Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Includes bibliographical references (p. [163])”

BackgroundpMCTD is a rare disorder that includes features of systemic lupus erythematosus, polymyositis/dermatomyositis, juvenile idiopathic arthritis, and systemic sclerosis. Fifty years have passed since Sharp identified MCTD in 1972, and diagnosis of this disorder remains challenging.ObjectivesThe aim of this review is to identify any clinical features at the diagnosis of pMCTD and manifestations that are not currently part of the available diagnostic criteria.MethodsA systematic literature review was performed in accordance with PRISMA guidelines using electronic bibliographic databases: MEDLINE via PubMed and EMBASE. Data obtained were extracted using a dedicated database containing clinical data that best categorize patient characteristics. Criteria for inclusion: studies including patients with a pMCTD diagnosis with onset before 18 years of age and reporting a description of initial clinical features.ResultsThe search returned a total of 1372 results: 409 articles were excluded as duplicates and 790 based on title/abstract, 133 because of publication type (n = 4) or because the full text was not available (n = 65) or not in English (n = 64). One (n=1) eligible article resulted from manual screening of references cited in the selected publications and in the reviews. Finally, 41 articles were included: 23 case reports, 9 case series, 5 prospective, and 4 retrospective studies from 1973 to 2019, with a total number of 218 patients. They were predominantly female (81.56%, n=167), and the mean age at onset was 147 months (median 126 months, 10.5 years). When indicated, the most commonly used criteria for diagnosis were Kasukawa criteria (50%, 11 studies), then Alarcon-Segovia criteria (31%, 7 studies), then Sharp criteria (23%, 5 studies); no Khan criteria were used.Clinical features are listed in Figure 1.Figure 1.Number of patients for clinical feature at onset.Joint involvement, Raynaud’s phenomenon, myositis, and swollen fingers/hands are the most common clinical features at diagnosis according to the data reported in the literature, although with slightly lower percentages than in other reviews. Dermatologic signs are very heterogeneous, but were found to be a very present feature at disease onset, affecting 1/3 of patients. Fever, not covered by any of the diagnostic criteria, was noted in 1/4 of cases. Pulmonary and esophageal involvement are reported in a lower percentage at the onset of the disease, indicating a more developmental nature of these conditions.ConclusionThe data from this systematic review suggest greater clinical heterogeneity of the disease in the pediatric population, for which there are no validated diagnostic criteria. Typical features appear to be less common when case reports are included, suggesting a less characteristic initial presentation than an advanced stage; therefore, the absence of typical features at baseline should not preclude a diagnosis of pMCTD. Fever often occurs early in the disease and is not included in the diagnostic criteria. This systematic review may provide useful insights for future research to better assess the clinical features of pMCTD and the potential development of scores/algorithms for diagnosis in the pediatric population.References[1] Sharp GC, Irvin WS, Tan EM, Gould RG, Holman HR (1972) Mixed connective tissue disease–an apparently distinct rheumatic disease syndrome associated with a specific antibody to an extractable nuclear antigen (ENA). Am J Med 52(2):148–159[2] Singsen BH, Swanson VL, Kornreich HK, et al. Mixed connective tissue disease in childhood: a clinical and serologic survey. J Pediatr 1977;90:893– 900.[3] Fraga A, Gudino J, Ramos-Niembro F, et al. Mixed connective tissue disease in childhood. Am J Dis Child 1978;132:263– 5.[4] Kahn MF, Appelboom T. In: Kahn MF, Peltier AP, Meyer O, editors. Les Maladies Systemiques. Paris: Flammarion; 1991. p. 545–56.[5] Sharp GC, Kasukawa R, Alarcon-Segovia D, Villarreal M. In: Kasukawa R, Sharp GC, editors. Mixed connective tissue diseases and anti-nuclear antibodies. Amsterdam: Excerpta Medica; 1987. p. 23–48.Acknowledgements:NIL.Disclosure of InterestsNone Declared.

Boxwood (Buxus spp.) includes several species of popular ornamental shrubs used in traditional and contemporary gardening. In March of 2008, a gradual and irreversible decline was observed on 6-year-old Buxus rotundifolia plants in a garden in central Italy. Of 150 boxwood plants, 70% were symptomatic, and among them, approximately 25% were completely wilted. Aboveground symptoms included stunting, necrotic bark lesions at the base of the stem, reduced growth, and leaf chlorosis. Leaves at first appeared light green, then turned yellow, bronze, or straw colored. Foliar symptoms were restricted to a few branches or extended to the whole crown. Immunological field tests (Pocket Diagnostic, CSL Diagnostics, Milan, Italy) on necrotic rootlets and bark tissues suggested the risk of the presence of Phytophthora spp. One species was consistently isolated on PARHP (2) from necrotic tissues of three symptomatic plants. Recovered isolates were heterothallic and produced aerial mycelium. Star-like compact growth was also observed on potato dextrose agar. Cultures on carrot agar submerged in saline solution (2) developed papillate, noncaducous, and sympodially branched sporangia of different shapes ranging from ovoid to obturbinate. Sporangia were 37.5 to 65.0 × 22.5 to 35.0 μm (average 49.0 × 31.0 μm); L/W ratio from 1.1 to 2.1 (average 1.6). On the basis of morphological features, these isolates belong to P. citrophthora (R.E. Sm. & E.H. Sm.) Leonian (2). The identity was confirmed by sequencing of the internal transcribed spacer region of the rDNA (NCBI Accession No. FJ874794). Inoculum for two isolates of P. citrophthora (3BO and 4BO) was produced for pathogenicity testing on 100 g of autoclaved millet grains moistened with 70 ml of V8 juice. Two, 2-liter aliquots of potting media were each amended with the infested grains (1:20 vol/vol) and five 3-year-old plants of B. rotundifolia per isolate were transplanted into the media. Plants were maintained in a growth chamber at 18 to 22°C, with relative humidity of 80%, and a 12-h photoperiod. Sterile millet grains were used to inoculate five boxwood plants for the control. After 2 months, control plants remained healthy while inoculated plants displayed root necroses and foliar symptoms similar to those observed in the field. The pathogen, consistently reisolated from roots of infected plants, reduced the root weight by an average of 25%. Root rot of boxwood plants is reported to be caused by P. citricola in Poland (4), P. parasitica in Virginia (3), and P. citrophthora in North Carolina (1). To our knowledge, this is the first report of P. citrophthora on B. rotundifolia in Europe. References: (1) Z. G. Abad et al. Plant Dis. 78:830, 1994. (2) D. C. Erwin and O. K. Ribeiro. Page 562 in: Phytophthora Diseases Worldwide. The American Phytopathological Society. St. Paul, MN, 1996. (3) M. A. Hansen. Plant Dis. Fact Sheets. 450-614W, 2000. (4) L. B. Orlikowski. J. Plant Prot. Res. 46:163, 2006.

Objective – This study sought to determine the characteristics of research materials used by history students in preparing their master’s theses. Of which information resources formats did such students make use, and in what proportions? What was the age distribution of resources used? What was the dispersal over journal titles and over subject classification, i.e., the degree of interdisciplinarity? To what extent did the master’s students make use of non-English-language materials? To what extent did their institution’s library hold the resources in question? The investigator was especially interested in finding quantitative support for what he terms two “hypotheses.” The first of these is that historical research depends to a high degree on monographs, journal articles being far less important to it than they are to research in, especially, the natural sciences and technology. The second is that the age distribution of resources important to historical research is much flatter and longer than that of resources upon which researchers in the natural sciences and technology rely. Design – Citation analysis, supplemented with comprehensive catalogue searches. Setting – Southern Connecticut State University (SCSU), a mid-sized public university located in New Haven, Connecticut, U.S.A. Subjects – MA and MS theses (N=47) successfully submitted to the Department of History over the period from academic year 1998/1999 through academic year 2007/2008, inclusive. Methods – The investigator initially identified the theses through a search of the online catalogue (“Consuls”) of the Connecticut State University system, and retrieved all of them in either electronic or hard-copy form. He then subjected all citations (N=3,498) listed in the references sections of these theses to an examination in order to identify for each cited resource the format, the age, the language, and, in the case of scholarly journal articles, the journal of publication. He carried out bibliographic searches in order to rectify any citations which he had noted to be faulty or incomplete. The study took no account of possible additional citations in footnotes or endnotes or in the text, and did not measure citation intensity (whether, for instance, a thesis referred only once, or perhaps many times, to a given resource). Duplicates “were ignored.” He furthermore performed systematic searches in Consuls and in the Library of Congress (LC) online catalogue in order to establish, insofar as possible, into which assigned LC Classification class each resource fell, and whether it belonged to the holdings of the SCSU library. “Holdings,” as used here, includes physical resources owned, as well as those resources to which the library has licensed access. Not marked as either “held” or “not held” were: resources available online without restriction or charge, items not identified in either Consuls or the LC catalogue, and all government documents. Ages of cited resources were calculated based on the edition or version date actually given in a student’s citation, without any consideration of a possible earlier date of the original version of the publication or document concerned. Main Results – Format, age distribution, and journal frequency. The local citation analysis found that 53.2% of all cited resources were monographs, 7.8% were scholarly articles, 5.3% were contributed chapters in books, and 0.6% were dissertations or theses. Non-scholarly periodicals accounted for 15.7%, government documents for 6.7%, and freely available web documents for 4.1%. The remainder, approximately 6.5%, comprised archival papers, judicial documents, directories, interviews, posters, audiovisual materials, and 13 other formats. Cited resources, measured back from the date of acceptance of the citing thesis, ranged from 0 to 479 years old; the mode was 3 years, but the median was “25” (p. 170) or “26” (p. 177) years. Just over 70% (i.e., 2,500 cited resources) were more than ten years old. Almost one thousand of the cited resources were fifty or more years old. The 274 scholarly journal articles included in the references sections were spread over 153 distinct journal titles, of which 105 titles made only one appearance, and 136 titles three or fewer appearances. The mean was 1.8 appearances. Subject dispersal and language. Of the 2,084 cited resources for which LC classification was locatable, 51.5% had a classification other than history, i.e., other than class C, D, E, or F. Nearly two thirds (66.0%) of the cited scholarly journal articles had appeared in journals with a focus other than history. (Note: table 4 is incorrect, precisely reversing the actual ratio.) Of all cited items, 98.5% were in the English language. Half (27) of the non-English-language resources cited were in Korean, all cited in the same thesis. Books (i.e., monographs plus compilations from which contributed chapters were cited) accounted for 87.0% of foreign-language citations. More than four fifths of the examined theses (83.0%) cited not a single non-English-language resource. Local holdings. Of all 3,498 cited items, 3,022 could be coded as either “held” or “not held” by the SCSU library. Of the items so coded (not, as indicated on p. 180, of all cited items), scarcely two fifths (41.0%) belonged to the library’s holdings. The holdings percentage was highest (72.6%) for the 274 scholarly journal articles cited, followed by the 186 contributed chapters (50.0%), the 550 non-scholarly periodical items (49.5%), and the 1,861 monographs (46.8%). For other cited formats, the percentage was much lower, and in some cases, e.g., for the 55 archival and the 44 judicial documents, it was 0.0%. Of the 54 foreign-language resources cited, the institution’s library held only two. Conclusion – The investigator concludes that his study’s findings do indeed lend quantitative support to his two “hypotheses.” This outcome will surprise few, if any, librarians; it is in accord with what Koenig (1978) long ago saw as a matter of “intuition” and “all conventional wisdom,” something that many subsequent studies have confirmed. Sherriff accordingly recommends, firstly, that collections which strive to support historical research should, in matters of acquisition policy and budget allocation, take serious account of that field’s relatively strong dependence on monographs. Secondly, the data on age distribution carry obvious implications for librarians’ decision-making on matters such as de-accessioning and weeding, relegation to remote storage, and retrospective acquisitions. This finding should also be considered, for instance, in connection with preservation policy and the maintaining of special collections. He even suggests that librarians “need to teach students the value of reviewing literature historically and showing them how to do so effectively” (p. 177). Sherriff considers a number of further (tentative) conclusions to be warranted or suggested by the results of this study. First of all, that historical research is now characteristically an interdisciplinary matter, in the sense that it requires extensive access to information resources, including journals, which libraries have traditionally not classified as belonging to the discipline of history itself. For a library supporting such research, this phenomenon “has implications for matters including collection budgets, reference work, bibliographic instruction, and the location of collections and departmental libraries” (p. 168). It also means “that librarians working with history students and history collections need to be aware of the relevant resources in other disciplines. This can improve reference work, research assistance, and bibliographic instruction; it may also help the coordination of acquisitions across departmental lines” (p. 179). Secondly, one may conclude that “there is no ‘core’ collection of journals for history” (p. 178) which will be able to satisfy a large proportion of master’s students’ research needs. Thirdly, the fact that a library such as SCSU’s holds significantly less than half of what master’s students require for preparing their theses “may exercise a narrowing effect on students’ awareness of the existing literature on their topics” (p. 180), “increases the importance of departmental faculty, reference librarians, and subject specialist librarians drawing students’ attention to resources beyond the library’s catalogues and collections” (p. 180), and requires that the library give serious attention to effective document delivery arrangements. Finally, this study’s finding that only a small percentage of master’s students in history made use of non-English-language materials, but then in certain cases used them rather extensively (27 Korean items cited in one thesis, ten Italian in another, nine Spanish in yet another), suggests that acquisition, or at least proactive acquisition, of such materials needn’t be a priority, as long as, once again, the students concerned have easy access to efficient and affordable document delivery services. Sherriff does concede, however, that his finding could indicate “that students are unaware of relevant resources in other languages or are aware of them but lack the language skills necessary to use them” (p. 179).

Recently published by the Madrid publishing house Sequitur, La Escuela Universalista Española del siglo XVIII is an introductory work to a study of the so-called Universalist School. Its author, Pedro Aullón de Haro from the University of Alicante, Spain, and Head of the Research Group “Humanism-Europe” since 1994, has coordinated various volumes whose main objective is the historical reconstruction of the Late Spanish Enlightenment Period, which was truncated by Charles III of Spain’s expulsion of the Jesuits, affecting a great many of its members. This Enlightenment Period, in contrast to the victorious French Enlightenment, offered not a political, but a scientific and humanistic view of knowledge, taking a comparative and universalist approach, but, due to the aforementioned expulsion of the Jesuits, the authors dispersed, leaving their work unfinished; and it is only now, under the label of the Universalist School, coined by Prof. Aullón de Haro, that they have been gathered together furthering the possibility of recovering their meaning and systematic cohesion. This volume serves as an introduction to the publications that the author has announced for 2018, in which the detailed study of the main authors within this scientific community will be undertaken following an encyclopaedic structure, which will finally give recognition to the Universalist School movement, and whose stand out authors include: Juan Andrés, creator of the Universal History of the Humanities and Sciences; Lorenzo Hervás y Panduro, creator of Universal and Comparative Linguistics; and Antonio Eximeno, creator of a universal aesthetic concept of music as language and expression.The common thread of the School is precisely the "universalist ideation" that assumes the unity of knowledge in a harmonious integration of experimental sciences, fine arts and human sciences within a humanistic epistemological framework, and consequently, comparativism as a methodology of study, based on the unity of its object: the destiny of man, with his knowledge integrated into a unitary vision of the universe and the world. All this is ultimately based on the work of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, historically rooted in the process of Greco-Roman cultural parallels, and with the main figures of Macrobius, Scaliger and Morhof.Furthermore, 2017 is the second centenary of the death of Juan Andrés, commemorated by an international Congress held at the Complutense University of Madrid and featuring an important bibliographical exhibition in the History Library of this Madrid University, titled "Juan Andres y la Escuela Universalista Española" (2017).The great scientific and thematic scope of the School means that it is possible to discern several sectors or "sub-schools", although the authors often practice several disciplines: the linguistic sub-school (Hervás and his extensive circle of collaborators), bibliographical (Miguel de Casiri, Diosdado Caballero…), botanical-naturalist (Antonio José Cavanilles, Pedro Franco Dávila, Juan José Ruperto de Cuéllar, José Celestino Mutis, Eduardo Romeo…), musicological (Antonio Eximeno, Josef Pintado, Vicente Requeno, Buenaventura Prats, Joaquín Millás…), Americanist-Mexicanist (Francisco Javier Clavijero, Juan Bautista Muñoz, Miguel del Barco González, José Lino Fábregas, Juan Nuix y Perpiñá…), on the Philippines (Juan de la Concepción, Antonio de Tornos, Bernardo Bruno de la Fuente…), meteorology (Andrés, Viñes, Faura…), studies on translation (Carlos Andrés, Juan Bautista Colomés, Pedro Cantón…) etc.The work is divided into three sections: "Teoría general", "Textos de y sobre autores de la Escuela", and "Bibliografía fundamental y selecta".The first section begins with an introductory chapter in which the conceptual principles of the School are explained in relation to the particularity of the Hispanic cultural history, where both its antecedents and theoretical limits are determined. Next comes a description of the sequence of milestones, historical circumstances and accidents that resulted in the formation of the School, as well as an in-depth explanation of the concept of "universalist ideation". Finally, "La ideación del primer programa epistemológico", is a necessary exposition of the important and almost inaccessible Prospectus Philosophiae Universae, a work that was written and directed by Juan Andrés. It is a general and pluridisciplinary programmatic text published in 1773 in Ferrara, and access to it for consultation is hard to come by. That is, it is a kind of program that intends to carry out a radical overcoming of the culture and thought of the Baroque era, through the integration of empiricist science and philosophy with classical humanism and its evolution through a historically founded and revisable concept of progress. The fourth chapter, entitled "La Ilustración universalista: creación de la Comparatística moderna y Literatura Universal", lists the conceptual keys to understanding the particularity of this late Spanish age of Enlightenment of Hispanic-Italian roots, Christian, integrative, international, intercontinental, founded on a unitary vision of the universe and the world. The fifth chapter, "La clasificación de las ciencias, la universalidad tematológica y la estética de la expresión", analyses the variables of the Enlightenment Period, the various types of European illustrations and their internal conceptual sectors, in an attempt to bring to light the lack of historical and intellectual homogeneity of a process of great relevance, and analyses the universalistic classification of scientific disciplines by comparison with the classification of the French illustration, showing the flagrant reduction of the French classification, and also includes a revealing study on the concept of "expression" elaborated by Antonio Eximeno, which was later also recovered by Benedetto Croce, although without him acknowledging the precedence of Eximeno’s work.The second part, "Textos de y sobre autores de la Escuela", presents a series of documents as a critical support of the School and its authors. This is especially true of the textual references from the three main authors with respect to the other members of the School, which provides an account of the indisputable existence of a productive and active scientific community.The last part records essential bibliographical sources and information intended to enable a continuation of the study by the authors of this School, a bibliographic selection of the most important works of all the members of the School, and another selection of general and monographic studies on relevant theoretical, historical and cultural issues.In short, this work succeeds in refuting one of the most important historical and intellectual fallacies of our time: the absence of a Spanish Enlightenment Period, and consequently, proves the existence of an original and consistent modern Hispanic thought. In this way, it opens up a field of study that demands new research that will bring to light better-informed reinterpretations of both Spanish and Hispanic America pasts in general, which will lead to a search for unity, not in political and economic terms, as seems to be the objective of economic globalization, but on the basis of the concept of universality. For this purpose, the Research Group Humanismo-Europa has affiliated itself with the Instituto Juan Andrés de Comparatística y Globalización, as well created links to its online network Biblioteca HumanismoEuropa, where all the information about the authors of the School and their texts has been gathered and made available to the general public.

A Review of: Mulvaney, Shelagh A., Leonard Bickman, Nunzia B. Giuse, Warren E. Lambert, Nila A. Sathe, and Rebecca N. Jerome." A Randomized Effectiveness Trial of a Clinical Informatics Consult Service: Impact on Evidence-based Decision-making and Knowledge Implementation." Journal of the American Medical Informatics Association 15.2 (2008): 203-11. Objective – To determine whether the provision of synthesized research evidence provided by the Clinical Informatics Consult Service (CICS) affects the clinical decision-making of clinicians working in intensive care units (ICUs). Design – Non-blinded randomized control effectiveness trial. Setting – ICUs in United States-based 658 bed university hospital providing tertiary care for adults and children. Subjects – Clinical staff working within one of four ICUs who submitted a request for clinical information during the study period. Methods – Valid requests submitted by clinical staff from the four clinical ICUs (medical, paediatric, trauma, or neonatal) were randomly allocated to receive information from the CICS (CICS provided) or no information (no CICS provided). Pre-consult forms, completed at the time of the request, examined reasons for the request and the clinical actions clinicians thought might be influenced by the search results. Requestors could opt out of the no CICS provided group either before or after the randomization of their request. Responses to requests, supplied within 0.5 to 7 days as agreed with the requestor, included a search strategy and bibliographic references, a targeted list of full-text articles, and a written synthesis and critique of the relevant research. Clinicians within both groups were free to conduct their own searches and reviews. An online evaluation form, emailed to recipients, was used to assess the impact of the information supplied. The evaluation form asked clinicians to record the time spent on their own searches, sources of information consulted including colleagues, the immediate and future impact of the information provided (either from the CICS or their own searches), what influence the information had on their clinical actions, whether there were any barriers to using the information, and quality and overall satisfaction with the results provided by the CICS. Data was analyzed according to the randomized group assignment using standard intention-to-treat analysis for the main outcomes between the two groups. Statistical adjustments were made to control for possible clustering of responses or multiple ratings from individual clinicians. The data was also analyzed on an efficacy basis depending on who provided the search results. The groups were Clinician only, CICS librarian-only, or Both Clinician and CICS librarian. Results from the Clinician only search group were used as a comparison to the remaining groups. This assessment did not take account of the randomization and therefore constitutes a cohort analysis. Results were analysed by one of two methods using statistical software SAS Proc Mixed (v9) for multi-level quantitative data analysis, e.g., analysis of variance, and SPSS (v14) for all other quantitative data analysis, including descriptive statistics. Main Results – The study period was conducted over 19 months: August 2004 to March 2006. During this time, 299 valid requests were received and 226 post consult evaluation forms were returned giving a response rate of 76%. Post consult forms were returned for 108/146 of the CICS provided group and 118/153 of the no CICS provided group. The 24% of requests that had no post consult evaluation were excluded from further analysis. Statistical tests, conducted to check for potential bias relating to missing data, suggested that the missing data had little impact on the findings. Medical and neonatal ICUs accounted for the majority of completed forms (40.3% and 38.1% respectively). The majority of opt-outs (10.2% overall) were from the medical ICU. No significant difference in outcome variables was found between opt-out and other requests when tested using analysis of variance (ANOVA). Evaluation forms were completed by 89 unique clinicians and over half (49) submitted more than one request. The average requests per clinician was 2.96, SD 3.17, range 1-15, and the average number of requests per clinician who submitted more than one request was 4.57, SD 3.55, range 2-15. Total number of responses, mean, standard deviation, and Cohen’s d effect size were reported for the outcome variables based on intention to treat analysis. Results showed no significant difference between the groups on the immediate impact of the information provided, the number of articles read or the frequency with which clinicians consulted colleagues, either formally or informally. The potential future impact of the information was rated higher in the CICS group (p=

The Butler-Volmer equation is a fundamental equation extensively used to describe electrochemical kinetics and relates the reaction current at an electrode interface to the voltage. Newman and coworkers suggested an equation (Fig. 1a) for the exchange current density, which includes the state of charge (SoC) dependence of Li-ion batteries as well as theory-based anodic and cathodic transfer coefficients. This description of interface kinetics, part of the commonly used Newman model, is widely used for battery modeling.1,2 Because of the lack of experimental data, several assumptions were made in the derivations,3 such as assuming the intercalation reaction to be a first order reaction, and assuming the transfer coefficients to be 0.5. As new battery materials emerge, it is important to validate whether these assumptions are applicable, or whether the model needs to be extended. In this work, we compare experimentally obtained interface resistances from different cathode materials with the theoretical behavior of the interface kinetics predicted from the Newman model as well as experimental characterizations published in the research literature. The experimental data for the interface resistance is determined using electrochemical impedance spectroscopy,4 where the electrodes are built into a three-electrode cell setup, using a gold wire reference electrode, which allows studying the cathode impedance separately.5 As anode, we use graphite that is prelithiated to ~20% to make sure there is enough lithium in the cell to be able to relithiate the cathode completely. The loading of the electrodes is low to ensure negligible pore resistance contributions, so that the semicircle in the Nyquist-plot originates from kinetics only. The obtained charge transfer resistance is analyzed as a function of Li-content to show how the kinetics of the cathode depend on the degree of lithiation. From the Newman model, it is expected that the interface resistance shows a U-shape over the degree of lithiation with a minimum at 50% SoC with a drastic increase in charge transfer resistance for the first and last 10%. This is because the kinetics are slower when the cathode is completely empty and completely full, which can be seen from the equation in Fig. 1a. When c=c max or c=0, i 0 becomes 0. Fig. 1b. shows the theoretical behavior based on the Newman model, the experimental results found in this study, and experimental results found in the literature for NMC1116. Figure 1: a) Exchange current density suggested by Newman and coworkers. i 0 is the exchange current density, F is the Faraday constant, k a and k c are reaction rate constants for the anodic and cathodic reactions, α a and α c are the anodic and cathodic transfer coefficients, c max is the maximum lithium concentration in the material, c is the lithium concentration in the material, and c l is the salt concentration in the electrolyte. b) Charge transfer resistance vs. Li-content for ~0.5 mAh/cm² NMC111 (Gelon Lib) with prelithiated graphite (Sigma Aldrich) anode, gold wire reference electrode with a core diameter of 50 µm coated with a 7 µm polyimide insulation (Goodfellow), 80 µl 1 M LiPF6 in EC:EMC (3:7) (Gotion), two glass fiber separators (260 µm, VWR) at 25 °C determined from semi-circle width of cathode impedance (100 kHz to 10 mHz, 10 mV amplitude) using a potentiostat (VMP3, BioLogic) recorded in three electrode Swagelok cell (average of 3 measurements) is represented by dark grey points. The red points show theory according to Eq. 1 with, and the light brown points show NMC111 from Ref. 6. The lines between the points are drawn to enhance the features of the figure. Comparison of experimental data and the theoretical framework shows pronounced discrepancies, which cannot be resolved if the transfer coefficients are kept at 0.5. Similar measurements are conducted for a wide range of active materials and changed environmental conditions to further elaborate validity and/or necessity to modify the commonly used description of the interface kinetics relation. This will help to better understand interface resistance in battery cells and thereby allow optimization of material properties by, e.g., surface modification. References M. Ecker et al., J. Electrochem. Soc., 162, A1836 (2015). T. F. Fuller, M. Doyle, and J. Newman, J. Electrochem. Soc., 141, 1–10 (1994). M. Doyle, T. F. Fuller, and J. Newman, J. Electrochem. Soc., 140, 1526–1533 (1993). A. Lasia, in Electrochemical Impedance Spectroscopy and its Applications, A. Lasia, Editor, p. 203–250, Springer, New York, NY (2014). S. Solchenbach, D. Pritzl, E. J. Y. Kong, J. Landesfeind, and H. A. Gasteiger, J. Electrochem. Soc., 163, A2265–A2272 (2016). R. Morasch, H. A. Gasteiger, and B. Suthar, J. Electrochem. Soc., 170, 080522 (2023). Figure 1

Background: Although sleep has been identified as an important modifiable risk factor for sports injury, the effect of decreased sleep on sports injuries in adolescents is poorly studied. Purpose: To systematically review published literature to examine if a lack of sleep is associated with sports injuries in adolescents and to delineate the effects of chronic versus acute lack of sleep. Methods: PubMed and EMBASE databases were systematically searched for studies reporting statistics regarding the relationship between sleep and sports injury in adolescents aged <19 years published between 1/1/1997 and 12/21/2017. From included studies, the following information was extracted: bibliographic and demographic information, reported outcomes related to injury and sleep, and definitions of injury and decreased sleep. Additionally, a NOS (Newcastle-Ottawa Scale) assessment and an evaluation of the OCEM (Oxford Center for Evidence-Based Medicine) level of evidence for each study was conducted to assess each study’s individual risk of bias, and the risk of bias across all studies. Results: Of 907 identified articles, 7 met inclusion criteria. Five studies reported that adolescents who chronically slept poorly were at a significantly increased likelihood of experiencing a sports or musculoskeletal injury. Two studies reported on acute sleep behaviors. One reported a significant positive correlation between acutely poor sleep and injury, while the other study reported no significant correlation. In our random effects model, adolescents who chronically slept poorly were more likely to be injured than those who slept well (OR 1.58, 95% CI 1.05 to 2.37, p = 0.03). OCEM criteria assessment showed that all but one study (a case-series) were of 2b level of evidence—which is the highest level of evidence possible for studies which were not randomized control trials or systematic reviews. NOS assessment was conducted for all six cohort studies to investigate each study’s individual risk of bias. Five out of six of these studies received between 4 to 6 stars, categorizing them as having a moderate risk of bias. One study received 7 stars, categorizing it as having a low risk of bias. NOS assessment revealed that the most consistent source of bias was in ascertainment of exposure: all studies relied on self-reported data regarding sleep hours rather than a medical or lab record of sleep hours. Conclusions: Chronic lack of sleep in adolescents is associated with greater risk of sports and musculoskeletal injuries. Current evidence cannot yet definitively determine the effect of acute lack of sleep on injury rates. Our results thus suggest that adolescents who either chronically sleep less than 8 hours per night, or have frequent night time awakenings, are more likely to experience sports or musculoskeletal injuries. [Figure: see text][Figure: see text][Table: see text][Table: see text][Table: see text] References used in tables and full manuscript Barber Foss KD, Myer GD, Hewett TE. Epidemiology of basketball, soccer, and volleyball injuries in middle-school female athletes. Phys Sportsmed. 2014;42(2):146-153. Adirim TA, Cheng TL. Overview of injuries in the young athlete. Sports Med. 2003;33(1):75-81. Valovich McLeod TC, Decoster LC, Loud KJ, et al. National Athletic Trainers’ Association position statement: prevention of pediatric overuse injuries. J Athl Train. 2011;46(2):206-220. Milewski MD, Skaggs DL, Bishop GA, et al. Chronic lack of sleep is associated with increased sports injuries in adolescent athletes. J Pediatr Orthop. 2014;34(2):129-133. Wheaton AG, Olsen EO, Miller GF, Croft JB. 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The objective of the study is to build an instrument that allows to know the acceptance of the population towards a technology for the removal of human excreta by propulsion adapted to the dry toilet instead of the conventional system. The sample consisted of 200 lower-middle class residents. The study was quantitative; a survey was applied based on the Likert scale. The respective validation was carried out applying the methodology of exploratory factor analysis through the method of estimating maximum likelihood factors with reliability estimation and measurement bias analysis. The final questionnaire is made up of 6 dimensions, a factorial structure that includes 14 items and its consistency shows an α of 0.81. The instrument was appropriate for psychometric measurement. It is concluded that the acceptance of the technology is conditioned to factors of functionality, aesthetics and hygiene of the system, and there is a predisposition of the user to promote the technology. 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This research aims to analyze environmental-based education to increase environmental literacy and naturalistic intelligence. This research uses a qualitative descriptive method with interviews, observation, and document analysis as data collection techniques. Informants were selected using purposive sampling techniques. The criteria for selecting informants are teachers who have a minimum of five years of teaching experience and the ability to make environment-based learning plans. The sampling results were 15 teachers from five kindergartens in the coastal area. The research results show that Environment-Based Education (EBE) can increase children's eco-literacy and naturalistic intelligence which focuses on four main dimensions, such as knowledge, understanding, skills, values ​​, and attitudes. Increasing children's positive attitudes and behavior towards the environment can increase awareness of coastal environmental preservation. Results also show increased acquisition of practical knowledge, skills, and positive attitudes towards the preservation and sustainability of the coastal environment. The findings of the above studies allow recommendations for understanding the long-term impact of such teaching on environmental literacy in children that requires long-term studies. A more organized learning model that other educational institutions may employ, and includes the creation of unique curricula, including outdoor education programs, and efforts in environmental initiatives. Keywords: eco-literacy, naturalistic intelligence, environmental-based education, coastal ECCE References: Alfianto, A. B., Karyanto, P., & Harlita. (2019). Learning management system for eco literacy enhancement: The effectiveness of adopting Lewinshon indicators as an additional standard of competence. AIP Conference Proceedings, 2194. https://doi.org/10.1063/1.5139734 Amalric, M., & Cantlon, J. F. (2023). 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IOP Conference Series: Earth and Environmental Science, 1089(1). https://doi.org/10.1088/1755-1315/1089/1/012058 Wang, X., Young, G. W., Plechatá, A., Mc Guckin, C., & Makransky, G. (2023). Utilizing virtual reality to assist social competence education and social support for children from under-represented backgrounds. Computers and Education, 201(April). https://doi.org/10.1016/j.compedu.2023.104815 Wirdianti, N., Komala, R., & Miarsyah, M. (2019). Naturalist intelligence and personality: An understanding students’ responsible environmental behavior. JPBI (Jurnal Pendidikan Biologi Indonesia), 5(2), 229–236. https://doi.org/10.22219/jpbi.v5i2.7193 Zhuang, J., & Sun, H. (2023). Impact of institutional environment on entrepreneurial intention: The moderating role of entrepreneurship education. International Journal of Management Education, 21(3), 100863. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ijme.2023.100863

Inclusivity is a key dimension to assess the deliberative quality of online discussions. In quantitative content analyses, this dimension measures the openness and accessibility of and the equality and diversity within a discussion. Field of application/Theoretical foundation Most studies on online discussions draw on deliberative norms to measure the quality of their discourse (e.g., Esau et al., 2017; Friess et al., 2021; Rowe, 2015; Ziegele et al., 2020; Zimmermann, 2017). Deliberation is an important concept for the study of (political) online discussions (Ziegele et al., 2020). It focuses on a free and equal exchange of arguments to bridge social differences and legitimize political decisions (Dryzek et al., 2019; Fishkin, 1991, Habermas, 2015). Inclusivity or open participation is one of the central criteria of Habermas’ discourse ethics. Deliberative discussions should be open to everyone and all participants should be able to express their attitudes, desires, and needs (Habermas, 2015; Steenbergen et al., 2003). Inclusivity occurs on two levels: On the one hand, it is a matter of open and free access for all citizens, which precedes the actual discussion process (input, Friess & Eilders, 2015). This precondition is often referred to as universalism or openness (Engelke, 2019; Kersting, 2008). In the discussion process itself (troughput, Friess & Eilders, 2015), all voices should have an equal opportunity to be heard and responded to, regardless of factors such as gender, race, or social background. Inclusivity usually implies opinion diversity, since one-sided discussions carry the risk of marginalizing other positions (Habermas, 2006; Manin, 1987; Zimmermann, 2017). References/Combination with other methods Besides quantitative content analyses, the (deliberative) quality of online discussions is examined with qualitative content analyses and discourse analyses (e.g., Graham & Witschge, 2003; Price & Capella, 2002). Furthermore, participants’ perceptions of the quality of online discussions are investigated with qualitative interviews (e.g., Engelke, 2019; Ziegele, 2016) or a combina­tion of qualitative interviews and content analy­sis (Díaz Noci et al., 2012). Cross-references Inclusivity is one of five dimensions of deliberative quality in this database written by the same author. Accordingly, there are overlaps with the entries on rationality, interactivity, explicit civility, and storytelling regarding the theoretical background, references/combinations with other methods, and some example studies. Information on Stromer-Galley (2007) Author: Jennifer Stromer-Galley Research question: The aim of the paper was developing a coding scheme for academics and practitioners of deliberation to systematically measure what happens during group deliberations (p. 1; p. 7). Object of analysis: The author conducted a secondary analysis of online group discussions (23 groups with 5-12 participants) in an experiment called “The Virtual Agora Project” at Carnegie Mellon Unversitiy in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Participants attended the discussions from dormitory rooms that were equipped with a computer, headphones, and microphone. The group discussions were recorded and transcribed for analysis (pp. 7-8). Although strictly speaking the study does not analyze media content, the coding scheme has provided the basis for numerous other studies on the deliberative quality of online discussions (e.g., Rowe, 2015; Stroud et al., 2015; Ziegele et al., 2020). Time frame of analysis: Three weeks in July 2004 (p. 7). Info about variables Level of analysis: Equality was measured on the level of the group discussion as well as on the level of the thought. Coders segmented each speaking contribution into thought units as first stage of the coding process. “A thought is defined as an utterance (from a single sentence to multiple sentences) that expresses an idea on a topic. A change in topic signaled a change in thought. A second indicator of a change in thought was a change in the type of talk. The distinct types of talk that this coding captured were the following: talk about the problem of public schools, talk about the process of the talk, talk about the process of the deliberation, and social talk” (p. 9). Variables and values: For measuring the variable equality, the number of speakers within a group was counted. Furthermore, the thoughts were counted for the number of words per thought. Additionally, the total number of thoughts spoken in a given group was counted (p. 15). Reliability: “Two coders spent nearly two months developing and training with the coding scheme. The intercoder agreement measures […] were established from coding 3 of the 23 groups, which were randomly selected. […] The coders of the unitizing process achieved a statistically significant correlation of .86 (p < .001)” (p. 14). Codebook: in the appendix (pp. 22-33) Information on Zimmermann (2017) Author: Tobias Zimmermann Research question: Which role do online reader comments play for a deliberative-democratic understanding of a digital public sphere? (p. 11) Object of analysis: To compare discursive participation online and offline, the author conducted a full-sample content analysis of online reader comments (N = 1.176) and letters to the editor (N = 381) from German local newspapers on three similar conflicts in local politics concerning the renaming of streets and squares. Because the coding scheme was based on the discourse quality index (DQI), only contributions that contained a demand were included in the analysis, that is, “a proposal on what decision should or should not be made” Steenbergen et al., 2003, p. 27). Only then, a speech act is considered relevant from a discourse ethics perspective. Time frame of analysis: June 2012 to May 2013 Info about variables Level of analysis: see Table 1 Variables: Following Stromer-Galley (2007) and Bächtiger et al. (2010), the author operationalizes participation (egalitarian openness) based on frequency and volume of the comments. Furthermore, the study assigns the comments to a pro or contra side in regard to their content. This allows conclusions regarding the equality of different positions (pp. 161-163). Additionally, based on the DQI (Steenbergen et al., 2003), he included the variable common good reference, because reasoning oriented to common interests represents the most inclusive form of reasoning (pp. 190-191). Reliability: Intracoder reliability was tested on a subset of 100 comments. The variable “common good reference” reached a Krippendorff’s Alpha of .71 (p. 201). Codebook: pp. 159-185 (in German) Table 1: Variables, values and level of analysis (Zimmermann, 2017, p. 163; p. 191) Indicator Category Definition Level of analysis Egalitarian openness Egalitarian openness (a) Length of a comment (or letter to the editor) Individual contribution Egalitarian openness (b) Number of contributions per participant Discussion Egalitarian openness (c) Number of contributions per thematic position Discussion Common good reference No common good reference No reference to the common good is explicitly made Individual contribution Explicit common good reference The contribution includes at least one explicit reference to the common good (utilitarian or disadvantaged-oriented) Individual contribution Example studies Ruiz, C., Domingo, D., Micó, J. L., Díaz-Noci, J., Meso, C. & Masip, P. (2011). Public Sphere 2.0? The Democratic Qualities of Citizen Debates in Online Newspapers. The International Journal of Press/Politics, 16, 463–487. Stromer Galley, J. (2007). Measuring Deliberation's Content: A Coding Scheme. Journal of Public Deliberation, 3(1), Article 12. Ziegele, M., Quiring, O., Esau, K. & Friess, D. (2020). Linking News Value Theory With Online Deliberation: How News Factors and Illustration Factors in News Articles Affect the Deliberative Quality of User Discussions in SNS’ Comment Sections. Communication Research, 47(6), 860-890. https://doi.org/10.1177/0093650218797884 Zimmermann, T. (2017). Digitale Diskussionen: Über politische Partizipation mittels Online-Leserkommentaren [Digital discussions: On political participation trough online reader comments]. Edition Politik: Bd. 44. transcript Verlag. http://www.content-select.com/index.php?id=bib_view&ean=9783839438886 Further references Bächtiger, A., Shikano, S., Pedrini, S. & Ryser, M. (2010). Measuring Deliberation 2.0: Standards, Discourse Types, and Sequentialization. University of Konstanz and University of Bern. https://ash.harvard.edu/files/ash/files/baechtiger_0.pdf Díaz Noci, J., Domingo, D., Masip, P., Micó, J. L. & Ruiz, C. (2012). Comments in news, democracy booster or journalistic night­mare: Assessing the quality and dynamics of citizen debates in Catalan online new­spapers. #ISOJ, 2(1), 46–64. https://isoj.org/ wp-content/uploads/2016/10/ISOJ_Jour­nal_V2_N1_2012_Spring.pdf#page=46 Dryzek, J. S., Bächtiger, A., Chambers, S., Cohen, J., Druckman, J. N., Felicetti, A., Fishkin, J. S., Farrell, D. M., Fung, A., Gutmann, A., Landemore, H., Mansbridge, J., Marien, S., Neblo, M. A., Niemeyer, S., Setälä, M., Slothuus, R., Suiter, J., Thompson, D. & Warren, M. E. (2019). The crisis of democracy and the science of deliberation. Science (New York, N.Y.), 363(6432), 1144–1146. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.aaw2694 Engelke, K. M. (2019). Enriching the Conversation: Audience Perspectives on the Deliberative Nature and Potential of User Comments for News Media. Digital Journalism, 8(4), 1–20. https://doi.org/10.1080/21670811.2019.1680567 Esau, K., Friess, D. & Eilders, C. (2017). Design Matters! An Empirical Analysis of Online Deliberation on Different News Platforms. Policy & Internet, 9(3), 321–342. https://doi.org/10.1002/poi3.154 Fishkin, J. S. (1991). Democracy and deliberation: New directions for democratic reform. Yale University Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2307/j.ctt1dt006v https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt1dt006v Friess, D. & Eilders, C. (2015). A systematic review of online deliberation research. Policy & Internet, 7(3), 319–339. https://doi.org/10.1002/poi3.95 Friess, D., Ziegele, M. & Heinbach, D. (2021). Collective Civic Moderation for Deliberation? Exploring the Links between Citizens’ Organized Engagement in Comment Sections and the Deliberative Quality of Online Discussions. Political Communication, 38(5), 624–646. https://doi.org/10.1080/10584609.2020.1830322 Graham, T. & Witschge, T. (2003). In Search of Online Deliberation: Towards a New Method for Examining the Quality of Online Discussions. Communications, 28(2). https://doi.org/10.1515/comm.2003.012 Habermas, J. (2006). Political communication in media society: Does democracy still enjoy an epistemic dimension? The impact of normative theory on empirical research. Communication Theory, 16(4), 411–426. Habermas, J. (2015). Between facts and norms: Contributions to a discourse theory of law and democracy (Reprinted.). Polity Press. Kersting, N. (2008). Innovative Partizipation: Legitimation, Machtkontrolle und Transformation. Eine Einführung [Innovative participation. Legitimation, control of power, and transformation. An introduction]. In N. Kersting (Hrsg.), Politische Beteiligung: Einführung in dialogorientierte Instrumente politischer und gesellschaftlicher Partizipation (S. 11–39). VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Manin, B. (1987). On Legitimacy and Political Deliberation. Political Theory, 15(3), 338–368. https://doi.org/10.1177/0090591787015003005 Price, V. & Cappella, J. N. (2002). Online deliberation and its influence: The Electronic Dialogue Project in Campaign 2000. IT&Society, 1(1), 303–329. https://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.9.5945&rep=rep1&type=pdf Rowe, I. (2015). Deliberation 2.0: Comparing the Deliberative Quality of Online News User Comments Across Platforms. Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, 59(4), 539–555. https://doi.org/10.1080/08838151.2015.1093482 Steenbergen, M. R., Bächtiger, A., Spörndli, M. & Steiner, J. (2003). Measuring Political Deliberation: A Discourse Quality Index. Comparative European Politics, 1(1), 21–48. https://doi.org/10.1057/palgrave.cep.6110002 Stroud, N. J., Scacco, J. M., Muddiman, A., & Curry, A. L. (2015). Changing Deliberative Norms on News Organizations' Facebook Sites. Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 20(2), 188–203. https://doi.org/10.1111/jcc4.12104 Ziegele, M. (2016). Nutzerkommentare als Anschlusskommunikation: Theorie und qualitative Analyse des Diskussionswerts von Online-Nachrichten [The Discussion Value of Online News. An Analysis of User Comments on News Platforms]. Springer VS.

Introduction: From Trifle to Tiramisu Tiramisu is an Italian dessert cake, usually comprising sponge finger biscuits soaked in coffee and liquor, layered with a mixture of egg yolk, mascarpone and cream, and topped with sifted cocoa. Once a gourmet dish, tiramisu, which means “pick me up” in Italian (Volpi), is today very popular in Australia where it is available for purchase not only in restaurants and cafés, but also from fast food chains and supermarkets. Recipes abound in cookery books and magazines and online. It is certainly more widely available and written about in Australia than the once ubiquitous English trifle which, comprising variations on the theme of sherry soaked sponge cake, custard and cream, it closely resembles. It could be asserted that its strong coffee taste has enabled the tiramisu to triumph over the trifle in contemporary Australia, yet coffee is also a recurrent ingredient in cakes and icings in nineteenth and early twentieth century Australian cookbooks. Acknowledging that coffee consumption in Australia doubled during the years of the Second World War and maintained high rates of growth afterwards (Khamis; Adams), this article draws on examples of culinary writing during this period of increasing popularity to investigate the use of coffee in cookery as well as a beverage in these mid-twentieth century decades. In doing so, it engages with a lively scholarly discussion on what has driven this change—whether the American glamour and sophistication associated with coffee, post-war immigration from the Mediterranean and other parts of Europe, or the influence of the media and developments in technology (see, for discussion, Adams; Collins et al.; Khamis; Symons). Coffee in Australian Mid-century Epicurean Writing In Australian epicurean writing in the 1950s and 1960s, freshly brewed coffee is clearly identified as the beverage of choice for those with gourmet tastes. In 1952, The West Australian reported that Johnnie Walker, then president of the Sydney Gourmet Society had “sweated over an ordinary kitchen stove to give 12 Melbourne women a perfect meal” (“A Gourmet” 8). Walker prepared a menu comprising: savoury biscuits; pumpkin soup made with a beef, ham, and veal stock; duck braised with “26 ounces of dry red wine, a bottle and a half of curacao and orange juice;” Spanish fried rice; a “French lettuce salad with the Italian influence of garlic;” and, strawberries with strawberry brandy and whipped cream. He served sherry with the biscuits, red wine with the duck, champagne with the sweet, and coffee to finish. It is, however, the adjectives that matter here—that the sherry and wine were dry, not sweet, and the coffee was percolated and black, not instant and milky. Other examples of epicurean writing suggested that fresh coffee should also be unadulterated. In 1951, American food writer William Wallace Irwin who travelled to, and published in, Australia as “The Garrulous Gourmet,” wrote scathingly of the practice of adding chicory to coffee in France and elsewhere (104). This castigation of the French for their coffee was unusual, with most articles at this time praising Gallic gastronomy. Indicative of this is Nancy Cashmore’s travel article for Adelaide’s Advertiser in 1954. Titled “In Dordogne and Burgundy the Gourmet Will Find … A Gastronomic Paradise,” Cashmore details the purchasing, preparation, presentation, and, of course, consumption of excellent food and wine. Good coffee is an integral part of every meal and every day: “from these parts come exquisite pate de fois, truffles, delicious little cakes, conserved meats, wild mushrooms, walnuts and plums. … The day begins with new bread and coffee … nothing is imported, nothing is stale” (6). Memorable luncheons of “hors-d’oeuvre … a meat course, followed by a salad, cheese and possibly a sweet” (6) always ended with black coffee and sometimes a sugar lump soaked in liqueur. In Australian Wines and Food (AW&F), a quarterly epicurean magazine that was published from 1956 to 1960, coffee was regularly featured as a gourmet kitchen staple alongside wine and cheese. Articles on the history, growing, marketing, blending, roasting, purchase, and brewing of coffee during these years were accompanied with full-page advertisements for Bushell’s vacuum packed pure “roaster fresh” coffee, Robert Timms’s “Royal Special” blend for “coffee connoisseurs,” and the Masterfoods range of “superior” imported and locally produced foodstuffs, which included vacuum packed coffee alongside such items as paprika, bay leaves and canned asparagus. AW&F believed Australia’s growing coffee consumption the result of increased participation in quality dining experiences whether in restaurants, the “scores of colourful coffee shops opening their doors to a new generation” (“Coffee” 39) or at home. With regard to domestic coffee drinking, AW&F reported a revived interest in “the long neglected art of brewing good coffee in the home” (“Coffee” 39). Instructions given range from boiling in a pot to percolating and “expresso” (Bancroft 10; “Coffee” 37-9). Coffee was also mentioned in every issue as the only fitting ending to a fine meal, when port, other fortified wines or liqueurs usually accompanied a small demi-tasse of (strong) black coffee. Coffee was also identified as one of the locally produced speciality foods that were flown into the USA for a consulate dinner: “more than a ton of carefully selected foodstuffs was flown to New York by Qantas in three separate airlifts … beef fillet steaks, kangaroo tails, Sydney rock oysters, King prawns, crayfish tails, tropical fruits and passion fruit, New Guinea coffee, chocolates, muscatels and almonds” (“Australian” 16). It is noteworthy that tea is not profiled in the entire run of the magazine. A decade later, in the second half of the 1960s, the new Australian gourmet magazine Epicurean included a number of similar articles on coffee. In 1966 and 1969, celebrity chef and regular Epicurean columnist Graham Kerr also included an illustrated guide to making coffee in two of the books produced alongside his television series, The Graham Kerr Cookbook (125) and The Graham Kerr Cookbook by the Galloping Gourmet (266-67). These included advice to buy freshly roasted beans at least once a week and to invest in an electric coffee grinder. Kerr uses a glass percolator in each and makes an iced (milk) coffee based on double strength cooled brewed coffee. Entertaining with Margaret Fulton (1971) is the first Margaret Fulton cookery book to include detailed information on making coffee from ground beans at home. In this volume, which was clearly aimed at the gourmet-inclined end of the domestic market, Fulton, then cookery editor for popular magazine Woman’s Day, provides a morning coffee menu and proclaims that “Good hot coffee will never taste so good as it does at this time of the day” (90). With the stress on the “good,” Fulton, like Kerr, advises that beans be purchased and ground as they are needed or that only a small amounts of freshly ground coffee be obtained at one time. For Fulton, quality is clearly linked to price—“buy the best you can afford” (90)—but while advising that “Mocha coffee, which comes from Aden and Mocha, is generally considered the best” (90), she also concedes that consumers will “find by experience” (90) which blends they prefer. She includes detailed information on storage and preparation, noting that there are also “dozens of pieces of coffee making equipment to choose from” (90). Fulton includes instructions on how to make coffee for guests at a wedding breakfast or other large event, gently heating home sewn muslin bags filled with finely ground coffee in urns of barely boiling water (64). Alongside these instructions, Fulton also provides recipes for a sophisticated selection of coffee-flavoured desserts such as an iced coffee soufflé and coffee biscuits and meringues that would be perfect accompaniments to her brewed coffees. Cooking with Coffee A prominent and popular advocate of Continental and Asian cookery in Melbourne in the 1950s, Maria Kozslik Donovan wrote and illustrated five cookery books and had a successful international career as a food writer in the 1960s and 1970s. Maria Kozslik was Hungarian by birth and education and was also educated in the USA before marrying Patrick Donovan, an Australian, and migrating to Sydney with him in 1950. After a brief stay there and in Adelaide, they relocated to Melbourne in 1953 where she ran a cookery school and wrote for prominent daily newspaper The Age, penning hundreds of her weekly “Epicure’s Corner: Continental Recipes with Maria Kozslik” column from 1954 to 1961. Her groundbreaking Continental Cookery in Australia (1955) collects some 140 recipes, many of which would appear in her column—predominantly featuring French, Italian, Viennese, and Hungarian dishes, as well as some from the Middle East and the Balkans—each with an informative paragraph or two regarding European cooking and dining practices that set the recipes in context. Continental Cookery in Australia includes one recipe for Mocha Torte (162), which she translates as Coffee Cream Cake and identifies as “the favourite of the gay and party-loving Viennese … [in] the many cafés and sweet shops of Salzburg and Vienna” (162). In this recipe, a plain sponge is cut into four thin layers and filled and covered with a rich mocha cream custard made from egg yolks, sugar and a good measure of coffee, which, when cooled, is beaten into creamed butter. In her recipe for Mocha Cream, Donovan identifies the type of coffee to be used and its strength, specifying that “strong Mocha” be used, and pleading, “please, no essence!” She also suggests that the cake’s top can be decorated with shavings of the then quite exotic “coffee bean chocolate,” which she notes can be found at “most continental confectioners” (162), but which would have been difficult to obtain outside the main urban centres. Coffee also appears in her Café Frappe, where cooled strong black coffee is poured into iced-filled glasses, and dressed with a touch of sugar and whipped cream (165). For this recipe the only other direction that Donovan gives regarding coffee is to “prepare and cool” strong black coffee (165) but it is obvious—from her eschewing of other convenience foods throughout the volume—that she means freshly brewed ground coffee. In contrast, less adventurous cookery books paint a different picture of coffee use in the home at this time. Thus, the more concise Selected Continental Recipes for the Australian Home (1955) by the Australian-born Zelmear M. Deutsch—who, stating that upon marrying a Viennese husband, she became aware of “the fascinating ways of Continental Cuisine” (back cover)—includes three recipes that include coffee. Deutsch’s Mocha Creams (chocolate truffles with a hint of coffee) (76-77), almond meringues filled with coffee whipped cream (89-90), and Mocha Cream Filling comprising butter beaten with chocolate, vanilla, sugar, and coffee (95), all use “powdered” instant coffee, which is, moreover, used extremely sparingly. Her Almond Coffee Torte, for example, requires only half a teaspoon of powdered coffee to a quarter of a pint (300 mls) of cream, which is also sweetened with vanilla sugar (89-90). In contrast to the examples from Fulton and Donovan above (but in common with many cookbooks before and after) Deutsch uses the term “mocha” to describe a mix of coffee and chocolate, rather than to refer to a fine-quality coffee. The term itself is also used to describe a soft, rich brown color and, therefore, at times, the resulting hue of these dishes. The word itself is of late eighteenth century origin, and comes from the eponymous name of a Red Sea port from where coffee was shipped. While Selected Continental Recipes appears to be Deutsch’s first and only book, Anne Mason was a prolific food, wine and travel writer. Before migrating to England in 1958, she was well known in Australia as the presenter of a live weekly television program, Anne Mason’s Home-Tested Recipes, which aired from 1957. She also wrote a number of popular cookery books and had a long-standing weekly column in The Age. Her ‘Home-Tested Recipes’ feature published recipes contributed by readers, which she selected and tested. A number of these were collected in her Treasury of Australian Cookery, published in London in 1962, and included those influenced by “the country cooking of England […] Continental influence […] and oriental ideas” (11). Mason includes numerous recipes featuring coffee, but (as in Deutsch above) almost all are described as mocha-flavoured and listed as such in the detailed index. In Mason’s book, this mocha taste is, in fact, featured more frequently in sweet dishes than any of the other popular flavours (vanilla, honey, lemon, apple, banana, coconut, or passionfruit) except for chocolate. These mocha recipes include cakes: Chocolate-Mocha Refrigerator cake—plain sponge layered with a coffee-chocolate mousse (134), Mocha Gateau Ring—plain sponge and choux pastry puffs filled with cream or ice cream and thickly iced with mocha icing (136) and Mocha Nut Cake—a coffee and cocoa butter cake filled and iced with mocha icing and almonds (166). There are also recipes for Mocha Meringues—small coffee/cocoa-flavoured meringue rosettes joined together in pairs with whipped cream (168), a dessert Mocha Omelette featuring the addition of instant coffee and sugar to the eggs and which is filled with grated chocolate (181) and Mocha-Crunch Ice Cream—a coffee essence-scented ice cream with chocolate biscuit crumbs (144) that was also featured in an ice cream bombe layered with chocolate-rum and vanilla ice creams (152). Mason’s coffee recipes are also given prominence in the accompanying illustrations. Although the book contains only nine pages in full colour, the Mocha Gateau Ring is featured on both the cover and opposite the title page of the book and the Mocha Nut Cake is given an entire coloured page. The coffee component of Mason’s recipes is almost always sourced from either instant coffee (granules or powdered) or liquid coffee essence, however, while the cake for the Mocha Nut Cake uses instant coffee, its mocha icing and filling calls for “3 dessertspoons [of] hot black coffee” (167). The recipe does not, however, describe if this is made from instant, essence, or ground beans. The two other mocha icings both use instant coffee mixed with cocoa, icing sugar and hot water, while one also includes margarine for softness. The recipe for Mocha Cup (202) in the chapter for Children’s Party Fare (198-203), listed alongside clown-shaped biscuits and directions to decorate cakes with sweets, plastic spaceships and dolls, surprisingly comprises a sophisticated mix of grated dark chocolate melted in a pint of “hot black coffee” lightened with milk, sugar and vanilla essence, and topped with cream. There are no instructions for brewing or otherwise making fresh coffee in the volume. The Australian culinary masterwork of the 1960s, The Margaret Fulton Cookbook, which was published in 1968 and sold out its first (record) print run of 100,000 copies in record time, is still in print, with a revised 2004 edition bringing the number of copies sold to over 1.5 million (Brien). The first edition’s cake section of the book includes a Coffee Sponge sandwich using coffee essence in both the cake and its creamy filling and topping (166) and Iced Coffee Cakes that also use coffee essence in the cupcakes and instant coffee powder in the glacé icing (166). A Hazelnut Swiss Roll is filled with a coffee butter cream called Coffee Creme au Beurre, with instant coffee flavouring an egg custard which is beaten into creamed butter (167)—similar to Koszlik’s Mocha Cream but a little lighter, using milk instead of cream and fewer eggs. Fulton also includes an Austrian Chocolate Cake in her Continental Cakes section that uses “black coffee” in a mocha ganache that is used as a frosting (175), and her sweet hot coffee soufflé calls for “1/2 cup strong coffee” (36). Fulton also features a recipe for Irish Coffee—sweetened hot black coffee with (Irish) whiskey added, and cream floated on top (205). Nowhere is fresh or brewed coffee specified, and on the page dedicated to weights, measures, and oven temperatures, instant coffee powder appears on the list of commonly used ingredients alongside flour, sugar, icing sugar, golden syrup, and butter (242). American Influence While the influence of American habits such as supermarket shopping and fast food on Australian foodways is reported in many venues, recognition of its influence on Australian coffee culture is more muted (see, for exceptions, Khamis; Adams). Yet American modes of making and utilising coffee also influenced the Australian use of coffee, whether drunk as beverage or employed as a flavouring agent. In 1956, the Australian Women’s Weekly published a full colour Wade’s Cornflour advertorial of biscuit recipes under the banner, “Dione Lucas’s Manhattan Mochas: The New Coffee Cookie All America Loves, and Now It’s Here” (56). The use of the American “cookie” instead of the Australian “biscuit” is telling here, the popularity of all things American sure to ensure, the advert suggested, that the Mochas (coffee biscuits topped with chocolate icing) would be so popular as to be “More than a recipe—a craze” (56). This American influence can also been seen in cakes and other baked goods made specifically to serve with coffee, but not necessarily containing it. The recipe for Zulu Boys published in The Argus in 1945, a small chocolate and cinnamon cake with peanuts and cornflakes added, is a good example. Reported to “keep moist for some time,” these were “not too sweet, and are especially useful to serve with a glass of wine or a cup of black coffee” (Vesta Junior 9), the recipe a precursor to many in the 1950s and 1960s. Margaret Fulton includes a Spicy Coffee Cake in The Margaret Fulton Cookbook. This is similar to her Cinnamon Tea Cake in being an easy to mix cake topped with cinnamon sugar, but is more robust in flavour and texture with the addition of whole bran cereal, raisins and spices (163). Her “Morning Coffee” section in Entertaining with Margaret Fulton similarly includes a selection of quite strongly flavoured and substantially textured cakes and biscuits (90-92), while her recipes for Afternoon Tea are lighter and more delicate in taste and appearance (85-89). Concluding Remarks: Integration and Evolution, Not Revolution Trusted Tasmanian writer on all matters domestic, Marjorie Bligh, published six books on cookery, craft, home economics, and gardening, and produced four editions of her much-loved household manual under all three of her married names: Blackwell, Cooper and Bligh (Wood). The second edition of At Home with Marjorie Bligh: A Household Manual (published c.1965-71) provides more evidence of how, rather than jettisoning one form in favour of another, Australian housewives were adept at integrating both ground and other more instant forms of coffee into their culinary repertoires. She thus includes instructions on both how to efficiently clean a coffee percolator (percolating with a detergent and borax solution) (312) as well as how to make coffee essence at home by simmering one cup of ground coffee with three cups of water and one cup of sugar for one hour, straining and bottling (281). She also includes recipes for cakes, icings, and drinks that use both brewed and instant coffee as well as coffee essence. In Entertaining with Margaret Fulton, Fulton similarly allows consumer choice, urging that “If you like your coffee with a strong flavour, choose one to which a little chicory has been added” (90). Bligh’s volume similarly reveals how the path from trifle to tiramisu was meandering and one which added recipes to Australian foodways, rather than deleted them. Her recipe for Coffee Trifle has strong similarities to tiramisu, with sponge cake soaked in strong milk coffee and sherry layered with a rich custard made from butter, sugar, egg yolks, and black coffee, and then decorated with whipped cream, glace cherries, and walnuts (169). This recipe precedes published references to tiramisu as, although the origins of tiramisu are debated (Black), references to the dessert only began to appear in the 1980s, and there is no mention of the dish in such authoritative sources as Elizabeth David’s 1954 Italian Food, which features a number of traditional Italian coffee-based desserts including granita, ice cream and those made with cream cheese and rice. By the 1990s, however, respected Australian chef and food researcher, the late Mietta O’Donnell, wrote that if pizza was “the most travelled of Italian dishes, then tiramisu is the country’s most famous dessert” and, today, Australian home cooks are using the dish as a basis for a series of variations that even include replacing the coffee with fruit juices and other flavouring agents. Long-lived Australian coffee recipes are similarly being re-made in line with current taste and habits, with celebrated chef Neil Perry’s recent Simple Coffee and Cream Sponge Cake comprising a classic cream-filled vanilla sponge topped with an icing made with “strong espresso”. To “glam up” the cake, Perry suggests sprinkling the top with chocolate-covered roasted coffee beans—cycling back to Maria Koszlik’s “coffee bean chocolate” (162) and showing just how resilient good taste can be. Acknowledgements The research for this article was completed while I was the recipient of a Research Fellowship in the Special Collections at the William Angliss Institute (WAI) of TAFE in Melbourne, where I utilised their culinary collections. Thank you to the staff of the WAI Special Collections for their generous assistance, as well as to the Faculty of Arts, Business, Informatics and Education at Central Queensland University for supporting this research. Thank you to Jill Adams for her assistance with this article and for sharing her “Manhattan Mocha” file with me, and also to the peer reviewers for their generous and helpful feedback. All errors are, of course, my own.References “A Gourmet Makes a Perfect Meal.” The West Australian 4 Jul. 1952: 8.Adams, Jill. “Australia’s American Coffee Culture.” Australasian Journal of Popular Culture (2012): forthcoming. “Australian Wines Served at New York Dinner.” Australian Wines and Food 1.5 (1958): 16. Bancroft, P. A. “Let’s Make Some Coffee.” Australian Wines & Food Quarterly 4.1 (1960): 10. Black, Jane. “The Trail of Tiramisu.” Washington Post 11 Jul. 2007. 15 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/10/AR2007071000327.html›. Bligh, Marjorie. At Home with Marjorie Bligh: A Household Manual. Devonport: M. Bligh, c.1965-71. 2nd ed. Brien, Donna Lee. “Australian Celebrity Chefs 1950-1980: A Preliminary Study.” Australian Folklore 21 (2006): 201-18. Cashmore, Nancy. “In Dordogne and Burgundy the Gourmet Will Find … A Gastronomic Paradise.” The Advertiser 23 Jan. (1954): 6. “Coffee Beginnings.” Australian Wines & Food Quarterly 1.4 (1957/1958): 37-39. Collins, Jock, Katherine Gibson, Caroline Alcorso, Stephen Castles, and David Tait. A Shop Full of Dreams: Ethnic Small Business in Australia. Sydney: Pluto Press, 1995. David, Elizabeth. Italian Food. New York: Penguin Books, 1999. 1st pub. UK: Macdonald, 1954, and New York: Knoft, 1954. Donovan, Maria Kozslik. Continental Cookery in Australia. Melbourne: William Heinemann, 1955. Reprint ed. 1956. -----.“Epicure’s Corner: Continental Recipes with Maria Kozslik.” The Age 4 Jun. (1954): 7. Fulton, Margaret. The Margaret Fulton Cookbook. Dee Why West: Paul Hamlyn, 1968. -----. Entertaining with Margaret Fulton. Dee Why West: Paul Hamlyn, 1971. Irwin, William Wallace. The Garrulous Gourmet. Sydney: The Shepherd P, 1951. Khamis, Susie. “It Only Takes a Jiffy to Make: Nestlé, Australia and the Convenience of Instant Coffee.” Food, Culture & Society 12.2 (2009): 217-33. Kerr, Graham. The Graham Kerr Cookbook. Wellington, Auckland, and Sydney: AH & AW Reed, 1966. -----. The Graham Kerr Cookbook by The Galloping Gourmet. New York: Doubleday, 1969. Mason, Anne. A Treasury of Australian Cookery. London: Andre Deutsch, 1962. Mason, Peter. “Anne Mason.” The Guardian 20 Octo.2006. 15 Feb. 2012 Masterfoods. “Masterfoods” [advertising insert]. Australian Wines and Food 2.10 (1959): btwn. 8 & 9.“Masters of Food.” Australian Wines & Food Quarterly 2.11 (1959/1960): 23. O’Donnell, Mietta. “Tiramisu.” Mietta’s Italian Family Recipe, 14 Aug. 2004. 15 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.miettas.com/food_wine_recipes/recipes/italianrecipes/dessert/tiramisu.html›. Perry, Neil. “Simple Coffee and Cream Sponge Cake.” The Age 12 Mar. 2012. 15 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.theage.com.au/lifestyle/cuisine/baking/recipe/simple-coffee-and-cream-sponge-cake-20120312-1utlm.html›. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A History of Eating in Australia. Adelaide: Duck Press, 2007. 1st. Pub. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 1982. ‘Vesta Junior’. “The Beautiful Fuss of Old Time Baking Days.” The Argus 20 Mar. 1945: 9. Volpi, Anna Maria. “All About Tiramisu.” Anna Maria’s Open Kitchen 20 Aug. 2004. 15 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.annamariavolpi.com/tiramisu.html›. Wade’s Cornflour. “Dione Lucas’ Manhattan Mochas: The New Coffee Cookie All America Loves, and Now It’s Here.” The Australian Women’s Weekly 1 Aug. (1956): 56. Wood, Danielle. Housewife Superstar: The Very Best of Marjorie Bligh. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 2011.

Practically any good story follows certain narrative conventions in order to hold its readers' attention and leave them with a feeling of satisfaction -- this goes for fictional tales as well as for many news reports (we do tend to call them 'news stories', after all), for idle gossip as well as for academic papers. In the Western tradition of storytelling, it's customary to start with the exposition, build up to major events, and end with some form of narrative closure. Indeed, audience members will feel disturbed if there is no sense of closure at the end -- their desire for closure is a powerful one. From this brief description of narrative patterns it is also clear that such narratives depend crucially on linear progression through the story in order to work -- there may be flashbacks and flashforwards, but very few stories, it seems, could get away with beginning with their point of closure, and work back to the exposition. Closure, as the word suggests, closes the story, and once reached, the audience is left with the feeling of now knowing the whole story, of having all the pieces necessary to understand its events. To understand how important the desire to reach this point is to the audience, just observe the discussions of holes in the plot which people have when they're leaving a cinema: they're trying to reach a better sense of closure than was afforded them by the movie itself. In linearly progressing media, this seems, if you'll pardon the pun, straightforward. Readers know when they've finished an article or a book, viewers know when a movie or a broadcast is over, and they'll be able to assess then if they've reached sufficient closure -- if their desires have been fulfilled. On the World Wide Web, this is much more difficult: "once we have it in our hands, the whole of a book is accessible to us readers. However, in front of an electronic read-only hypertext document we are at the mercy of the author since we will only be able to activate the links which the author has provided" (McKnight et al. 119). In many cases, it's not even clear whether we've reached the end of the text already: just where does a Website end? Does the question even make sense? Consider the following example, reported by Larry Friedlander: I watched visitors explore an interactive program in a museum, one that contained a vast amount of material -- pictures, film, historic explanations, models, simulations. I was impressed by the range of subject matter and by the ambitiousness and polish of the presentation. ... But to my surprise, as I watched visitors going down one pathway after another, I noticed a certain dispirited glaze spread over their faces. They seemed to lose interest quite quickly and, in fact, soon stopped their explorations. (163) Part of the problem here may just have been the location of the programme, of course -- when you're out in public, you might just not have the time to browse as extensively as you could from your computer at home. But there are other explanations, too: the sheer amount of options for exploration may have been overwhelming -- there may not have been any apparent purpose to aim for, any closure to arrive at. This is a problem inherent in hypertext, particularly in networked systems like the Web: it "changes our conception of an ending. Different readers can choose not only to end the text at different points but also to add to and extend it. In hypertext there is no final version, and therefore no last word: a new idea or reinterpretation is always possible. ... By privileging intertextuality, hypertext provides a large number of points to which other texts can attach themselves" (Snyder 57). In other words, there will always be more out there than any reader could possibly explore, since new documents are constantly being added. There is no ending if a text is constantly extended. (In print media this problem appears only to a far more limited extent: there, intertextuality is mostly implicit, and even though new articles may constantly be added -- 'linked', if you will -- to a discourse, due to the medium's physical nature they're still very much separate entities, while Web links make intertextuality explicit and directly connect texts.) Does this mark the end of closure, then? Adding to the problem is the fact that it's not even possible to know how much of the hypertextual information available is still left unexplored, since there is no universal register of all the information available on the Web -- "the extent of hypertext is unknowable because it lacks clear boundaries and is often multi-authored" (Snyder 19). While reading a book you can check how many more pages you've got to go, but on the Web this is not an option. Our traditions of information transmission create this desire for closure, but the inherent nature of the medium prevents us from ever satisfying it. Barrett waxes lyrical in describing this dilemma: contexts presented online are often too limited for what we really want: an environment that delivers objects of desire -- to know more, see more, learn more, express more. We fear being caught in Medusa's gaze, of being transfixed before the end is reached; yet we want the head of Medusa safely on our shield to freeze the bitstream, the fleeting imagery, the unstoppable textualisations. We want, not the dead object, but the living body in its connections to its world, connections that sustain it, give it meaning. (xiv-v) We want nothing less, that is, than closure without closing: we desire the knowledge we need, and the feeling that that knowledge is sufficient to really know about a topic, but we don't want to devalue that knowledge in the same process by removing it from its context and reducing it to trivial truisms. We want the networked knowledge base that the Web is able to offer, but we don't want to feel overwhelmed by the unfathomable dimensions of that network. This is increasingly difficult the more knowledge is included in that network -- "with the growth of knowledge comes decreasing certainty. The confidence that went with objectivity must give way to the insecurity that comes from knowing that all is relative" (Smith 206). The fact that 'all is relative' is one which predates the Net, of course, and it isn't the Internet or the World Wide Web that has destroyed objectivity -- objectivity has always been an illusion, no matter how strongly journalists or scientists have at times laid claims ot it. Internet-based media have simply stripped away more of the pretences, and laid bare the subjective nature of all information; in the process, they have also uncovered the fact that the desire for closure must ultimately remain unfulfilled in any sufficiently non-trivial case. Nonetheless, the early history of the Web has seen attempts to connect all the information available (LEO, one of the first major German Internet resource centres, for example, took its initials from its mission to 'Link Everything Online') -- but as the amount of information on the Net exploded, more and more editorial choices of what to include and what to leave out had to be made, so that now even search engines like Yahoo! and Altavista quite clearly and openly offer only a selection of what they consider useful sites on the Web. Web browsers still hoping to find everything on a certain topic would be well-advised to check with all major search engines, as well as important resource centres in the specific field. The average Web user would probably be happy with picking the search engine, Web directory or Web ring they find easiest to use, and sticking with it. The multitude of available options here actually shows one strength of the Internet and similar networks -- "the computer permits many [organisational] structures to coexist in the same electronic text: tree structures, circles, and lines can cross and recross without obstructing one another. The encyclopedic impulse to organise can run riot in this new technology of writing" (Bolter 95). Still, this multitude of options is also likely to confuse some users: in particular, "novices do not know in which order they need to read the material or how much they should read. They don't know what they don't know. Therefore learners might be sidetracked into some obscure corner of the information space instead or covering the important basic information" (Nielsen 190). They're like first-time visitors to a library -- but this library has constantly shifting aisles, more or less well-known pathways into specialty collections, fiercely competing groups of librarians, and it extends almost infinitely. Of course, the design of the available search and information tools plays an important role here, too -- far more than it is possible to explore at this point. Gay makes the general observation that "visual interfaces and navigational tools that allow quick browsing of information layout and database components are more effective at locating information ... than traditional index or text-based search tools. However, it should be noted that users are less secure in their findings. Users feel that they have not conducted complete searches when they use visual tools and interfaces" (185). Such technical difficulties (especially for novices) will slow take-up of and low satisfaction with the medium (and many negative views of the Web can probably be traced to this dissatisfaction with the result of searches -- in other words, to a lack of satisfaction of the desire for closure); while many novices eventually overcome their initial confusion and become more Web-savvy, others might disregard the medium as unsuitable for their needs. At the other extreme of the scale, the inherent lack for closure, in combination with the societally deeply ingrained desire for it, may also be a strong contributing factor for another negative phenomenon associated with the Internet: that of Net users becoming Net junkies, who spend every available moment online. Where the desire to know, to get to the bottom (or more to the point: to the end) of a topic, becomes overwhelming, and where the fundamental unattainability of this goal remains unrealised, the step to an obsession with finding information seems a small one; indeed, the neverending search for that piece of knowledge surpassing all previously found ones seems to have obvious similarities to drug addiction with its search for the high to better all previous highs. And most likely, the addiction is only heightened by the knowledge that on the Web, new pieces of information are constantly being added -- an endless, and largely free, supply of drugs... There is no easy solution to this problem -- in the end, it is up to the user to avoid becoming an addict, and to keep in mind that there is no such thing as total knowledge. Web designers and content providers can help, though: "there are ways of orienting the reader in an electronic document, but in any true hypertext the ending must remain tentative. An electronic text never needs to end" (Bolter 87). As Tennant & Heilmeier elaborate, "the coming ease-of-use problem is one of developing transparent complexity -- of revealing the limits and the extent of vast coverage to users, and showing how the many known techniques for putting it all together can be used most effectively -- of complexity that reveals itself as powerful simplicity" (122). We have been seeing, therefore, the emergence of a new class of Websites: resource centres which help their visitors to understand a certain topic and view it from all possible angles, which point them in the direction of further information on- and off-site, and which give them an indication of how much they need to know to understand the topic to a certain degree. In this, they must ideally be very transparent, as Tennant & Heilmeier point out -- having accepted that there is no such thing as objectivity, it is necessary for these sites to point out that their offered insight into the field is only one of many possible approaches, and that their presented choice of information is based on subjective editorial decisions. They may present preferred readings, but they must indicate that these readings are open for debate. They may help satisfy some of their readers' desire for closure, but they must at the same time point out that they do so by presenting a temporary ending beyond which a more general story continues. If, as suggested above, closure crucially depends on a linear mode of presentation, such sites in their arguments help trace one linear route through the network of knowledge available online; they impose a linear from-us-to-you model of transmission on the normally unordered many-to-many structure of the Net. In the face of much doomsaying about the broadcast media, then, here is one possible future for these linear transmission media, and it's no surprise that such Internet 'push' broad- or narrowcasting is a growth area of the Net -- simply put, it serves the apparent need of users to be told stories, to have their desire for closure satisfied through clear narrative progressions from exposition through development to end. (This isn't 'push' as such, really: it's more a kind of 'push on demand'.) But at the same time, this won't mean the end of the unstructured, networked information that the Web offers: even such linear media ultimately build on that networked pool of knowledge. The Internet has simply made this pool public -- passively as well as actively accessible to everybody. Now, however, Web designers (and this includes each and every one of us, ultimately) must work "with the users foremost in mind, making sure that at every point there is a clear, simple and focussed experience that hooks them into the welter of information presented" (Friedlander 164); they must play to the desire for closure. (As with any preferred reading, however, there is also a danger that that closure is premature, and that the users' process or meaning-making is contained and stifled rather than aided.) To return briefly to Friedlander's experience with the interactive museum exhibit: he draws the conclusion that visitors were simply overwhelmed by the sheer mass of information and were reluctant to continue accumulating facts without a guiding purpose, without some sense of how or why they could use all this material. The technology that delivers immense bundles of data does not simultaneously deliver a reason for accumulating so much information, nor a way for the user to order and make sense of it. That is the designer's task. The pressing challenge of multimedia design is to transform information into usable and useful knowledge. (163) Perhaps this transformation is exactly what is at the heart of fulfilling the desire for closure: we feel satisfied when we feel we know something, have learnt something from a presentation of information (no matter if it's a news report or a fictional story). Nonetheless, this satisfaction must of necessity remain intermediate -- there is always much more still to be discovered. "From the hypertext viewpoint knowledge is infinite: we can never know the whole extent of it but only have a perspective on it. ... Life is in real-time and we are forced to be selective, we decide that this much constitutes one node and only these links are worth representing" (Beardon & Worden 69). This is not inherently different from processes in other media, where bandwidth limitations may even force much stricter gatekeeping regiments, but as in many cases the Internet brings these processes out into the open, exposes their workings and stresses the fundamental subjectivity of information. Users of hypertext (as indeed users of any medium) must be aware of this: "readers themselves participate in the organisation of the encyclopedia. They are not limited to the references created by the editors, since at any point they can initiate a search for a word or phrase that takes them to another article. They might also make their own explicit references (hypertextual links) for their own purposes ... . It is always a short step from electronic reading to electronic writing, from determining the order of texts to altering their structure" (Bolter 95). Significantly, too, it is this potential for wide public participation which has made the Internet into the medium of the day, and led to the World Wide Web's exponential growth; as Bolter describes, "today we cannot hope for permanence and for general agreement on the order of things -- in encyclopedias any more than in politics and the arts. What we have instead is a view of knowledge as collections of (verbal and visual) ideas that can arrange themselves into a kaleidoscope of hierarchical and associative patterns -- each pattern meeting the needs of one class of readers on one occasion" (97). To those searching for some meaningful 'universal truth', this will sound defeatist, but ultimately it is closer to realism -- one person's universal truth is another one's escapist phantasy, after all. This doesn't keep most of us from hoping and searching for that deeper insight, however -- and from the preceding discussion, it seems likely that in this we are driven by the desire for closure that has been imprinted in us so deeply by the multitudes of narrative structures we encounter each day. It's no surprise, then, that, as Barrett writes, "the virtual environment is a place of longing. Cyberspace is an odyssey without telos, and therefore without meaning. ... Yet cyberspace is also the theatre of operations for the reconstruction of the lost body of knowledge, or, perhaps more correctly, not the reconstruction, but the always primary construction of a body of knowing. Thought and language in a virtual environment seek a higher synthesis, a re-imagining of an idea in the context of its truth" (xvi). And so we search on, following that by definition end-less quest to satisfy our desire for closure, and sticking largely to the narrative structures handed down to us through the generations. This article is no exception, of course -- but while you may gain some sense of closure from it, it is inevitable that there is a deeper feeling of a lack of closure, too, as the article takes its place in a wider hypertextual context, where so much more is still left unexplored: other articles in this issue, other issues of M/C, and further journals and Websites adding to the debate. Remember this, then: you decide when and where to stop. References Barrett, Edward, and Marie Redmont, eds. Contextual Media: Multimedia and Interpretation. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1995. Barrett, Edward. "Hiding the Head of Medusa: Objects and Desire in a Virtual Environment." Barrett & Redmont xi- vi. Beardon, Colin, and Suzette Worden. "The Virtual Curator: Multimedia Technologies and the Roles of Museums." Barrett & Redmont 63-86. Bolter, Jay David. Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1991. Friedlander, Larry. "Spaces of Experience on Designing Multimedia Applications." Barrett & Redmont 163-74. Gay, Geri. "Issues in Accessing and Constructing Multimedia Documents." Barrett & Redmont 175-88. McKnight, Cliff, John Richardson, and Andrew Dillon. "The Authoring of Hypertext Documents." Hypertext: Theory into Practice. Ed. Ray McAleese. Oxford: Intellect, 1993. Nielsen, Jakob. Hypertext and Hypermedia. Boston: Academic Press, 1990. Smith, Anthony. Goodbye Gutenberg: The Newspaper Revolution of the 1980's [sic]. New York: Oxford UP, 1980. Snyder, Ilana. Hypertext: The ELectronic Labyrinth. Carlton South: Melbourne UP, 1996. Tennant, Harry, and George H. Heilmeier. "Knowledge and Equality: Harnessing the Truth of Information Abundance." Technology 2001: The Future of Computing and Communications. Ed. Derek Leebaert. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1991. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Axel Bruns. "What's the Story: The Unfulfilled Desire for Closure on the Web." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.5 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php>. Chicago style: Axel Bruns, "What's the Story: The Unfulfilled Desire for Closure on the Web," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 5 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Axel Bruns. (1999) What's the story: the unfulfilled desire for closure on the Web. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(5). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9907/closure.php> ([your date of access]).

One of the most frequent comments about Internet-based media, particularly about newsgroups and the Web, is that they provide a forum for everyone, no matter how obscure or specific their interest -- you'll find dedicated fora for every field, from high-energy physics to learning Klingon, from the campaign for an independent country in Northern Italy to Indonesian cooking. This is seen as a positive development as often as it is regarded as a negative force -- optimists see these fora as potential bases for the formation of virtual communities which may be able to reinvigorate previously neglected niche groupings, while pessimists predict a further shattering of societies into disparate fragments with mutually almost unintelligible cultural attitudes. Examples supporting either view can be found amongst the multitudes of newsgroups and Websites available on the Net, but let us skip this debate for the moment; instead, let's focus on some of the potential consequences this situation may have for academia. It requires little prescience to predict that the next few years will see an increasing use of the Web and, to a smaller extent, newsgroups in academic teaching and research. Continuously updated Websites will enable students and scholars to work with the latest developments in their disciplines, rather than limiting themselves to whatever recent books and journals their university library has managed to acquire, and newsgroups can help put interested academics in touch with each other in order to exchange news and pointers to information on the Web, as well as discuss recent research. For anyone with a computer, much of this information will also be accessible more easily electronically, via the Internet, than physically through libraries, bookstores, and photocopies. If it is organised efficiently on the Web, interested researchers may also come to be able to better target precisely the information they need, avoiding the need to leaf through volumes of journals to find the one useful article they might contain. Such research isn't limited only to academics and university students anymore, though. As hypertext scholar George P. Landow notes, "hypertext provides the individualistic learner with the perfect means for exploration and enrichment of particular areas of study. By permitting one to move from relatively familiar areas to less familiar ones, a hypertext corpus encourages the autodidact, the continuing education student, and the student with little access to instructors" (Hypertext 129-30) -- particularly the ethos of information freedom that is widespread on the Internet means that any amateur enthusiast may conduct their own self-education with the materials available on the Web. This was already possible, after a fashion, in pre-Web times, of course, but the Net increases the amount of information available, and removes the physical and psychological barrier of entering a university library as a non-student, and facilitates connections to other (self-taught as well as 'official') students through newsgroups and email. What's more, the Web also allows adding one's own voice to academic debates: "in a book one can always move one's finger or pencil across the printed page, but one's intrusion always remains physically separate from the text. One may make a mark on the page, but one's intrusion does not affect the text itself" (Landow, Hypertext 44). By creating a Web page displaying one's own thoughts on the matter, providing links to related sites, and ideally receiving links from those sites, too, any outsider may now invade the discourse in an academic discipline. In most cases, such invasions may go largely unnoticed -- but nothing's to stop a self-taught enthusiast from creating a highly useful Website that even 'proper' academics may consider relevant, and so from adding own articles to the discipline's body of knowledge. As a side-effect of such presentation on the Web, then, texts by students are no longer so easily subordinated to those by revered authors, and disparities between them are less visible. The text as a site of authority can also become a site of resistance: in hypertext, indeed, opposition to the canonised texts is more likely to succeed in conditions of hypertextuality than in the print culture, if only because hypertext makes it easier to expose the contradictions and power moves in such texts, and the multiply constructed positions from which they might be read. (Snyder 77) Both these points pose a major problem for the currently prevalent conventions of academic debate, of course, which (despite post-structuralism's argument for the "death of the author") still evaluate the relevance of academic work partly based on its authorial source. Canonisation of particular scholars and their works (a process which is not limited only to literary disciplines) must ultimately fail -- "because all electronic texts are interrelated, none has well-defined borders; instead, each text reaches out to link up with past, present and future texts. It therefore becomes difficult to cordon off and to canonise a few great texts and authors" (Snyder 75). And generally, Nunberg notes, "media like the Web tend to resist attempts to impose the sort of solutions that enable us to manage (even imperfectly) the steady increase in the number of print documents -- the ramification of discourses and forms of publication, the imposition of systems of screening or refereeing, the restriction of the right to speak to 'qualified' participants" ("Farewell" 126). The freely accessible information on the Web includes texts by revered researchers as well as badly-informed beginners, and elaborate essays as well as superficial scribblings. This realisation has caused many academics who grew up with the apparent simplicities of print to regard Internet-based media with despair and, frequently, with contempt; Nunberg himself provides a good example by stating that "any undergraduate student is free to post her night thoughts on Mary Shelley or the Klingon verb to a 'potential audience' of millions (a quick search of the Web turns up numerous examples of both), and there will be nothing in its mode of circulation to distinguish it from communications from better-qualified contributors" ("Farewell" 127). Such remarkably condescending prose indicates more than anything a paralysing fear of an invasion of the proverbial academic ivory tower by the uncouth hordes of self-taught dilettantes who have no respect for scholarly authority: Nunberg's insistence that a notion of academic 'qualification' (expressed no doubt in degrees and positions) could do any more than indicate vaguely that an author might have something valuable to say, and that anybody not 'qualified' this way cannot possibly contribute anything worth one's while, is surprisingly hierarchistic. Surely, in reality the onus for determining a text's worth should (and must) always eventually lie with the individual reader; the sense a text makes, not the source that made the text, should determine its quality. It's easy to see that this emphasis which Nunberg and others place on a text's source is in fact determined by print as the still-prevalent technology of information dissemination. As Bolter describes it, "the idea of a relatively stable canon made sense in a culture dominated by printed books. ... But the notion of a standard has now collapsed, and the collapse is mirrored in the shift from the printed to the electronic writing space, in which a stable canon of works and authors is meaningless" (237). Landow elaborates that hypertext's effects are so basic, so radical, that it reveals that many of our most cherished, most commonplace ideas and attitudes toward literature and literary production turn out to be the result of that particular form of information technology and technology of cultural memory that has provided the setting for them. This technology -- that of the printed book and of its close relations, which include the typed or printed page -- engenders certain notions of authorial property, authorial uniqueness, and a physically isolated text that hypertext makes untenable. The evidence of hypertext, in other words, historicises many of our most commonplace assumptions, thereby forcing them to descend from the ethereality of abstraction and appear as corollaries to a particular technology rooted in specific times and places. (33) Today, on the Web, however, where anyone can participate by adding their own texts or simply rearranging others', we lose once and for all notions of the author or the text as a stable entity. Thus, Nunberg claims, "on the Web ... you can never have the kind of experience that you can have with the informational genres of print, the experience of interpreting a text simply as a newspaper or encyclopedia article without attending to its author, its publisher, or the reliability of its recommender. We read Web documents, that is, not as information but as intelligence, which requires an explicit warrant of one form or another" ("Farewell" 127-8). Again, however, Nunberg claims a simplicity of the print media which simply doesn't exist: he goes on to say that "we should look to electronic discourse to provide a counter and complement to the informational forms of print -- a domain that privileges the personal, the private, and the subjective against the impersonal, the public, and the objective" (133). In reality, though, anyone who today still reads a newspaper or any other form of printed information as an 'objective' source, without an awareness of its publisher's or its journalists' political and economic agenda, must certainly be regarded as a naïve fool -- not just in Australia, with its atrocious standards of print journalism. If the modern media have taught us anything, it is that there is no such thing as 'objective truth'; the Web, with its unprecedented opportunities for world-wide publication, just makes this fact particularly obvious. While they may contribute to more openness in dealing with contributions from non-traditionally qualified sources, however, such realisations won't completely eradicate academia's fear of an invasion by the self-trained and the untrained. Some hope is at hand, though: "at the very moment indeed when the new technologies of memory can make us fear an alarming glut of traces -- a true change of scale in the collective accumulation of archives, at once written, audio, visual, and audiovisual -- these same technologies increasingly lighten its load, at almost the same pace, by facilitating individualised retrieval" (Debray 146); more elaborate search engines and resource listings on the Web can help point interested researchers to useful contributions both from within and without the ivory tower, and multiple alternative engines and listings may cater for various definitions of what constitutes 'useful'. "In the future, it seems, there will be no fixed canons of texts and no fixed epistemological boundaries between disciplines, only paths of inquiry, modes of integration, and moments of encounter" (Hesse 31). This may also have negative implications, though. On the one hand, as Bazin writes, "the digital empire puts too much emphasis on relation and circulation per se, rather than on the acquisition of content. Instead of the substantialist metaphysics of the hidden meaning which a 'vertical' reading would attempt to reveal, it prefers the rhetoric of exchange and conversation. It counters the aesthetics of depth with a pragmatics of interface" (163-4), and researchers on the Web may stay on the surface of a discipline rather than explore the very depths of its discourse -- they may stick with digests, digest-digests, digest-digest-digests, to borrow from Ray Bradbury (55). "Electronic linking almost inevitably tends to lead to blending and mixing of genres and modes ... . Hypertextualising a text produces not an electronic book but a miniature electronic library" (Landow, "Twenty Minutes" 226-7), and sticking to one's research topic may prove difficult. On the other end of the scale, the Net's tendency to group interests off into niches may lead to specific deeply involved research being done without any awareness of related disciplines that may offer alternative approaches to a subject -- in short, without any knowledge of the bigger picture one's discipline fits into. To avoid both pitfalls demands a researcher's discipline and attention. On the positive side, the invasion of the ivory tower allows for unprecedented public involvement (as Net theorists have often promised it): we are witnessing the appearance ... of a 'dynamic textuality' ... that by freeing itself from the straitjacket of the book is transforming not only the individual's relation to the text but also the traditional model of producing and transmitting learning and practical knowledge. In the place vacated by a linear transmission, inherited from forebears and relatively individualised, a system for the coemergence of bodies of knowledge is tending to be progressively substituted -- a system in which instruction, self-apprenticing, intellectual creation, and diffusion all closely cooperate. (Bazin 163) Naturally, this process won't mean that anybody can now easily become a nuclear scientist, economic expert, or cultural historian -- in most fields, to make it to the very top of the profession will still require a level of access to materials and equipment that only academic and professional institutions can offer. Nonetheless, more self-trained amateur enthusiasts will now be able to make meaningful contributions to their discipline -- a development we already begin to see in fields as diverse as astronomy, computer sciences, and some forms of literary studies. At the very least, it will create among the participants a more interested, more informed and more involved public, thinking for themselves and questioning the commonplaces of a print-based culture. "We are promised ... less of the dogmatic and more of the ludic, less of the canonical and more of the festive. Fewer arguments from authority, though more juxtaposition of authorities" (Debray 146). The invasion of the ivory tower is no attack on the Bastille -- the new dilettante invaders come to learn and share, not to destroy. References Bazin, Patrick. "Toward Metareading." Nunberg 153-68. Bolter, Jay David. Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing. Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1991. Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. Berlin: Cornelsen-Velhagen & Klasing, 1985. Debray, Régis. "The Book as Symbolic Object." Nunberg 139-51. Hesse, Carla. "Books in Time." Nunberg 21-36. Landow, George P. Hypertext: The Convergence of Contemporary Critical Theory and Technology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1992. ---. "Twenty Minutes into the Future, or How Are We Moving beyond the Book?" Nunberg 209-37. Nunberg, Geoffrey. "Farewell to the Information Age." Nunberg 103-38. ---, ed. The Future of the Book. Berkeley: U of California P, 1996. Snyder, Ilana. Hypertext: The Electronic Labyrinth. Carlton South: Melbourne UP, 1996. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Axel Bruns. "Invading the Ivory Tower: Hypertext and the New Dilettante Scholars." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.2 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/ivory.php>. Chicago style: Axel Bruns, "Invading the Ivory Tower: Hypertext and the New Dilettante Scholars," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 2 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/ivory.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Axel Bruns. (1999) Invading the ivory tower: hypertext and the new dilettante scholars. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(2). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9903/ivory.php> ([your date of access]).

There have been a number of Australian memoirs written by adoptees over the last twenty years—Robert Dessaix’s A Mother’s Disgrace, Suzanne Chick’s Searching for Charmian, Tom Frame’s Binding Ties:An Experience of Adoption and Reunion in Australia, for example—as well as international adoptee narratives by Betty Jean Lifton, Florence Fisher, and A. M. Homes amongst others. These works form a component of the small but growing field of adoption life writing that includes works by “all members of the adoption triad” (Hipchen and Deans 163): adoptive parents, birthparents, and adoptees. As the broad genre of memoir becomes more theorised and mapped, many sub-genres are emerging (Brien). My own adoptee story (which I am currently composing) could be a further sub-categorisation of the adoptee memoir, that of “late discovery adoptees” (Perl and Markham), those who are either told, or find out, about their adoption in adulthood. When this is part of a life story, secrets and silences are prominent, and digging into these requires using whatever resources can be found. These include cookbooks, recipes written by hand, and the scraps of paper shoved between pages. There are two cookbooks from my adoptive mother’s belongings that I have kept. One of them is titled Miss Tuxford’s Modern Cookery for the Middle Classes: Hints on Modern Gas Stove Cooking, and this was published around 1937 in England. It’s difficult to date this book exactly, as there is no date in my copy, but one of the advertisements (for Bird’s Custard, I think; the page is partly obscured by an Orange Nut Loaf recipe from a Willow baking pan that has been glued onto the page) is headed with a date range of 1837 to 1937. It has that smell of long ago that lingers strongly even now, out of the protective custody of my mother’s storage. Or should I say, out of the range of my adoptive father’s garbage dump zeal. He loved throwing things away, but these were often things that I saw as valuable, or at least of sentimental value, worth keeping for the memories they evoked. Maybe my father didn’t want to remember. My mother was brimming with memories, I discovered after her death, but she did not reveal them during her life. At least, not to me, making objects like these cookbooks precious in my reconstruction of the lives I know so little about, as well as in the grieving process (Gibson).Miss Tuxford (“Diplomée Board of Education, Gold Medallist, etc”) produced numerous editions of her book. My mother’s is now fragile, loose at the spine and browned with age. There are occasional stains showing that the bread and cakes section got the most use, with the pages for main meals of meat and vegetables relatively clean. The author divided her recipes into the main chapters of Soups (lentil, kidney, sheep’s head broth), Sauces (white, espagnol, mushroom), Fish (“It is important that all fish is fresh when cooked” (23)), Meats (roasted, boiled, stuffed; roast rabbit, boiled turkey, scotch collop), Vegetables (creamed beetroot, economical salad dressing, potatoes baked in their skins), Puddings and Sweets (suet pastry, Yorkshire pudding, chocolate tarts, ginger cream), Bread and Cakes (household bread, raspberry sandwich cake, sultana scones, peanut fancies), Icings and Fillings, Invalid Cookery (beef tea, nourishing lemonade, Virol pudding), Jams, Sweetmeats and Pickles (red currant jelly, piccalilli) and Miscellaneous Dishes including Meatless Recipes (cheese omelette, mock white fish, mock duck, mock goose, vegetarian mincemeat). At the back, Miss Tuxford includes sections on gas cooking hints, “specimen household dinners” (206), and household hints. There is then a “Table of Foods in Season” (208–10) taking the reader through the months and the various meats and vegetables available at those times. There is a useful index and finally an advertisement for an oven cleaner on the last page (which is glued to the back cover). There are food and cookery advertisements throughout the book, but my favourite is the one inside the front cover, for Hartley’s jam, featuring two photographs of a little boy. The first shows him looking serious, and slightly anxious, the second wide-eyed and smiling, eager for his jam. The text tells mothers that “there’s nothing like plenty of bread and Hartley’s for a growing boy” (inside front cover). I love the simple appeal to making your little boy happy that is contained within this tiny narrative. Did my mother and father eat this jam when they were small? By 1937, my mother was twenty-one, not yet married, living with her mother in Weston-super-Mare. She was learning secretarial skills—I have her certificate of proficiency in Pitman’s shorthand—and I think she and my father had met by then. Perhaps she thought about when she would be giving her own children Hartley’s jam, or something else prepared from Miss Tuxford’s recipes, like the Christmas puddings, shortbread, or chocolate cake. She would not have imagined that no children would arrive, that twenty-five years of marriage would pass before she held her own baby, and this would be one who was born to another woman. In the one other cookbook I have kept, there are several recipes cut out from newspapers, and a few typed or handwritten recipes hidden within the pages. This is The Main Cookery Book, in its August 1944 reprint, which was written and compiled by Marguerite K. Gompertz and the “Staff of the Main Research Kitchen”. My mother wrote her name and the date she obtained the cookbook (31 January 1945) on the first blank page. She had been married just over five years, and my father may, or may not, have still been in the Royal Air Force. I have only a sketchy knowledge of my adoptive parents. My mother was born in Newent, Gloucestershire, and my father in Bromley, Kent; they were both born during the first world war. My father served as a navigator in the Royal Air Force in the second world war in the 1940s, received head and psychological injuries and was invalided out before the war ended. He spent some time in rehabilitation, there being letters from him to my mother detailing his stay in one hospital in the 1950s. Their life seemed to become less and less secure as the years passed, more chaotic, restless, and unsettled. By the time I came into their lives, they were both nearly fifty, and moving from place to place. Perhaps this is one reason why I have no memory of my mother cooking. I cannot picture her consulting these cookbooks, or anything more modern, or even cutting out the recipes from newspapers and magazines, because I do not remember seeing her do it. She did not talk to me about cooking, we didn’t cook together, and I do not remember her teaching me anything about food or its preparation. This is a gap in my memory that is puzzling. There is evidence—the books and additional paper recipes and stains on the pages—that my mother was involved in the world of the kitchen. This suggests she handled meats, vegetables, and flours, kneaded, chopped, mashed, baked, and boiled all manners of foods. But I cannot remember her doing any of it. I think the cooking must have been a part of her life before me, when she lived in England, her home country, which she loved, and when she still had hope that children would come. It must have then been apparent that her husband was going to need support and care after the war, and I can imagine she came to realise that any dreams she had would need rearranging.What I do remember is that our meals were prepared by my father, and contained no spices, onions, or garlic because he suffered frequently from indigestion and said these ingredients made it worse. He was a big-chested man with small hips who worried he was too heavy and so put himself on diets every other week. For my father, dieting meant not eating anything, which tended to lead to binges on chocolate or cheese or whatever he could grab easily from the fridge.Meals at night followed a pattern. On Sundays we ate roast chicken with vegetables as a treat, then finished it over the next days as a cold accompaniment with salad. Other meals would feature fish fingers, mince, ham, or a cold luncheon meat with either salad or boiled vegetables. Sometimes we would have a tin of peaches in juice or ice cream, or both. No cookbooks were consulted to prepare these meals.What was my mother doing while my father cooked? She must have been in the kitchen too, probably contributing, but I don’t see her there. By the time we came back to Australia permanently in 1974, my father’s working life had come to an end, and he took over the household cookery for something to do, as well as sewing his own clothes, and repairing his own car. He once hoisted the engine out of a Morris Minor with the help of a young mechanic, a rope, and the branch of a poinciana tree. I have three rugs that he wove before I was born, and he made furniture as well. My mother also sewed, and made my school uniforms and other clothes as well as her own skirts and blouses, jackets and pants. Unfortunately, she was fond of crimplene, which came in bright primary colours and smelled of petrol, but didn’t require ironing and dried quickly on the washing line. It didn’t exactly hang on your body, but rather took it over, imposing itself with its shapelessness. The handwritten recipe for salad cream shown on the pink paper is not in my mother’s hand but my father’s. Her correction can be seen to the word “gelatine” at the bottom; she has replaced it with “c’flour” which I assume means cornflour. This recipe actually makes me a liar, because it shows my father writing about using pepper, paprika, and tumeric to make a food item, when I have already said he used no spices. When I knew him, and ate his food, he didn’t. But he had another life for forty-seven years before my birth, and these recipes with their stains and scribbles help me to begin making a picture of both his life, and my mother’s. So much of them is a complete mystery to me, but these scraps of belongings help me inch along in my thinking about them, who they were, and what they meant to me (Turkle).The Main Cookery Book has a similar structure to Miss Tuxford’s, with some variations, like the chapter titled Réchauffés, which deals with dishes using already cooked foodstuffs that only then require reheating, and a chapter on home-made wines. There are also notes at the end of the book on topics such as gas ovens and methods of cooking (boiling, steaming, simmering, and so on). What really interests me about this book are the clippings inserted by my mother, although the printed pages themselves seem relatively clean and uncooked upon. There is a recipe for pickles and chutneys torn from a newspaper, and when I look on the other side I find a context: a note about Charlie Chaplin and the House of Representatives’s Un-American Activities Committee starting its investigations into the influence of Communists on Hollywood. I wonder if my parents talked about these events, or if they went to see Charlie Chaplin’s films. My mother’s diaries from the 1940s include her references to movies—Shirley Temple in Kiss and Tell, Bing Crosby in Road to Utopia—as well as day to day activities and visits to, and from, family and friends, her sinus infections and colds, getting “shock[ed] from paraffin lamp”, food rationing. If my father kept diaries during his earlier years, nothing of them survives. I remember his determined shredding of documents after my mother’s death, and his fear of discovery, that his life’s secrets would be revealed. He did not tell me I had been adopted until I was twenty-three, and rarely spoke of it afterwards. My mother never mentioned it. I look at the recipe for lemon curd. Did my mother ever make this? Did she use margarine instead of butter? We used margarine on sandwiches, as butter was too hard to spread. Once again, I turn over this clipping to read the news, and find no date but an announcement of an exhibition of work by Marc Chagall at the Tate Gallery, the funeral of Sir Geoffrey Fison (who I discover from The Peerage website died in 1948, unmarried, a Baronet and decorated soldier), and a memorial service for Dr. Duncan Campbell Scott, the Canadian poet and prose writer, during which the Poet Laureate of the time, John Masefield, gave the address. And there was also a note about the latest wills, including that of a reverend who left an estate valued at over £50 000. My maternal adoptive grandmother, who lived in Weston-super-Mare across the road from the beach, and with whom we stayed for several months in 1974, left most of her worldly belongings to my mother and nothing to her son. He seems to have been cut out from her life after she separated from her husband, and her children’s father, sometime in the 1920s. Apparently, my uncle followed his father out to Australia, and his mother never forgave him, refusing to have anything more to do with her son for the rest of her life, not even to see her grandchildren. When I knew her in that brief period in 1974, she was already approaching eighty and showing signs of dementia. But I do remember dancing the Charleston with her in the kitchen, and her helping me bathe my ragdoll Pollyanna in a tub in the garden. The only food I remember at her stone house was afternoon tea with lots of different, exotic cakes, particularly one called Neopolitan, with swirls of red and brown through the moist sponge. My grandmother had a long narrow garden filled with flowers and a greenhouse with tomatoes; she loved that garden, and spent a lot of time nurturing it.My father and his mother-in-law were not each other’s favourite person, and this coloured my mother’s relationship with her, too. We were poor for many years, and the only reason we were able to go to England was because of the generosity of my grandmother, who paid for our airfares. I think my father searched for work while we were there, but whether he was successful or not I do not know. We returned to Australia and I went into grade four at the end of 1974, an outsider of sorts, and bemused by the syllabus, because I had moved around so much. I went to eight different primary schools and two high schools, eventually obtaining a scholarship to a private girls’ school for the last four years. My father was intent on me becoming a doctor, and so my life was largely study, which is another reason why I took little notice of what went on in the kitchen and what appeared on the dining table. I would come home from school and my parents would start meal preparation almost straight away, so we sat down to dinner at about four o’clock during the week, and I started the night’s study at five. I usually worked through until about ten, and then read a novel for a little while before sleep. Every parcel of time was accounted for, and nothing was wasted. This schedule continued throughout those four years of high school, with my father berating me if I didn’t do well at an exam, but also being proud when I did. In grades eight, nine, and ten, I studied home economics, and remember being offered a zucchini to taste because I had never seen one before. I also remember making Greek biscuits of some sort for an exam, and the sieve giving out while I was sifting a large quantity of flour. We learned to cook simple meals of meats and vegetables, and to prepare a full breakfast. We also baked cakes but, when my sponges remained flat, I realised that my strengths might lay elsewhere. This probably also contributed to my lack of interest in cooking. Domestic pursuits were not encouraged at home, although my mother did teach me to sew and knit, resulting in skewed attempts at a shirt dress and a white blouse, and a wildly coloured knitted shoulder bag that I actually liked but which embarrassed my father. There were no such lessons in cakemaking or biscuit baking or any of the recipes from Miss Tuxford. By this time, my mother bought such treats from the supermarket.This other life, this previous life of my parents, a life far away in time and place, was completely unknown to me before my mother’s death. I saw little of them after the revelation of my adoption, not because of this knowledge I then had, but because of my father’s controlling behaviour. I discovered that the rest of my adoptive family, who I hardly knew apart from my maternal grandmother, had always known. It would have been difficult, after all, for my parents to keep such a secret from them. Because of this life of constant moving, my estrangement from my family, and our lack of friends and connections with other people, there was a gap in my experience. As a child, I only knew one grandmother, and only for a relatively brief period of time. I have no grandfatherly memories, and none either of aunts and uncles, only a few fleeting images of a cousin here and there. It was difficult to form friendships as a child when we were only in a place for a limited time. We were always moving on, and left everything behind, to start again in a new suburb, state, country. Continuity and stability were not our trademarks, for reasons that are only slowly making themselves known to me: my father’s mental health problems, his difficult personality, our lack of money, the need to keep my adoption secret.What was that need? From where did it spring? My father always seemed to be a secretive person, an intensely private man, one who had things to hide, and seemed to suffer many mistakes and mishaps and misfortune. At the end, after my mother’s death, we spent two years with each other as he became frailer and moved into a nursing home. It was a truce formed out of necessity, as there was no one else to care for him, so thoroughly had he alienated his family; he had no friends, certainly not in Australia, and only the doctor and helping professionals to talk to most days. My father’s brother John had died some years before, and the whereabouts of his other sibling Gordon were unknown. I discovered that he had died three years previously. Nieces had not heard from my father for decades. My mother’s niece revealed that my mother and she had never met. There is a letter from my mother’s father in the 1960s, probably just before he died, remarking that he would like a photograph of her as they hadn’t seen each other for forty years. None of this was talked about when my mother was alive. It was as if I was somehow separate from their stories, from their history, that it was not suitable for my ears, or that once I came into their lives they wanted to make a new life altogether. At that time, all of their past was stored away. Even my very origins, my tiny past life, were unspoken, and made into a secret. The trouble with secrets, however, is that they hang around, peek out of boxes, lurk in the corners of sentences, and threaten to be revealed by the questions of puzzled strangers, or mistakenly released by knowledgeable relatives. Adoptee memoirs like mine seek to go into those hidden storage boxes and the corners and pages of sources like these seemingly innocent old cookbooks, in the quest to bring these secrets to light. Like Miss Tuxford’s cookbook, with its stains and smudges, or the Main Cookery Book with its pages full of clippings, the revelation of such secrets threaten to tell stories that contradict the official version. ReferencesBrien, Donna Lee. “Pathways into an ‘Elaborate Ecosystem’: Ways of Categorising the Food Memoir”. TEXT (October 2011). 12 Jun. 2013 ‹http://www.textjournal.com.au/oct11/brien.htm›.Chick, Suzanne. Searching for Charmian. Sydney: Picador, 1995.Dessaix, Robert. A Mother’s Disgrace. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1994.Fisher, Florence. The Search for Anna Fisher. New York: Arthur Fields, 1973.Frame, Tom. Binding Ties: An Experience of Adoption and Reunion in Australia. Alexandria: Hale & Iremonger, 1999.Gibson, Margaret. Objects of the Dead: Mourning and Memory in Everyday Life. Carlton, Victoria: Melbourne U P, 2008. Gompertz, Marguerite K., and the Staff of the Main Research Kitchen. The Main Cookery Book. 52nd. ed. London: R. & A. Main, 1944. Hipchen, Emily, and Jill Deans. “Introduction. Adoption Life Writing: Origins and Other Ghosts”. a/b: Auto/Biography Studies 18.2 (2003): 163–70. Special Issue on Adoption.Homes, A. M. The Mistress’s Daughter: A Memoir. London: Granta, 2007.Kiss and Tell. Dir. By Richard Wallace. Columbia Pictures, 1945.Lifton, Betty Jean. Twice Born: Memoirs of An Adopted Daughter. Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1977.Lundy, Darryl, comp. The Peerage: A Genealogical Survey of the Peerage of Britain as well as the Royal Families of Europe. 30 May 2013 ‹http://www.thepeerage.com/p40969.htm#i409684›Perl, Lynne and Shirin Markham. Why Wasn’t I Told? Making Sense of the Late Discovery of Adoption. Bondi: Post Adoption Resource Centre/Benevolent Society of NSW, 1999.Road to Utopia. Dir. By Hal Walker. Paramount, 1946.Turkle, Sherry, ed. Evocative Objects: Things We Think With. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT P, 2011. Tuxford, Miss H. H. Miss Tuxford’s Modern Cookery for the Middle Classes: Hints on Modern Gas Stove Cooking. London: John Heywood, c.1937.

Introduction Many people interpret the word ‘cult’ through specific connotations, including, but not limited to, a community of like-minded people on the edge of civilization, often led by a charismatic leader, with beliefs that are ‘other’ to societal ‘norms’. Cults are often perceived as deviant, regularly incorporating elements of crime, especially physical and sexual violence. The adoption by some cults of a special uniform or dress code has been readily picked up by popular culture and has become a key ‘defining’ characteristic of the nature of a cult. In this article, we use the semiotic framework of myth, as discussed by Barthes, to demonstrate how cult uniforms become semiotic myths of popular culture. Narratively, the myth of the cult communicates violence, deviance, manipulation, and brainwashing. The myth of on-screen cults has derived itself from a reflexive pop culture foundation. From popular culture inspiring cults to cults inspiring popular culture and back again, society generates its cult myth through three key mechanisms: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. This means we are at risk of misrepresenting the true nature of cults, creating a definition incongruent with reality. This article traces the history of cults, the expectations of cult behaviour, and the semiotics of uniforms to start the discussion on why society is primed to accept a confusion between nature and the semiotic messaging of “what-goes-without-saying” (Barthes Mythologies 11). Semiotics and Myth Following the basic groundwork of de Saussure in the early 1900s, semiotics is the study of signs and how we use signs to derive meaning from the external world (de Saussure). Barthes expanded on this with his series of essays in Mythologies, adding a layer of connotation that leads to myth (Barthes Mythologies). Connotation, as described by Barthes, is the interaction between signs, feelings, and values. The connotations assigned to objects and concepts become a system of communication that is a message, the message becomes myth. The myth is not defined by the object or concept, but by the way society collectively understands it and all its connotations (Barthes Elements of Semiology 89-91). For scholars like Barthes, languages and cultural artifacts lend themselves to myth because many of our concepts are vague and abstract. Because the concept is vague, it is easy to impose our own values and ideologies upon it. This also means different people can interpret the same concept in different ways (Barthes Mythologies 132). The concept of a cult is no exception. Cults mean different things to different people and the boundaries between cults and religious or commercial organisations are often contested. As a pop culture artifact, the meaning of cults has been generated through repeated exposure in different media and genres. Similarly, pop culture (tv, films, news, etc.) often has the benefit of fiction, which separates itself from the true nature of cults (sensu Barthes Mythologies). Yet, through repeated exposure, we begin to share a universal meaning for the term and all the behaviours understood within the myth. Our repeated exposure to the signs of cults in pop culture is the combined effect of news media and fiction slowly building upon itself in a reflexive manner. We hear news reports of cults behaving in obscure ways, followed by a drama, parody, critique, or satire in a fictitious story. The audience then begins to see the repeated narrative as evidence to the true nature of cults. Over time the myth of the cult naturalises into the zeitgeist as concretely as any other sign, word, or symbol. Once the myth is naturalised, it is better used as a narrative device when affixed to a universally recognised symbol, such as the uniform. The uniform becomes an efficient device for communicating meaning in a short space of time. We argue that the concept of cult as myth has entered a collective understanding, and so, it is necessary to reflect on the mechanisms that drove the correlations which ultimately created the myth. Barthes’s purpose for analysing myth was “to track down, in the decorative display of what-goes-without-saying, the ideological abuse which, in my view, is hidden there” (Barthes Mythologies 11). For this reason, we must briefly look at the history of cults and their relationship with crime. A Brief History of Cults ‘Cult’ derives from the Latin root, cultus, or cultivation, and initially referred to forms of religious worship involving special rituals and ceremonies directed towards specific figures, objects, and/or divine beings. Early to mid-twentieth century sociologists adopted and adapted the term to classify a kind of religious organisation and later to signal new forms of religious expression not previously of primary or singular interest to the scholar of religion (Campbell; Jackson and Jobling; Nelson). The consequences were such that ‘cult’ came to carry new weight in terms of its meaning and reception, and much like other analytical concepts developed an intellectual significance regarding religious innovation it had not previously possessed. Unfortunately, this was not to last. By the early 1990s, ‘cult’ had become a term eschewed by scholars as pejorative, value-laden, and disparaging of its supposed subject matter; a term denuded of technical and descriptive meaning and replaced by more value-neutral alternatives (Dillon and Richardson; Richardson; Chryssides and Zeller). Results from well-published surveys (Pfeifer; Olson) and our own experience in teaching related subject matter revealed predominantly negative attitudes towards the term ‘cult’, with the inverse true for the alternative descriptors. Perhaps more importantly, the surveys revealed that for the public majority, knowledge of ‘cults’ came via media reportage of particularly the sensational few, rather than from direct experience of new religions or their members more generally (Pfeifer). For example, the Peoples Temple, Branch Davidian, and Heaven’s Gate groups featured heavily in news and mass media. Importantly, reporting of each of the tragic events marking their demise (in 1978, 1993, and 1997 respectively) reinforced a burgeoning stereotype and escalated fears about cults in our midst. The events in Jonestown, Guyana (Peoples Temple), especially, bolstered an anticult movement of purported cult experts and deprogrammers offering to save errant family members from the same fate as those who died [there]. The anticult movement portrayed all alleged cults as inherently dangerous and subject only to internal influences. They figured the charismatic leader as so powerful that he could take captive the minds of his followers and make them do whatever he wanted. (Crockford 95) While the term ‘new religious movement’ (NRM) has been used in place of cults within the academic sphere, ‘cult’ is still used within popular culture contexts precisely because of the connotations it inspires, with features including charismatic leaders, deprogrammers, coercion and mind-control, deception, perversion, exploitation, deviance, religious zealotry, abuse, violence, and death. For this reason, we still use the word cult to mean the myth of the cult as represented by popular culture. Representations of Cults and Expectations of Crime Violence and crime can be common features of some cults. Most NRMs “stay within the boundaries of the law” and practice their religion peacefully (Szubin, Jensen III, and Gregg 17). Unfortunately, it is usually those cults that are engaged in violence and crime that become newsworthy, and thus shape public ‘knowledge’ about the nature of cults and drive public expectations. Two of America’s most publicised cults, Charles Manson and the Manson Family and the Peoples Temple, are synonymous with violence and crime. Prior to committing mass suicide by poison in Jonestown, the Peoples Temple accumulated many guns as well as killing Congressman Leo Ryan and members of his party. Similarly, Charles Manson and the Manson Family stockpiled weapons, participated in illegal drug use, and murdered seven people, including Hollywood actor Sharon Tate. The high-profile victims of both groups ensured ongoing widespread media attention and continuous popular culture interest in both groups. Other cults are more specifically criminal in nature: for example, the Constanzo group in Matamoros, while presenting as a cult, are also a drug gang, leading to many calling these groups narco-cults (Kail 56). Sexual assault and abuse are commonly associated with cults. There have been numerous media reports worldwide on the sexual abuse of (usually) women and/or children. For example, a fourteen-year-old in the Children of God group alleged that she was raped when she disobeyed a leader (Rudin 28). In 2021, the regional city of Armidale, Australia, became national news when a former soldier was arrested on charges of “manipulating a woman for a ‘cult’ like purpose” (McKinnell). The man, James Davis, styles himself as the patriarch of a group known as the ‘House of Cadifor’. Police evidence includes six signed “slavery contracts”, as well as 70 witnesses to support the allegation that Mr Davis subjected a woman to “ongoing physical, sexual and psychological abuse and degradation” as well as unpaid prostitution and enslavement (McKinnell). Cults and Popular Culture The depiction of cults in popular culture is attracting growing attention. Scholars Lynn Neal (2011) and Joseph Laycock (2013) have initiated this research and identified consistent stereotypes of 'cults’ being portrayed throughout popular media. Neal found that cults began to be featured in television shows as early as the 1950s and 1960s, continually escalating until the 1990s before dropping slightly between 2000 and 2008 (the time the research was concluded). Specifically, there were 10 episodes between 1958-1969; 19 in the 1970s, which Neal attributes to the “rise of the cult scare and intense media scrutiny of NRMs” (97); 25 in the 1980s; 72 in the 1990s; and 59 between 2000 and 2008. Such academic research has identified that popular culture is important in the formation of the public perception, and social definition, of acceptable and deviant religions (Laycock 81). Laycock argues that representations of cults in popular culture reinforces public narratives about cults in three important ways: medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. Medicalisation refers to the depiction of individuals becoming brainwashed and deprogrammed. The medicalisation of cults can be exacerbated by the cult uniform and clinical, ritualistic behaviours. Deviance amplification, a term coined by Leslie Wilkins in the 1960s, is the phenomenon of ‘media hype’, where the media selects specific examples of deviant behaviour, distorting them (Wilkins), such that a handful of peripheral cases appears representative of a larger social problem (Laycock 84). Following the deviance amplification, there is then often a 'moral panic' (a term coined by Stanley Cohen in 1972) where the problem is distorted and heightened within the media. Cults are often subject to deviance amplification within the media, leading to moral panics about the ‘depraved’, sexual, criminal, and violent activities of cults preying on and brainwashing innocents. Convergence “is a rhetorical device associated with deviance amplification in which two or more activities are linked so as to implicitly draw a parallel between them” (Laycock 85). An example of convergence occurred when the Branch Davidians were compared to the Peoples Temple, ultimately leading the FBI “to end the siege through an aggressive ‘dynamic entry’ in part because they feared such a mass suicide” (Laycock 85). The FBI transferred responsibility for the deaths to ‘mass suicide’, which has become the common narrative of events at Waco. Each of the three mechanisms have an important role to play in the popular culture presentation of cults to audiences. Popular media sources, fictional or not, are incentivised to present the most diabolical cult to the audience – and this often includes the medicalised elements of brainwashing and manipulation. This presentation reinforces existing deviance amplification and moral panics around the depraved activities of cults, and in particular sexual and criminal activities. And finally, convergence acts as a 'cultural script’ where the portrayal of these types of characteristics (brainwashing, criminal or violent behaviour, etc.) is automatically associated with cults. As Laycock argues, “in this way, popular culture has a unique ability to promote convergence and, by extension, deviance amplification” (85). The mechanisms of medicalisation, deviance amplification and convergence are important to the semiotic linking of concepts, signs, and signifiers in the process of myth generation. In efficiently understanding the message of the myth, the viewer must have a sign they can affix to it. In the case of visual mediums this must be immediate and certain. As many of the convergent properties of cults are behavioural (acts of violence and depravity, charismatic leaders, etc.), we need a symbol that audiences can understand immediately. Uniforms achieve this with remarkable efficiency. Upon seeing a still, two-dimensional image of people wearing matching garb it can be made easily apparent that they are part of a cult. Religious uniforms are one of the first visual images one conjures upon hearing the word cult: “for most people the word ‘cult’ conjures up ‘60s images of college students wearing flowing robes, chanting rhythmically and spouting Eastern philosophy” (Salvatore cited in Petherick 577; italics in original). The impact is especially pronounced if the clothes are atypical, anachronistic, or otherwise different to the expected clothes of the context. This interpretation then becomes cemented through the actions of the characters. In Rick and Morty, season 1, episode 10, Morty is imprisoned with interdimensional versions of himself. Despite some morphological differences, each Morty is wearing his recognisable yellow top and blue pants. While our Morty’s back is turned, five hooded, robed figures in atypical garb with matching facial markings approach Morty. The audience is immediately aware that this is a cult. The comparison between the uniform of Morty and the Morty cult exemplifies the use of cult uniform in the myth of Cults. The cult is then cemented through chanting and a belief in the “One true Morty” (Harmon et al.). Semiotics, Clothes, and Uniforms The semiotics of clothes includes implicit, explicit, and subliminal signs. The reasons we choose to wear what we wear is governed by multiple factors both within our control and outside of it: for instance, our body shape, social networks and economic status, access to fashion and choice (Barthes The Fashion System; Hackett). We often choose to communicate aspects of our identity through what we wear or what we choose not to wear. Our choice of clothing communicates aspects of who we are, but also who we want to be (Hackett; Simmel; Veblen) Uniforms are an effective and efficient communicative device. Calefato’s classification of uniforms is not only as those used by military and working groups, but also including the strictly coded dress of subcultures. Unlike other clothes which can be weakly coded, uniforms differentiate themselves through their purposeful coded signalling system (Calefato). To scholars such as Jennifer Craik, uniforms intrigue us because they combine evident statements as well as implied and subliminal communications (Craik). Theories about identity predict that processes similar to the defining of an individual are also important to group life, whereby an individual group member's conceptualisation of their group is derived from the collective identity (Horowitz; Lauger). Collective identities are regularly emphasised as a key component in understanding how groups gain meaning and purpose (Polletta and Jasper). The identity is generally constructed and reinforced through routine socialisation and collective action. Uniforms are a well-known means of creating collective identities. They restrict one’s clothing choices and use boundary-setting rituals to ensure commitment to the group. In general, the more obvious the restriction, the easier it is to enforce. Demanding obvious behaviours from members, unique to the community, simultaneously generates a differentiation between the members and non-members, while enabling self-enforcement and peer-to-peer judgments of commitment. Leaders of religious movements like cults and NRMs will sometimes step back from the punitive aspects of nonconformity. Instead, it falls to the members to maintain the discipline of the collective (Kelley 109). This further leads to a sense of ownership and therefore belonging to the community. Uniforms are an easy outward-facing signal that allows for ready discrimination of error. Because they are often obvious and distinctive dress, they constrain and often stigmatise members. In other collective situations such as with American gangs, even dedicated members will deny their gang affiliation if it is advantageous to do so (Lauger Real Gangstas). While in uniform, individuals cannot hide their membership, making the sacrifice more costly. Members are forced to take one hundred percent of the ownership and participate wholly, or not at all. Through this mechanism, cults demonstrate the medicalisation of the members. Leaders may want their members to be unable to escape or deny affiliation. Similarly, their external appearances might invite persecution and therefore breed resilience, courage, and solidarity. It is, in essence, a form of manipulation (see for instance Iannaccone). Alternatively, as Melton argues, members may want to be open and proud of their organisation, as displayed through them adopting their uniforms (15). The uniform of cults in popular media is a principal component of medicalisation, deviance amplification, and convergence. The uniform, often robes, offers credence to the medicalisation aspect: members of cults are receiving ‘treatment’ — initially, negative treatment while being brainwashed, and then later helpful/saving treatment when being deprogrammed, providing they survive a mass suicide attempt and/or, criminal, sexual, or violent escapades. Through portraying cult members in a distinctive uniform, there is no doubt for the audience who is receiving or in need of treatment. Many of the cults portrayed on screen can easily communicate the joining of a cult by changing the characters' dress. Similarly, by simply re-dressing the character, it is communicated that the character has returned to normal, they have been saved, they are a survivor. In Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, while three of the four ‘Mole women’ integrate back into society, Gretchen Chalker continues to believe in their cult; as such she never takes of her cult uniform. In addition, the employment of uniforms for cult members in popular culture enables an instant visual recognition of ‘us’ and ‘them’, or ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, and reinforces stereotypical notions of social order and marginalised, deviant (religious) groups (Neal 83). The clothing differences are obvious in The Simpsons season 9, episode 13, “Joy of Sect”: ‘Movementarian’ members, including the Simpsons, don long flowing robes. The use of cult uniform visualises their fanatical commitment to the group. It sets them apart from the rest of Springfield and society (Neal 88-89). The connection between uniforms and cults derives two seemingly paradoxical meanings. Firstly, it reduces the chances of the audience believing that the cult employed ‘deceptive recruiting’ techniques. As Melton argues, because of the association our society has with uniforms and cults, “it is very hard for someone to join most new religions, given their peculiar dress and worship practices, without knowing immediately its religious nature” (14). As such, within popular media, the presence of the uniform increases the culpability of those who join the cult. Contrarily, the character in uniform is a sign that the person has been manipulated and/or brainwashed. This reduces the culpability of the cult member. However, the two understandings are not necessarily exclusive. It is possible to view the cult member as a naïve victim, someone who approached the cult as an escape from their life but was subsequently manipulated into behaving criminally. This interpretation is particularly powerful because it indicates cults can prey on anyone, and that anyone could become a victim of a cult. This, in turn, heightens the moral panic surrounding cults and NRMs. The on-screen myth of the cult as represented by its uniform has a basis in the real-life history of NRMs. Heaven’s Gate members famously died after they imbibed fatal doses of alcohol and barbiturates to achieve their ‘final exit’. Most members were found laid out on beds covered in purple shrouds, all wearing matching black shirts, black pants, and black and white Nike shoes. The famous photos of Warren Jeffs’s polygamous Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, the subject of Netflix’s Keep Sweet: Pray and Obey, depict multiple women in matching conservative dresses with matching hairstyles gathered around a photo of Jeffs. The image and uniform are a clear influence on the design of Unbreakable’s ‘Mole women’. A prime example of the stereotype of cult uniforms is provided by the Canadian comedy program The Red Green Show when the character Red tells Harold “cults are full of followers, they have no independent thought, they go to these pointless meetings ... they all dress the same” (episode 165). The statement is made while the two main characters Red and Harold are standing in matching outfits. Blurring Nature and Myth Importantly, the success of these shows very much relies on audiences having a shared conception of NRMs and the myth of the cult. This is a curious combination of real and fictional knowledge of the well-publicised controversial events in history. Fictional cults frequently take widely held perspectives of actual religious movements and render them either more absurd or more frightening (Laycock 81). Moreover, the blurring of fictional and non-fictional groups serves to reinforce the sense that all popular culture cults and their real-world counterparts are the same; that they all follow a common script. In this, there is convergence between the fictional and the real. The myth of the cult bleeds from the screen into real life. The Simpsons’ “The Joy of Sect” was televised in the year following the suicide of the 39 members of the Heaven’s Gate group, and the storyline in part was influenced by it. Importantly, as a piercing, satirical critique of middle-class America, the “Joy of Sect” not only parodied traditional and non-traditional religion generally (as well as the ‘cult-like’ following of mass media such as Fox); scholars have shown that it also parodied the ‘cult’ stereotype itself (Feltmate). While Heaven’s Gate influenced to a greater or lesser extent each of the TV shows highlighted thus far, it was also the case that the group incorporated into its eschatology aspects of popular culture linked primarily to science fiction. For example, group members were known to have regularly watched and discussed episodes of Star Trek (Hoffmann and Burke; Sconce), adopting aspects of the show’s vernacular in “attempts to relate to the public” (Gate 163). Words such as ‘away-team’, ‘prime-directive’, ‘hologram’, ‘Captain’, ‘Admiral’, and importantly ‘Red-Alert’ were adopted; the latter, often signalling code-red situations in Star Trek episodes, appeared on the Heaven’s Gate Website in the days just prior to their demise. Importantly, allusions to science fiction and Star Trek were incorporated into the group’s self-styled ‘uniform’ worn during their tragic ritual-suicide. Stitched into the shoulders of each of their uniforms were triangular, Star Trek-inspired patches featuring various celestial bodies along with a tagline signalling the common bond uniting each member: “Heaven’s Gate Away Team” (Sconce). Ironically, with replica patches readily for sale online, and T-shirts and hoodies featuring modified though similar Heaven’s Gate symbolism, this ‘common bond’ has been commodified in such a way as to subvert its original meaning – at least as it concerned ‘cult’ membership in the religious context. The re-integration of cult symbols into popular culture typifies the way we as a society detachedly view the behaviours of cults. The behaviour of cults is anecdotally viewed through a voyeuristic lens, potentially exacerbated by the regular portrayals of cults through parody. Scholars have demonstrated how popular culture has internationally impacted on criminological aspects of society. For instance, there was a noted, international increase in unrealistic expectations of jurors wanting forensic evidence during court cases after the popularity of forensic science in crime dramas (Franzen; Wise). After the arrest of James Davis in Armidale, NSW, Australia, the Sydney Morning Herald reported that Davis was the patriarch of the “House of Cadifor” and he was part of a “cult” (both reported in inverted commas). The article also includes an assumption from Davis's lawyer that, in discussing the women of the group, “the Crown might say ‘they’ve been brainwashed’”. Similarly, the article references the use of matching collars by the women (Mitchell). Nine News reported that the “ex-soldier allegedly forced tattooed, collared sex slave into prostitution”, bringing attention to the clothing as part of the coercive techniques of Davis. While the article does not designate the House of Cadifor as a cult, they include a quote from the Assistant Commissioner Justine Gough, “Mr Davis' group has cult-like qualities”, and included the keyword ‘cults’ for the article. Regrettably, the myth of cults and real-world behaviours of NRMs do not always align, and a false convergence is drawn between the two. Furthermore, the consistent parodying and voyeuristic nature of on-screen cults means we might be at fault of euphemising the crimes and behaviours of those deemed to be part of a ‘cult’. Anecdotally, the way Armidale locals discussed Davis was through a lens of excitement and titillation, as if watching a fictional story unfold in their own backyard. The conversations and news reporting focussed on the cult-like aspects of Davis and not the abhorrence of the alleged crimes. We must remain mindful that the cinematic semiology of cults and the myth as represented by their uniform dress and behaviours is incongruent with the nature of NRMs. However, more work needs to be done to better understand the impact of on-screen cults on real-world attitudes and beliefs. Conclusion The myth of the cult has entered a shared understanding within today’s zeitgeist, and the uniform of the cult stands at its heart as a key sign of the myth. Popular culture plays a key role in shaping this shared understanding by following the cultural script, slowly layering fact with fiction, just as fact begins to incorporate the fiction. The language of the cult as communicated through their uniforms is, we would argue, universally understood and purposeful. The ubiquitous representation of cults portrays a deviant group, often medicalised, and subject to deviance amplification and convergence. When a group of characters is presented to the audience in the same cult dress, we know what is being communicated to us. Fictional cults in popular culture continue to mirror the common list of negative features attributed to many new religious movements. Such fictional framing has come to inform media-consumer attitudes in much the same way as news media, reflecting as they do the cultural stock of knowledge from which our understandings are drawn, and which has little grounding in the direct or immediate experience of the phenomena in question. In short, the nature of NRMs has become confused with the myth of the cult. More research is needed to understand the impact of the myth of the cult. However, it is important to ensure “what-goes-without-saying” is not obfuscating, euphemising, or otherwise misrepresenting nature. References Barthes, Roland. Elements of Semiology. London: Jonathon Cape, 1967. ———. The Fashion System. U of California P, 1990. ———. Mythologies. Trans. 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Voice synthesising software Vocaloid (Yamaha Corporation) is a popular tool for professional and amateur music production. At the time of writing, there are over 770,000 videos tagged ‘vocaloid’ on Niconico; karaoke chain Karatez displays the top five thousand tracks on its Website (Karatetsu); Hatsune Miku Wiki has over 59,000 pages, while the Vocaloid Lyrics Wiki has over 90,000. Vocaloid is part of Japan’s unique media mix, comprising of the software and music but also official collaborations and a significant amount of fan culture. However, while there is academic research on the way that Vocaloid music is produced and consumed (Sousa; Hamasaki et al.; Leavitt et al.; Kobayashi and Taguchi), there is a lack of research into the content of Vocaloid songs and music videos: that is, what kinds of themes and messages are present and what this might suggest for producers and consumers. This article highlights the importance of the content of Vocaloid music. To this end, I have focussed on Vocaloid composer/producer Neru’s 2018 album CYNICISM. Not to be confused with the Vocaloid Akita Neru, Neru’s music tends to focus on negative affect such as depression, loneliness, and anxiety. Documenting such themes helps to illustrate some of the struggles that producers and consumers experience. I provide a brief explanation of Vocaloid, followed by a reflection on their personas and functioning as a Body without Organs (Annett; Lam; Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus). Then I introduce Small’s concept of musicking to provide a framework for the way that music transmits certain affects. In the second half of the article, I unpack Neru’s album and its use of imagery, lyrics, and sound. Vocaloids Voice synthesising software Vocaloid was initially released in 2004, the result of a collaboration between Japan’s Yamaha Corporation and Spain’s Pompeu Fabra University (Voctro Labs; Yamada 17). This software allows the user to create singing audio, drawing from recordings of real people called “voicebanks”. These voicebanks are produced by third-party companies, and are typically provided with a persona with an appearance and personality. For instance, the most well-known Vocaloid is Hatsune Miku, while Kagamine Rin and Kagamine Len are those most used by Neru. Essentially anyone who uses the Vocaloid software can become producers – the term used in Vocaloid cultures for composer. Vocaloid is an example of Japan’s “unique media mix”, where the media are produced not just by “the original company”, but also via “commercial collaborations with media franchises”, and “by a creative collective of individuals on the internet” (Leavitt et al. 204 & 211; see also Steinberg). As well as producers there are songwriters, lyricists, tuners, illustrators, and animators. Some people edit Vocaloid videos, creating compilations, ranking them, and so on (Hamasaki et al. 166). There is also a vibrant fan culture of database managers, fan translators, artists, and fiction writers, as well as human cover artists (utaite), such as Mafumafu, who became popular in part due to his covers of Neru’s music. Official corporate production mostly involves Hatsune Miku, and includes concerts, video games, and collaborations for consumer products. Such branding and collaboration illustrates the creation of a complex Vocaloid narrative. Accordingly, most researchers who examine Vocaloid discuss the complex relationships between various content creators and their methods of collaboration (Yamada), as well as Vocaloid as fan-generated media, examining issues such as commercial interest and exploitation (Bell; Sousa; Jørgensen et al.; To; Kobayashi and Taguchi). However, in this article I am interested in why fans strongly enjoy Vocaloid music and find meaning in it; as I will explore below, such fan collaboration is both a symptom and a cause. Personas and Bodies without Organs Although Vocaloid has a crowd-sourced and collaborative production environment, its use of digital voicebanks and significant consumer culture has led to criticism. For instance, Lam (1110–11) describes voicebanks as being “devoid of originality”, suggests that “all Vocaloid works are derivative”, and also that Vocaloid simply allows users “to indulge … within the virtual space of fabricated authenticity and depthlessness”. However, it is evident from comments on Niconico, YouTube, Reddit, the aforementioned Wikis, Vocaloid Discord servers, and any other space where fans socialise that listeners are emotionally moved by Vocaloid music. Zaborowski, for instance, describes two Japanese boys enthusiastically singing to ryo/Supercell’s Melt. Strikingly, Zaborowski (107) noted that the boys repeatedly told him that “precisely because the voice is the same, the listener can appreciate the quality of the melody and the lyrics”, and that a Vocaloid “sounds different when you are sad. Or when you are away from home”. Listeners are experiencing something when they engage with Vocaloid music, and it would be hasty to simply dismiss their experiences as “depthless”. One factor that makes Vocaloid music particularly authentic and affective for its audiences is the attachment of crowdsourced, constructed personas to Vocaloids. Authenticity here is not necessarily evaluated by the virtual nature of the artist (or instrument) itself, but the producers’ effort to create the work (Zaborowski 107). In this sense there is a need to consider the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, who find meaning in the songs and characters. Aside from Vocaloids, producers and utaite often also establish a character or imagery as a persona. Neru for instance is recognisable through his avatar—a closed eye with eyelashes and a single tear, and the various characters featured in his videos. The practice of creating a persona for non-human items is unique to Japanese culture, visible in the way that yuru kyara or “wobbly characters” are created to represent entities such as events, corporations, locations, policies, and so on (Occhi 77). These characters can be human-like or creature-like, drawing on Shinto’s anthropomorphism (Jensen and Blok 97). Kyara help minimise the separation between humans and nature, as well as humans and technology (Occhi 80–81). The attachment of kyara to voicebanks, which would otherwise have no face, helps to facilitate a sense of humanisation and connection with the software. It may be that the synthetic nature of the music as well as the use of personas in Vocaloid music means that the listener feels that the song is sung by the Vocaloid, but also processes the creator’s emotion. Kenmochi (4), for instance, suggests that since synthetic voices hold less emotion, it is the persona that functions as a symbol to connect the creator and listener. The producer is able to “impose their own values and perceptions on the virtual character” (Lam 1111), and in doing so, the persona functions as what Deleuze and Guattari call a Body without Organs (Anti-Oedipus 9; A Thousand Plateaus 151). That is, the persona has “no fixed identity” (Lam 1117), and can stratify or destratify, depending on what people do with it (Annett 172). They can become whatever the listener or creator wants, and so there is an emotional connection. Vocaloid music is meaningful to listeners, then, not despite its digital, virtual, constructed nature, but in fact because of what these elements facilitate. Musicking Christopher Small’s work Musicking also provides a framework useful to consider the emotional impact of Vocaloid music. Small argues that “the fundamental nature and meaning of music lie not in objects … but in action”, and therefore proposes a definition of ‘musicking’; to “take part, in any capacity, in a musical performance” (8–9, emphasis omitted). Importantly, for Small (77) simply listening to a recording is to take part in music, and “we may be sure that somebody's values are being explored, affirmed, and celebrated in every musical performance”. Small’s comments here provide a framework for focussing on the experiences of the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, rather than getting caught up in negative beliefs around the digital nature of production. Further, reflecting on remix, a significant aspect of Vocaloid music, Small (214) notes that relationships are “open to reinterpretation over and over again as listeners create new contexts for their reception and their ritual use of it”. Further, Small (134) suggests that the act of musicking functions as a powerful “means of social definition and self-definition”. Small’s suggestions here that music can be recycled, reinterpreted, and used for self-definition aligns with many aspects of Vocaloid music; tracks are frequently covered by producers using other Vocaloids, or utaite; the meanings of lyrics are frequently discussed in comment sections of YouTube videos and Wikis, and fans often align themselves with certain Vocaloids or producers that they enjoy and relate to. Such self-definition is an important theme to keep in mind when I consider Neru’s CYNICISM album as it touches on societal issues such as loneliness, nihilism, and low self-esteem. CYNICISM Vocaloid producer Neru, also known as z’5 or Oshiire-P, is quite popular. At the time of writing, he has 124,000 followers on Japanese video-sharing site Niconico (Neru, "Neru"), 242,000 on Chinese video-sharing site BiliBili (Neru, "Neru_Official"), 388,000 monthly listeners on Spotify (Spotify), and 560,000 subscribers on YouTube (Neru, "Neru OFFICIAL"). He released his first Vocaloid song in 2009, and to date has three major albums. CYNICISM is the latest, released in 2018. The standard edition contains 14 tracks, and all aside from one use the Vocaloids Kagamine Rin or Kagamine Len. Fig. 1: CYNICISM standard edition, illustrated by Sudou Souta (Apple Music) Fig. 2: Tracklist All quotes from songs are my own translations from the original Japanese. The CYNICISM album communicates a strong sense of nihilism. Nihilism is an ambiguous concept (Nietzsche 76; Diken 6; Marmysz 61). However, Marmysz (71) summarises that nihilists have three claims: that humans are alienated from the world; that this should not be the case; and that “there is nothing we can do” about this situation. As explored below, Neru’s nihilism appears to align with Kant’s “existential nihilism (believing that life has no meaning)” (Gertz, ch. 2, emphasis omitted). It is worth noting that Neru’s music has some commonalities with other genres. For instance, Prinz (584–85) suggests that punk music is irreverent, challenging social norms, and is nihilistic, reflecting on themes such as “decay, despair, suicide, and societal collapse”. As explored below, CYNICISM projects feelings including disappointment with society, poor self-esteem, and themes of irreverence. Irreverence and Society The namesake of the album is important to note within the context of nihilism, as cynicism can be understood as “a passive nihilist affect” (Diken 61). Cynicism is the attitude that comes about when one has failed “to come to terms with loss”, “to realize that something has been lost”, or understand exactly what has been lost. It incited a state of melancholy, trapping the cynic, who suffers an “utterly debilitating sense of disappointment, the root cause of which it cannot identify or move beyond” (Allen, ch. 7). In numerous ways Neru exhibits a lack of faith in humanity and society. Just the title of the track What a Terrible Era communicates a sense of hopelessness, particularly the line “強いて言うとするなら人類は失敗作だった” (“if I had to say, humanity was a work of failure”). The album’s lyrics repeatedly refer to the negative state of the world; “本日の世界予報向上性低迷後退” (“today’s world forecast: Progress is stagnant and regressing”) (Hey, Rain). SNOBBISM asks “バグ塗れの人類のデバッグはいつ終わる” (“humanity is stained with bugs; when will debugging end?”). Neru repeatedly laments the state of humanity and his disappointment with the world. Further, cynicism is an attitude of scorn towards “sincerity and integrity”, which are viewed as “a cover for self-interest” (Allen, ch. 1). In line with this, reflecting the cynic’s embrace of untruthfulness (Gertz, ch. 3), in SNOBBISM Neru states “一生、ブラフを威すがいいさ” (“it’s okay to threaten to bluff through your entire life”). Further, Diken (59) suggests that “capitalism is the age of cynicism”, and the Law-Evading Rock (Neru OFFICIAL, "Law-Evading Rock") music video, illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, exhibits such a critique of capitalism. The video is quite chaotic, designed to appear as a Japanese TV channel. Meme-style characters are superimposed onto photographic backgrounds to depict absurd advertisements and news programmes with flashing and dancing, as the lyrics call for the viewer to escape from reality. The character in this video, Datsu, appears to enter a state of nirvana when Neru’s CD is inserted into him. Here we can see how personas are particularly affectual in Vocaloid music, with fans stating that they relate to Datsu, among other forms of affectation, in comments on his Wikia page (Neru Wikia). Further, CYNICISM frequently calls for the self-identified ‘losers’ to band together, breaking the norms of society. Whatever Whatever Whatever, with its upbeat tune, bright colours, and proclamation of “能天気STYLE” (“Carefree STYLE”) exhibits a strong sense that ‘nothing matters so do whatever’. Let’s Drop Dead’s “僕等はきっとあぶれ者” (“we are surely hooligans”), Law-Evading Rock’s “負け犬になって 吠えろ 吠えろ” (“become a loser, roar, roar”) indicate a sense of knowing that one is ‘useless’ but attempting to take pride in or band together in spite (or indeed, because of this). These lyrics ascribe to a nihilistic notion that nothing matters, but are also a call to arms in a sense – a call for losers to band together for strength, and to act with irreverence. Some encourage the listener to become someone unfit for society (Law-Evading Rock), or to turn back on and break away from morals that are designed to get one into heaven (March of Losers). The music video for SNOBBISM (Neru OFFICIAL, "SNOBBISM"), illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, features Bizu, a demon man wearing a formal suit and top hat. The video has a retro style and is bright but muted with blurry backgrounds, streaking, and graininess. Bizu appears to take on a retro rubber hose animation style, dancing and sometimes hitting objects while calling on the viewer to “make a scene”; to be irreverent and break the norms of society. Personal Failure CYNICISM also in numerous ways refers to personal failures and a lack of faith in the future. Some lyrics refer to a plan or manual (SNOBBISM, Song of Running Away), or a future being wrecked or torn (Spare Me My Inferiority, What a Terrible Era). Corresponding with the nihilistic tone of the album, Whatever Whatever Whatever describes being lazy today, and putting effort in tomorrow, while Let’s Drop Dead simply states “明日はくたばろうぜ” (“tomorrow let’s drop dead”). Yet continuing forward into the future seems mandatory, as in Whatever Whatever Whatever Neru describes himself as being too much of a wimp to commit suicide, and March of Losers repeats the refrain “進め進め” (“forward, forward”), calling for the losers to continue even though “this kind of life has no meaning”. Some tracks indicate a more raw or vulnerable state, with Nihil and the Sunken City’s “もっとちょーだい ちょーだい 承認をちょーだい” (“more, give it to me, give it to me, please give me approval”). Importantly, Neru identifies himself as a loser, engaging in self-irreverence, making fun of himself (Kroth 104), referring to himself and his social group as ‘losers’. The music videos for Whatever Whatever Whatever (Neru OFFICIAL, "Whatever Whatever Whatever") and Let’s Drop Dead (Neru OFFICIAL, "Let’s Drop Dead"), illustrated and animated by Terada Tera, exhibit self-irreverent themes. The former uses vapourwave aesthetics, and both exhibit bright colours, with cartoonish characters I and Yaya dancing and drinking alcohol. I wears a Space Invaders jacket and grill glasses, while Yaya wears a t-shirt featuring a marijuana leaf and a pink animal-eared beanie; together in the video they communicate a ‘slacker’, partying attitude. What is particularly interesting here is the way that nihilistic lyrics have been employed alongside upbeat, catchy, pop-style music and flashy colours. Such dissonance is attention-grabbing and also reflects a sarcastic, careless sense of cynicism, one that is “irreverent” and “playful” – a style that Nietzsche adopted (Allen, ch. 7). Relatedly, Marmysz (4) suggests that humour is a useful response to nihilism because it shatters expectations. It is important to understand CYNICISM within the Japanese context. Discussing the Meiji Period, Nishitani (175) points out that Buddhism and Confucianism lost their power, and that with modernisation Japan became Europeanised and Americanised to the extent that there is a spiritual void. More recently, various economic crises and disasters throughout the 1990s and 2000s have contributed to national trauma (Roquet 89). Due to significant societal pressure, many Japanese people feel anxiety, sensitivity, vulnerability, and alienation (Ren 29). Accordingly, much Japanese anime engages with feelings of nihilism (Lozano-Méndez and Loriguillo-López; Tsang). In some respects Vocaloid culture is interrelated with hikikomori, a form of social withdrawal associated with various psychological, social, and behavioural factors (Li and Wong 603). Much academic literature exists on hikikomori, which in many ways is a Japanese phenomenon, being influenced by “culture, society and history”, and having come about in Japan during a period of “very rapid socioeconomic changes” (Kato et al. 1062). Many Vocaloid producers and utaite identify as hikikomori, including Mafumafu. However, studies on hikikomori outside Japan have shown that feelings of isolation, anxiety, and social exclusion are a global concern (Krieg and Dickie 61; Kato et al. 1062), contributing to Neru’s popularity among English-speaking audiences Conclusion My goal in this article is to point out that a significant number of people find Vocaloid music relatable and affectual, and it would be hasty to dismiss such music as “depthless” due to its use of voicebanks and connection to consumer culture. Vocaloid music is particularly affective in part due to the way that Vocaloids, producers, and utaite make use of personas which function as bodies without organs: something that listeners are able to project their own feelings onto. Further, Small’s concept of musicking encourages us to pay attention to what producers are saying as well as what listeners and fans are engaging with: what values are being explored and how they are being used for self-definition. It is important to consider not just the economic aspects of participatory culture and the networks of production surrounding Vocaloid, but the content of the music and the meanings that listeners get out of it. Neru’s CYNICISM album is particularly interesting in this regard. The combination of upbeat music, bright and garish imagery, and nihilistic lyrics communicates a strong sense of disappointment with society and a lack of self-worth in a dissonant manner – there is a sense of playfulness that is attention-grabbing and uses humour to communicate these negative themes. Given the breadth of Vocaloid content that is produced, further research into other producers, fan groups, and pieces of media will provide insight into this varied and rich phenomenon. References Allen, Ansgar. Cynicism. Cambridge: MIT P, 2020. Annett, Sandra. "What Can a Vocaloid Do? The Kyara as Body without Organs." Mechademia 10 (2017): 163–77. Bell, Sarah A. "The dB in the .Db: Vocaloid Software as Posthuman Instrument." Popular Music and Society 39.2 (2016): 222–240. Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Trans. Brian Massumi. 11th ed. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2005. ———. Anti-Oedipus. Trans. Robert Hurley et al. 10th ed. 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Our thesis is that the city’s ambience is now an unstable dialectic in which we are watchers and watched, mirrored and refracted in a landscape of iPhone auteurs, eTags, CCTV and sousveillance. Embrace ambience! Invoking Benjamin’s spirit, this article does not seek to limit understanding through restriction to a particular theme or theoretical construct (Buck-Morss 253). Instead, it offers snapshots of interactions at the dawn of the postmodern city. That bricolage also engages how people appropriate, manipulate, disrupt and divert urban spaces and strategies of power in their everyday life. Ambient information can both liberate and disenfranchise the individual. This article asks whether our era’s dialectics result in a new personhood or merely restate the traditional spectacle of ‘bright lights, big city’. Does the virtualized city result in ambient anomie and satiation or in surprise, autonomy and serendipity? (Gumpert 36) Since the steam age, ambience has been characterised in terms of urban sound, particularly the alienation attributable to the individual’s experience as a passive receptor of a cacophony of sounds – now soft, now loud, random and recurrent–from the hubbub of crowds, the crash and grind of traffic, the noise of industrial processes and domestic activity, factory whistles, fire alarms, radio, television and gramophones (Merchant 111; Thompson 6). In the age of the internet, personal devices such as digital cameras and iPhones, and urban informatics such as CCTV networks and e-Tags, ambience is interactivity, monitoring and signalling across multiple media, rather than just sound. It is an interactivity in which watchers observe the watched observing them and the watched reshape the fabric of virtualized cities merely by traversing urban precincts (Hillier 295; De Certeau 163). It is also about pervasive although unevenly distributed monitoring of individuals, using sensors that are remote to the individual (for example cameras or tag-readers mounted above highways) or are borne by the individual (for example mobile phones or badges that systematically report the location to a parent, employer or sex offender register) (Holmes 176; Savitch 130). That monitoring reflects what Doel and Clark characterized as a pervasive sense of ambient fear in the postmodern city, albeit fear that like much contemporary anxiety is misplaced–you are more at risk from intimates than from strangers, from car accidents than terrorists or stalkers–and that is ahistorical (Doel 13; Scheingold 33). Finally, it is about cooption, with individuals signalling their identity through ambient advertising: wearing tshirts, sweatshirts, caps and other apparel that display iconic faces such as Obama and Monroe or that embody corporate imagery such as the Nike ‘Swoosh’, Coca-Cola ‘Ribbon’, Linux Penguin and Hello Kitty feline (Sayre 82; Maynard 97). In the postmodern global village much advertising is ambient, rather than merely delivered to a device or fixed on a billboard. Australian cities are now seas of information, phantasmagoric environments in which the ambient noise encountered by residents and visitors comprises corporate signage, intelligent traffic signs, displays at public transport nodes, shop-window video screens displaying us watching them, and a plethora of personal devices showing everything from the weather to snaps of people in the street or neighborhood satellite maps. They are environments through which people traverse both as persons and abstractions, virtual presences on volatile digital maps and in online social networks. Spectacle, Anomie or Personhood The spectacular city of modernity is a meme of communication, cultural and urban development theory. It is spectacular in the sense that of large, artificial, even sublime. It is also spectacular because it is built around the gaze, whether the vistas of Hausmann’s boulevards, the towers of Manhattan and Chicago, the shopfront ‘sea of light’ and advertising pillars noted by visitors to Weimar Berlin or the neon ‘neo-baroque’ of Las Vegas (Schivelbusch 114; Fritzsche 164; Ndalianis 535). In the year 2010 it aspires to 2020 vision, a panoptic and panspectric gaze on the part of governors and governed alike (Kullenberg 38). In contrast to the timelessness of Heidegger’s hut and the ‘fixity’ of rural backwaters, spectacular cities are volatile domains where all that is solid continues to melt into air with the aid of jackhammers and the latest ‘new media’ potentially result in a hypereality that make it difficult to determine what is real and what is not (Wark 22; Berman 19). The spectacular city embodies a dialectic. It is anomic because it induces an alienation in the spectator, a fatigue attributable to media satiation and to a sense of being a mere cog in a wheel, a disempowered and readily-replaceable entity that is denied personhood–recognition as an autonomous individual–through subjection to a Fordist and post-Fordist industrial discipline or the more insidious imprisonment of being ‘a housewife’, one ant in a very large ant hill (Dyer-Witheford 58). People, however, are not automatons: they experience media, modernity and urbanism in different ways. The same attributes that erode the selfhood of some people enhance the autonomy and personhood of others. The spectacular city, now a matrix of digits, information flows and opportunities, is a realm in which people can subvert expectations and find scope for self-fulfillment, whether by wearing a hoodie that defeats CCTV or by using digital technologies to find and associate with other members of stigmatized affinity groups. One person’s anomie is another’s opportunity. Ambience and Virtualisation Eighty years after Fritz Lang’s Metropolis forecast a cyber-sociality, digital technologies are resulting in a ‘virtualisation’ of social interactions and cities. In post-modern cityscapes, the space of flows comprises an increasing number of electronic exchanges through physically disjointed places (Castells 2002). Virtualisation involves supplementation or replacement of face-to-face contact with hypersocial communication via new media, including SMS, email, blogging and Facebook. In 2010 your friends (or your boss or a bully) may always be just a few keystrokes away, irrespective of whether it is raining outside, there is a public transport strike or the car is in for repairs (Hassan 69; Baron 215). Virtualisation also involves an abstraction of bodies and physical movements, with the information that represents individual identities or vehicles traversing the virtual spaces comprised of CCTV networks (where viewers never encounter the person or crowd face to face), rail ticketing systems and road management systems (x e-Tag passed by this tag reader, y camera logged a specific vehicle onto a database using automated number-plate recognition software) (Wood 93; Lyon 253). Surveillant Cities Pervasive anxiety is a permanent and recurrent feature of urban experience. Often navigated by an urgency to control perceived disorder, both physically and through cultivated dominant theory (early twentieth century gendered discourses to push women back into the private sphere; ethno-racial closure and control in the Black Metropolis of 1940s Chicago), history is punctuated by attempts to dissolve public debate and infringe minority freedoms (Wilson 1991). In the Post-modern city unprecedented technological capacity generates a totalizing media vector whose plausible by-product is the perception of an ambient menace (Wark 3). Concurrent faith in technology as a cost-effective mechanism for public management (policing, traffic, planning, revenue generation) has resulted in emergence of the surveillant city. It is both a social and architectural fabric whose infrastructure is dotted with sensors and whose people assume that they will be monitored by private/public sector entities and directed by interactive traffic management systems – from electronic speed signs and congestion indicators through to rail schedule displays –leveraging data collected through those sensors. The fabric embodies tensions between governance (at its crudest, enforcement of law by police and their surrogates in private security services) and the soft cage of digital governmentality, with people being disciplined through knowledge that they are being watched and that the observation may be shared with others in an official or non-official shaming (Parenti 51; Staples 41). Encounters with a railway station CCTV might thus result in exhibition of the individual in court or on broadcast television, whether in nightly news or in a ‘reality tv’ crime expose built around ‘most wanted’ footage (Jermyn 109). Misbehaviour by a partner might merely result in scrutiny of mobile phone bills or web browser histories (which illicit content has the partner consumed, which parts of cyberspace has been visited), followed by a visit to the family court. It might instead result in digital viligilantism, with private offences being named and shamed on electronic walls across the global village, such as Facebook. iPhone Auteurism Activists have responded to pervasive surveillance by turning the cameras on ‘the watchers’ in an exercise of ‘sousveillance’ (Bennett 13; Huey 158). That mirroring might involve the meticulous documentation, often using the same geospatial tools deployed by public/private security agents, of the location of closed circuit television cameras and other surveillance devices. One outcome is the production of maps identifying who is watching and where that watching is taking place. As a corollary, people with anxieties about being surveilled, with a taste for street theatre or a receptiveness to a new form of urban adventure have used those maps to traverse cities via routes along which they cannot be identified by cameras, tags and other tools of the panoptic sort, or to simply adopt masks at particular locations. In 2020 can anyone aspire to be a protagonist in V for Vendetta? (iSee) Mirroring might take more visceral forms, with protestors for example increasingly making a practice of capturing images of police and private security services dealing with marches, riots and pickets. The advent of 3G mobile phones with a still/video image capability and ongoing ‘dematerialisation’ of traditional video cameras (ie progressively cheaper, lighter, more robust, less visible) means that those engaged in political action can document interaction with authority. So can passers-by. That ambient imaging, turning the public gaze on power and thereby potentially redefining the ‘public’ (given that in Australia the community has been embodied by the state and discourse has been mediated by state-sanctioned media), poses challenges for media scholars and exponents of an invigorated civil society in which we are looking together – and looking at each other – rather than bowling alone. One challenge for consumers in construing ambient media is trust. Can we believe what we see, particularly when few audiences have forensic skills and intermediaries such as commercial broadcasters may privilege immediacy (the ‘breaking news’ snippet from participants) over context and verification. Social critics such as Baudelaire and Benjamin exalt the flaneur, the free spirit who gazed on the street, a street that was as much a spectacle as the theatre and as vibrant as the circus. In 2010 the same technologies that empower citizen journalism and foster a succession of velvet revolutions feed flaneurs whose streetwalking doesn’t extend beyond a keyboard and a modem. The US and UK have thus seen emergence of gawker services, with new media entrepreneurs attempting to build sustainable businesses by encouraging fans to report the location of celebrities (and ideally provide images of those encounters) for the delectation of people who are web surfing or receiving a tweet (Burns 24). In the age of ambient cameras, where the media are everywhere and nowhere (and micro-stock photoservices challenge agencies such as Magnum), everyone can join the paparazzi. Anyone can deploy that ambient surveillance to become a stalker. The enthusiasm with which fans publish sightings of celebrities will presumably facilitate attacks on bodies rather than images. Information may want to be free but so, inconveniently, do iconoclasts and practitioners of participatory panopticism (Dodge 431; Dennis 348). Rhetoric about ‘citizen journalism’ has been co-opted by ‘old media’, with national broadcasters and commercial enterprises soliciting still images and video from non-professionals, whether for free or on a commercial basis. It is a world where ‘journalists’ are everywhere and where responsibility resides uncertainly at the editorial desk, able to reject or accept offerings from people with cameras but without the industrial discipline formerly exercised through professional training and adherence to formal codes of practice. It is thus unsurprising that South Australia’s Government, echoed by some peers, has mooted anti-gawker legislation aimed at would-be auteurs who impede emergency services by stopping their cars to take photos of bushfires, road accidents or other disasters. The flipside of that iPhone auteurism is anxiety about the public gaze, expressed through moral panics regarding street photography and sexting. Apart from a handful of exceptions (notably photography in the Sydney Opera House precinct, in the immediate vicinity of defence facilities and in some national parks), Australian law does not prohibit ‘street photography’ which includes photographs or videos of streetscapes or public places. Despite periodic assertions that it is a criminal offence to take photographs of people–particularly minors–without permission from an official, parent/guardian or individual there is no general restriction on ambient photography in public spaces. Moral panics about photographs of children (or adults) on beaches or in the street reflect an ambient anxiety in which danger is associated with strangers and strangers are everywhere (Marr 7; Bauman 93). That conceptualisation is one that would delight people who are wholly innocent of Judith Butler or Andrea Dworkin, in which the gaze (ever pervasive, ever powerful) is tantamount to a violation. The reality is more prosaic: most child sex offences involve intimates, rather than the ‘monstrous other’ with the telephoto lens or collection of nastiness on his iPod (Cossins 435; Ingebretsen 190). Recognition of that reality is important in considering moves that would egregiously restrict legitimate photography in public spaces or happy snaps made by doting relatives. An ambient image–unposed, unpremeditated, uncoerced–of an intimate may empower both authors and subjects when little is solid and memory is fleeting. The same caution might usefully be applied in considering alarms about sexting, ie creation using mobile phones (and access by phone or computer monitor) of intimate images of teenagers by teenagers. Australian governments have moved to emulate their US peers, treating such photography as a criminal offence that can be conceptualized as child pornography and addressed through permanent inclusion in sex offender registers. Lifelong stigmatisation is inappropriate in dealing with naïve or brash 12 and 16 year olds who have been exchanging intimate images without an awareness of legal frameworks or an understanding of consequences (Shafron-Perez 432). Cameras may be everywhere among the e-generation but legal knowledge, like the future, is unevenly distributed. Digital Handcuffs Generations prior to 2008 lost themselves in the streets, gaining individuality or personhood by escaping the surveillance inherent in living at home, being observed by neighbours or simply surrounded by colleagues. Streets offered anonymity and autonomy (Simmel 1903), one reason why heterodox sexuality has traditionally been negotiated in parks and other beats and on kerbs where sex workers ply their trade (Dalton 375). Recent decades have seen a privatisation of those public spaces, with urban planning and digital technologies imposing a new governmentality on hitherto ambient ‘deviance’ and on voyeuristic-exhibitionist practice such as heterosexual ‘dogging’ (Bell 387). That governmentality has been enforced through mechanisms such as replacement of traditional public toilets with ‘pods’ that are conveniently maintained by global service providers such as Veolia (the unromantic but profitable rump of former media & sewers conglomerate Vivendi) and function as billboards for advertising groups such as JC Decaux. Faces encountered in the vicinity of the twenty-first century pissoir are thus likely to be those of supermodels selling yoghurt, low interest loans or sportsgear – the same faces sighted at other venues across the nation and across the globe. Visiting ‘the mens’ gives new meaning to the word ambience when you are more likely to encounter Louis Vuitton and a CCTV camera than George Michael. George’s face, or that of Madonna, Barack Obama, Kevin 07 or Homer Simpson, might instead be sighted on the tshirts or hoodies mentioned above. George’s music might also be borne on the bodies of people you see in the park, on the street, or in the bus. This is the age of ambient performance, taken out of concert halls and virtualised on iPods, Walkmen and other personal devices, music at the demand of the consumer rather than as rationed by concert managers (Bull 85). The cost of that ambience, liberation of performance from time and space constraints, may be a Weberian disenchantment (Steiner 434). Technology has also removed anonymity by offering digital handcuffs to employees, partners, friends and children. The same mobile phones used in the past to offer excuses or otherwise disguise the bearer’s movement may now be tied to an observer through location services that plot the person’s movement across Google Maps or the geospatial information of similar services. That tracking is an extension into the private realm of the identification we now take for granted when using taxis or logistics services, with corporate Australia for example investing in systems that allow accurate determination of where a shipment is located (on Sydney Harbour Bridge? the loading dock? accompanying the truck driver on unauthorized visits to the pub?) and a forecast of when it will arrive (Monmonier 76). Such technologies are being used on a smaller scale to enforce digital Fordism among the binary proletariat in corporate buildings and campuses, with ‘smart badges’ and biometric gateways logging an individual’s movement across institutional terrain (so many minutes in the conference room, so many minutes in the bathroom or lingering among the faux rainforest near the Vice Chancellery) (Bolt). Bright Lights, Blog City It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by right-thinking Foucauldians, that modernity is a matter of coercion and anomie as all that is solid melts into air. If we are living in an age of hypersocialisation and hypercapitalism – movies and friends on tap, along with the panoptic sorting by marketers and pervasive scrutiny by both the ‘information state’ and public audiences (the million people or one person reading your blog) that is an inevitable accompaniment of the digital cornucopia–we might ask whether everyone is or should be unhappy. This article began by highlighting traditional responses to the bright lights, brashness and excitement of the big city. One conclusion might be that in 2010 not much has changed. Some people experience ambient information as liberating; others as threatening, productive of physical danger or of a more insidious anomie in which personal identity is blurred by an ineluctable electro-smog. There is disagreement about the professionalism (for which read ethics and inhibitions) of ‘citizen media’ and about a culture in which, as in the 1920s, audiences believe that they ‘own the image’ embodying the celebrity or public malefactor. Digital technologies allow you to navigate through the urban maze and allow officials, marketers or the hostile to track you. Those same technologies allow you to subvert both the governmentality and governance. You are free: Be ambient! References Baron, Naomi. Always On: Language in an Online and Mobile World. New York: Oxford UP, 2008. Bauman, Zygmunt. 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Over the past century, many books for general readers have styled sharks as “monsters of the deep” (Steele). In recent decades, however, at least some writers have also turned to representing how sharks are seriously threatened by human activities. At a time when media coverage of shark sightings seems ever increasing in Australia, scholarship has begun to consider people’s attitudes to sharks and how these are formed, investigating the representation of sharks (Peschak; Ostrovski et al.) in films (Le Busque and Litchfield; Neff; Schwanebeck), newspaper reports (Muter et al.), and social media (Le Busque et al., “An Analysis”). My own research into representations of surfing and sharks in Australian writing (Brien) has, however, revealed that, although reporting of shark sightings and human-shark interactions are prominent in the news, and sharks function as vivid and commanding images and metaphors in art and writing (Ellis; Westbrook et al.), little scholarship has investigated their representation in Australian books published for a general readership. While recognising representations of sharks in other book-length narrative forms in Australia, including Australian fiction, poetry, and film (Ryan and Ellison), this enquiry is focussed on non-fiction books for general readers, to provide an initial review. Sampling holdings of non-fiction books in the National Library of Australia, crosschecked with Google Books, in early 2021, this investigation identified 50 Australian books for general readers that are principally about sharks, or that feature attitudes to them, published from 1911 to 2021. Although not seeking to capture all Australian non-fiction books for general readers that feature sharks, the sampling attempted to locate a wide range of representations and genres across the time frame from the earliest identified text until the time of the survey. The books located include works of natural and popular history, travel writing, memoir, biography, humour, and other long-form non-fiction for adult and younger readers, including hybrid works. A thematic analysis (Guest et al.) of the representation of sharks in these texts identified five themes that moved from understanding sharks as fishes to seeing them as monsters, then prey, and finally to endangered species needing conservation. Many books contained more than one theme, and not all examples identified have been quoted in the discussion of the themes below. Sharks as Part of the Natural Environment Drawing on oral histories passed through generations, two memoirs (Bradley et al.; Fossa) narrate Indigenous stories in which sharks play a central role. These reveal that sharks are part of both the world and a wider cosmology for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people (Clua and Guiart). In these representations, sharks are integrated with, and integral to, Indigenous life, with one writer suggesting they are “creator beings, ancestors, totems. Their lifecycles reflect the seasons, the landscape and sea country. They are seen in the movement of the stars” (Allam). A series of natural history narratives focus on zoological studies of Australian sharks, describing shark species and their anatomy and physiology, as well as discussing shark genetics, behaviour, habitats, and distribution. A foundational and relatively early Australian example is Gilbert P. Whitley’s The Fishes of Australia: The Sharks, Rays, Devil-fish, and Other Primitive Fishes of Australia and New Zealand, published in 1940. Ichthyologist at the Australian Museum in Sydney from the early 1920s to 1964, Whitley authored several books which furthered scientific thought on sharks. Four editions of his Australian Sharks were published between 1983 and 1991 in English, and the book is still held in many libraries and other collections worldwide. In this text, Whitley described a wide variety of sharks, noting shared as well as individual features. Beautiful drawings contribute information on shape, colouring, markings, and other recognisable features to assist with correct identification. Although a scientist and a Fellow and then President of the Royal Zoological Society of New South Wales, Whitley recognised it was important to communicate with general readers and his books are accessible, the prose crisp and clear. Books published after this text (Aiken; Ayling; Last and Stevens; Tricas and Carwardine) share Whitley’s regard for the diversity of sharks as well as his desire to educate a general readership. By 2002, the CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.) also featured numerous striking photographs of these creatures. Titles such as Australia’s Amazing Sharks (Australian Geographic) emphasise sharks’ unique qualities, including their agility and speed in the water, sensitive sight and smell, and ability to detect changes in water pressure around them, heal rapidly, and replace their teeth. These books also emphasise the central role that sharks play in the marine ecosystem. There are also such field guides to sharks in specific parts of Australia (Allen). This attention to disseminating accurate zoological information about sharks is also evident in books written for younger readers including very young children (Berkes; Kear; Parker and Parker). In these and other similar books, sharks are imaged as a central and vital component of the ocean environment, and the narratives focus on their features and qualities as wondrous rather than monstrous. Sharks as Predatory Monsters A number of books for general readers do, however, image sharks as monsters. In 1911, in his travel narrative Peeps at Many Lands: Australia, Frank Fox describes sharks as “the most dangerous foes of man in Australia” (23) and many books have reinforced this view over the following century. This can be seen in titles that refer to sharks as dangerous predatory killers (Fox and Ruhen; Goadby; Reid; Riley; Sharpe; Taylor and Taylor). The covers of a large proportion of such books feature sharks emerging from the water, jaws wide open in explicit homage to the imaging of the monster shark in the film Jaws (Spielberg). Shark!: Killer Tales from the Dangerous Depths (Reid) is characteristic of books that portray encounters with sharks as terrifying and dramatic, using emotive language and stories that describe sharks as “the world’s most feared sea creature” (47) because they are such “highly efficient killing machines” (iv, see also 127, 129). This representation of sharks is also common in several books for younger readers (Moriarty; Rohr). Although the risk of being injured by an unprovoked shark is extremely low (Chapman; Fletcher et al.), fear of sharks is prevalent and real (Le Busque et al., “People’s Fear”) and described in a number of these texts. Several of the memoirs located describe surfers’ fear of sharks (Muirhead; Orgias), as do those of swimmers, divers, and other frequent users of the sea (Denness; de Gelder; McAloon), even if the author has never encountered a shark in the wild. In these texts, this fear of sharks is often traced to viewing Jaws, and especially to how the film’s huge, bloodthirsty great white shark persistently and determinedly attacks its human hunters. Pioneer Australian shark expert Valerie Taylor describes such great white sharks as “very big, powerful … and amazingly beautiful” but accurately notes that “revenge is not part of their thought process” (Kindle version). Two books explicitly seek to map and explain Australians’ fear of sharks. In Sharks: A History of Fear in Australia, Callum Denness charts this fear across time, beginning with his own “shark story”: a panicked, terror-filled evacuation from the sea, following the sighting of a shadow which turned out not to be a shark. Blake Chapman’s Shark Attacks: Myths, Misunderstandings and Human Fears explains commonly held fearful perceptions of sharks. Acknowledging that sharks are a “highly emotive topic”, the author of this text does not deny “the terror [that] they invoke in our psyche” but makes a case that this is “only a minor characteristic of what makes them such intriguing animals” (ix). In Death by Coconut: 50 Things More Dangerous than a Shark and Why You Shouldn’t Be Afraid of the Ocean, Ruby Ashby Orr utilises humour to educate younger readers about the real risk humans face from sharks and, as per the book’s title, why they should not be feared, listing champagne corks and falling coconuts among the many everyday activities more likely to lead to injury and death in Australia than encountering a shark. Taylor goes further in her memoir – not only describing her wonder at swimming with these creatures, but also her calm acceptance of the possibility of being injured by a shark: "if we are to be bitten, then we are to be bitten … . One must choose a life of adventure, and of mystery and discovery, but with that choice, one must also choose the attendant risks" (2019: Kindle version). Such an attitude is very rare in the books located, with even some of the most positive about these sea creatures still quite sensibly fearful of potentially dangerous encounters with them. Sharks as Prey There is a long history of sharks being fished in Australia (Clark). The killing of sharks for sport is detailed in An American Angler in Australia, which describes popular adventure writer Zane Grey’s visit to Australia and New Zealand in the 1930s to fish ‘big game’. This text includes many bloody accounts of killing sharks, which are justified with explanations about how sharks are dangerous. It is also illustrated with gruesome pictures of dead sharks. Australian fisher Alf Dean’s biography describes him as the “World’s Greatest Shark Hunter” (Thiele), this text similarly illustrated with photographs of some of the gigantic sharks he caught and killed in the second half of the twentieth century. Apart from being killed during pleasure and sport fishing, sharks are also hunted by spearfishers. Valerie Taylor and her late husband, Ron Taylor, are well known in Australia and internationally as shark experts, but they began their careers as spearfishers and shark hunters (Taylor, Ron Taylor’s), with the documentary Shark Hunters gruesomely detailing their killing of many sharks. The couple have produced several books that recount their close encounters with sharks (Taylor; Taylor, Taylor and Goadby; Taylor and Taylor), charting their movement from killers to conservationists as they learned more about the ocean and its inhabitants. Now a passionate campaigner against the past butchery she participated in, Taylor’s memoir describes her shift to a more respectful relationship with sharks, driven by her desire to understand and protect them. In Australia, the culling of sharks is supposedly carried out to ensure human safety in the ocean, although this practice has long been questioned. In 1983, for instance, Whitley noted the “indiscriminate” killing of grey nurse sharks, despite this species largely being very docile and of little threat to people (Australian Sharks, 10). This is repeated by Tony Ayling twenty-five years later who adds the information that the generally harmless grey nurse sharks have been killed to the point of extinction, as it was wrongly believed they preyed on surfers and swimmers. Shark researcher and conservationist Riley Elliott, author of Shark Man: One Kiwi Man’s Mission to Save Our Most Feared and Misunderstood Predator (2014), includes an extremely critical chapter on Western Australian shark ‘management’ through culling, summing up the problems associated with this approach: it seems to me that this cull involved no science or logic, just waste and politics. It’s sickening that the people behind this cull were the Fisheries department, which prior to this was the very department responsible for setting up the world’s best acoustic tagging system for sharks. (Kindle version, Chapter 7) Describing sharks as “misunderstood creatures”, Orr is also clear in her opposition to killing sharks to ‘protect’ swimmers noting that “each year only around 10 people are killed in shark attacks worldwide, while around 73 million sharks are killed by humans”. She adds the question and answer, “sounds unfair? Of course it is, but when an attack is all over the news and the people are baying for shark blood, it’s easy to lose perspective. But culling them? Seriously?” (back cover). The condemnation of culling is also evident in David Brooks’s recent essay on the topic in his collection of essays about animal welfare, conservation and the relationship between humans and other species, Animal Dreams. This disapproval is also evident in narratives by those who have been injured by sharks. Navy diver Paul de Gelder and surfer Glen Orgias were both bitten by sharks in Sydney in 2009 and both their memoirs detail their fear of sharks and the pain they suffered from these interactions and their lengthy recoveries. However, despite their undoubted suffering – both men lost limbs due to these encounters – they also attest to their ongoing respect for these creatures and specify a shared desire not to see them culled. Orgias, instead, charts the life story of the shark who bit him alongside his own story in his memoir, musing at the end of the book, not about himself or his injury, but about the fate of the shark he had encountered: great whites are portrayed … as pathological creatures, and as malevolent. That’s rubbish … they are graceful, mighty beasts. I respect them, and fear them … [but] the thought of them fighting, dying, in a net upsets me. I hope this great white shark doesn’t end up like that. (271–271) Several of the more recent books identified in this study acknowledge that, despite growing understanding of sharks, the popular press and many policy makers continue to advocate for shark culls, these calls especially vocal after a shark-related human death or injury (Peppin-Neff). The damage to shark species involved caused by their killing – either directly by fishing, spearing, finning, or otherwise hunting them, or inadvertently as they become caught in nets or affected by human pollution of the ocean – is discussed in many of the more recent books identified in this study. Sharks as Endangered Alongside fishing, finning, and hunting, human actions and their effects such as beach netting, pollution and habitat change are killing many sharks, to the point where many shark species are threatened. Several recent books follow Orr in noting that an estimated 100 million sharks are now killed annually across the globe and that this, as well as changes to their habitats, are driving many shark species to the status of vulnerable, threatened or towards extinction (Dulvy et al.). This is detailed in texts about biodiversity and climate change in Australia (Steffen et al.) as well as in many of the zoologically focussed books discussed above under the theme of “Sharks as part of the natural environment”. The CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.), for example, emphasises not only that several shark species are under threat (and protected) (8–9) but also that sharks are, as individuals, themselves very fragile creatures. Their skeletons are made from flexible, soft cartilage rather than bone, meaning that although they are “often thought of as being incredibly tough; in reality, they need to be handled carefully to maximise their chance of survival following capture” (9). Material on this theme is included in books for younger readers on Australia’s endangered animals (Bourke; Roc and Hawke). Shark Conservation By 1991, shark conservation in Australia and overseas was a topic of serious discussion in Sydney, with an international workshop on the subject held at Taronga Zoo and the proceedings published (Pepperell et al.). Since then, the movement to protect sharks has grown, with marine scientists, high-profile figures and other writers promoting shark conservation, especially through attempts to educate the general public about sharks. De Gelder’s memoir, for instance, describes how he now champions sharks, promoting shark conservation in his work as a public speaker. Peter Benchley, who (with Carl Gottlieb) recast his novel Jaws for the film’s screenplay, later attested to regretting his portrayal of sharks as aggressive and became a prominent spokesperson for shark conservation. In explaining his change of heart, he stated that when he wrote the novel, he was reflecting the general belief that sharks would both seek out human prey and attack boats, but he later discovered this to be untrue (Benchley, “Without Malice”). Many recent books about sharks for younger readers convey a conservation message, underscoring how, instead of fearing or killing sharks, or doing nothing, humans need to actively assist these vulnerable creatures to survive. In the children’s book series featuring Bindi Irwin and her “wildlife adventures”, there is a volume where Bindi and a friend are on a diving holiday when they find a dead shark whose fin has been removed. The book not only describes how shark finning is illegal, but also how Bindi and friend are “determined to bring the culprits to justice” (Browne). This narrative, like the other books in this series, has a dual focus; highlighting the beauty of wildlife and its value, but also how the creatures described need protection and assistance. Concluding Discussion This study was prompted by the understanding that the Earth is currently in the epoch known as the Anthropocene, a time in which humans have significantly altered, and continue to alter, the Earth by our activities (Myers), resulting in numerous species becoming threatened, endangered, or extinct. It acknowledges the pressing need for not only natural science research on these actions and their effects, but also for such scientists to publish their findings in more accessible ways (see, Paulin and Green). It specifically responds to demands for scholarship outside the relevant areas of science and conservation to encourage widespread thinking and action (Mascia et al.; Bennett et al.). As understanding public perceptions and overcoming widely held fear of sharks can facilitate their conservation (Panoch and Pearson), the way sharks are imaged is integral to their survival. The five themes identified in this study reveal vastly different ways of viewing and writing about sharks. These range from seeing sharks as nothing more than large fishes to be killed for pleasure, to viewing them as terrifying monsters, to finally understanding that they are amazing creatures who play an important role in the world’s environment and are in urgent need of conservation. This range of representation is important, for if sharks are understood as demon monsters which hunt humans, then it is much more ‘reasonable’ to not care about their future than if they are understood to be fascinating and fragile creatures suffering from their interactions with humans and our effect on the environment. Further research could conduct a textual analysis of these books. In this context, it is interesting to note that, although in 1949 C. Bede Maxwell suggested describing human deaths and injuries from sharks as “accidents” (182) and in 2013 Christopher Neff and Robert Hueter proposed using “sightings, encounters, bites, and the rare cases of fatal bites” (70) to accurately represent “the true risk posed by sharks” to humans (70), the majority of the books in this study, like mass media reports, continue to use the ubiquitous and more dramatic terminology of “shark attack”. The books identified in this analysis could also be compared with international texts to reveal and investigate global similarities and differences. While the focus of this discussion has been on non-fiction texts, a companion analysis of representation of sharks in Australian fiction, poetry, films, and other narratives could also be undertaken, in the hope that such investigations contribute to more nuanced understandings of these majestic sea creatures. 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