passignano, where he was buried, with frescos and altarpieces by A. Allori and his pupils and the installation there of a new tomb designed by G. B. Caccini, in which his remains were deposited (Note 5). In 1586 his lower jaw was removed to a new reliquary by G. B. Puccini in S. Trinita, the most important Vallombrosan Church in Florence, and in 1594 this was ceremonially installed in the new chapel designed for it by Caccini (Note 6). The saint also occupied an important place in the decoration of tha façade of the Cathedral for the entry of Christina of Lorraine in 1589 (Note 7), while in 1595 came the official recognition of his feast day on 12 July. In 1583 a new life of the saint, commissioned by Don Salvadore, Abbot General of the Order of Vallombrosa, was published in Florence by the Vallombrosan monk and historian Eudosio Loccatelli (Notes 8, 9). From this it is possible to identify all but one of the subjects illustrated by Stradanus, which follow the text so closely that he would seem to have used it as his literary source (Note 10). The subjects illustrated are as follows, in the chronological order given by Loccatelli: The Miracle of the Crucifix (Fig. I, Note I I), St. Giovanni Gualberto Publicly Accusing the Bishop of Florence and the Abbot of S. Miniato of Simony (Figs. 2, 3, Notes 12, 13), The Alms Returned Threefold (Figs.4, 5, Notes 15, 16), A Miraculous Provision of Bread at Vallombrosa (Figs. 6, bottom right, 7, Notes 17, 18), A Miraculous Provision of Food at Vallombrosa (Fig.8, left, Note 19), The Destruction of the Monastery at Moscheta (Figs. 9, top left, 10, Notes 20, 21), A Miraculous Distribution of Grain at Vallombrosa (Figs.9, top right, 11, Notes 22, 23), The Miraculous Catch of Pike at Passignano (Fig. 12, Notes 24, 25), The Miraculous Storm at Moscheta (Figs.9, bottom left, 13, Notes 26, 27), The Massacre and the Miraculous Healing of the Monks of S. Salvi (Figs. 6, top left, 14, Notes 28, 29), The Trial by Fire of Pietro Aldobrandini at Settimo (Figs. 6, bottom left, 15, Notes 30,31), St. Giovanni Gualberto Visiting a Sick Woman (Figs. 9, bottom right, 16, Notes 34, 35), An Angel Assisting St. Giovanni Gualberto on his Death bed (Figs.6 top right, 17, Notes 36, 37) and The Miraculous Healing of Adalassia (Fig. 8, right, Note 38). Insofar as sketches and finished drawings can be compared with each other, Stradanus proves in general to have taken over his first composition without appreciable change, albeit the scene of the accusing of the Bishop of Florence and Abbot of S. Miniato has been done in reverse to the sketch for topographical reasons. In those cases where more radical changes have been made, these all serve to heighten the expressiveness of the scene or to focus attention on the divine aspect of the event or the saint himself. The difference in character between the spontaneous pen sketches and the final drawings is striking. The latter are done in pen and brown ink and brown wash, carefully heightened with white, over traces of black chalk. They are highly finished drawings with a notable plasticity and monumentality for their modest size. The technique is close to that of Stradanus' numerous studies for engravings and the lefthandedness of the figures and the margins reserved for inscriptions at the bottom show that these drawings were also meant as models for a set of engravings. This set was evidently never executed, but there are separate, prints of two of the compositions, made at a later date, in the library of the abbey at Vallombrosa. One of these (Fig.18, Note 41) shows the Massacre scene in reverse and is dated to between 1625 and 1629 by its dedication to Don Averardo Niccolini, Abbot General of the Order during those years (Note 42). The other (Fig. 19, Note 43) shows The Miraculous Healing of Adalassia in reverse and enriched with some decorative details. Of the two coats of arms on the sarcophagus, one is presumably that of the Order of Vallombrosa (Note 44), the other that of the Visdomini family of Florence (Note 45), to which St. Giovanni Gualberto is traditionally said to belong. The arms of the Del Sera family of Florence (Note 47) below are clearly an addition to Stradanus' composition. Both prints are anonymous and of mediocre quality. They will presumably have, been made in or around Florence. The only clue to the dating of the drawings is their style which is close to that of the work of the last period of Stradanus' long career. In these years his style evolved from Mannerism to an early Baroque idiom, with an increasing concentration on lucidly structured compositions with quite large, plastic figures in a clearly defined space. Other striking elements are the genre-like conception of predominantly Biblical or literary themes, the narrative manner and the far-reaching detailing. The drawings discussed here can be dated c.1595 on the basis of their closeness to such sets of that period as Nova Reperta, Vcrmis Sericus and The Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit (Note 48). Nothing can be said, however, about the reasons behind the set. An appendix is devoted to a discussion of Stradanus and the so-called Crucifix of St. Giovanni Gualberto. The miracle of the crucifix, first related by Bishop Atto of Pistoia (d. 1153) in his lift of the saint, later came to be localized in S. Miniato, where a Medieval crucifix painted on panel was identified as the legendary one that bowed its head to the saint (Note 49). This crucifix is first mentioned in the 14th century in the crypt (Note 50), but in the 15th century it was set in front of the nave of the upper church in a ciborium made for it by Michelozzo to the commission of Piero de' Medici. In 1671 it was moved to S. Trinita where in 1897 it was installed in its present position in the chapel to the right of the high altar. The crucifix (Fig.20) has been cut down on all sides and so overpainted that it is no longer possible to discover its precise date (Note 51). That the Virgin and St. John were originally to be seen on the side panels emerges from the description by F. Tacca (Note 52), while some idea of them can be gained from an engraving by Th. Verkruys after Fr. Soderini (Fig. 21, Note 54). They were probably painted over after 1856 (Note 53). A small study by Stradanus (Fig. 22, Note 55) can be linked with this crucifix, while the correction of the halo and the hatching to the right of Christ's head give the impression that the head is bent forward away from the cross, so that the study can be seen as a rendering of the moment when the head bowed to St. Giovanni Gualberto in gratitude. Although it is fairly close in type to the crucifix which Stradanus could have seen in S. Miniato, it is in all probability not a reliable rendering of it (Note 57). It will have been done in connection with his sketch The Miracle of the Crucifix (Fig.I) and shows that at a certain stage he thought of depicting the crucifix frontally. In the sketch however he has switched to a sculptured crucifix, perhaps because of the difficulty of rendering the bowing of a head on a painted panel seen from the side.

RESUMENLa historia del cristianismo no se entiende sin el complejo fenómeno mariano. El culto mariano ha afianzado la construcción de identidades colectivas, pero también individuales. La figura de la Virgen María estableció un modelo de conducta desde cada contexto histórico-cultural, remarcando especialmente los ideales de maternidad y virginidad. Dentro del imaginario católico, la Europa contemporánea ha estado marcada por la formación de una cultura aparicionista que se ha generadoa partir de diversas apariciones marianas que han establecido un canon y un marco de interpretación que ha alimentado las guerras culturales entre secularismo y catolicismo.PALABRAS CLAVE: catolicismo, Virgen María, cultura aparicionista, Lourdes, guerras culturales.ABSTRACTThe history of Christianity cannot be understood without the complex Marian phenomenon. Marian devotion has reinforced the construction of collective, but also of individual identities. 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RESUMENEl objetivo de este artículo es reflexionar sobre los mecanismos de financiación y de control de las instituciones religiosas por los laicos en las primeras décadas de la conquista y colonización de Hispanoamérica. Investigar sobre la inversión laica en lo sagrado supone en un primer lugar aclarar la historiografía sobre laicos, religión y dinero en las sociedades de Antiguo Régimen y su trasposición en América, planteando una mirada desde el punto de vista de las motivaciones múltiples de los actores seglares. A través del ejemplo de restituciones, donaciones y legados en losAndes, se explora el papel de los laicos españoles, y también de las poblaciones indígenas, en el establecimiento de la densa red de instituciones católicas que se construye entonces. La propuesta postula el protagonismo de actores laicos en la construcción de un espacio cristiano en los Andes peruanos en el siglo XVI y principios del XVII, donde la inversión económica permite contribuir a la transición de una sociedad de guerra y conquista a una sociedad corporativa pacificada.PALABRAS CLAVE: Hispanoamérica-Andes, religión, economía, encomienda, siglos XVI y XVII.ABSTRACTThis article aims to reflect on the mechanisms of financing and control of religious institutions by the laity in the first decades of the conquest and colonization of Spanish America. Investigating lay investment in the sacred sphere means first of all to clarifying historiography on laity, religion and money within Ancien Régime societies and their transposition to America, taking into account the multiple motivations of secular actors. The example of restitutions, donations and legacies inthe Andes enables us to explore the role of the Spanish laity and indigenous populations in the establishment of the dense network of Catholic institutions that was established during this period. The proposal postulates the role of lay actors in the construction of a Christian space in the Peruvian Andes in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, when economic investment contributed to the transition from a society of war and conquest to a pacified, corporate society.KEY WORDS: Hispanic America-Andes, religion, economics, encomienda, 16th and 17th centuries. BIBLIOGRAFIAAbercrombie, T., “Tributes to Bad Conscience: Charity, Restitution, and Inheritance in Cacique and Encomendero Testaments of 16th-Century Charcas”, en Kellogg, S. y Restall, M. 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Abstract In 1856–7 the French diplomat Charles de Montigny visited the three countries of Siam, Cambodia and Vietnam, hoping to establish some form of formal relations with all three. While he was able to sign a full diplomatic and commercial treaty in Bangkok, his negotiations with the Cambodian and Vietnamese rulers were largely fruitless. Even so, Montigny's visit prepared the ground for future French intervention and can be considered as the beginning of French implantation in Southeast Asia. Yet this article argues that his mission must be understood not as an episode of “gunboat diplomacy” resulting in “unequal treaties”, but rather as an example of largely non-coercive diplomacy occurring within an imperial framework.

O presente artigo pon en común as principais conclusións extraídas do estudo de La Oliva (1856-1857), xornal ligado ó Rexurdimento. As disciplinas científicas traballadas abranguen dende a socioloxía até a historia da literatura, dende a comunicación até a construción da identidade.

Newborn Tomato Anemonefish (Amphiprion frenatus Brevoort 1856) from egg batch were divided into 4 treatments in triplicate. Open culture system included 15 liter glass tanks with 40 fish/tank. The fish were promptly separately fed with 4 different feeding regimes. The results showed that the survival of the fish fed on rotifers (Brachionus plicatilis) (5-7 ind./ml) combined with Nannochloropsis oculata (104-106 cells/ml) (after one day of hatching) and nauplii Artemia (57 ind./ml) (after three days of hatching) was significantly higher (70.83 to 72.50%) compared to those of the fish fed on nauplii Artemia instead of rotifers (10.83 to 27.50%). The average length of 30-day old fish fed on rotifers combined with Nannochloropsis oculata and nauplii Artemia (19mm) was significantly higher than those of the fish fed on comrnercial diet (Frippak 300) instead of nauplii Artemia (14mm). In addition, the 30 day old fish fed on rotifers was in similar length (SD: ±0.71 to ± 0. 74) compared to those of the fish fed on nauplii Artemia instead of rotifers (SD: ± 0.1 to ± 2.99).

The Heart of Redness (2000) by Zakes Mda deals with an epistemological conflict and exposes the hideousness of colonial epistemology in dismantling indigenous belief systems and commodifying South African land and ecology. The novel revisits the decisive event of cattle killing in 1856–57, following Nongqawuse’s prophecy, and juxtaposes it with the cultural and epistemic clash of two factions, Believers and Unbelievers, in the post-apartheid era. The present article analyses the unresolved breach between the Believers and the Unbelievers and notes how the latter’s appropriation of Western modernity’s notion of progress and civilization perpetuates the interventions of capitalist forces, aggravating serious threats to land protection and indigenous ecology. The article focuses on Mda’s critique of the South Africans’ compliance with the colonial models of civilization and probes how the novel emphasizes delinking and repudiating the patterns and perceptions of development normalized by Western modernity. In so doing, Mda’s novel foregrounds the necessity of indulging in what Mignolo (2009) terms “epistemic disobedience” and endorses critical decolonial thinking and praxis to counter covert forms of colonial oppression and capitalist objectification. The article extends the notion of “decolonial turn” (Maldonado-Torres, 2008; Grosfoguel, 2007) by arguing that the novel elucidates a “decolonial ecological turn” to combat extractivist agendas and exploitative policies, preserve indigenous ecology, and foster alternative ways of sustainable collective living.

Abstract Background Patients with rare cancers face challenges in the diagnostic and treatment phase, and in access to clinical expertise. Since studies on health care experiences of these patients in comparison to patients with more common cancers are scarce, we aimed to explore these differences. Methods Data were cross-sectionally collected among (former) adult cancer patients through a national online survey in the Netherlands (October 2019). Descriptive statistics were reported and subgroups (rare vs. common patients) were compared. Results In total, 7343 patients (i.e., 1856 rare and 5487 common cancer patients) participated. Rare cancer patients were more often diagnosed and treated in different hospitals compared to common cancer patients (67% vs. 59%, p < 0.001). Rare cancer patients received treatment more often in a single hospital (60% vs. 57%, p = 0.014), but reported more negative experiences when treated in multiple hospitals than common cancer patients (14% vs. 9%, p < 0.001). They also more often received advise from their physician about the hospital to go to for a second opinion (50% vs. 36%, p < 0.001), were more likely to choose a hospital specialized in their cancer type (33% vs. 22%, p < 0.001), and were more willing to travel as long as necessary to receive specialized care than common cancer patients (55% vs. 47%, p < 0.001). Conclusions Rare and common cancer patients differ in their health care experiences. Health care for rare cancer patients can be further improved by proper referral to centers of expertise and building a clinical network specifically for rare cancers.

Abstract Coronary artery fistula (CAF) is defined as anomalous communication between coronary arteries and cardiac chamber or a major thoracic vessel. CAF are a rare coronary anomaly, mostly congenital, first described by Krause in 1856. In literature the incidence in general population is approximately 0,002%. Detection of CAF during coronary angiography is usually accidental. In 50% of cases CAF originate from right coronary artery, in 30% they originate from LAD, while in the rest of the percentage CAF originate from left circumflex artery. CAF drain into low–pressure chamber (right ventricle or right atrium, superior Vena Cava or pulmonary artery). We can distinguish CAF into little or medium sized, usually with silent clinical course, and large sized CAF, with variable clinical signs, depending on the extent of the shunt and on the hemodynamic overload of the receiving chamber. We describe the case of a 57 y.o woman with hypertension, admitted for femur fracture. ECG showed bifasic T waves in the anterior leads, already described in a previous ECG. Normal systolic function and no valvular defect were found on the echocardiogram. Patient was asymptomatic. Coronary angiography documented normal coronary arteries, with a double coronary fistula: the first from a septal branch of posterior descending and the second one from distal branches of the first diagonal. Even if CAF have often a favorable clinical course with no relevant consequences for the patient, it’s crucial to obtain more information about their functional implication and their anatomic connections. Indeed, rare cases of sudden cardiac death have been described in patients with CAF involved in myocardial ischemia based on the theft syndrome mechanism. Echocardiographic evaluation of the patient to detect associated congenital abnormalities, pressure overload of the receiving chambers and the extent of the shunt on the coronary angiography are crucial for the proper management of CAF. In the case described above we decided to optimize therapy adding beta–blocker (to reduce the overload caused by the two coronary fistula).

Abstract Background and Aims Obstetric acute renal failure (OARF) remains a frequent and serious complication that engages the maternal and fetal prognosis. The objective of our work is to develop a predictive model of obstetric acute renal failure in the intensive care setting. Method To meet our objective we conducted a retrospective comparative and analytical study spread over a period of 7 years, from January 2014 to September 2021 within the obstetric resuscitation department of ABDERRAHIM HAROUCHI hospital of CHU Ibn Rochd of Casablanca. We have thus distinguished two groups of parturients: • Group 1 “ OARF + ” : parturients with ARF (n = 863) • Group 2 “ OARF -” : parturients without ARF (n = 1856 Results During this period 2719 obstetric admissions in intensive care were collected including 863 cases of ARF that we classified according to the KDIGO classification with a percentage of stages I, II and III respectively of 45.2%, 28.5% and 25.3% of cases. The average age of our OARF+ sample was 28.6±5.4 years. 40% of the parturients in this group were primiparous and 60% were multiparous, with the majority of cases occurring between 20 and 28 weeks' gestation (32%). OARF was associated with pre-eclampsia in 57% of cases, hemorrhagic shock in 37.19% of cases and severe sepsis in 31.74% of cases. Extra renal purification was necessary in 148 parturients (17.2%) and the mortality rate in the OARF+ group was 26.18%. In univariate analysis, the clinico-biological risk factors for the occurrence of obstetric ARF were haemostasis disorders (p &lt; 0.001), hypertension (p &lt; 0.001), oligo-anuria (p = 0.002), severe anaemia (p &lt; 0.001) and thrombocytopenia (p &lt; 0.001). As for the etiological factors, our analysis allowed us to retain pre-eclampsia (p &lt; 0.001), hemorrhagic shock (p &lt; 0.001), sepsis (p &lt; 0.001), Hellp Syndrome (p = 0.002) and DIC (p = 0.002). Conclusion Pre-eclampsia, pre- and postpartum hemorrhage, and sepsis represent the main etiologies of obstetric ARF, which is a frequent obstetric complication in the ICU setting and responsible for significant maternal morbidity and mortality. The determination of the risk factors for the occurrence of such a complication allowed us to detect and prevent the patients at risk.

To compare the IGF-1 levels, metabolic and clinical parameters among the ultrasonographically classified non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD) groups and determine the factors that may predict the NAFLD severity in patients with morbid obesity.This study was conducted on 316 morbidly obese patients (250 females, 66 males). The data of patients before and 1st-year after bariatric surgery were recorded. According to the ultrasonographically NAFLD screening, patients with normal hepatic features were classified as Group 1(n=57), with mild and moderate NAFLD were classified as Group 2(n=219), and with severe NAFLD were classified as Group 3(n=40). IGF-1 standard deviation scores (SDSIGF1) were calculated according to age and gender. Parameters that could predict the presence and severity of NAFLD were evaluated. IGF-1 levels were significantly associated with Group 3 than Group 1(p=0.037), and the significance remained between the same groups when IGF-1 levels were standardized as SDSIGF1(p=0.036). Liver diameter explained 50% of presence severe NAFLD than the normal group and %13 of presence severe NAFLD than the mild-moderate NAFLD group (p<0.001 for both). FPG, ALT, AST, and GGT were also significant predictors for severe NAFLD. There were significant differences between pre-and postop values in all groups (p<0.001). IGF-1 might be considered a significant predictor of severe NAFLD in morbidly obese patients. It is crucial in clinical practice to determine predictive factors of NAFLD that could support the diagnosis accompanied by non-invasive imaging methods. Studies are needed to validate the clinical utility of IGF-1 in the NAFLD disease course.

Introdução: Os anestésicos locais são substâncias químicas capazes de bloquear de forma reversível a transmissão de impulsos nervosos no local onde forem aplicados, sendo fundamentais no âmbito da Odontologia para controle da dor. Objetivo: Realizar revisão de literatura sobre os principais anestésicos locais utilizados na Odontologia. Metodologia: O estudo trata-se de uma revisão narrativa realizada entre os meses de janeiro e março de 2018. As bases de dados para a busca da literatura foram Scielo, Pubmed, Web of Science, Bireme. As palavras-chaves usadas foram “Anestésicos Locais”, “Mecanismos de Ação”, “Farmacologia”, “Odontologia”, “Relação Estrutura-atividade”, “Canais de Sódio”, presentes no DeCS. Discussão: A cocaína foi o primeiro composto a ser utilizado como anestésico local e foi a partir desta que os novos anestésicos foram desenvolvidos. Os anestésicos locais apresentam na sua estrutura molecular um anel aromático, uma cadeia intermediária e um grupo amina. Eles atuam sobre os neurônios e seu sítio de ação são os canais de sódio dependente de voltagem, aos quais se ligam reversivelmente, abolindo a excitabilidade neuronal. A classificação dos anestésicos locais é definida quanto à estrutura química e quanto à duração de ação, sendo os principais utilizados na Odontologia lidocaína, mepivacaína, articaína, prilocaína, cloridrato de bupivacaína. Conclusão: Conforme a literatura revisada, é necessário o conhecimento do cirurgião-dentista sobre as características farmacológicas individuais dos anestésicos locais e as sistêmicas do paciente para uma escolha correta, já que sua utilização é variável para cada usuário, e a manipulação inadequada desses fármacos pode levar a sérios riscos para a saúde do paciente.Descritores: Odontologia; Anestésicos locais; Farmacologia; Relação Estrutura-Atividade; Canais de Sódio; Mecanismos Moleculares de Ação Farmacológica.Almeida FM. Controle medicamentoso da dor. In: Estrela C. Dor odontogênica. 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Manual de anestesia local. 6. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier; 2013.Ferreira AAA, Silva ID, Diniz RS, Guerra GCB. Anestésicos locais: revisando o mecanismo de ação molecular. Infarma. 2006;18(5/6):15-18.Anjos ED, Carvalho RWF. Complicações sistêmicas em anestesia local. In: Lubiana NB. Pro-Odonto Cirurgia. 2. ed. Porto Alegre: Artmed; 2007. p.143-78.Carvalho RWF, Pereira CU, Anjos ED, Laureano Filho JR, Vasconcelos BCE. Anestésicos locais: como escolher e prevenir complicações sistêmicas. Rev Port Estomatol Med Dent Cir Maxilofac. 2010;51(2):113-20.Teixeira RN. Anestesia local sem vasoconstritor versus com vasoconstritor [dissertação] Porto, Portugal: Faculdade de Ciências da Saúde, Universidade Fernando Pessoa; 2014.Carvalho B, Fritzen EL, Parodes AG, Santos RB, Gedoz L. O emprego dos anestésicos locais em Odontologia: revisão de literatura. Rev bras odontol. 2013;70(2):178-81.Santaella GM. Soluções anestésicas locais: uma revisão de literatura [monografia]: Florianópolis: Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina; 2011.Reis Jr A. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) e Karl Köller (1857-1944) e a descoberta da anestesia local. Rev Bras Anestesiol. 2009;59(2):244-57. Bobbio A. História Sinótica da Anestesia. São Paulo: Novel; 1969.Byck R. Freud e a Cocaína. Rio de Janeiro: Espaço e Tempo; 1989.Araújo DR, Paula E, Fraceto LF. Anestésicos locais: interação com membranas biológicas e com o canal de sódio voltagem-dependente. Quim Nova. 2008;31(7):1775-83.Catterall WA, Mackie K. Local anesthetics. In: Brunton LL, Lazo JS, Parker KL. Goodman and Gillman’s the pharmacologic basis of therapeutics. 11. ed. New York: McGraw Hill; 2006. p. 369-85.Carvalho JCA. Farmacologia dos anestésicos locais. Rev Bras Anestesiol. 1994;44(1):75-82.Faria FAC, Marzola C. Farmacologia dos anestésicos locais – considerações gerias. BCI. 2001;8(29):19-30.Bahl R. Local anestesia in dentistry. Anesth Prog. 2004;51(4):138-42.Udelsmann A, Dreyer E, Melo MS, Bonfim MR, Borsoi LFA, Oliveira TG. Lipídeos nas intoxicações por anestésicos locais. ABCD arq bras cir dig. 2012;25(3):169-72.Fozzard HA, Lee PJ, Lipkind JM. Mechanism of local anesthetic drug action on voltage-gated sodium channels. Curr Pharm Des. 2005;11(21):2671-86.Jackson T, Mclure HA. Pharmacology of local anesthetics. Ophthalmol Clin North Am. 2006;19(2):155-61.Schulman JM, Strichartz GR. Farmacologia dos Anestésicos Locais. In: Golan DE, Tashjian Jr AH, Armstrong EJ, Armstrong AW. Princípios de Farmacologia: a base fisiopatológica da farmacoterapia. 2. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2009. p.131-145.Golan DE, Tashjian Jr AH, Armstrong EJ, Armstrong AW. Princípios de Farmacologia: a base fisiopatológica da farmacoterapia. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2014.Marieb EM, Hoehn K. Anatomia e Fisiologia. 3. ed. Porto Alegre: Artmed; 2009.Carvalho-De-Souza JL. Análise do efeito inibitório do eugenol sobre canais para Na+ ativados por voltagem em neurônios sensitivos [tese]. São Paulo: Instituto de Ciências Biomédicas – USP; 2009.Andrade ED. Terapêutica medicamentosa em odontologia. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Artes Médicas; 2014.Parise GK, Ferranti KN, Grando CP. Sais anestésicos utilizados na odontologia: revisão de literatura. J Oral Investig. 2017;6(1):75-84.Gordh T. Lidocaine: the origino of a modern local anesthetic. Anesthesiology. 2010;113(6):1433-37.Peñarrocha M, Sanchis BJM, Martínez GJM. Anestesia local em odontologia. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2008.DEF. Dicionário de especialidades farmacêuticas 2016. 44. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Publicações Científicas; 2016.Vasconcelos RJH, Nogueira RVB, Leal AKR, Oliveira CTV, Bezerra JGB. Alterações sistêmicas decorrente do uso da lidocaína e prilocaína na prática odontológica. Rev cir traumatol buco-maxilo-fac. 2002;1(2):13-19.Montan MF, Cogo K, Bergamaschi CC, Volpato MC, Andrade ED. Mortalidade relacionada ao uso de anestésicos locais em odontologia. RGO. 2007;55(2):197-202.Gaffen AS, Haas DA. Survey of local anesthetic use by ontario dentists. J Can Dent Assoc. 2009;75(9):649.Souza LMA, Ramacciato JC, Motta RHL. Uso de Anestésicos locais em pacientes idosos. RGO. 2011;59:25-30.Yagiela JA, Dowd FJ, Johnson BS, Mariotti AJ, Neidle EA. Farmacologia e terapêutica para dentistas. 6. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier; 2011.Mojumdar EH, Lyubartsev AP. Molecular dynamics simulations of local anesthetic articaine in a lipid bilayer. Biophys Chem. 2010;153(1):27-35.Maniglia-Ferreira C, Almeida-Gomes F, Carvalho-Sousa B, Barbosa AV, Lins CC, Souza FD et al. Clinical evaluation of three anesthetics in endodontics. Acta Odontol Latinoam. 2009;22(1):21-6.Moore PA, Doll B, Delie RA, Hersh EV, Korostoff J, Johnson S et al. 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In Victorian times, when female travel narratives were read as excursions rather than expeditions, it was common for women authors to preface their travels with an apology. “What this book wants,” begins Mary Kingsley’s Travels in West Africa, “is not a simple preface but an apology, and a very brilliant and convincing one at that” (4). This tendency of the woman writer to depreciate her travel with an acknowledgment of its presumptuousness crafted her apology essentially as an admission of guilt. “Where I have offered my opinions,” Isabella Bird writes in The Englishwoman in America, “I have done so with extreme diffidence, giving impressions rather than conclusions” (2). While Elizabeth Howells has since argued the apologetic preface was in fact an opposing strategy that allowed women writers to assert their authority by averting it, it is certainly telling of the time and genre that a female writer could only defend her work by first excusing it. The personal apology may have emerged as the natural response to social restrictions but it has not been without consequence for female travel. The female position, often constructed as communal, is still problematised in contemporary travel texts. While there has been a traceable shift from apology to affirmation since the first women travellers abandoned their embroidery, it seems some sense of lingering culpability still remains. In many ways, the modern female traveller, like the early lady traveller, is still a displaced woman. She still sets out cautiously, guide book in hand. Often she writes, like the female confessant, in an attempt to recover what Virginia Woolf calls “the lives of the obscure”: those found locked in old diaries, stuffed away in old drawers or simply unrecorded (44). Often she speaks insistently of the abstract things which Kingsley, ironically, wrote so easily and extensively about. She is, however, even when writing from within the confines of her own home, still writing from abroad. Women’s solitary or “unescorted” travel, even in contemporary times, is considered less common in the Western world, with recurrent travel warnings constantly targeted at female travellers. Travelling women are always made aware of the limits of their body and its vulnerabilities. Mary Morris comments on “the fear of rape, for example, whether crossing the Sahara or just crossing a city street at night” (xvii). While a certain degree of danger always exists in travel for men and women alike and while it is inevitable that some of those risks are gender-specific, travel is frequently viewed as far more hazardous for women. Guide books, travel magazines and online advice columns targeted especially at female readers are cramped with words of concern and caution for women travellers. Often, the implicit message that women are too weak and vulnerable to travel is packaged neatly into “a cache of valuable advice” with shocking anecdotes and officious chapters such as “Dealing with Officials”, “Choosing Companions” or “If You Become a Victim” (Swan and Laufer vii). As these warnings are usually levelled at white, middle to upper class women who have the freedom and financing to travel, the question arises as to what is really at risk when women take to the road. It seems the usual dialogue between issues of mobility and issues of safety can be read more complexly as confusions between questions of mobility and morality. As Kristi Siegel explains, “among the various subtexts embedded in these travel warnings is the long-held fear of ‘women on the loose’” (4). According to Karen Lawrence, travel has always entailed a “risky and rewardingly excessive” terrain for women because of the historical link between wandering and promiscuity (240). Paul Hyland has even suggested that the nature of travel itself is “gloriously” promiscuous: “the shifting destination, arrival again and again, the unknown possessed, the quest for an illusory home” (211). This construction of female travel as a desire to wander connotes straying behaviours that are often cast in sexual terms. The identification of these traits in early criminological research, such as 19th century studies of cacogenic families, is often linked to travel in a broad sense. According to Nicolas Hahn’s study, Too Dumb to Know Better, contributors to the image of the “bad” woman frequently cite three traits as characteristic. “First, they have pictured her as irresolute and all too easily lead. Second, they have usually shown her to be promiscuous and a good deal more lascivious than her virtuous sister. Third, they have often emphasised the bad woman’s responsibility for not only her own sins, but those of her mate and descendents as well” (3). Like Eve, who wanders around the edge of the garden, the promiscuous woman has long been said to have a wandering disposition. Interestingly, however, both male and female travel writers have at different times and for dissimilar reasons assumed hermaphroditic identities while travelling. The female traveller, for example, may assume the figure of “the observer” or “the reporter with historical and political awareness”, while the male traveller may feminise his behaviours to confront inevitabilities of confinement and mortality (Fortunati, Monticelli and Ascari 11). Female travellers such as Alexandra David-Neel and Isabelle Eberhardt who ventured out of the home and cross-dressed for safety or success, deliberately and fully appropriated traditional roles of the male sex. Often, this attempt by female wanderers to fulfil their own intentions in cognito evaded their dismissal as wild and unruly women and asserted their power over those duped by their disguise. Those women who did travel openly into the world were often accused of flaunting the gendered norms of female decorum with their “so-called unnatural and inappropriate behaviour” (Siegel 3). The continued harnessing of this cultural taboo by popular media continues to shape contemporary patterns of female travel. In fact, as a result of perceived connections between wandering and danger, the narrative of the woman traveller often emerges as a self-conscious fiction where “the persona who emerges on the page is as much a character as a woman in a novel” (Bassnett 234). This process of self-fictionalising converts the travel writing into a graph of subliminal fears and desires. In Tracks, for example, which is Robyn Davidson’s account of her solitary journey by camel across the Australian desert, Davidson shares with her readers the single, unvarying warning she received from the locals while preparing for her expedition. That was, if she ventured into the desert alone without a guide or male accompaniment, she would be attacked and raped by an Aboriginal man. In her opening pages, Davidson recounts a conversation in the local pub when one of the “kinder regulars” warns her: “You ought to be more careful, girl, you know you’ve been nominated by some of these blokes as the next town rape case” (19). “I felt really frightened for the first time,” Davidson confesses (20). Perhaps no tale better depicts this gendered troubling than the fairytale of Little Red Riding Hood. In the earliest versions of the story, Little Red outwits the Wolf with her own cunning and escapes without harm. By the time the first printed version emerges, however, the story has dramatically changed. Little Red now falls for the guise of the Wolf, and tricked by her captor, is eaten without rescue or escape. Charles Perrault, who is credited with the original publication, explains the moral at the end of the tale, leaving no doubt to its intended meaning. “From this story one learns that children, especially young lasses, pretty, courteous and well-bred, do very wrong to listen to strangers, and it is not an unheard thing if the Wolf is thereby provided with his dinner” (77). Interestingly, in the Grimm Brothers’ version which emerges two centuries later an explicit warning now appears in the tale, in the shape of the mother’s instruction to “walk nicely and quietly, and not run off the path” (144). This new inclusion sanitises the tale and highlights the slippages between issues of mobility and morality. Where Little Red once set out with no instruction not to wander, she is now told plainly to stay on the path; not for her own safety but for implied matters of virtue. If Little Red strays while travelling alone she risks losing her virginity and, of course, her virtue (Siegel 55). Essentially, this is what is at stake when Little Red wanders; not that she will get lost in the woods and be unable to find her way, but that in straying from the path and purposefully disobeying her mother, she will no longer be “a dear little girl” (Grimm 144). In the Grimms’ version, Red Riding Hood herself critically reflects on her trespassing from the safe space of the village to the dangerous world of the forest and makes a concluding statement that demonstrates she has learnt her lesson. “As long as I live, I will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so” (149). Red’s message to her female readers is representative of the social world’s message to its women travellers. “We are easily distracted and disobedient, we are not safe alone in the woods (travelling off the beaten path); we are fairly stupid; we get ourselves into trouble; and we need to be rescued by a man” (Siegel 56). As Siegel explains, even Angela Carter’s Red Riding Hood, who bursts out laughing when the Wolf says “all the better to eat you with” for “she knew she was nobody’s meat” (219), still shocks readers when she uses her virginity to take power over the voracious Wolf. In Carter’s world “children do not stay young for long,” and Little Red, who has her knife and is “afraid of nothing”, is certainly no exception (215). Yet in the end, when Red seduces the Wolf and falls asleep between his paws, there is still a sense this is a twist ending. As Siegel explains, “even given the background Carter provides in the story’s beginning, the scene startles. We knew the girl was strong, independent, and armed. However, the pattern of woman-alone-travelling-alone-helpless-alone-victim is so embedded in our consciousness we are caught off guard” (57). In Roald Dahl’s revolting rhyme, Little Red is also awarded agency, not through sexual prerogative, but through the enactment of traits often considered synonymous with male bravado: quick thinking, wit and cunning. After the wolf devours Grandmamma, Red pulls a pistol from her underpants and shoots him dead. “The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers. She whips a pistol from her knickers. She aims it at the creature’s head and bang bang bang, she shoots him dead” (lines 48—51). In the weeks that follow Red’s triumph she even takes a trophy, substituting her red cloak for a “furry wolfskin coat” (line 57). While Dahl subverts female stereotypes through Red’s decisive action and immediacy, there is still a sense, perhaps heightened by the rhyming couplets, that we are not to take the shooting seriously. Instead, Red’s girrrl-power is an imagined celebration; it is something comical to be mused over, but its shock value lies in its impossibility; it is not at all believable. While the sexual overtones of the tale have become more explicit in contemporary film adaptations such as David Slade’s Hard Candy and Catherine Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood, the question that arises is what is really at threat, or more specifically who is threatened, when women travel off the well-ordered path of duty. As this problematic continues to surface in discussions of the genre, other more nuanced readings have also distorted the purpose and practice of women’s travel. Some psychoanalytical theorists, for example, have adopted Freud’s notion of travel as an escape from the family, particularly the father figure. In his essay A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis, Freud explains how his own longing to travel was “a wish to escape from that pressure, like the force which drives so many adolescent children to run away from home” (237). “When one first catches sight of the sea,” Freud writes, “one feels oneself like a hero who has performed deeds of improbable greatness” (237). The inherent gender trouble with such a reading is the suggestion women only move in search of a quixotic male figure, “fleeing from their real or imaginary powerful fathers and searching for an idealised and imaginary ‘loving father’ instead” (Berger 55). This kind of thinking reduces the identities of modern women to fragile, unfinished selves, whose investment in travel is always linked to recovering or resisting a male self. Such readings neglect the unique history of women’s travel writing as they dismiss differences in the male and female practice and forget that “travel itself is a thoroughly gendered category” (Holland and Huggan 111). Freud’s experience of travel, for example, his description of feeling like a “hero” who has achieved “improbable greatness” is problematised by the female context, since the possibility arises that women may travel with different e/motions and, indeed, motives to their male counterparts. For example, often when a female character does leave home it is to escape an unhappy marriage, recover from a broken heart or search for new love. Elizabeth Gilbert’s best selling travelogue, Eat, Pray, Love (which spent 57 weeks at the number one spot of the New York Times), found its success on the premise of a once happily married woman who, reeling from a contentious divorce, takes off around the world “in search of everything” (1). Since its debut, the novel has been accused of being self-absorbed and sexist, and even branded by the New York Post as “narcissistic New Age reading, curated by Winfrey” (Callahan par 13). Perhaps most interesting for discussions of travel morality, however, is Bitch magazine’s recent article Eat, Pray, Spend, which suggests that the positioning of the memoir as “an Everywoman’s guide to whole, empowered living” typifies a new literature of privilege that excludes “all but the most fortunate among us from participating” (Sanders and Barnes-Brown par 7). Without seeking to limit the novel with separatist generalisations, the freedoms of Elizabeth Gilbert (a wealthy, white American novelist) to leave home and to write about her travels afterwards have not always been the freedoms of all women. As a result of this problematic, many contemporary women mark out alternative patterns of movement when travelling, often moving deliberately in a variety of directions and at varying paces, in an attempt to resist their placelessness in the travel genre and in the mappable world. As Heidi Slettedahl Macpherson, speaking of Housekeeping’s Ruthie and Sylvie, explains, “they do not travel ever westward in search of some frontier space, nor do they travel across great spaces. Rather, they circle, they drift, they wander” (199). As a result of this double displacement, women have to work twice as hard to be considered credible travellers, particularly since travel is traditionally a male discursive practice. In this tradition, the male is often constructed as the heroic explorer while the female is mapped as a place on his itinerary. She is a point of conquest, a land to be penetrated, a site to be mapped and plotted, but rarely a travelling equal. Annette Kolodny considers this metaphor of “land-as-woman” (67) in her seminal work, The Lay of the Land, in which she discusses “men’s impulse to alter, penetrate and conquer” unfamiliar space (87). Finally, it often emerges that even when female travel focuses specifically on an individual or collective female experience, it is still read in opposition to the long tradition of travelling men. In their introduction to Amazonian, Dea Birkett and Sara Wheeler maintain the primary difference between male and female travel writers is that “the male species” has not become extinct (vii). The pair, who have theorised widely on New Travel Writing, identify some of the myths and misconceptions of the female genre, often citing their own encounters with androcentrism in the industry. “We have found that even when people are confronted by a real, live woman travel writer, they still get us wrong. In the time allowed for questions after a lecture, we are regularly asked, ‘Was that before you sailed around the world or after?’ even though neither of us has ever done any such thing” (xvii). The obvious bias in such a comment is an archaic view of what qualifies as “good” travel and a preservation of the stereotypes surrounding women’s intentions in leaving home. As Birkett and Wheeler explain, “the inference here is that to qualify as travel writers women must achieve astonishing and record-breaking feats. Either that, or we’re trying to get our hands down some man’s trousers. One of us was once asked by the president of a distinguished geographical institution, ‘What made you go to Chile? Was it a guy?’” (xviii). In light of such comments, there remain traceable difficulties for contemporary female travel. As travel itself is inherently gendered, its practice has often been “defined by men according to the dictates of their experience” (Holland and Huggan 11). As a result, its discourse has traditionally reinforced male prerogatives to wander and female obligations to wait. Even the travel trade itself, an industry that often makes its profits out of preying on fear, continues to shape the way women move through the world. While the female traveller then may no longer preface her work with an explicit apology, there are still signs she is carrying some historical baggage. It is from this site of trouble that new patterns of female travel will continue to emerge, distinguishably and defiantly, towards a much more colourful vista of general misrule. References Bassnett, Susan. “Travel Writing and Gender.” The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing, eds. Peter Hulme and Tim Youngs, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002. 225-40. Berger, Arthur Asa. Deconstructing Travel: Cultural Perspectives on Tourism. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2004. Bird, Isabella. The Englishwoman in America. London: John Murray, 1856. Birkett, Dea, and Sara Wheeler, eds. Amazonian: The Penguin Book of New Women’s Travel Writing. London: Penguin, 1998. Callahan, Maureen. “Eat, Pray, Loathe: Latest Self-Help Bestseller Proves Faith is Blind.” New York Post 23 Dec. 2007. Carter, Angela. “The Company of Wolves.” Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories. London: Vintage, 1995. 212-20. Dahl, Roald. Revolting Rhymes. London: Puffin Books, 1982. Davidson, Robyn. Tracks. London: Jonathan Cape, 1980. Fortunati, Vita, Rita Monticelli, and Maurizio Ascari, eds. Travel Writing and the Female Imaginary. Bologna: Patron Editore, 2001. Freud, Sigmund. “A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis.” The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. XXII. New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis and Other Works, 1936. 237-48. Gilbert, Elizabeth. Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia. New Jersey: Penguin, 2007. Grimm, Jacob, and Wilhelm Grimm. “Little Red Riding Hood.” Grimms’ Fairy Tales, London: Jonathan Cape, 1962. 144-9. Hahn, Nicolas. “Too Dumb to Know Better: Cacogenic Family Studies and the Criminology of Women.” Criminology 18.1 (1980): 3-25. Hard Candy. Dir. David Slade. Lionsgate. 2005. Holland, Patrick, and Graham Huggan. Tourists with Typewriters: Critical Reflections on Contemporary Travel Writing. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2003. Howells, Elizabeth. “Apologizing for Authority: The Rhetoric of the Prefaces of Eliza Cook, Isabelle Bird, and Hannah More.” Professing Rhetoric: Selected Papers from the 2000 Rhetoric Society of America Conference, eds. F.J. Antczak, C. Coggins, and G.D. Klinger. London: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 2002. 131-7. Hyland, Paul. The Black Heart: A Voyage into Central Africa. New York: Paragon House, 1988. Kingsley, Mary. Travels in West Africa. Middlesex: The Echo Library, 2008. Kolodny, Annette. The Lay of the Land: Metaphor as Experience and History in American Life and Letters. USA: U of North Carolina P, 1975. Lawrence, Karen. Penelope Voyages: Women and Travel in the British Literary Tradition. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1994. Morris, Mary. Maiden Voyages: Writings of Women Travellers. New York: Vintage Books, 1993. Perrault, Charles. Perrault’s Complete Fairytales. Trans. A.E. Johnson and others. London: Constable & Company, 1961. Red Riding Hood. Dir. Catherine Hardwicke. Warner Bros. 2011. Sanders, Joshunda, and Diana Barnes-Brown. “Eat, Pray, Spend: Priv-Lit and the New, Enlightened American Dream” Bitch Magazine 47 (2010). 10 May, 2011 < http://bitchmagazine.org/article/eat-pray-spend >. Siegel, Kristi. Ed. Gender, Genre, and Identity in Women’s Travel Writing. New York: Peter Lang, 2004. Slettedahl Macpherson, Heidi. “Women’s Travel Writing and the Politics of Location: Somewhere In-Between.” Gender, Genre, and Identity in Women’s Travel Writing, ed. Kristi Siegel. New York: Peter Lang, 2004. 194-207. Swan, Sheila, and Peter Laufer. Safety and Security for Women who Travel. 2nd ed. San Francisco: Travelers’ Tales, 2004. Woolf, Virginia. Women and Writing. London: The Women’s Press, 1979.

The Leichhardt Highway is a six hundred-kilometre stretch of sealed inland road that joins the Australian Queensland border town of Goondiwindi with the Capricorn Highway, just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Named after the young Prussian naturalist Ludwig Leichhardt, part of this roadway follows the route his party took as they crossed northern Australia from Morton Bay (Brisbane) to Port Essington (near Darwin). Ignoring the usual colonial practice of honouring the powerful and aristocratic, Leichhardt named the noteworthy features along this route after his supporters and fellow expeditioners. Many of these names are still in use and a series of public monuments have also been erected in the intervening century and a half to commemorate this journey. Unlike Leichhardt, who survived his epic trip, some contemporary travellers who navigate the remote roadway named in his honour do not arrive at their final destinations. Memorials to these violently interrupted lives line the highway, many enigmatically located in places where there is no obvious explanation for the lethal violence that occurred there. This examination profiles the memorials along Leichhardt’s highway as Gothic practice, in order to illuminate some of the uncanny paradoxes around public memorials, as well as the loaded emotional terrain such commemorative practices may inhabit. All humans know that death awaits them (Morell). Yet, despite this, and the unprecedented torrent of images of death and dying saturating news, television, and social media (Duwe; Sumiala; Bisceglio), Gorer’s mid-century ideas about the denial of death and Becker’s 1973 Pulitzer prize-winning description of the purpose of human civilization as a defence against this knowledge remains current in the contemporary trope that individuals (at least in the West) deny their mortality. Contributing to this enigmatic situation is how many deny the realities of aging and bodily decay—the promise of the “life extension” industries (Hall)—and are shielded from death by hospitals, palliative care providers, and the multimillion dollar funeral industry (Kiernan). Drawing on Piatti-Farnell’s concept of popular culture artefacts as “haunted/haunting” texts, the below describes how memorials to the dead can powerfully reconnect those who experience them with death’s reality, by providing an “encrypted passageway through which the dead re-join the living in a responsive cycle of exchange and experience” (Piatti-Farnell). While certainly very different to the “sublime” iconic Gothic structure, the Gothic ruin that Summers argued could be seen as “a sacred relic, a memorial, a symbol of infinite sadness, of tenderest sensibility and regret” (407), these memorials do function in both this way as melancholy/regret-inducing relics as well as in Piatti-Farnell’s sense of bringing the dead into everyday consciousness. Such memorialising activity also evokes one of Spooner’s features of the Gothic, by acknowledging “the legacies of the past and its burdens on the present” (8).Ludwig Leichhardt and His HighwayWhen Leichhardt returned to Sydney in 1846 from his 18-month journey across northern Australia, he was greeted with surprise and then acclaim. Having mounted his expedition without any backing from influential figures in the colony, his party was presumed lost only weeks after its departure. Yet, once Leichhardt and almost all his expedition returned, he was hailed “Prince of Explorers” (Erdos). When awarding him a significant purse raised by public subscription, then Speaker of the Legislative Council voiced what he believed would be the explorer’s lasting memorial —the public memory of his achievement: “the undying glory of having your name enrolled amongst those of the great men whose genius and enterprise have impelled them to seek for fame in the prosecution of geographical science” (ctd. Leichhardt 539). Despite this acclaim, Leichhardt was a controversial figure in his day; his future prestige not enhanced by his Prussian/Germanic background or his disappearance two years later attempting to cross the continent. What troubled the colonial political class, however, was his transgressive act of naming features along his route after commoners rather than the colony’s aristocrats. Today, the Leichhardt Highway closely follows Leichhardt’s 1844-45 route for some 130 kilometres from Miles, north through Wandoan to Taroom. In the first weeks of his journey, Leichhardt named 16 features in this area: 6 of the more major of these after the men in his party—including the Aboriginal man ‘Charley’ and boy John Murphy—4 more after the tradesmen and other non-aristocratic sponsors of his venture, and the remainder either in memory of the journey’s quotidian events or natural features there found. What we now accept as traditional memorialising practice could in this case be termed as Gothic, in that it upset the rational, normal order of its day, and by honouring humble shopkeepers, blacksmiths and Indigenous individuals, revealed the “disturbance and ambivalence” (Botting 4) that underlay colonial class relations (Macintyre). On 1 December 1844, Leichhardt also memorialised his own past, referencing the Gothic in naming a watercourse The Creek of the Ruined Castles due to the “high sandstone rocks, fissured and broken like pillars and walls and the high gates of the ruined castles of Germany” (57). Leichhardt also disturbed and disfigured the nature he so admired, famously carving his initials deep into trees along his route—a number of which still exist, including the so-called Leichhardt Tree, a large coolibah in Taroom’s main street. Leichhardt also wrote his own memorial, keeping detailed records of his experiences—both good and more regretful—in the form of field books, notebooks and letters, with his major volume about this expedition published in London in 1847. Leichhardt’s journey has since been memorialised in various ways along the route. The Leichhardt Tree has been further defaced with numerous plaques nailed into its ancient bark, and the town’s federal government-funded Bicentennial project raised a formal memorial—a large sandstone slab laid with three bronze plaques—in the newly-named Ludwig Leichhardt Park. Leichhardt’s name also adorns many sites both along, and outside, the routes of his expeditions. While these fittingly include natural features such as the Leichhardt River in north-west Queensland (named in 1856 by Augustus Gregory who crossed it by searching for traces of the explorer’s ill-fated 1848 expedition), there are also many businesses across Queensland and the Northern Territory less appropriately carrying his name. More somber monuments to Leichhardt’s legacy also resulted from this journey. The first of these was the white settlement that followed his declaration that the countryside he moved through was well endowed with fertile soils. With squatters and settlers moving in and land taken up before Leichhardt had even arrived back in Sydney, the local Yeeman people were displaced, mistreated and completely eradicated within a decade (Elder). Mid-twentieth century, Patrick White’s literary reincarnation, Voss of the eponymous novel, and paintings by Sidney Nolan and Albert Tucker have enshrined in popular memory not only the difficult (and often described as Gothic) nature of the landscape through which Leichhardt travelled (Adams; Mollinson, and Bonham), but also the distinctive and contrary blend of intelligence, spiritual mysticism, recklessness, and stoicism Leichhardt brought to his task. Roadside Memorials Today, the Leichhardt Highway is also lined with a series of roadside shrines to those who have died much more recently. While, like centotaphs, tombstones, and cemeteries, these memorialise the dead, they differ in usually marking the exact location that death occurred. In 43 BC, Cicero articulated the idea of the dead living in memory, “The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living” (93), yet Nelson is one of very few contemporary writers to link roadside memorials to elements of Gothic sensibility. Such constructions can, however, be described as Gothic, in that they make the roadway unfamiliar by inscribing onto it the memory of corporeal trauma and, in the process, re-creating their locations as vivid sites of pain and suffering. These are also enigmatic sites. Traffic levels are generally low along the flat or gently undulating terrain and many of these memorials are located in locations where there is no obvious explanation for the violence that occurred there. They are loci of contradictions, in that they are both more private than other memorials, in being designed, and often made and erected, by family and friends of the deceased, and yet more public, visible to all who pass by (Campbell). Cemeteries are set apart from their surroundings; the roadside memorial is, in contrast, usually in open view along a thoroughfare. In further contrast to cemeteries, which contain many relatively standardised gravesites, individual roadside memorials encapsulate and express not only the vivid grief of family and friends but also—when they include vehicle wreckage or personal artefacts from the fatal incident—provide concrete evidence of the trauma that occurred. While the majority of individuals interned in cemeteries are long dead, roadside memorials mark relatively contemporary deaths, some so recent that there may still be tyre marks, debris and bloodstains marking the scene. In 2008, when I was regularly travelling this roadway, I documented, and researched, the six then extant memorial sites that marked the locations of ten fatalities from 1999 to 2006. (These were all still in place in mid-2014.) The fatal incidents are very diverse. While half involved trucks and/or road trains, at least three were single vehicle incidents, and the deceased ranged from 13 to 84 years of age. Excell argues that scholarship on roadside memorials should focus on “addressing the diversity of the material culture” (‘Contemporary Deathscapes’) and, in these terms, the Leichhardt Highway memorials vary from simple crosses to complex installations. All include crosses (mostly, but not exclusively, white), and almost all are inscribed with the name and birth/death dates of the deceased. Most include flowers or other plants (sometimes fresh but more often plastic), but sometimes also a range of relics from the crash and/or personal artefacts. These are, thus, unsettling sights, not least in the striking contrast they provide with the highway and surrounding road reserve. The specific location is a key component of their ability to re-sensitise viewers to the dangers of the route they are travelling. The first memorial travelling northwards, for instance, is situated at the very point at which the highway begins, some 18 kilometres from Goondiwindi. Two small white crosses decorated with plastic flowers are set poignantly close together. The inscriptions can also function as a means of mobilising connection with these dead strangers—a way of building Secomb’s “haunted community”, whereby community in the post-colonial age can only be built once past “murderous death” (131) is acknowledged. This memorial is inscribed with “Cec Hann 06 / A Good Bloke / A Good hoarseman [sic]” and “Pat Hann / A Good Woman” to tragically commemorate the deaths of an 84-year-old man and his 79-year-old wife from South Australia who died in the early afternoon of 5 June 2006 when their Ford Falcon, towing a caravan, pulled onto the highway and was hit by a prime mover pulling two trailers (Queensland Police, ‘Double Fatality’; Jones, and McColl). Further north along the highway are two memorials marking the most inexplicable of road deaths: the single vehicle fatality (Connolly, Cullen, and McTigue). Darren Ammenhauser, aged 29, is remembered with a single white cross with flowers and plaque attached to a post, inscribed hopefully, “Darren Ammenhauser 1971-2000 At Rest.” Further again, at Billa Billa Creek, a beautifully crafted metal cross attached to a fence is inscribed with the text, “Kenneth J. Forrester / RIP Jack / 21.10.25 – 27.4.05” marking the death of the 79-year-old driver whose vehicle veered off the highway to collide with a culvert on the creek. It was reported that the vehicle rolled over several times before coming to rest on its wheels and that Forrester was dead when the police arrived (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Traffic Incident’). More complex memorials recollect both single and multiple deaths. One, set on both sides of the road, maps the physical trajectory of the fatal smash. This memorial comprises white crosses on both sides of road, attached to a tree on one side, and a number of ancillary sites including damaged tyres with crosses placed inside them on both sides of the road. Simple inscriptions relay the inability of such words to express real grief: “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed” and “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed / Forever in our hearts.” The oldest and most complex memorial on the route, commemorating the death of four individuals on 18 June 1999, is also situated on both sides of the road, marking the collision of two vehicles travelling in opposite directions. One memorial to a 62-year-old man comprises a cross with flowers, personal and automotive relics, and a plaque set inside a wooden fence and simply inscribed “John Henry Keenan / 23-11-1936–18-06-1999”. The second memorial contains three white crosses set side-by-side, together with flowers and relics, and reveals that members of three generations of the same family died at this location: “Raymond Campbell ‘Butch’ / 26-3-67–18-6-99” (32 years of age), “Lorraine Margaret Campbell ‘Lloydie’ / 29-11-46–18-6-99” (53 years), and “Raymond Jon Campbell RJ / 28-1-86–18-6-99” (13 years). The final memorial on this stretch of highway is dedicated to Jason John Zupp of Toowoomba who died two weeks before Christmas 2005. This consists of a white cross, decorated with flowers and inscribed: “Jason John Zupp / Loved & missed by all”—a phrase echoed in his newspaper obituary. The police media statement noted that, “at 11.24pm a prime mover carrying four empty trailers [stacked two high] has rolled on the Leichhardt Highway 17km north of Taroom” (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Truck Accident’). The roadside memorial was placed alongside a ditch on a straight stretch of road where the body was found. The coroner’s report adds the following chilling information: “Mr Zupp was thrown out of the cabin and his body was found near the cabin. There is no evidence whatsoever that he had applied the brakes or in any way tried to prevent the crash … Jason was not wearing his seatbelt” (Cornack 5, 6). Cornack also remarked the truck was over length, the brakes had not been properly adjusted, and the trip that Zupp had undertaken could not been lawfully completed according to fatigue management regulations then in place (8). Although poignant and highly visible due to these memorials, these deaths form a small part of Australia’s road toll, and underscore our ambivalent relationship with the automobile, where road death is accepted as a necessary side-effect of the freedom of movement the technology offers (Ladd). These memorials thus animate highways as Gothic landscapes due to the “multifaceted” (Haider 56) nature of the fear, terror and horror their acknowledgement can bring. Since 1981, there have been, for instance, between some 1,600 and 3,300 road deaths each year in Australia and, while there is evidence of a long term downward trend, the number of deaths per annum has not changed markedly since 1991 (DITRDLG 1, 2), and has risen in some years since then. The U.S.A. marked its millionth road death in 1951 (Ladd) along the way to over 3,000,000 during the 20th century (Advocates). These deaths are far reaching, with U.K. research suggesting that each death there leaves an average of 6 people significantly affected, and that there are some 10 to 20 per cent of mourners who experience more complicated grief and longer term negative affects during this difficult time (‘Pathways Through Grief’). As the placing of roadside memorials has become a common occurrence the world over (Klaassens, Groote, and Vanclay; Grider; Cohen), these are now considered, in MacConville’s opinion, not only “an appropriate, but also an expected response to tragedy”. Hockey and Draper have explored the therapeutic value of the maintenance of “‘continuing bonds’ between the living and the dead” (3). This is, however, only one explanation for the reasons that individuals erect roadside memorials with research suggesting roadside memorials perform two main purposes in their linking of the past with the present—as not only sites of grieving and remembrance, but also of warning (Hartig, and Dunn; Everett; Excell, Roadside Memorials; MacConville). Clark adds that by “localis[ing] and personalis[ing] the road dead,” roadside memorials raise the profile of road trauma by connecting the emotionless statistics of road death directly to individual tragedy. They, thus, transform the highway into not only into a site of past horror, but one in which pain and terror could still happen, and happen at any moment. Despite their increasing commonality and their recognition as cultural artefacts, these memorials thus occupy “an uncomfortable place” both in terms of public policy and for some individuals (Lowe). While in some states of the U.S.A. and in Ireland the erection of such memorials is facilitated by local authorities as components of road safety campaigns, in the U.K. there appears to be “a growing official opposition to the erection of memorials” (MacConville). Criticism has focused on the dangers (of distraction and obstruction) these structures pose to passing traffic and pedestrians, while others protest their erection on aesthetic grounds and even claim memorials can lower property values (Everett). While many ascertain a sense of hope and purpose in the physical act of creating such shrines (see, for instance, Grider; Davies), they form an uncanny presence along the highway and can provide dangerous psychological territory for the viewer (Brien). Alongside the townships, tourist sites, motels, and petrol stations vying to attract customers, they stain the roadway with the unmistakable sign that a violent death has happened—bringing death, and the dead, to the fore as a component of these journeys, and destabilising prominent cultural narratives of technological progress and safety (Richter, Barach, Ben-Michael, and Berman).Conclusion This investigation has followed Goddu who proposes that a Gothic text “registers its culture’s contradictions” (3) and, in profiling these memorials as “intimately connected to the culture that produces them” (Goddu 3) has proposed memorials as Gothic artefacts that can both disturb and reveal. Roadside memorials are, indeed, so loaded with emotional content that their close contemplation can be traumatising (Brien), yet they are inescapable while navigating the roadway. Part of their power resides in their ability to re-animate those persons killed in these violent in the minds of those viewing these memorials. In this way, these individuals are reincarnated as ghostly presences along the highway, forming channels via which the traveller can not only make human contact with the dead, but also come to recognise and ponder their own sense of mortality. While roadside memorials are thus like civic war memorials in bringing untimely death to the forefront of public view, roadside memorials provide a much more raw expression of the chaotic, anarchic and traumatic moment that separates the world of the living from that of the dead. While traditional memorials—such as those dedicated by, and to, Leichhardt—moreover, pay homage to the vitality of the lives of those they commemorate, roadside memorials not only acknowledge the alarming circumstances of unexpected death but also stand testament to the power of the paradox of the incontrovertibility of sudden death versus our lack of ability to postpone it. In this way, further research into these and other examples of Gothic memorialising practice has much to offer various areas of cultural study in Australia.ReferencesAdams, Brian. Sidney Nolan: Such Is Life. Hawthorn, Vic.: Hutchinson, 1987. Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety. “Motor Vehicle Traffic Fatalities & Fatality Rate: 1899-2003.” 2004. Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1973. Bisceglio, Paul. “How Social Media Is Changing the Way We Approach Death.” The Atlantic 20 Aug. 2013. Botting, Fred. Gothic: The New Critical Idiom. 2nd edition. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2014. 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Sydney: New Holland, 1998. Erdos, Renee. “Leichhardt, Friedrich Wilhelm Ludwig (1813-1848).” Australian Dictionary of Biography Online Edition. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 1967. Everett, Holly. Roadside Crosses in Contemporary Memorial Culture. Austin: Texas UP, 2002. Excell, Gerri. “Roadside Memorials in the UK.” Unpublished MA thesis. Reading: University of Reading, 2004. ———. “Contemporary Deathscapes: A Comparative Analysis of the Material Culture of Roadside Memorials in the US, Australia and the UK.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. Goddu, Teresa A. Gothic America: Narrative, History, and Nation. New York: Columbia UP, 2007. Gorer, Geoffrey. “The Pornography of Death.” Encounter V.4 (1955): 49–52. Grider, Sylvia. “Spontaneous Shrines: A Modern Response to Tragedy and Disaster.” New Directions in Folklore (5 Oct. 2001). Haider, Amna. “War Trauma and Gothic Landscapes of Dispossession and Dislocation in Pat Barker’s Regeneration Trilogy.” Gothic Studies 14.2 (2012): 55–73. Hall, Stephen S. Merchants of Immortality: Chasing the Dream of Human Life Extension. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2003. Hartig, Kate V., and Kevin M. Dunn. “Roadside Memorials: Interpreting New Deathscapes in Newcastle, New South Wales.” Australian Geographical Studies 36 (1998): 5–20. Hockey, Jenny, and Janet Draper. “Beyond the Womb and the Tomb: Identity, (Dis)embodiment and the Life Course.” Body & Society 11.2 (2005): 41–57. Online version: 1–25. Jones, Ian, and Kaye McColl. (2006) “Highway Tragedy.” Goondiwindi Argus 9 Jun. 2006. Kiernan, Stephen P. “The Transformation of Death in America.” Final Acts: Death, Dying, and the Choices We Make. Eds. Nan Bauer-Maglin, and Donna Perry. Rutgers University: Rutgers UP, 2010. 163–182. Klaassens, M., P.D. Groote, and F.M. Vanclay. “Expressions of Private Mourning in Public Space: The Evolving Structure of Spontaneous and Permanent Roadside Memorials in the Netherlands.” Death Studies 37.2 (2013): 145–171. Ladd, Brian. Autophobia: Love and Hate in the Automotive Age. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2008. Leichhardt, Ludwig. Journal of an Overland Expedition of Australia from Moreton Bay to Port Essington, A Distance of Upwards of 3000 Miles during the Years 1844–1845. London, T & W Boone, 1847. Facsimile ed. Sydney: Macarthur Press, n.d. Lowe, Tim. “Roadside Memorials in South Eastern Australia.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. MacConville, Una. “Roadside Memorials.” Bath, UK: Centre for Death & Society, Department of Social and Policy Sciences, University of Bath, 2007. Macintyre, Stuart. “The Making of the Australian Working Class: An Historiographical Survey.” Historical Studies 18.71 (1978): 233–253. 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While the term “visual literacy” has grown in popularity in the last 50 years, its meaning remains nebulous. It is described variously as: a vehicle for aesthetic appreciation, a means of defence against visual manipulation, a sorting mechanism for an increasingly data-saturated age, and a prerequisite to civic inclusion (Fransecky 23; Messaris 181; McTigue and Flowers 580). Scholars have written extensively about the first three subjects but there has been less research on how visual literacy frames civic life and how it might help the public as a tool to address disadvantage and assist in removing social and cultural barriers. This article examines a forerunner to visual literacy in the push to create an international symbol language born out of popular education movements, a project that fell short of its goals but still left a considerable impression on graphic media. This article, then, presents an analysis of visual literacy campaigns in the early postwar era. These campaigns did not attempt to invent a symbolic language but posited that images themselves served as a universal language in which students could receive training. Of particular interest is how the concept of visual literacy has been mobilised as a pedagogical tool in design, digital humanities and in broader civic education initiatives promoted by Third Space institutions. Behind the creation of new visual literacy curricula is the idea that images can help anchor a world community, supplementing textual communication. Figure 1: Visual Literacy Yearbook. Montebello Unified School District, USA, 1973. Shedding Light: Origins of the Visual Literacy Frame The term “visual literacy” came to the fore in the early 1970s on the heels of mass literacy campaigns. The educators, creatives and media theorists who first advocated for visual learning linked this aim to literacy, an unassailable goal, to promote a more radical curricular overhaul. They challenged a system that had hitherto only acknowledged a very limited pathway towards academic success; pushing “language and mathematics”, courses “referred to as solids (something substantial) as contrasted with liquids or gases (courses with little or no substance)” (Eisner 92). This was deemed “a parochial view of both human ability and the possibilities of education” that did not acknowledge multiple forms of intelligence (Gardner). This change not only integrated elements of mass culture that had been rejected in education, notably film and graphic arts, but also encouraged the critique of images as a form of good citizenship, assuming that visually literate arbiters could call out media misrepresentations and manipulative political advertising (Messaris, “Visual Test”). This movement was, in many ways, reactive to new forms of mass media that began to replace newspapers as key forms of civic participation. Unlike simple literacy (being able to decipher letters as a mnemonic system), visual literacy involves imputing meanings to images where meanings are less fixed, yet still with embedded cultural signifiers. Visual literacy promised to extend enlightenment metaphors of sight (as in the German Aufklärung) and illumination (as in the French Lumières) to help citizens understand an increasingly complex marketplace of images. The move towards visual literacy was not so much a shift towards images (and away from books and oration) but an affirmation of the need to critically investigate the visual sphere. It introduced doubt to previously upheld hierarchies of perception. Sight, to Kant the “noblest of the senses” (158), was no longer the sense “least affected” by the surrounding world but an input centre that was equally manipulable. In Kant’s view of societal development, the “cosmopolitan” held the key to pacifying bellicose states and ensuring global prosperity and tranquillity. The process of developing a cosmopolitan ideology rests, according to Kant, on the gradual elimination of war and “the education of young people in intellectual and moral culture” (188-89). Transforming disparate societies into “a universal cosmopolitan existence” that would “at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop” and would take well-funded educational institutions and, potentially, a new framework for imparting knowledge (Kant 51). To some, the world of the visual presented a baseline for shared experience. Figure 2: Exhibition by the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, photograph c. 1927. An International Picture Language The quest to find a mutually intelligible language that could “bridge worlds” and solder together all of humankind goes back to the late nineteenth century and the Esperanto movement of Ludwig Zamenhof (Schor 59). The expression of this ideal in the world of the visual picked up steam in the interwar years with designers and editors like Fritz Kahn, Gerd Arntz, and Otto and Marie Neurath. Their work transposing complex ideas into graphic form has been rediscovered as an antecedent to modern infographics, but the symbols they deployed were not to merely explain, but also help education and build international fellowship unbounded by spoken language. The Neuraths in particular are celebrated for their international picture language or Isotypes. These pictograms (sometimes viewed as proto-emojis) can be used to represent data without text. Taken together they are an “intemporal, hieroglyphic language” that Neutrath hoped would unite working-class people the world over (Lee 159). The Neuraths’ work was done in the explicit service of visual education with a popular socialist agenda and incubated in the social sphere of Red Vienna at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) where Otto served as Director. The Wirtschaftsmuseum was an experiment in popular education, with multiple branches and late opening hours to accommodate the “the working man [who] has time to see a museum only at night” (Neurath 72-73). The Isotype contained universalist aspirations for the “making of a world language, or a helping picture language—[that] will give support to international developments generally” and “educate by the eye” (Neurath 13). Figure 3: Gerd Arntz Isotype Images. (Source: University of Reading.) The Isotype was widely adopted in the postwar era in pre-packaged sets of symbols used in graphic design and wayfinding systems for buildings and transportation networks, but with the socialism of the Neuraths’ peeled away, leaving only the system of logos that we are familiar with from airport washrooms, charts, and public transport maps. Much of the uptake in this symbol language could be traced to increased mobility and tourism, particularly in countries that did not make use of a Roman alphabet. The 1964 Olympics in Tokyo helped pave the way when organisers, fearful of jumbling too many scripts together, opted instead for black and white icons to represent the program of sports that summer. The new focus on the visual was both technologically mediated—cheaper printing and broadcast technologies made the diffusion of image increasingly possible—but also ideologically supported by a growing emphasis on projects that transcended linguistic, ethnic, and national borders. The Olympic symbols gradually morphed into Letraset icons, and, later, symbols in the Unicode Standard, which are the basis for today’s emojis. Wordless signs helped facilitate interconnectedness, but only in the most literal sense; their application was limited primarily to sports mega-events, highway maps, and “brand building”, and they never fulfilled their role as an educational language “to give the different nations a common outlook” (Neurath 18). Universally understood icons, particularly in the form of emojis, point to a rise in visual communication but they have fallen short as a cosmopolitan project, supporting neither the globalisation of Kantian ethics nor the transnational socialism of the Neuraths. Figure 4: Symbols in use. Women's bathroom. 1964 Tokyo Olympics. (Source: The official report of the Organizing Committee.) Counter Education By mid-century, the optimism of a universal symbol language seemed dated, and focus shifted from distillation to discernment. New educational programs presented ways to study images, increasingly reproducible with new technologies, as a language in and of themselves. These methods had their roots in the fin-de-siècle educational reforms of John Dewey, Helen Parkhurst, and Maria Montessori. As early as the 1920s, progressive educators were using highly visual magazines, like National Geographic, as the basis for lesson planning, with the hopes that they would “expose students to edifying and culturally enriching reading” and “develop a more catholic taste or sensibility, representing an important cosmopolitan value” (Hawkins 45). The rise in imagery from previously inaccessible regions helped pupils to see themselves in relation to the larger world (although this connection always came with the presumed superiority of the reader). “Pictorial education in public schools” taught readers—through images—to accept a broader world but, too often, they saw photographs as a “straightforward transcription of the real world” (Hawkins 57). The images of cultures and events presented in Life and National Geographic for the purposes of education and enrichment were now the subject of greater analysis in the classroom, not just as “windows into new worlds” but as cultural products in and of themselves. The emerging visual curriculum aimed to do more than just teach with previously excluded modes (photography, film and comics); it would investigate how images presented and mediated the world. This gained wider appeal with new analytical writing on film, like Raymond Spottiswoode's Grammar of the Film (1950) which sought to formulate the grammatical rules of visual communication (Messaris 181), influenced by semiotics and structural linguistics; the emphasis on grammar can also be seen in far earlier writings on design systems such as Owen Jones’s 1856 The Grammar of Ornament, which also advocated for new, universalising methods in design education (Sloboda 228). The inventorying impulse is on display in books like Donis A. Dondis’s A Primer of Visual Literacy (1973), a text that meditates on visual perception but also functions as an introduction to line and form in the applied arts, picking up where the Bauhaus left off. Dondis enumerates the “syntactical guidelines” of the applied arts with illustrations that are in keeping with 1920s books by Kandinsky and Klee and analyse pictorial elements. However, at the end of the book she shifts focus with two chapters that examine “messaging” and visual literacy explicitly. Dondis predicts that “an intellectual, trained ability to make and understand visual messages is becoming a vital necessity to involvement with communication. It is quite likely that visual literacy will be one of the fundamental measures of education in the last third of our century” (33) and she presses for more programs that incorporate the exploration and analysis of images in tertiary education. Figure 5: Ideal spatial environment for the Blueprint charts, 1970. (Image: Inventory Press.) Visual literacy in education arrived in earnest with a wave of publications in the mid-1970s. They offered ways for students to understand media processes and for teachers to use visual culture as an entry point into complex social and scientific subject matter, tapping into the “visual consciousness of the ‘television generation’” (Fransecky 5). Visual culture was often seen as inherently democratising, a break from stuffiness, the “artificialities of civilisation”, and the “archaic structures” that set sensorial perception apart from scholarship (Dworkin 131-132). Many radical university projects and community education initiatives of the 1960s made use of new media in novel ways: from Maurice Stein and Larry Miller’s fold-out posters accompanying Blueprint for Counter Education (1970) to Emory Douglas’s graphics for The Black Panther newspaper. Blueprint’s text- and image-dense wall charts were made via assemblage and they were imagined less as charts and more as a “matrix of resources” that could be used—and added to—by youth to undertake their own counter education (Cronin 53). These experiments in visual learning helped to break down old hierarchies in education, but their aim was influenced more by countercultural notions of disruption than the universal ideals of cosmopolitanism. From Image as Text to City as Text For a brief period in the 1970s, thinkers like Marshall McLuhan (McLuhan et al., Massage) and artists like Bruno Munari (Tanchis and Munari) collaborated fruitfully with graphic designers to create books that mixed text and image in novel ways. Using new compositional methods, they broke apart traditional printing lock-ups to superimpose photographs, twist text, and bend narrative frames. The most famous work from this era is, undoubtedly, The Medium Is the Massage (1967), McLuhan’s team-up with graphic designer Quentin Fiore, but it was followed by dozens of other books intended to communicate theory and scientific ideas with popularising graphics. Following in the footsteps of McLuhan, many of these texts sought not just to explain an issue but to self-consciously reference their own method of information delivery. These works set the precedent for visual aids (and, to a lesser extent, audio) that launched a diverse, non-hierarchical discourse that was nonetheless bound to tactile artefacts. In 1977, McLuhan helped develop a media textbook for secondary school students called City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. It is notable for its direct address style and its focus on investigating spaces outside of the classroom (provocatively, a section on the third page begins with “Should all schools be closed?”). The book follows with a fine-grained analysis of advertising forms in which students are asked to first bring advertisements into class for analysis and later to go out into the city to explore “a man-made environment, a huge warehouse of information, a vast resource to be mined free of charge” (McLuhan et al., City 149). As a document City as Classroom is critical of existing teaching methods, in line with the radical “in the streets” pedagogy of its day. McLuhan’s theories proved particularly salient for the counter education movement, in part because they tapped into a healthy scepticism of advertisers and other image-makers. They also dovetailed with growing discontent with the ad-strew visual environment of cities in the 1970s. Budgets for advertising had mushroomed in the1960s and outdoor advertising “cluttered” cities with billboards and neon, generating “fierce intensities and new hybrid energies” that threatened to throw off the visual equilibrium (McLuhan 74). Visual literacy curricula brought in experiential learning focussed on the legibility of the cities, mapping, and the visualisation of urban issues with social justice implications. The Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute (DGEI), a “collective endeavour of community research and education” that arose in the aftermath of the 1967 uprisings, is the most storied of the groups that suffused the collection of spatial data with community engagement and organising (Warren et al. 61). The following decades would see a tamed approach to visual literacy that, while still pressing for critical reading, did not upend traditional methods of educational delivery. Figure 6: Beginning a College Program-Assisting Teachers to Develop Visual Literacy Approaches in Public School Classrooms. 1977. ERIC. Searching for Civic Education The visual literacy initiatives formed in the early 1970s both affirmed existing civil society institutions while also asserting the need to better inform the public. Most of the campaigns were sponsored by universities, major libraries, and international groups such as UNESCO, which published its “Declaration on Media Education” in 1982. They noted that “participation” was “essential to the working of a pluralistic and representative democracy” and the “public—users, citizens, individuals, groups ... were too systematically overlooked”. Here, the public is conceived as both “targets of the information and communication process” and users who “should have the last word”. To that end their “continuing education” should be ensured (Study 18). Programs consisted primarily of cognitive “see-scan-analyse” techniques (Little et al.) for younger students but some also sought to bring visual analysis to adult learners via continuing education (often through museums eager to engage more diverse audiences) and more radical popular education programs sponsored by community groups. By the mid-80s, scores of modules had been built around the comprehension of visual media and had become standard educational fare across North America, Australasia, and to a lesser extent, Europe. There was an increasing awareness of the role of data and image presentation in decision-making, as evidenced by the surprising commercial success of Edward Tufte’s 1982 book, The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. Visual literacy—or at least image analysis—was now enmeshed in teaching practice and needed little active advocacy. Scholarly interest in the subject went into a brief period of hibernation in the 1980s and early 1990s, only to be reborn with the arrival of new media distribution technologies (CD-ROMs and then the internet) in classrooms and the widespread availability of digital imaging technology starting in the late 1990s; companies like Adobe distributed free and reduced-fee licences to schools and launched extensive teacher training programs. Visual literacy was reanimated but primarily within a circumscribed academic field of education and data visualisation. Figure 7: Visual Literacy; What Research Says to the Teacher, 1975. National Education Association. USA. Part of the shifting frame of visual literacy has to do with institutional imperatives, particularly in places where austerity measures forced strange alliances between disciplines. What had been a project in alternative education morphed into an uncontested part of the curriculum and a dependable budget line. This shift was already forecasted in 1972 by Harun Farocki who, writing in Filmkritik, noted that funding for new film schools would be difficult to obtain but money might be found for “training in media education … a discipline that could persuade ministers of education, that would at the same time turn the budget restrictions into an advantage, and that would match the functions of art schools” (98). Nearly 50 years later educators are still using media education (rebranded as visual or media literacy) to make the case for fine arts and humanities education. While earlier iterations of visual literacy education were often too reliant on the idea of cracking the “code” of images, they did promote ways of learning that were a deep departure from the rote methods of previous generations. Next-gen curricula frame visual literacy as largely supplemental—a resource, but not a program. By the end of the 20th century, visual literacy had changed from a scholarly interest to a standard resource in the “teacher’s toolkit”, entering into school programs and influencing museum education, corporate training, and the development of public-oriented media (Literacy). An appreciation of image culture was seen as key to creating empathetic global citizens, but its scope was increasingly limited. With rising austerity in the education sector (a shift that preceded the 2008 recession by decades in some countries), art educators, museum enrichment staff, and design researchers need to make a case for why their disciplines were relevant in pedagogical models that are increasingly aimed at “skills-based” and “job ready” teaching. Arts educators worked hard to insert their fields into learning goals for secondary students as visual literacy, with the hope that “literacy” would carry the weight of an educational imperative and not a supplementary field of study. Conclusion For nearly a century, educational initiatives have sought to inculcate a cosmopolitan perspective with a variety of teaching materials and pedagogical reference points. Symbolic languages, like the Isotype, looked to unite disparate people with shared visual forms; while educational initiatives aimed to train the eyes of students to make them more discerning citizens. The term ‘visual literacy’ emerged in the 1960s and has since been deployed in programs with a wide variety of goals. Countercultural initiatives saw it as a prerequisite for popular education from the ground up, but, in the years since, it has been formalised and brought into more staid curricula, often as a sort of shorthand for learning from media and pictures. The grand cosmopolitan vision of a complete ‘visual language’ has been scaled back considerably, but still exists in trace amounts. Processes of globalisation require images to universalise experiences, commodities, and more for people without shared languages. Emoji alphabets and globalese (brands and consumer messaging that are “visual-linguistic” amalgams “increasingly detached from any specific ethnolinguistic group or locality”) are a testament to a mediatised banal cosmopolitanism (Jaworski 231). In this sense, becoming “fluent” in global design vernacular means familiarity with firms and products, an understanding that is aesthetic, not critical. It is very much the beneficiaries of globalisation—both state and commercial actors—who have been able to harness increasingly image-based technologies for their benefit. To take a humorous but nonetheless consequential example, Spanish culinary boosters were able to successfully lobby for a paella emoji (Miller) rather than having a food symbol from a less wealthy country such as a Senegalese jollof or a Morrocan tagine. This trend has gone even further as new forms of visual communication are increasingly streamlined and managed by for-profit media platforms. The ubiquity of these forms of communication and their global reach has made visual literacy more important than ever but it has also fundamentally shifted the endeavour from a graphic sorting practice to a critical piece of social infrastructure that has tremendous political ramifications. Visual literacy campaigns hold out the promise of educating students in an image-based system with the potential to transcend linguistic and cultural boundaries. This cosmopolitan political project has not yet been realised, as the visual literacy frame has drifted into specialised silos of art, design, and digital humanities education. It can help bridge the “incomplete connections” of an increasingly globalised world (Calhoun 112), but it does not have a program in and of itself. Rather, an evolving visual literacy curriculum might be seen as a litmus test for how we imagine the role of images in the world. 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