Статті в журналах з теми "Melancholic subjectivity"

This essay endeavors to clarify the paradoxes of Jamaica Kincaid's grief in her AIDS memoir, My Brother (1997). By analyzing two related motifs—the memoir's pattern of botanical metaphors and the descriptions of her brother Devon's dying and of his corpse—the essay explores how Kincaid's melancholic commitment to Devon complicates her approach to biographical and autobiographical writing. Weighed down and consumed by her brother's affliction, Kincaid traces how Devon—or, rather, her memory of him—possesses independent powers of articulation, forcing her to confront her own implication, as a relatively privileged expatriate writer, in the political, social, and economic contexts that shape his suffering. A self-theorizing text that testifies to the changing demographics of the AIDS pandemic, My Brother also overlaps with and significantly redirects current theoretical understandings of mourning and melancholia, through its relocation of melancholic subjectivity at the intersection of postcolonial and racial anxieties.

A recent state crisis in Ukraine launched the process of the re-treatment of national and state borders not only in public politics and media, but also in culture and literature. According to Deleuze and Guattari, contemporary humans live in the epoch when nomadic subjectivity comes on the scene in order to change the regime of national spatial imagination. Nomadic existence regarding individuals as always “on the road” seems to be a tool for the de- and re-territorialization that shapes new cultural and state borders. This paper regards Serhiy Zhadan, one of the most prominent contemporary Ukrainian poets, and his treatment of the Ukrainian nation and its borders. For Zhadan, the need for poetry practice has to participate in the nation-building process intensified after Maidan. The key concept for this process’s comprehensionis melancholia, which could help to draw an image of contemporary Ukranian subjectivity.

Cultural memory studies finds itself at an impasse: whereas ‘cultural memory’ is conceptualized as mediated, dynamic, imaginative and shaped by the present, the dominant paradigm of ‘trauma’ illuminates the hold the past has on us, casting the shadow of a melancholic subjectivity that threatens to obscure our agency as (political) subjects. This article asks what lies in store for memory studies beyond the focus on (classic) trauma (theory). Using the movie Blade Runner 2049 (US 2017; dir: Denis Villeneuve) as an illustrative example, it explores how creative and joyful forms of meaning-making through play and acts of memory inform each other in what the psychoanalyst DW Winnicott described as ‘cultural experience’.

In the essay ‘Postscript on the Societies of Control’, Deleuze discusses the differences between nineteenth-century capitalism and contemporary capitalism, characterising the former as the spaces of enclosure and the latter as the open circuits of the bank. In contemporary capitalism, ‘[m]an is no longer man enclosed, but man in debt’ ( Deleuze 1992 : 6). Deleuze claims that under financial capitalism, where the primary use of money is self-generation, economic relations are thought in terms of an asymmetrical power relationship between debtor and creditor, rather than an exchange between commodities. Taking up Deleuze's claim, this paper analyses how time functions in the formation of subjectivity under financial capitalism, by focusing on the temporal structure of debt. The indebted are expected to bind themselves to the past, not only in the moment they make a promise to pay back, but from that moment onwards; in this process, a subject finds himself passively subjected to the temporality determined by the condition of indebtedness, and yet he also actively reproduces and imposes the fact of indebtedness on himself by the feeling of guilt. Guilt, arising from the irreversibility of what has been done and resulting in the inability to proceed into the future, is central both to the indebted and the melancholic. Thus a melancholic subject emerges: a subject conditioned by the dominance of the past and the impossibility of the future.

This paper critically examines the folk dance songs of Dangaura Tharu fromthe perspective of space, memory, and performance. The paper establishes the relationship between Tharu subjectivity and conscience of their past topography inherent intheir folk dance songs. In one aspect where the overall folk performance of Tharu reflects their lifestyle, in another aspect, their folk songs and rituals assist them to connect with the natural environment where they inhabit. This paper has brandied their performance as the art reflecting their bucolic lifestyle and melancholic memory. The songs have been collected, translated, and interpreted from different visual sources and personal communications. To analyze the primary texts, the notion of folklore performance from Alan Dundes, Richard Schechner, and other different folklorists have been utilized as the theoretical and review guidelines. The paper also includes the translated version of the songs. As for the indigenous culture aspirant like me, the study of folklores of Tharu indigeneity helps us to understand the spatial memory of one of the largest ethnicity of Nepal and their socio-economic history. It will provide a new perspective of their historical changes from literature which have not been critically assessed in the already conducted studies. Hence, the findings of the research help us to understand the necessary social index of one of Nepal’s largest indigeneity.

This paper is a critical engagement with some of the writings of Judith Butler who is perhaps best known for popularising the idea of gender as performative. Here we trace the origins of the notion of performatives in the work of J.L. Austin. We outline Butler's extended definition of performative gender and comment on its relationship to earlier sociological accounts. We follow her development of the idea through the later deployment of Derrida's notion of citationality. We draw attention to potential problems of this usage and to the difficulties of linking it to a psychoanalytic account of subjectivity. We consider her extended example of drag as sharing the impersonatory character of gender and as allegorizing the melancholic character of heterosexual gender identity. We comment on her interest in a theatrical politics that may make trouble for gender. Finally we consider the theoretical burden that these ideas attempt to carry.

Abstract This essay will examine two of Ian McEwan’s recent novellas as political rewritings of William Shakespeare and Franz Kafka. McEwan’s Nutshell (2016) repositions the avenger figure in Hamlet as an unborn child whose melancholic awareness of the condition of modern existence allows him a mode of ironic commentary about the possibilities of moral and political choices in a world soon to be destroyed by climate change and nuclear apocalypse. The Cockroach (2019) turns Kafkaesque absurdity into political satire as the protagonist-turned-insect first encountered in The Metamorphosis (1915) is arrogated a position of absolute power in a fictional dystopia eerily resonant of Britain on the verge of Brexit. I argue that McEwan’s re-scripting of these two works of canonical literature imbues his narratives with political resonance, as the formulations and distortions of the physical body in his two novellas map onto the articulations of political belief. In effect, McEwan posits the Foucaultian notion that the body is determined by symbolic systems of power. However, he succeeds in turning the gaze back onto the political by instantiating the radical dimension of a subject whose coming into being is already a political act and event. In other words, McEwan’s artistic intervention in rewriting the narratives of Hamlet and Gregor Samsa explodes the hermeticism of the family drama in the originals by relocating the theatre of subjectivity within the sphere of the political.

<p>A partir das reflexões críticas presentes em <em>A imagem sobrevivente: história da arte e do tempo dos fantasmas segundo Aby Warburg</em>, de Georges Didi-Huberman, <em>Origem do drama trágico alemão </em>e <em>O anjo da História</em>, de Walter Benjamin, “Melancolia e saudade”, de Eduardo Lourenço, e <em>As mulheres na ficção de António Lobo Antunes: (in)variantes do feminino</em>, de Ana Paula Arnaut, pretende-se analisar o romance <em>Não é meia noite quem quer </em>(2012), de António Lobo Antunes, privilegiando-se as seguintes questões: a) De que maneira a “melancolia faz do corpo a fonte do desencanto da alma perante o mistério da existência”?; b) Como o espaço-tempo da História, sutilmente aludido na ficção antuniana, torna-se parte integrante de um tempo trágico, inerente à personagem imersa na memória, em busca de ruínas?; c) Como o esquecimento e a (im)possibilidade de dar corpo ao passado são tematizados na narrativa do século XXI?; d) Quais são as estratégias discursivas que sustentam isso?; e) Não haveria um “tempo para os fantasmas”, uma “sobrevivência” e/ou uma “reaparição de imagens” na narrativa que reflete a crise da subjetividade coerente e da representação?; f) Quais são as estratégias da memória numa era de catástrofes, em que se observa o primado das ruínas da casa, da família e dos afetos?; g) De que maneira delineia-se a oscilação comum ao melancólico, situado entre a infelicidade narcísica e o triunfo da alegria?</p><p>From the critical reflexions on <em>A imagem sobrevivente</em>: história da arte e do tempo dos fantasmas segundo Aby Warburg, written by George Didi-Huberman, <em>Origem do drama barroco alemão </em>and <em>O anjo da história</em>, by Walter Benjamin, “Melancolia e saudade”, by Eduardo Lourenço, and <em>As mulheres na ficção de António Lobo Antunes</em>: (in) variantes do feminino, by Ana Paula Arnaut, we intent to analyze the romance <em>Não é meia noite quem quer</em>, written by António Lobo Antunes, focusing on the following issues: a) How the “melancholy makes the body a source of disenchantment of the soul in front of the existence’s mystery”?; b) How History’s space-time, subtly alluded on the antuniana fiction, becomes integrant part of a tragic time, inherent to the character immersed in memory, in seek of ruins?; c) How oblivion and the (im) possibility to embody the past are themed on the XXI century? d) Which are the discursive strategies to support it?; e) Would exist a “time for ghosts”, a “survival” and/or a “reappearance of images” in the narrative that reflects the crisis of coherent subjectivity and of representation?; f) Which are the memory strategies on a catastrophe era, where there are ruins of the house, the family and affections?; g) How to delineate the common oscillation of the melancholic, situated between the narcissistic unhappiness and the triumph of joy?</p>

This article shows how two concepts for which Blaise Pascal'sPensées(1670) are best known—divertissementandennui(often mistranslated as “boredom”)—inherited and transformed medical conceptions of melancholy along with one of melancholy's signature therapeutic protocols: diversion. Instead of limiting the genealogy of Pascal's concepts to more obvious textual sources (St Augustine, Montaigne, etc.), here they are read against the background of an epistemological paradigm dominant in his time: Galenic medicine. Drawing on a large corpus of early modern French medical texts, this article discloses how melancholy, stripped of its overt medical status, remerges in Pascal's analysis of subjectivity, which valorized melancholicennuiagainst the values of a nascent civil society subservient to the monarchic order. Once used to describe outlying temperaments and exceptional pathologies, the discourse on melancholy becomes fundamental to the human being per se in Pascal's theological and anthropological perspective. Thus transformed, the older forms of melancholy and its remedies ensured the possibility of their survival—disguised and unrecognized—in modern theories of subjectivity and psychology. Understanding melancholy's latent presence in thePensées, in other words, sheds new light on the affective aspects of Pascal's social critique and invites us to investigate the modern afterlife of early modern melancholy.

Dietitians provide nutritional care in various contexts and it is expected that dietetic subjectivity shapes and is shaped by health/nutrition discourse, but this has not been sufficiently explored. The purpose of this study was to further understand dietetic subjectivity, dietitians’ experiences of their education and relationships between educational and practice discourses. Twelve dietitians were recruited to participate in semi-structured research interviews. Feminist theoretical perspectives informed the research including the interpretation of data, which was analyzed according to the Listening Guide, a feminist voice-centered relational method. A theory of dietitian performativity informed by Butler (1999) emerged whereby dietitians expressed passion and melancholia for their practice. Also, participants experienced discontinuity between educational and practice contexts, which highlighted the need to integrate embodied epistemic perspectives throughout undergraduate education. These findings support a critical gesture in dietetic educational discourse away from positivism towards embodiment as a means for highlighting and reinforcing the complexity and fluidity of dietetic performativity.

In Nietzsche the autobiographical theme of disease has at its core the philosophical problem of pain. While he reflects daily on the actual condition of the ill person, Nietzsche oscillates the man like a pendulum. He defines him as ‘the most melancholic and most happy animal who suffers so profoundly that he must invent laughter’, as ‘the ill animal’ but also ‘the most courageous and most used to pain’. Nietzsche seems to be entertained no end by playing around with these definitions, almost as if he is making fun of Aristotle. It is in fact these two later quotations from the Genealogy that go on to construct the tracks on which his reflections on badness and suffering will move, marking out the area in which the decisive ‘match’ of the health of humanity is discussed. The first displays a Nietzsche who is always tranchant and blazing in its ability to conjure up the humanity of humans in few words. The highlight of the determinate article is original (‘the ill animal’) and shows that man is a unique animal who can define himself as being ill. The second suggests the image of a human being who tolerates pain with courage, arriving, just thanks to this journey of pain, to embark on a voyage leading to internal transformation. Nietzsche’s lifelong illness was what prompted him to develop the philosophical problem of pain and its relationship with thought. Taking advantage of his condition as a constant sufferer, Nietzsche strived to understand which directions human thought is able to take whenever it is ‘subjected to the pressure of evil’. The first is a hypocritical direction, represented by man’s attempts to remove pain from his life. Nietzsche denounces all justifications made for the purpose of providing at all costs a meaning for suffering, and which converge with the modern welfare society that dares to fashion mankind ‘without evil’. The other direction, however, is that of those who are not afraid to listen to suffering. Reflecting on his own personal situation, Nietzsche outlines the traits of human beings who reach out towards the mystery of existence and, shaken by the experience of pain, come to abandon their certainties and adopt a more critical view of themselves. ‘Every man is a medical history’, recites a posthumous fragment. Certainly, Nietzsche himself is the first to notice ‘his own story is the story of an illness and also of a healing’ – and this is not only true for him but for everyone who experiences suffering up close. This experience of pain – so intimate that it seems difficult to express in words – does not cause one to be locked up inside of oneself but rather serves to introduce a discussion on one’s subjectivity and as an occasion for a moral adventure into the profundities of one’s existence.

Abstract This article shows - in the light of personalistic psychology - the subjective features of old people which are manifested in the works of eminent creators. The progress of inner subjectivity is shown as a specific developmental tendency. It is characterized by reflection, concentration on one’s own experiences, remembrances and encapsulating life events. It is readily observable that old creators are open to spiritual values and that melancholy is a predominant mood in their creation.

Abstract The article examines sacrifice in Søren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. I argue that in order to understand the meaning of sacrifice in this work, we have to account for the four poetic images of a weaning mother – often overlooked by commentators – that we find in the section entitled “Attunement”. I show that we can make sense of the images once we situate them within the context of Kierkegaard’s (or his pseudonyms’) broader critique of modernity, autonomous subjectivity, and the loss of premodern forms of authority. On my interpretation, for Kierkegaard, sacrifice entails a rupture of a communal bond; yet his pseudonyms explore both secular and religious ways of responding to such a rupture. Finally I argue that while Fear and Trembling ultimately offers no clear solutions, the story Kierkegaard conveys to us – a story about sacrifice, mourning, and mothering – can inspire us to reflect on the modern condition.

The aim of my paper will be to discuss the African-American reworking of the Gothic tradition in Colson Whitehead’s neo-slave narrative. I want to argue that the figure of the protagonist Cora may be seen as the embodiment of losses that span over generations of black women. Cora’s melancholia is a strategy of dealing with the horrors of slavery and a sign of a black woman’s failed entry into the Symbolic. While the novel’s narrative technique is a symbol of the ever-present past that haunts black subjectivity, the underground railroad may be read as a metaphor for the repressed content of American national unconscious.

Abstract This paper sets out to examine how the first-person plural narration form is used in diasporic Chinese American writer Yiyun Li’s short story “Immortality” to represent the collective loss of subjectivity – namely how she represents the consequences of that loss from a psychological perspective as part of her experiment in artistic innovation. It explores Li’s characterization – especially her realistic depiction of the collective narrators’ psychology under totalitarianism and how she allows their psychology to affect the form of her representation. I argue that although through the ventriloquy in English, Li has given the “we”-narrators a discursive voice to articulate their hidden thoughts and feelings – something not possible in their mother tongue, the “we”-narrators are unable to exceed their existential limitations to speak a purely personal language immune from official appropriation. Li’s story also underlines the extreme form as well as the emotional consequences of that collective loss of subjectivity, namely the “we”-community’s avoidance of mass melancholia in reaction to the tragic end of their compatriot victim of the dictatorship in order to preserve their prevailing collective ego-ideal.1

AbstractThe article explores the interrelation of archives, melancholia, and their (de)constructive features in British Romantic poetry. It will argue that the proliferation of archives and archival practices from the late eighteenth century on had a strong influence on the literary‑cultural output of the British Romantics. This shall be scrutinised by drawing on an extended reading of Jacques Derrida’s “Archive Fever” (1995) and Julia Kristeva’s Black Sun, focusing on two basal, closely related aspects: (1) the subject’s feverish desire to archive, and (2) the archive’s (self‑)destructive tendencies. A close reading of paradigmatic writers and their poems (William Blake, Lord Byron, and John Keats) shall illustrate that the notion of “archive fever” turns out to be especially determinant for Romantic subjectivity, aesthetics, and its sujets.

Through staged photographs in which she herself is often the lead actor or through appropriation of historical photographs, contemporary African American artist Carrie Mae Weems deconstructs the shaming of the black female body in American visual culture and offers counter‐hegemonic images of black female beauty. The mirror has been foundational in Western theories of subjectivity and discussions of beauty. In the artworks I analyze in this article, Weems tactically employs the mirror to engage the topos of shame in order to reject it as a way of seeing the self and to offer a new way of lovingly seeing the self. I use the work of Kelly Oliver, Helen Block Lewis, and bell hooks to articulate the relationships among the mirror, shame, and black female subjectivity in Weems's work. Weems's subjects often reckon with what Oliver calls “social melancholy” as they experience shame while standing before the mirror. However, Weems also shows that by looking again—a critical strategy I explain using Oliver's model of “the loving eye”—her subjects can use the mirror as a corrective to the social shaming gaze and make it a stage for establishing black female subjectivity, a gaze of self‐love, and beauty.

Informed by recent feminist critiques of the notion of depression, we explored how a group of South African low-income mothers who have been diagnosed with depression subjectively describe and explain their psychological distress. Working within a feminist materialist-discursive framework, we focused both on the explicit content of what the women were saying and on the implicit or underlying discourses that informed their narratives. Our findings suggest that respondents often subjectively experienced their psychological distress as anger, which was also articulated in violence directed at their children. This suggests that not only does the diagnosis of depression serve to medicalize the distress of participants, but it may simultaneously serve to obscure their anger at having to mother in adverse conditions. In exploring reasons for their anger, we found that participants were frustrated with trying to live up to idealized notions of motherhood in impoverished contexts.

AbstractThis essay considers the place of nostalgia in scholarly research and writing in the light of psychoanalytic theories of subjectivity and desire. The term ‘nostalgia’, coined in the seventeenth century to define a medical condition, is, despite attempts at rehabilitation, generally employed to describe a weak sentimentality incompatible with genuine research. Two writers, Walter Benjamin (a leader of the Frankfurt school of criticism) and Carolyn Dinshaw (a medievalist and queer theorist), have opened up a different path for nostalgia in the light of different temporalities. Both invoke a ‘time of the now’, in Benjamin’s words, to allow a ‘touching across time’, in Dinshaw’s. In the light of their experience of time, nostalgia can shake off its usual association with sentimentality or melancholia. Challenged by their example the essay ends with an investigation of my own research and the part nostalgia, sometimes unconscious, has played in it.

Here we consider interpersonal experience in schizophrenia, melancholia, and mania. Our goal is to improve understanding of similarities and differences in how other people can be experienced in these disorders, through a review of first-person accounts and case examples and of contemporary and classic literature on the phenomenology of these disorders. We adopt a tripartite/dialectical structure: first we explore main differences as traditionally described; next we consider how the disorders may resemble each other; finally we discuss more subtle but perhaps foundational ways in which the phenomenology of these disorders may nonetheless be differentiated. These involve disruptions of common sense and conventionality, abnormalities of empathy, distinct forms of paranoia and the sense of personal centrality, and altered perceptions of intentionality, deadness, and artificiality. We end by considering some neurocognitive research relevant to these abnormal forms of subjectivity, including work on theory of mind, experience of human movement, and perception of faces.

With the title “Scientific perspective of emotional management in health professionals,” the reader presents a series of considerations based on “very respectful observations and reflections”, five in total, to which I wish to respond after thanking the Journal and the reader because with its publication it contributes to stimulating the healthy debate that must exist in the field of knowledge that defines human behavior as an object. But first I want to state that, with the publication of my essay, I move away from any mood aimed at managing emotions in health professionals, whatever this means. Like everyone who publishes, I am encouraged by the desire to be read and the critical reader testifies to this, but, following the line of argument of his criticism of my essay, I depart from considering that the readers of this magazine are waiting for healthy recommendations for their ways of life. With Foucault, I share the radical criticism he makes of this type of psychoanalysis - and other so-called behavioral sciences - that tend to become preaching. I suppose (and desire) an adult reader and able to discern with my writing, in favor or not of this content. As in any essay, I use a vital experience that continues to be nourished by conceptual references produced from various areas of knowledge to fulfill one of the essential objectives of any essay: to investigate a topic and involve the reader and, finally, does not require exhaustiveness and declares mandatory the subjectivity of the essayist with total freedom in the structure, the tone and style of the text.

In his most recent book, entitled Un Furieux désir de sacrifice. Le surmusulman (A Furious Desire for Sacrifice: The Super Muslim), Benslama sets himself the task of laying down on the psychoanalytic couch the jihadi figure he calls ‘le surmusulman,’ which literally means a sort of super- or Über-Muslim. In this essay, I shall not pursue a symptomatic reading of Benslama's symptomatic reading of the surmusulman, but will focus my tentative reading of his diagnostic appraisal on the psycho-affective dynamics of melancholia and jouissance – two concepts that are mentioned in passing (and are almost taken for granted by Benslama), but that seem to me to anchor the furious desire for sacrifice that is said to characterize the surmusulman. I conclude by engaging with Benslama's conception in Psychoanalysis and the Challenge of Islam of an alternative form of subjectivity (I dub l'altermusulman) that is paradoxically the product and harbinger of secular modernity, and that may need, in the final analysis, to be laid as well on the psychoanalytic couch, something Benslama hardly ponders.

This article examines the under-acknowledged presence of carnivalesque elements in W. G. Sebald’s prose fiction. While the carnivalesque holds a less prominent position than melancholy in Sebald’s work, it is nevertheless a persistent aspect, although its presence decreases in his later texts and is almost entirely absent from Austerlitz. The article argues that these elements form part of Sebald’s resistant stance towards the dominant discourses of modernity. On this basis, the article discusses the carnivalesque in Vertigo, The Emigrants and The Rings of Saturn from two perspectives. First, it examines the presence of carnivalesque figures and locations, arguing that these are evidence of carnival’s exhaustion, and of the way that modernity has closed down the possibility of licensed transgression. Second, it argues that the narrators themselves are duplicitous, ‘masked’ figures whose inconsistencies and ethical transgressions are central to Sebald’s project of unbinding modern subjectivity.

Abstract This article examines the emaciated self-images of four women’s self-inscription poems on their own portraits. They are Huang Hong (early seventeenth century), Xi Peilan (1760­­­–after 1829), Tan Yinmei (fl. mid-eighteenth to early nineteenth century) and Zheng Lansun (1819-61). These women similarly describe their self-images as qiaocui (emaciated), alluding to the legendary girl poet Feng Xiaoqing. Inherently ambivalent, qiaocui could imply sexual and erotic appeal, the virtuous mind of a recluse, sickness, ordinariness, melancholy, as well as aging and death. The article argues for the importance of the rhetoric of qiaocui and the topoi of Feng Xiaoqing in the self-inscriptions by women in Hangzhou and the broader Jiangnan region as a medium to construct their female subjectivity. This article suggests that, initially a persona publicly circulated in the late Ming, the topoi of Feng Xiaoqing came to define the women’s personhood in private spaces in late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

This article will bring together the work of Soren Kierkegaard and John Wesley for the purpose of showing the relevance of their theologies for the empowerment of women. The particular focus will be on the doctrine of original sin. The paper will first address the question of why Augustine’s novel doctrine became the orthodox position and why his construction restricts its applicability to women. It will then move to Soren Kierkegaard’s understanding of anxiety and despair in his treatise, The Sickness Unto Death. In the theology of Soren Kierkegaard, there is room to interpret his understanding of original sin as “gendered”. For him, despair is the counterpart of original sin. It finds two forms: 1. despair is willing to be a self apart from the Power (God) that constitutes the self, and 2. despair is not willing to be a self at all. Feminists have questioned the legitimacy of original sin in its traditional form, and a few have even used Kierkegaard on the way to offering an alternative to pride. One method used here is to explicate this insight further. Another method is to put Kierkegaard and John Wesley in dialogue for the purpose of imagining selfhood for women more hopefully. If “despair” can be imagined as a wounding of the self, Wesley’s therapeutic model—seeing original sin as a disease and sanctification as its cure—has much to offer the conversation on personhood and empowered subjectivity, particularly for women. The primary research question investigated here is how a conversation between feminism, Kierkegaard, and Wesley offers an alternative to Augustine’s “orthodoxy” without rendering the idea of original sin completely untenable and useless for women within Christianity. Even though Wesley’s curative paradigm has been highlighted in more recent years, its particular strength to speak into the lives of those who do not/cannot will to be a self has perhaps yet to be fully mined. It reveals itself in the entire Wesleyan history of affirming women. However, the author believes the potential power of Wesley’s theology can be further unleashed by examining its mechanism’s in countering “female despair”.

AbstractThis article explores the significance of photography and photo-album making as practices that many Germans used to record their lives during the Third Reich. Millions of photos not only offer insights into everyday life under National Socialism: mass photography itself had a transformative effect, turning seemingly mundane actions into performances for the camera and into conscious acts of self-representation. The article also considers the relationship between amateur snapshots, on the one hand, and propagandistic and commercial photographs, on the other. Identifying connections between the genres, it argues that these are best understood as two-way processes of borrowing and (re-)appropriation, in which private subjectivity and public ideology constantly commingled. Particularly important in linking the two were photos of emotional or affective states, such as relaxation, exploration, introspection, and even melancholy, which were often defined or underscored by the ways in which both civilians and soldiers positioned themselves in relation to particular landscapes. The photographic archival record is highly varied, but such variation notwithstanding, photos helped cement immersive “experience” as the basis for individual and collective identity; this was central to the ideology of the National Socialist regime, even if it never wholly controlled its meanings.

An oxymoron is a self-contradicting or incongruous word or group of words as in Lord Byron’s (1788–1824) line from his satirical epic poem Don Juan; “melancholy merriment”, An oxymoron is a rhetorical and epigrammatic device for effect, often revealing paradox. The effect I aim for here is the actualization of affect; affect made relevant and useful for education as a public good. Oxymoroning as an immediate edging of knowledge into experience, hence a way to access a proto subjective level of the affective power of X. The prefix proto indicating the first, original or earliest. I ask how we can become materially identifiable subjects for one another and what would it take to move from a mechanistic approach to education to a more machinic one. It is a view of change that does not steal my powers or affective force away. Furthermore, are the abstractions one attempts to move from imitation to imagination abstract enough? I aim for expansions in our educational rationales for social and natural sustainability. It implies an educational philosophy of multiplicity ready to support and join a creative pluralism of organization and pedagogies and simultaneously counteract predetermined and controlling pluralism of organization and pedagogies. The overarching contribution of this poem is political, pragmatic and ethical and concerns the constitution of subjectivity for education in inter- and intra-generational perspectives through taking part in polysemantic ambiguity, envisioning a modest view to the child as a knowledgeable and connectable collective. Ultimately, a view of the child is our primary measurement indicator for educational quality. The competence most important to develop for educators is impression tenderness in order to meet the expressions of the child.

BACKGROUND: Clinical diagnosis of depression in schizophrenia is difficult because of the dimensional overlap of a number of affective symptoms with negative manifestations of schizophrenia spectrum disorders. In the very first attack of schizophrenia, when the negative symptom complex is not yet clear enough, the difficulties of differential diagnosis become even more relevant, especially when depression occurs in the post-attack stage during the formation of remission and the manifestation of postpsychotic depression. AIM: To establish a diagnostic approach based on a combination of clinical-psychopathological and psychometric methods for the assessment of postpsychotic depression in patients with a first episode of schizophrenia. MATERIAL AND METHODS: We are examined 1112 patients who had suffered a first psychotic episode. Аfter introducing inclusion/exclusion criteria, two groups were formed in the final design: 243 patients with postpsychotic depression (PPD) and 119 patients without depression in partial remission. Clinical-psychopathological, psychometric (PANSS, CDSS, SCL-90-R scales), and statistical (descriptive, non-parametric statistics — significance level p 0.05) methods were used. RESULTS: Based on the concept of positive-negative affectivity, three types of PPD have been identified: with signs of positive affectivity — anxious, sensitive-psychasthenic, depersonalisation-hypochondriacal and melancholic-anergic subtypes; with signs of negative affectivity anhedonic, dysthymic-apathetic and dysphoric subtypes; formed due to psychopathological manifestations of the non-affective register — obsessive-ruminative, agoraphobic, paranoid-symbolic subtypes. Patients who were diagnosed with PPD with positive affectivity after an attack were predominat (p 0.05): 46.91% of the total number of depressed patients. PPD formed due to non-affective spectrum disorders is accompanied by the strongest subjective severity of suffering in patients, compared to patients diagnosed with PPD with positive affectivity. Subjectively, the easiest for patients is PPD with negative affectivity, which, however, does not mean that it can be considered as favourable from the standpoint of therapy and rehabilitation. CONCLUSION: PPD is detected in a significant number of patients with a first psychotic episode, even after excluding the group with pharmacogenic depression, both due to subjective complaints, nosogenic depressive experiences, and as a result of a psychometric assessment of the patients’ condition. The concept of “dissociated post-attack depression” is substantiated.

Modern Ukrainian literature reacts to the collapse of the postmodern project and the emergence of a new cultural logic - metamodernism. This article is an attempt to prove it on the example of an analysis of the work of a modern Ukrainian writer. Maksym Dupeshko’s novels «The Story Worth an Entire Apple Orchard» [Istoriia varta tsiloho yablunevoho sadu] (2017) and «Near the Carriage under a Dead Fox» [Bilia karety pid mertvym lysom] (2021) served as the artistic material for the study. A scrupulous analysis of the novels testifies to the writer’s sensitivity to tectonic shifts in modern aesthetics. Both novels work with the phenomenon of the influence of historical memory on the present. And the strategies used by the author fully illustrate the theses of metamodernism theorists: oscillation between pre-modern, modern, and post-modern practices; fragmented «I» and attempts to integrate it into newmeaningful configurations; finding the multiplicity of human subjectivity; transition from parataxis to metaxy; a movement from melancholy to hope. Maksym Dupeshko’s texts testify listening to a new sensuality. The writer is not afraid to search for the truth, to be simple (both at the level of language and at the level of transmitted ideas), he consciously uses banality, he is deliberately pathetic, oscillates from irony to seriousness, from naivety to sincerity, always, however, without approaching cynicism. «The Story Worth an Entire Apple Orchard» is a novel-reflex on the modern Russian-Ukrainian war. The credit of the novel is that in its area there is a very important for our literature a change of modes in the artistic interpretation of reality — a transition from the obvious to the significant, after that we will no longer be ashamed to be heroes, to be from the provinces, to seek God and places of strength, we willstop confusing naivety and sincerity. «Near the Carriage under the Dead Fox» is a novel-anamorphosis - a construction that seems absurd to us if we look at it directly, but when we change the angle of view, it acquires clear and recognizable outlines. This novel engages the reader in the quest, it demonstrates a way to look into our modern existence - an endless chaos of things, events, ideas, aesthetics, fragments of sleeps, fragments of destinies, parts of dreams, hallucinations and fantasies.

Drawing on the concepts of liminality proposed by Arnold Van Gennep and Victor Turner and Althusser's three ideological tools that nationalism prescribe to be undertaken by individuals who try to become an integral part of a national community, this paper reads Esi Edugyan’s debut novel, The Second Life of Samuel Tyne (2004), as an exploration of the role of literature within the debate about the different positions of black Canadian subjectivity and national adherence. George Elliott Clarke and Rinaldo Walcott polarized the African Canadian criticism by proposing two different theories in an attempt to shape up and (re)define the subjectivity of black Canadians. Clarke advocates to include African Canadian subjectivity in the national desire to belong to a uniform Canadian culture and aims to establish the African Canadian identity in Canada’s national soil. Conversely, Walcott stands up for the defense of transnationality as the best way to explore and grapple with African Canadian subjectivi- ty aiming to contest racism while fostering self-definition. Declining Clarke’s theory, Walcott warns African Canadians to “think contrapuntally within and against the nation” (22) as a means to counteract a Canadian nationality that has historically exclud- ed its black citizens. It is my argument that The Second Life of Samuel Tyne fully participates in this debate and aligns partially with Walcott’s liminal status for black Canadians. The diasporic nature that defines Samuel Tyne together with his impossibility for succeeding and recognizing himself as truly Canadian place Edugyan’s novel within the scope of Walcott’s critical theory and helps to reconsider and to overtly challenge the image of Canada as a compassionate and egalitarian nation-state as well as to reconsider the negotiation of space. The concept of liminality stands as a valuable critical lens to highlight the retrieval of a transcultural African Canadian subjectivity that shows the complex and multiple faces of black Canadians. However, by setting forth a liminal subjectivity that aims to problematize black Canadian subjectivity, The Second Life of Samuel Tyne expands, to a certain extent, Walcott’s understanding of the diasporic approach by rejecting nostalgia as a melancholic hindrance. In this way, it bridges memory and present to cultivate a new reading of the diasporic approach that confirms an acute and more precise reading of the black Canadian experience. In so doing, the novel discusses the waning of the sovereignty of the Canadian nation-state and opts for uprootedness, transnational politics and deterritorialization as the way to extol a self-(re)definition of the coeval African Canadian subjectivity.

The pub is often romanticised as a site of idyllic English ‘working-class’ sociability that is now under threat. Such melancholic invocations of the pub’s plight are invoked amid the wider resurgence of a racialised English nationalism that makes particularly effective claims to a ‘white working-class’ and their putatively ‘left-behind’ anguish. This article challenges such dominant accounts, juxtaposing such racially defensive readings of the working-class pub against the otherwise overlooked phenomenon of England’s ‘desi pubs’ (Indian-run pubs) through recourse to David Jesudason’s Desi Pubs as well as drawing upon the accounts of the founder of Glassy Junction, a historic desi pub in Southall. Importantly, this overdue engagement of ‘desi pubs’ is considered not through frameworks of race and nation alone but also within conjunctural webs of capitalist stratification and subjectivity. Ultimately, we argue that attentiveness to desi pubs helps draw out convivial modalities of working-class sociability that exist outside of both otherwise ascendant racial and nationalist grievance frames and the sanitised but also prohibitive consumerist webs of aspirational distinction and individualism.

AbstractGeographical and interdisciplinary literatures often focus on the enduring losses engendered by industrial closure and economic change, describing the moment of deindustrialisation as a cut in the fabric of history. In this imaginary, people and place become suspended in the past, through ‘melancholy’ logics of attachment, ruination and loss. The aim of this article is to reorient these melancholy temporalities by demonstrating memory's central, though perhaps paradoxical, role in transitioning bodies through the afterlife of economic closure. Alongside three stories from an empirical study of life after two coal mine closures in Australia and China, I look to theories of melancholy and habit—understood as embodied, preconscious forms of non‐representational memory—to explore workers' capacities to reorient and rebuild subjectivity in the wake of closure's interruptions and disorientations. I emphasise the work of memory in knitting together life after ‘the end’, through transitional processes of reckoning, acting and learning that engender changing bodily intensities and evaluations, and the possibility of a renewed sense of life as ordinary. Taken together, this article makes paired contributions to literatures on economic change and geographies of memory. By looking beyond linear narratives of rupture and decline, it recognises the afterlife of industrial closure as an intimate site of transition without losing sight of the past. By showing how even melancholy memories are imbricated in the production of altered presents and futures, it emphasises memory's parallax operation as an embodied force of differentiation.

Anne Enright’s The Gathering (2007) is based on the painful testimony of the protagonist-narrator Veronica Hegarty, who tries to cope with the traumatic childhood memories of her brother’s being a victim of abuse and his tragic suicide. Veronica’s fragmented narrative reflects a de-ontologised subjectivity which is disrupted by the affect of grief. By referring to Jean-Luc Nancy’s and Eugenie Brinkema’s theoretical discussions on writing, subjectivity and grief, this article argues that Veronica’s writing process is non-therapeutic and her mourning process is undialectical because her intense biological experience of grief fails linguistic signification and reveals that writing cannot access the truth of the body. The affect of grief represented as biological experiences in Veronica’s mourning process is closely connected to the peculiar painfulness of loss Freud underlines, but leaves unexplained, in his discussion of mourning and melancholia. Freud writes about a physical pain rather than a mental pain that is experienced at the loss of a loved object. In the novel, the portrayal of the biological aspect of loss with an emphasis on the concept of peculiar painfulness also contributes to the understanding of the contemporary approach to loss with its productive attributes. The depiction of Veronica’s peculiar pain aims to urge Irish society to follow a course of action on the problem of child abuse with political awareness and ethical responsibilities.

AbstractThis essay explores romantic responses to Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Sarah Ponsonby, known as the Ladies of Llangollen, arguing that Anna Seward and Anne Lister celebrated the Ladies’ relationship in order to melancholically enact the same-sex ties they were themselves unable to maintain. Hailed as both pioneering lesbians and chaste romantic friends, Butler and Ponsonby may appear unlikely candidates for queer recuperation. Their place within romantic literary history is equally contentious, their status as a female couple challenging notions of singular and masculine romantic subjectivity, and their creative production diverging from canonical textual forms. This essay nonetheless claims Butler and Ponsonby as queer romantics, arguing that the indeterminacy of their bond constitutes a commensurately queer resistance to definition. Their romanticism is similarly disclosed by that of their romantic acolytes, who lauded the Ladies’ home as an ideal of lasting affective community. Drawing on Judith Butler’s account of gender melancholia, this essay claims that Seward and Lister identified Butler and Ponsonby as embodying the hopes of queer community foreclosed in their own lives. Accordingly, they protected and promulgated the Ladies’ relationship in order to melancholically enact the same-sex attachments they were unable to establish enduringly or mourn publicly. In celebrating a model of flourishing female desire, Seward and Lister thus melancholically preserved their own lost love-objects, and affirmed the future instantiation of enduring queer communities.

“For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Hamlet, Act 2 Sc.II) The theme for this issue of M/C Journal was inspired, not just by the melancholic Prince Hamlet of Denmark, but by the proceedings of the 8th annual Postgraduate Work-in-Progress Conference at The University of Queensland, September 2004. Despite the usefulness of the connections and disparities produced by delegate meditation and analysis of the conference theme, ‘bad ideas?’, this issue of M/C Journal was envisioned as a corollary to those proceedings, not a summary. Thus, the ‘bad’ issue of M/C Journal both talks to and moves from many of the issues that inspired the conference proceedings. That which is unique, original, and different is most often interpreted in relation to what is accepted, normal, and traditional. The work of any researcher in the ever-broadening field of that nebulous thing, the Humanities, is to think about received ideas in surprising and unfamiliar ways, to challenge what is simply thought of as bad or good, to complicate essentialist categories, and to question passively-accepted thinking. Things that may have seemed indissolubly bad may in fact be revealed as good precisely because they are dissolute, troubling, and inevitably disruptive to accepted norms, including your own. The reverse is also true. Anything is possible. Our authors, in unravelling the implications, assumptions and authority of ‘bad’, have taken up the theme in diverse and unexpected ways. From the ethical consequences of teaching students to create computer viruses to the complexities of the gay parenting debate, the authors of this issue contest simplistic assumptions of ethical action and highlight the ambivalence, complexity, and rewards that are entailed in questioning moral norms. Tony Sampson kicks off this issue with a thoughtful article that examines the fraught trajectory of the computer virus debate. Sampson examines to what extent paranoia and fear of the computer virus as unequivocally bad has constrained research in the field, research that may actually prove to have positive consequences in the fight against the malevolent affects of viruses. The perceived incursion of ‘ethical norms’ short circuits innovation as it feeds moral outrage. Kirsten Seale examines the ‘bad’-ness of Iain Sinclair’s 2004 novel _Dining on Stones _ in her article “Iain Sinclair’s Excremental Narratives”. An examination of panopticism, publishing, and consumption, Seale investigates how Sinclair’s ‘difficult’ writing courts interpretation as ‘bad writing’—resistant, deviant, and perverse. Searle also notes that far from crumbling under the moral weigh of badness, Sinclair delights in perverse pleasure, and takes up a certain power in being outside the norm. In this case, being ‘bad’ is definitely a ‘good’ thing. Elanna Herbert Lowes’s article “Transgressive Women, Transworld Women: The Once ‘bad’ Can Make ‘Good’ Narratives” is a self-reflexive critical essay that charts the difficulties of producing a creative PhD thesis within the field of Communications. An investigation of transworld identity, historiographic metafiction, creative writing, postmodernism, and narrative voice. Damien Riggs, in “Who Wants to Be a ‘Good Parent’?” addresses the timely and provocative issue of gay parenting. Riggs argues that the media promotes a ‘heteronormative’ understanding of parenting practice. Riggs deftly engages with the moral complexities of defining good and bad parenting and the ways in which these ethical categories are transferred, or blocked, by subject interpolation into categories of sexuality. Also concerned with the oppressions of morality, subjectivity, and sexuality, Jacqueline Mikulsky’s article “Silencing (Homo)Sexualities in School … A Very Bad Idea” argues that by remaining silent on the topic of sexualities other than heterosexuality within the school environment, school staff members contribute to a climate of heterosexism within the classroom. Debra Ferreday contributes a provocative exploration of virtual community and hate speech in her article, “Bad Communities”. While her essay may raise more questions that it can answer in the limited space, Ferreday usefully draws our attention to some of the assumptions that circulate around the creation of online communities. She notes the existence of sites, such as God Hates Fags, that complicate a conventional interpretation of ‘community’ as an inherently and universally positive term. Carra Leah Hood engages directly with this issue’s Shakespearean epigraph in “Schools of Thought: Consensus unto Death”. Hood aligns an analysis of social hierarchy in Hamlet, to a investigation of intellectual exchange in contemporary society. As in Shakespeare’s play, Hood finds contemporary ascriptions of worth are also often distorted by the implications of social standing. What may be received as a good idea from one individual, may be rejected as bad from another; authority is all too often resident in the hierarchy, rather than in the value of the opinion itself. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Cardell, Kylie, and Jason Emmett. "Bad." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Cardell, K., and J. Emmett. (Feb. 2005) "Bad," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/01-editorial.php>.

Abstract Walter Benjamin published his influential essay ‘Critique of Violence’/‘Zur Kritik der Gewalt’ in 1921, and the work has troubled and provoked thinkers across disciplines for over a century now. This Forum gathers a group of scholars in philosophy, political science, international relations and legal studies to reflect on the actuality of Benjamin’s essay for contemporary critical theory. In Part II of the Forum, Aggie Hirst, Tom Houseman, and Vinícius Armele draw on Benjamin to analyse what remains of European colonialism. Hirst and Houseman interrogate the extent to which Walter Benjamin’s notion of divine violence may be useful in the service of decolonial struggle. Insofar as it is antithetical to the colonial order – which is inaugurated and reproduced by the law making and law preserving functions of mythic violence – divine violence appears to open a space for conceptualising a far-reaching challenge to the violence encrypted in that order that is ‘lethal without spilling blood’. Because the exercise of such ‘power over all life’ is exercised ‘for the sake of living,’ Benjamin argues, its accompanying sacrifices are acceptable. Drawing on postcolonial and decolonial theory, Hirst and Houseman offer a critique of the ‘God’s-eye view’ inherent to any claim to divine violence. Benjamin’s text can generate powerful insights into the nature and limits of decolonial struggles, but it ultimately fails in providing an alternative to the mythic violence it criticises, by reproducing – at the heart of the emancipatory concept of divine violence – a problematic impersonation of a divine authorial voice that is already a trope of coloniality. Armele’s reflection seeks to recover ancient tragedy’s role of reluctance toward the previously unquestionable power of the violence of mythical destiny. Resume Benjamin’s contributions on (1) melancholy and Romanticism, which represents the revolt of repressed, channelled and deformed subjectivity and affectivity, and (2) the criticism of the violence that is established in the manifestation of its ethical relations between law [Recht] and justice [Gerechtigkeit], Armele reveals the intertwining of the experience of historical time and the orientation of current political struggles. Inspired by Benjamin, he examines the action of the Black Lives Matters movement in Bristol, UK, which toppled a statue of the slave trader Edward Colston, and threw it in the city’s harbour, reopening a historical wound of colonialism and national memory.

The Gothic is not always suited to women’s emancipation, but it is very well suited to women’s anger, and all other instances of what Barbara Creed (3) would refer to as ‘abject’ femininity: excessive, uncanny and uncontained instances that disturb patriarchal norms of womanhood. This article asserts that the conventions of the Gothic genre are well suited to expressions of women’s rage; invoking Sarah Ahmed’s work on the discomforting presence of the kill-joy in order to explore how the often-alienating processes of uncensored female anger coincide with contemporary notions of the Monstrous Feminine. This should not suggest that the Gothic is a wholly feminist genre - one need only look to Jane Eyre to observe the binarised construction of Gothic women as either ‘pure’ or ‘deviant’: virginal heroine or mad woman in the attic. However, what is significant about the Gothic genre is that it often permits far more in-depth, even sympathetic explorations of ‘deviant femininity’ that are out of place elsewhere.Indeed, the normative, rationalist demand for good health and accommodating cheerfulness is symptomatic of what Queer Crip scholar Katarina Kolářová (264) describes as ‘compulsory, curative positivity’ – wherein the Monstrousness of deviant femininity, Queerness and disability must be ‘fixed’ in order to produce blithe, comforting feminine docility. It seems almost too obvious to point to The Yellow Wallpaper as a perfect exemplar of this: the physician husband of Gillman’s protagonist literally prescribes indolence and passivity as ‘cures’ for what may well be post-partum depression – another instance of distinctly feminine irrationality that must be promptly contained. The short story is peppered through with references to the protagonist’s ‘illness’ as a source of consternation or discomfort for her husband, who declares, “I feel easier with you now” (134) as she becomes more and more passive.The notion of men’s comfort is important within discussions of women’s anger – not only within the Gothic, but within a broader context of gendered power and privileged experience. Sara Ahmed’s Killing Joy: Feminism and the History of Happiness asserts that we “describe as happy a situation that you wish to defend. Happiness translates its wish into a politics, a wishful politics, a politics that demands that others live according to a wish” (573) For Ahmed, happiness is not solely an individual experience, but rather is relational, and as much influenced by normative systems of power as any other interpersonal process.It has historically fallen upon women to sacrifice their own happiness to ensure that men are comfortable; being quiet and unargumentative, remaining both chase and sexually alluring, being maternal and nurturing, while scrupulously censoring any evidence of pregnancy, breastfeeding or menstrual cycles (Boyer 79). If a woman has ceased to be happy within these terms, then she has failed to be a good woman, and experiences what Ahmed refers to as a ‘negative affect’ – a feeling of being out of place. To be out of place is to be an ‘affect alien’: one must either continue feeling alienated or correct one’s feelings (Ahmed 582). Sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild uses the analogy of a bride feeling miserable at her wedding, obliging herself to bring her feelings in-line with what is expected of her, “Sensing a gap between the ideal feeling and the actual feeling she tolerated, the bride prompts herself to be happy” (Hochschild 61).Ahmed uses to the term ‘Kill Joy’ to refer to feminists – particularly black feminists – whose actions or presence refuse this obligation, and in turn project their discomfort outwards, instead of inwards. The stereotype of the angry black woman, or the humourless feminist persist because these women are not complicit in social orders that hold the comfort of white men as paramount (583); their presence is discomforting.Contrary to its title, Killing Joy does not advocate for an end to happiness. Rather, one might understand the act of killing joy as a tactic of subjective honesty – an acknowledgement of dis-ease, of one’s alienation and displacement within the social contract of reciprocal happiness. Here I use the word dis-ease as a deliberate double entendre – implying both the experience of a negative affect, as well as the apparent social ‘illness’ of refusing acquiescent female joy. In The Yellow Wallpaper, the protagonist’s passive femininity is ironically both the antithesis and the cause of her Monstrous transformation, demonstrating an instance of feminine liminality that is the hallmark of the Gothic heroine.Here I introduce the example of Lily Frankenstein, a modern interpretation of the Bride of the Creature, portrayed by Billie Piper in the Showtime series Penny Dreadful. In Shelley’s novel the Bride is commissioned for the Creature’s contentment, a contract that Frankenstein acknowledges she could not possibly have consented to (Shelley 206). She is never given sentience or agency; her theoretical existence and pre-natal destruction being premised entirely on the comfort of men. Upon her destruction, the Creature cries, “Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness?” (Shelley 209). Her first film portrayal by Elsa Lanchester in James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein (1936) is iconic, but brief. She is granted no dialogue, other than a terrified scream, followed by a goose-like hiss of disgust at Boris Karloff’s lonely Creature. Kenneth Branagh’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994) merges the characters of Elizabeth and the Bride into the same doomed woman. After being murdered by the Creature, she is resurrected by Frankenstein – and consequently fought over by both. Her inevitable suicide is her one moment of tragic autonomy.Penny Dreadful is the first time that the Bride has been given an opportunity to speak for herself. Lily’s character arc is neither that of the idealised, innocent victim, nor is she entirely abject and wanton: she is – quite literally – two women in one. Before she is re-animated and conditioned by Victor Frankenstein to be the perfect bride, she was Brona, a predictably tragic, Irish street-walker with a taste for whisky and a consumptive cough. Diane Long Hoeveler describes the ambiguous duality of the Gothic feminine arising from the fantasies of middle-class woman writing gothic fiction during the 19th century (106). Drawing upon Harriet Guest’s examination of the development of femininity in early Gothic literature, Hoeveler asserts that women may explore the ‘deviant’ pleasures of wanton sexuality and individualistic, sadistic power while still retaining the chaste femininity demanded of them by their bourgeois upbringings. As both innocent victim of patriarchy and Monstrous Feminine, the construction of the gothic heroine simultaneously criminalises and deifies women.I assert that Penny Dreadful demonstrates the blurring of these boundaries in such a way that the fantasy of the sympathetic, yet Monstrous Gothic Feminine is launched out of the parlours of bored Victorian housewives into a contemporary feminist moment that is characterised by a split between respectable diplomacy and the visibility of female rage. Her transition from coerced docility and abject, sexualised anger manifests in the second season of the show. The Creature – having grown impatient and jealous – comes to collect his Bride and is met with a furious refusal.Lily’s rage is explosive. Her raw emotion is evidently startling to the Creature, who stands in astonishment and fear at something even more monstrous and alien than himself – a woman’s unrestrained anger. For all his wretched ‘Otherness’ and misery, he is yet a man - a bastard son of the Enlightenment, desperate to be allowed entrance into the hallowed halls of reason. In both Shelley’s original novel and the series, he tries (and fails) to establish himself as a worthy and rational citizen; settling upon the Bride as his coveted consolation prize for his Monstrous failure. If he cannot be a man as his creator was, then he shall have a companion that is ‘like’ him to soothe his pain.Consequently, Lily’s refusal of the Creature is more than a rejection – it is the manifestation of an alien affect that has been given form within the undead, angry woman: a trifecta of ‘Otherness’. “Shall we wonder the pastures and recite your fucking poetry to the fucking cows?” She mocks the Creature’s bucolic, romantic ideals, killing his joyful phantasy that she, as his companion, will love and comfort him despite his Monstrousness (“Memento Mori”).Lily’s confrontation of the Creature is an unrestrained litany of women’s pain – the humiliation of corsetry and high heels, the slavery of marriage, the brutality of sexual coercion: all which Ahmed would refer to as the “signs of labour under the sign of happiness” (573). These are the pains that women must hide in order to maintain men’s comfort, the sacrificial emotional labours which are obfuscated by the mandates of male-defined femininity. The Gothic’s nurturance of anger transforms Lily’s outburst from an act of cruelty and selfishness to a site of significant feminine abjection. Through this scene Hochschild’s comment takes on new meaning: Lily – being quite literally the Bride (or the intended Bride) of the Creature – has turned the tables and has altered the process of disaffection – and made herself happy at the expense of men.Lily forms a militia of ‘fallen’ women from whom she demands tribute: the bleeding, amputated hands of abusive men. The scene is a thrilling one, recalling the misogyny of witch trials, sexual violence and exploitation as an army of angry kill joys bang on the banquet table, baying for men’s blood (“Ebb Tide”). However, as seems almost inevitable, Lily’s campaign is short-lived. Her efforts are thwarted and her foot soldiers either murdered or fled. We last see her walking dejectedly through the London fog, her fate and future unknown.Lily’s story recalls an instance of the ‘bad feminism’ that nice, respectable, mainstream feminists seek to distance themselves from. In her discussion of the acquittal of infamous castatrix Lorena Bobbitt, poet Katha Pollitt (65-66) observes the scramble by “nice, liberal middle-class professional” feminists to distance themselves from the narratives of irrational rage that supposedly characterise ‘victim feminism’ – opting instead for the comforting ivory towers of self-control and diplomacy.Lily’s speech to her troops is seen partly through the perspective of an increasingly alarmed Dorian Gray, who has hitherto been enjoying the debauched potential of these liberated, ‘deviant’ women, recalling bell hooks’ observation that “ultimately many males revolted when we stated that our bodies were territories that they could not occupy at will. Men who were ready for female sexual liberation if it meant free pussy, no strings attached, were rarely ready for feminist female sexual agency” (41). This is no longer a coterie of wanton women that he may enjoy, but a sisterhood of angry, vengeful kill-joys that will not be respectable, or considerate of his feelings in their endeavours.Here, parallels arise between the absolutes drawn between women as agents or victims, and the positioning of women as positive, progressive ‘rational’ beings or melancholic kill-joys that Ahmed describes. We need only turn to the contemporary debate surrounding the MeToo movement (and its asinine, defensive response of ‘Not All Men’) to observe that the process of identifying oneself as a victim has – for many – become synonymous with weakness, even amongst other feminists. Notably, Germaine Greer referred to the movement as ‘whinging’, calling upon women to be more assertive, instead of wallowing in self-victimisation and misandry, as Lily supposedly does (Miller).While Greer may be a particularly easy strawman, her comments nonetheless recall Judith Halberstam’s observations of prescriptive paternalism (maternalism?) within Western feminist discourse. His chapter Shadow Feminisms uses the work of Gayatri Spivak to describe how triumphalist narratives of women’s liberation often function to restrict the terms of women’s agency and expression – particularly those of women of colour.Spivak’s Can the Subaltern Speak? asserts that the colonial narratives inherent within white feminists’ attempts to ‘save’ non-Western women are premised upon the imagined heroicism of the individual, which in turn demands the rejection of ‘subaltern’ strategies like passiveness, anger and refusal. She asks, “does the category of resistance impose a teleology of progressive politics on the analytics of power?” (9). Put more simply, both Halberstam and Spivak beg the question of why it is necessary for women and other historically marginalised groups to adopt optimistic and respectable standards of agency? Especially when those terms are pre-emptively defined by feminists like Greer.Halberstam conceptualises Shadow Feminisms in the melancholic terms of refusal, undoing, failure and anger. Even in name, Shadow Feminism is well suited to the Gothic – it has no agenda of triumphant, linear progress, nor the saccharine coercion of individualistic optimism. Rather, it emphasises the repressed, quiet forms of subversion that skulk in the introspective, resentful gloom. This is a feminism that cannot and will not let go of its traumas or its pain, because it should not have to (Halberstam, Queer Art 128-129).Thus, the Monstrousness of female rage is given space to acknowledge, rather than downplay or dismiss the affective-alienation of patriarchy. To paraphrase scholars Andrew Smith and Diana Wallace, the Gothic allows women to explore the hidden or censured expressions of dissatisfaction and resentment within patriarchal societies, being a “coded expression of women’s fears of entrapment within the domestic and within the female body” (Smith & Wallace 2).It may be easy to dismiss the Gothic as eldritch assemblages of Opheliac madness and abject hyperbole, I argue that it is valuable precisely because it invites the opening of festering wounds and the exploration of mouldering sepulchres that are shunned by the squeamish mainstream; coaxing the skeletons from the closet so that they may finally air their musty grievances. As Halberstam states in Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters, the Gothic represents the return of the repressed and thus encourages rather than censors the exploration of grief, madness and irrationality (Skin Shows 19). Accordingly, we may understand Lily’s rage as what Halberstam would refer to as a Monstrous Technology (21-22) – more specifically, a technology of the Monstrous Feminine: a significant site of disruption within Gothic narratives that not only ‘shows’ the source of its abjection, but angrily airs its dirty laundry for everyone to see.Here emerges the distinction between the ‘non-whinging’, respectable feminism advocated by the likes of Greer and Lily’s Monstrous, Gothic Feminism. Observing a demonstration by a group of suffragettes, Lily describes their efforts as unambitious – “their enemies are same, but they seek equality” (“Good and Evil Braided Be”). Lily has set her sights upon mastery. By allowing her rage to manifest freely, her movement has manifested as the violent misandry that anti-suffragists and contemporary anti-feminists alike believe is characteristic of women’s liberation, provoking an uncomfortable moment for ‘good’ feminists who desperately wish to avoid such pejorative stereotypes.What Lily offers is not ethical. It does not conform to any justifiable feminist ideology. She represents that which is repressed, a distinctly female rage that has no place within any rational system of belief. Nonetheless, Lily remains a sympathetic character, her “doomed, keening women” (“Ebb Tide”) evoking a quiet, subversive thrill of solidarity that must be immediately hushed. This, I assert, is indicative of the liminal ambiguity that makes the Monstrous Feminine so unsettling, and so significant.And Monsters are always significant. Their ‘Otherness’ functions like lighthouses of meaning. Further, as Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (6) reminds us, Monsters signify not only the fragile boundaries of human subjectivity and discourse, but also the origins of the alterity that defines them. Like the tragic creature of Shelley’s masterpiece, Monsters eventually follow their creators home to demand an explanation – their revenant terror demands accountability (Cohen 20). What Lily exemplifies does not have to make others comfortable, and it is under no obligation to remain within any standards of ethics. To return one last time to Halberstam, I argue that the Monstrosity manifested within female rage is valuable precisely because it because it obliges us “to be unsettled by the politically problematic connections history throws our way” (Halberstam, Queer Art 162). Therefore, to be angry, to dwell on traumatic pasts, and to revel in the ‘failure’ of negativity is to ensure that these genealogies are not ignored.When finally captured, Victor Frankenstein attempts to lobotomise her, promising to permanently take away the pain that is the cause of her Monstrous rage. To this, Lily responds: “there are some wounds that can never heal. There are scars that make us who we are, but without them, we don’t exist” (“Perpetual Night and the Blessed Dark”). Lily refuses to let go of her grief and her anger, and in so doing she fails to coalesce within the placid, docile femininity demanded by Victor Frankenstein. But her refusal is not premised in an obdurate reactionism. Rather, it is a tactic of survival. By her own words, without her trauma – and that of countless women before her – she does not exist. The violence of rape, abuse and the theft of her agency have defined her as both a woman and as a Monster. “I’m the sum part of one woman’s days. No more, no less”, she tells Frankenstein. To eschew her rage is to deny its origin.So, to finish I ask readers to take a moment, and dwell on that rage. On women’s rage. On yours. On the rage that may have been directed at you. Does that make you uncomfortable?Good.ReferencesAhmed, Sara. “Killing Joy: Feminism and the History of Happiness.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 35.3 (2010): 571-593.Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” Monster Theory: Reading Culture. Ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen. Minnesota: U of Minnesota P, 1996. 3-25.Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. New York: Routledge, 1993.“Ebb Tide.”. Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.“Good and Evil Braided Be.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.Halberstam, Judith. Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. USA: Duke UP, 1995.———. The Queer Art of Failure. USA: Duke UP, 2011.Hoeveler, Diane. “The Female Gothic, Beating Fantasies and the Civilizing Process.” Comparative Romanticisms: Power, Gender, Subjectivity. Eds. Larry H. Peer and Diane Long Hoeveler. Columbia, SC: Camden House, 1998. 101-132.hooks, bell. Communion: The Female Search for Love. USA: Harper Collins, 2003.Kolářová, Kristina. “The Inarticulate Post-Socialist Crip: On the Cruel Optimism of Neo-Liberal Transformation in the Czech Republic.” Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies 8.3 (2014): 257-274.“Memento Mori.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2015.Miller, Nick. “Germaine Greer Challenges #MeToo Campaign.” Sydney Morning Herald, 21 Jan. 2018.“Perpetual Night/The Blessed Dark.” Penny Dreadful. Showtime, 2016.Pollitt, Katha. “Lorena’s Army.” “Bad Girls”/“Good Girls”: Women, Sex & Power in the Nineties. Eds. Nan Bauer Maglin and Donna Perry. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1996. 65-67.Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein, Or the Modern Prometheus. Australia: Penguin Books, 2009 [1818].Spivak, Gayatri. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture. Eds. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Chicago: U of Illinois P, 1988.Smith, Andrew, and Diana Wallace. “The Female Gothic: Now and Then”. Gothic Studies 6.1 (2004): 1-7.

The article highlights the existing tradition of understanding Laurence Sterne�s literary texts as philosophical. Author uses such research approaches as historical and literary, sociocultural and biographical. The reception of Tristram Shandy and A Sentimental Journey produced by the �English Rabelais� through the philosophical dominant in the poetics is a controversial theme that has its supporters and opponents. Occasionally some researchers totally negate philosophical direction of Sterne�s works, others � though do not deny his interest in the studies of contemporary philosophers, with many of whom Sterne had friendly relations (Hume, d�Holbach, D�Alembert, Diderot), nevertheless accuse the writer for inability to create a consistent system of philosophical ideas and become an original thinker (James Work). In course of time a number of literary critics convinced in inherency of philosophical themes for Sterne�s novels is widening (A. Hadfield, J. Hawley, Sh. Regan, P. Davies, Ch. Lupton). Experts declare that the attempts to distance Sterne�s texts from the intellectual climate of the century lead to the marginalization of his achievement and Sterne has become celebrated by �a coterie of enthusiasts� as �our most influential unread author� (Andrew Hadfield). On the contrary, Martin Battestin in his famous essays written in 1994 � �A Sentimental Journey�: Sterne�s �Work of Redemption� and �Sterne �mong the Philosophes: Body and Soul in �A Sentimental Journey� � insists on the inseparability of Sterne�s novels from the leading philosophical tendencies of the epoch. The first of his papers, �A Sentimental Journey�: Sterne�s �Work of Redemption�, is the subject of the analytical commentary in the present article. Battestin argues that Sterne can be considered the first philosophical novelist in English who discerns Locke�s radically subjectivist implications and demonstrates in the form of his narrative the principles of association of ideas and �durational time�. In A Sentimental Journey Sterne debates the mechanistic doctrines of La Mettrie and his followers, d�Holbach, Diderot and discovers in the passion and sympathy a way of rejecting Hume�s skepticism. Yorick�s figure in A Sentimental Journey, his ability to enjoy the moments of happiness, the restraint to the manifestation of the extremeness of passion transform the canon of travel writing and unnoticeably give it the form of personal journal and self-observation where the plunge into the description of everyday trifles predominates. Sterne�s A Sentimental Journey turns into the model of �the literature of sensibility� ensuring the author with the popularity within the wide range of reading public. The researchers view A Sentimental Journey as a variation of familiar features of Sterne�s style that correlates with the turn to the lyrical psychological form, the attention to the individual consciousness, the world of inner feelings and emotions. The text of the novel becomes refined, the author�s tone is frivolous and full of erotic hints. The narrator intrigues the reader with the insinuating intonation where the ironical, ambiguous and melancholic colors are mixed. In A Sentimental Journey Yorick�s travel notes look like an �imaginary journey� where the factual topography becomes the cause for extensive emotional reflection of the hero who is not constraint with the social conventions and the outer world turns to be the �mirror of the soul� and is reflected in the endless stream of changeable opinions. According to Battestin, Sterne�s emphasis on the liberating function of human sexuality is important. Claiming a spiritual value for eroticism Sterne turns to be the precursor of D. H. Lawrence and the famous final chapters in A Sentimental Journey, �The Grace� and �The Case of Delicacy�, can be viewed as the paradigm of the novel�s leading theme � the human yearning for relationship, the quest for union and sociability. Battestin comes to a conclusion that in A Sentimental Journey Sterne found a way to diminish the disturbing solipsistic implications of the new philosophy that had defined �the small world of Shandy Hall in terms of hobby-horsical self-enclosure�. He proposed to find in human senses, imagination and physiology the means of transcending materialist doctrines and of affirming the possibility of communion.

Pignarre's How Depression Became an Epidemic and Ehrenberg's The Exhaustion of Being Oneself: Depression and Society are two recent titles exploring the latest manifestation of a historically resonant phenomenon -- depression, nervous exhaustion, melancholia. Over the millennia, treatments and explanations have bounded. This mysterious ailment has been viewed as the call of the soul seeking self-purification; the inner wail of the child, mourning forever the loss of its own mother (primary sense of self); the sob of the woman who cannot cope with the realities of childbearing; and the nightmarish groan of the adult reliving trauma. It has been classed as the inability to grieve and the inability to stop. Yet for all the disciplinary disputes about its origins, one thing remains clear, to us, as to the Greeks, depression is as universal as society, and as specific as the human being living next door. For all the academic chatter about post-modernity and social constructions of disease, there is an eternality and specificity about the depressive condition which defies attempts at de-selving, that is to say, depersonalizing the illness. Depression, in other words, is as universal and specific as subjectivity. It is perhaps one of the primary diseases (conditions?) of self. As with depression, so with its treatments. Whatever the form of treatment, the basis remains the same: an encouragement of the sufferer towards self-care and self-medication and away from the suicidal impulse towards self-harm. The Greeks recognized the condition as a serious illness, and variously prescribed exercise, fresh air, and thoughtful conversation. In The Anatomy of Melancholy, dating from the sixteenth century, sufferer-writer Robert Burton recommended that sufferers be treated kindly, encouraged to get better and not ostracised or simply ignored. Nonetheless, the Catholic churches fought for years against relatives' protest that the will to suicide could be considered a kind of disease rather than a sin. Is this an illness from which the patient suffers, or a state of mind which is the patient's duty to try to control? This understanding is potenitially the difference between treatment and punishment, social ostracisation or community support. Should the suffering self be left alone, encouraged metaphorically or metaphysically to pull its socks up, or should it be re-integrated into social normality by gentler means, in particular through social and medical care? More specifically, is the suffering self right to seek help? These are the questions which have always faced depressives, as well as those who know and care for them, and there has in most instances been a delicate balance drawn between the need to care effectively for those in emotional pain, and the need to be seen to observe less tolerant social norms. Hence Greece has one of the lowest contemporary official records of suicide, since suicide is not tolerated by the Greek Orthodox church and to confess to a relative's suicide is to refuse them the right to be buried in sacred ground. The same can be said for the surviving taboos in UK culture against admitting to mental instability of any form, but particularly to affective disorders (the legacy of the 'stiff upper lip'). Such cultural biases suggest that depression is at some level the 'fault' of the sufferer, that they are not doing enough to self-heal, and that depression therefore demands a punitive-repressive social response. Obviously, it is excellent news that Western society has moved on from this. However, there are hidden costs. At the other end of the extreme of social acceptability, Elizabeth Wurtzel, sufferer-author of Prozac Nation makes a strong post-scriptive protest against those who are coming to represent the depressive self as socially normal, acceptable, useful even: I wanted this book to dare to be self-indulgent….[but] I can't get away from some sense that after years of trying to get people to take depression seriously -- of saying, I have a disease, I need help -- now it has gone beyond the point of recognition as a real problem to become something that appears totally trivial. (316, 302) This cultural tendency to see depression as a trivial, socially manageable adjunct to the human condition of being is, as Wurtzel puts it, a form of 'low-grade terminal anomie' (302). The facts would seem to bear out her argument. In 1994 six million Americans were on Prozac. The statistic was then shocking, but now seems strangely low. Peter Kramer's Listening to Prozac (1993) articulated a process whereby the 'Prozac culture' was and is systematically re-socialising the Westernised sense of the depressive self. As Wurtzel rightly foresaw, taking Prozac is becoming so usual it is in danger of no longer being an illness, no longer a genuine cry for help: the danger of Prozac Nation or world today is not that the problem has been ignored, but that it is too mainstream. We are in danger of no longer seeing depression (at least in its milder forms) as a serious illness needing treatment. Rather, it is just part of life, an occasional disability we encounter, rather like catching a cold. The very availability of Prozac is starting to affect sufferers' ability and willingness to face up to the fact of their illness, but also to the genuine problems facing Western society: we do not take Prozac to heal ourselves, but as a way of avoiding the difficulties of life. Wurtzel is not alone in her concern. Taking Prozac is coming to be seen as one of the latest manifestation of self-interested postmodernism, a social paradigm celebrated by medical technologists, despised by biomedical essentialists, and looked on with bemusement by almost everyone else. Faced with the vast numbers turning to Prozac, should we ignore the nay-sayers, treat them as Luddites? Certainly the suffering caused by depressive disorders is considerable, and certainly Prozac is making people happier and 'saner' than they were before. Yet the questions the nay-sayers are asking are profound ones. What is our sense of self? Is it something that can be materially altered by a drug? Can we consume a sense of ourselves, make ourselves truly happier? Should we even try? And with these questions come a sense of moral obligation. A history of Protestant Puritanism is brought to bear on the reading, as the sufferer and the doctor argue establish the existence of either a serious depression needing treatment, or the meandering complaints of a normally diseased or discomforted self. In the phenomenological diagnostic context that is the contemporary clinical encounter, it is not just questions of health but questions of self-hood, of the right to a sound sense of personal being, that are being discussed. The presenting sufferer says, I am not myself, give me something to make me better, that is more myself, and the general practitioner is left to decide whether or not to prescribe. The decision to prescribe is also a decision to accept the self-diagnosis of not-self, that is to say, not the usual self, and to enable the patient to imaginatively separate 'self' from 'pain'. And this is a difficult decision. And since it is often made on the run, as it were, that is to say in the short time averagely available for consultation (10 minutes in the British NHS), it is unsurprising that issues of self-hood, being and the personalised response to clinical depression get overlooked: and that in particular the concerns associated with the post-war phenomenon of pharmaceutical consumerism tend to get ignored. And this occurs not just in the doctor's surgery, but in the wider cultural context in which such difficult issues as 'Prozac' and 'clinical depression' are emotively and often thoughtlessly discussed. Prozac is part of cultural studies, but also the subject of media debates, scientific conferences and family arguments. In this cacophony of technologically sophisticated voices, ill-informed prejudice from outsiders and difficult professional decision-making, some of the fictions of the self which accompany our 'modern' and 'post-modern' concepts of depression are overlooked. These include the fact that contained within the fictions of pharmaceutical consumerism there is the ideal that an ideal drug exists which can be effectively targeted at a consumer, that this consumer can engage with or consume the drug in order to overcome a disease, and that although this drug affects the physiology of being it does nothing materially to alter the reality of 'self.' This should rightly lead the academic enquirer to question the inherent assumptions of a stable self, the assumption of the interpersonal right to clinical care, the assumption that in the condition of mental illness there exists the possibility of restoring the sense of self, of returning the sufferer to some semblance of a mental 'status quo': the difficulties of interpersonal subjectivity, the difficulties of knowing what is a subjective complaint and what is not -- the difficulties in fact, of self-defining oneself as a medical (mental health) patient in a consumerist era of pharmaceutical postmodernism. That is to say, the patient is called to self-diagnose, to separate the sense of a continuing self (an 'I' which is not materially altered by pharmaceutical treatment) from the temporary and contingent phenomenon of depressive pain. Issues such as self-esteem, self-love, self-care and self-motivation are therefore moved from the ontological to the physiological sphere of being, becoming a chemical-physiological condition rather than a complaint of personal identity. Issues of self become issues of body. The concerns of 'I' (Who am I? What am I doing? What am I worth? What do I need?) are transposed into a fictive third-party -- this body-brain, this being of which 'I' is made but which has its own serotonin-deficient identity, and which is of its own volition creating a sensation of I-worthlessness which needs to be dealt with without reference to first-person concerns. To self-diagnose as a depressive, concerns of body and self have to be ruthlessly separated. And this has to be done within a diagnostic and treatment context in which the contemporary problems of self -- career, family life, personal fulfillment, generalized well-being -- are inevitably the central topics of conversation, in which physical health concerns are secondary to discussion of emotive-behavioural patterns, and in which (in the British context) there is a 50% chance of being sent away undiagnosed. This means that, in ontological terms, the central decision for the would-be self-diagnoser is not, as many cultural commentators have suggested, whether to take Prozac or not. Rather, the decision is whether to accept blindly the terms of self-body separation which have characterized pharmaceutical-orientated depressive rhetoric, and therefore to accept the view that the continuing stable 'I' of 'healthy' selfhood is somehow separate from one's identity as a depressive. This enables depression to be seen unproblematically as a sickness, and therefore enables the would-be self-diagnoser to imagistically escape from the complaints of self-indulgence, lack of self-esteem, lack of self-respect, etc. As such it may be seen as a positive stage in the move towards wholeness and healing. And yet there is in this stance a sense of de-selving, of unhealthy depersonalization: a sense in which the sufferer is forced to step back from the self's experience of its own reality as a depressive sufferer. The 'self' is no longer stigmatized, but the depressive self certainly is. And this may be one of the problems with Prozac-orientated thinking. It is not that it is not good to treat depression pharmaceutically, but that in treating it so unproblematically as a biomedical entity the pharmaceutical companies and the medical establishments have failed to point out the more personal-universalist aspects of the depressive condition. It needs to be pointed out that the suffering self is not necessarily separable from the 'normal' self of pre-depressive illness. Nor is the prescription of an SSRI necessarily going to propel the sufferer backwards into a more 'normal' and 'usual' sense of self. The integration of the depressive experience into the sense of self-hood, the acceptance of the depressive identity as an aspect, albeit a problematic one, of one's personal sense of being: that may appear challenging, difficult, unsympathetic to the sufferer even but it does allow one to begin to see the self as an entity which is in some sense called to care for itself. A late Foucaltian remedy of selfhood, perhaps. References Borch-Jacobsen, Mikkel. "Psychotropicana" London Review of Books. 11 July 2002: 18-19. Burton, Robert. An Anatomy of Melancholy. Chicago: Michigan State University Press, 1965. Ehrenberg, Alain. La Fatigue D'Etre Soi: Depression et Societe. Paris: Odile Jacob, 2000. Kramer, Peter. Listening to Prozac. New York: Fourth Estate, 1993. Pignarre, Philippe. Comment La Depression est devenue une Epidemie. Paris: Decouverte, 2001. Solomon, Andrew. The Noonday Demon: An Anatomy of Depression. New York: Chatto and Windus, 2001. Wurtzel, Elizabeth. Prozac Nation: Young And Depressed in America, a Memoir. London: Quartet, 1994. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Kidd, Kerry. "Called to Self-care, or to Efface Self? " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.5 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Kidd.html &gt. Chicago Style Kidd, Kerry, "Called to Self-care, or to Efface Self? " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 5 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Kidd.html &gt ([your date of access]). APA Style Kidd, Kerry. (2002) Called to Self-care, or to Efface Self? . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(5). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0210/Kidd.html &gt ([your date of access]).

Whilst urban growth is generally accepted as a global phenomenon, this has numerous and ambivalent implications for Australia and its identity-work. Suburbia the site where the majority of Australians live, located somewhere between the privileged spaces of the city and the bush comes into focus as the emblematic topos through which the representational work of nation is articulated. Here, space becomes imbued with much current Australian political import. This article puts the discursive representation of Australian suburbia into juncture with hegemonic formations of nationness, and posits potential critical refigurations of these formations by mobilising a spatialised politics of cultural difference. Suburbia has come to represent a site of egalitarianism, signifying a truly Australian way of life. The masculinist and colonialist Australian myth of egalitarianism is constituted through a practice of carving up the land into equal portions, such that each man could have his stake in the country (Chambers 87). In this schema, the ownership of a detached house on a plot of land ensures proper and viable national subjects, since what is known as the suburban good life is nestled in a conception of house as home, where home is that which is familiar and secure. Consider John Howard's nationalist rhetoric: I believe that the concept of home is a compelling notion in our psyche…The loss of security challenges traditional notions of home and people feel the need to react to alienation…he or she must embrace what is secure, what people see as 'home.' (qtd. in Burke 8) It comes as no surprise, then, that Howard has initiated a scheme that grants $7000 to young couples toward establishing their first home. Home is not only a metaphor for nation; home is constituted in a material way through the house. The secure, housed, nation is most effectively enacted through the house and its ideal subjects: the white model of the heterosexual nuclear family. If European nostalgia is under threat, Howard's response is to maintain attempts to recover a unified national home. Ghassan Hage writes that the homely nation is itself an aspiration that guides the national subject's practices (68-9, my emphasis). Howard's anxiety is displayed in his response to the recent Tampa crisis, and it has become overwhelmingly evident who or what is not figured in his homely imaginary. Textuality becomes an effective means by which to negotiate and contest these dominant discourses of nation-space, and their prescribed modes of subjectivity. Suneeta Peres da Costa's recent novel Homework provides one such exigent re-mapping of nation-informed discourses of suburbia. Peres da Costa's text enacts a strategic invocation of cultural difference. Here, difference is not meant to connote inclusion or assimilation; difference must be seen as a dynamic constitutive mode of oppositionality, a provisional but insurrectionary and necessarily strategic other to dominant formations of nationness. As the novel's title itself suggests, home is work the work of being between spaces. Working from within the interstices of locatedness and worldliness allows the text to challenge embedded hegemonic inscriptions of nation-space. Whilst the novel was written and set in Australia, its packaging and subsequent reception also evokes the current trend of diasporic cosmopolitanism, signaling a world supposedly exempt from national belonging (Brennan qtd. in Kaplan 123). The novel was published simultaneously in the UK, the US, and Australia by Bloomsbury in 1999. The construction of this worldliness is here constituted in the politics of publishing, but this (dis)juncture between national and international, or the local and global, continues in the narrative itself. The narrative traverses both Australian domestic spaces and (imagined) international spaces. The fictive autobiography details Mina Pereira's late-childhood years as she lives with her family in suburban Rain Hill, Sydney. Whilst Mina and her sisters have grown up in Australia, their parents originate from Portuguese Goa, and Bombay, India. The narrative produces a tension between a global dislocation, where both Mr and Mrs Pereira's different and contradictory forms of homesickness are articulated, and the situatedness of Australia, where colonialism continues to construct hegemonic narratives of nationness. It is at this (dis)juncture that the narrative re-writes suburban space. Integrated into the suburban landscape and, in particular, the house itself, is the psychic space of memory. In the Pereira's house involuntary memories of former spaces and incidents in both Australia and India are evoked. A prolonged melancholia infiltrates the psychic and actual suburban spaces of the text, and in particular, the Federation house that the family lives in. If the Federation house signifies national unification, then this text enacts a kind of dis-unification of nation. With, in Gaston Bachelard's words, the past com[ing] to dwell in the new house (5), the seamless coherence of the suburban house is ruptured. As Homi Bhabha writes, [t]he recesses of the domestic space become sites for history's most intricate invasions. In that displacement, borders between home and world become confused; and, uncannily, the private and the public become part of each other, forcing upon us a vision that is as divided as it is disorienting. (9) In Homework, memory stretches beyond the limits of the nation such that nostalgia, as a politicised construction of the present, productively challenges the nation's boundaries. As Ien Ang writes, diasporas have the potential to unsettle static, essentialist and totalitarian conceptions of 'national culture' or 'national identity' with origins firmly rooted in fixed geography and common history (7). In this sense, the text interrogates the representational work of nation that attempts to maintain integrity and unity through incessant policing and securing of its borders. In Homework, the suburban house becomes unhomely, or unheimlich, in the haunting of subjects' memories that inhabit it, such that the house becomes not a tool for inculcating Australian nationness, but a zone of intermediacy between home and world. From this border space, that Homi Bhabha calls international (38) for the space of translation, negotiation, and hybridity, Australian space is unbounded and defamiliarised. Homework effectively dislodges the nation's homely imaginary by pointing to the excesses of belonging. Here home, as a mode of security and belonging, becomes detached from house. Aamir Mufti and Ella Shohat write that belonging cannot be housed simply within the material space of walls and roofs, of fenced topographies and well-drawn maps (1). This re-writing of hegemonic spatiality is concomitant with the re-constitution of prescribed modes of subjectivity. A politics of difference becomes a tool of creativity to question multiple forms of repression and dominance (Trinh 73). Cultural difference must be seen as disordering, as opening up new spaces for critical exchange (Soja and Hooper 193), and as positing new ways of critically writing and occupying spaces. By spatialising this politics of difference, the supposedly coherent spatiality of suburbia is ruptured and shown to be vulnerable. Re-narrating suburban spaces according to a politics of difference has the potential to dislodge hegemonic narratives that have become naturalised as they are mapped onto, or materialised in, real spaces. At the conclusion of Homework, the Pereira's house is enflamed. In this spectacular climax, part oneiric and fantastical, the house on fire becomes, in its pyrotechnical wizardry (255), a final recalcitrant figure to Australian suburban space. Merging with, and working against, that other sanctioned element of official multiculturalism, food, the fire sends out a toxic vapour to the hegemonic suburb: The pungent perfume that hung in a thick vapour above us was that of a vast spice warehouse burning to the ground. I could smell vast vats of mango and lime pickle; the bittersweet of cardamom spores that, with the intensity of the heat must have burst from their pods; peppercorns and paprika; turmeric, tamarind, and bay leaf; all these now lingered and mingled in a masala of mixed messages with the certain scents of dried cloves and the singular aroma of coriander. (256-7) The Federation house, with its symbolic encodings of nationness, is not only under de(con)struction here, but this image of a monstrous other further insults the suburban landscape's very senses. At the very heart of Australian suburbia is a stirring of the unhomely that is bound to repeat its disturbance to the mappings of nation. References Ang, Ien. Migrations of Chineseness. SPAN 34 (1993) : 9 pp. <http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom...> Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1958. Boston: Beacon, 1994. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Burke, Anthony. Australia's Asian Crisis. Australian Humanities Review June (2001) : 9 pp. 27 August 2001 <http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/I...> Chambers, Deborah. A Stake in the Country: Women's Experiences of Suburban Development. Visions of Suburbia. Ed. Roger Silverstone. London: Routledge, 1997. 86-107. Hage, Ghassan. White Nation: Fantasies of White Supremacy in a Multicultural Society. Leichhardt: Pluto Press, 1998. Kaplan, Caren. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham: Duke UP, 1996. Peres da Costa, Suneeta. Homework. London: Bloomsbury, 1999. Soja, Edward, and Barbara Hooper. The Spaces that Difference Makes: Some Notes on the Geographical Margins of the New Cultural Politics. Place and the Politics of Identity. Ed. Michael Keith and Steve Pile. London: Routledge, 1993. 183-205. Trinh, T. Minh-ha. Not You/Like You: Post-Colonial Women and the Interlocking Questions of Identity and Difference. Inscriptions 3-4 (1988) : 71-7. Links http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom/litserv/SPAN/34/Ang.html http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/Issue-June-2001/burke.html Citation reference for this article MLA Style Bullock, Emily. "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php>. Chicago Style Bullock, Emily, "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Bullock, Emily. (2002) Re-Writing Suburbia. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]).

This issue’s theme was, in part, spurred into being by Greg Noble’s comments in last year’s newsletter of the Cultural Studies Association of Australasia that “cultural studies is crap at affect”. It elicited a bit of argy-bargy although, given the framing, response tended towards: yes, it is; or no, it isn’t. What would it mean to be crap, or conversely good, at affect? It’s been a while now that references to something called affect have littered cult-studs speak. In my own timeline, I remember giving a paper in Glasgow in the early 1990s. Nothing about it remains in my memory except that the Scots didn’t understand what I meant by A-ffect, as my mongrel tongue then pronounced it. At the time, the field was caught up in the media effects paradigm, so perhaps the misunderstanding was that common confusion between effect and affect. Although by and large the media effects school was fairly passionless, in feminist television and film studies, melancholia and other emotional states were important, but they weren’t named as Affect. Affect as an essentially empty term, as yet another contentless term in cultural theory, has been thoroughly skewered by Eve Sedgwick and Adam Frank. Their argument is against accounts of feelings that in privileging the cultural cannot adequately comprehend the variety of bodily and physiological responses. Inspired by the clinical psychologist, Silvan Tomkins, in crossing the biological and the cultural, or in their framing, the digital and the analogue, they seek a model that “can differentiate”, outside of the usual reliance on difference. Instead of the on/off, same/other logic so prevalent in cultural theory, they turn to the distinct and differentiating affects that Tomkins names: disgust-contempt; shame-humiliation; distress-anguish; anger-rage; surprise-startlement; enjoyment-joy; interest-excitement. You will recall their pitiless critique of Ann Cvetkovich’s book Mixed Feelings: Feminism, Mass Culture and Victorian Sensationalism. If you’ve read them as they sliced in theoretical posturing, you’ll never forget their critique. It was Cvetkovich’s first book. Sedgwick and Frank admit that their tactic was “graceless”. As they explicate, the objective of their critique was “a gestalt strategy of involving readers in a sudden perceptual reorganisation and unexpected self-recognition”. They reason that had they chosen works by more well-known authors, “our strategy would have had no chance of success”. Not knowing the author, and only vaguely aware of the book, I felt a frisson of mixed, but enthusiastic, emotions (surprise, excitement, interest, enjoyment) at lines such as: Perhaps most oddly for a theory of affect, this one has no feelings in it. Affect is treated as a unitary category … There is no theoretical room for any difference between, say, being amused, being disgusted, being ashamed, and being enraged. … It would be plausible to see a variety of twentieth-century theoretical languages as attempts, congruent with this one, to detoxify the excesses of the body, thought, and feeling by reducing the multiple essentialist risks of analog representation to the single, unavowedly essential certainty of one or another on/off switch. (Sedgwick and Frank 27) You would think that their critique would effectively put you off writing about Affect. But that is neither the case for the discipline, nor for that particular author. If writing about Affect without feeling, as an indiscriminate and undiscerning category, is effectively “crap”, what constitutes good, or at least not-crap uses of affect? If “crap” uses of affect amount to yet another nebulous and unsubstantiated entity (you could do a roll call of other such terms from the 1990s: politics, ethics, poetics, posthuman, and so on), why and how should we be interested in affect? Put another way, does an attention to affect extend existing cultural theories, or is it a discrete object of study and analysis? To take the latter, it’s clear that affect, understood as distinct physical and social phenomena, is of intrinsic interest. My recent studies of shame have convinced me that you could spend a productive life investigating how different disciplines conceptualise just this one affect. I barely scratched the surface, but the different approaches of, say, evolutionary biology and psychology, historical and biological anthropology, and bio-sociology offer extraordinarily interesting takes on the experience, expression and constitution of shame. And one thing leads to another. I still haven’t properly read Konrad Lorenz’s On Aggression. And I’m now really interested in how one would approach the more positive emotions and affects in a rigorous manner. It’s at the first level – of how affect extends and enriches cultural analysis – that I have the most experience. To take my own work, which goes back to the late 1980s, I’m beginning to see – either in hindsight or because of age – that there has been a consistent search as to how to convey the textures of everyday life. From Sexing the Self through Outside Belongings, Carnal Appetites and to Blush, I’ve scribbled away, constantly worrying at the ineffable, the awesome materiality of discourse and life as we know it. Subjectivity – how to use the self –, sexuality and queer angles, the oblique, the obvious, the ordinary … these are aspects that cannot be properly understood without recourse to the affective ways in which they appear and are recognised, or not, by individuals and social groups. I say this not to vaunt my own work, which has, in any case, been immensely inflected and inspired by the intellectual contexts which I’ve been lucky enough to inhabit. It is, I think, salutary not only for one’s own sense of a trajectory, but also intellectually important to remember that hot topics like Affect do not emerge as precocious brainchildren. Humans have wondered at these aspects of life for a very long time. Another important thing to remember is that they/we have wondered in awe-struck ways. When Affect becomes hot, it becomes untouchable and untouched by that wonder and by a necessary gratitude to the ideas that allow us to think … And write. Writing affect should inspire awe and awe inspires modesty. I’ve experimented with writing shame, arguing that it can provide an ethics of writing that continually makes us viscerally aware of the stakes involved in communicating to readers the importance of ideas. But we could also begin to imagine what writing joy might entail. Clifton Evers writes “stoke” in his work on masculinity and surfing. And years ago, Rosi Braidotti wrote “rage” as a major feminist modus operandi. If there can be no such thing as affectless writing (humans after all cannot not communicate), writing affects must be compelled by a modest acknowledgement of the effects of our critical writing. Modesty directs us to the small things, to the details and nuances that Sedgwick and Frank place within an intellectual project that can distinguish 256,000 shades of gray but also knows that there are real differences between red, and yellow, and blue. Or in Tomkins’ words, “the key to both Science and Art is the union of specificity and generality”, and he adds “is extremely difficult since the individual tends to backslide in one direction or the other”. As Georges Devereux once said, “a realistic science of man can only be created by men most aware of their own humanity when it implement it most completely in their scientific work” (xx). Affect in this sense constitutes an object of inquiry and a way of doing research that demands the abstract and concrete be brought to bear on each other. It also extends cultural theory and analysis by reminding us of our humanity and the tremendous effort it entails to implement it in our work. So let A-ffect rest (in peace), so we can put our energies into motivated analyses of the constitution, the experience, the political, cultural and individual import of many affects. References Braidotti, Rosi. Nomadic Subjects. New York: Columbia UP, 1994. Devereux, Georges. From Anxiety to Method in the Behavioral Sciences. The Hague: Mouton and Co, 1967. Evers, Clifton. Becoming-Wave, Becoming-Man. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Sydney, 2005. Evers, Clifton. “Men Who Surf.” Cultural Studies Review 10.1 (2004): 27-41. Lorenz, Konrad. On Aggression. Trans. Marjorie Kerr Wilson. London and New York: Routledge, 2002/1966. Noble, Greg. “What Cultural Studies Is Crap At.” Cultural Studies Association of Australasia Newsletter Oct. 2004. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky, and Adam Frank. “Shame in the Cybernetic Fold: Reading Silvan Tomkins.” In Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Adam Frank, eds., Shame and Its Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader. Durham: Duke UP, 1995. Tomkins, Silvan, in Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Adam Frank, eds., Shame and Its Sisters: A Silvan Tomkins Reader. Durham: Duke UP, 1995. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Probyn, Elspeth. "A-ffect: Let Her RIP." M/C Journal 8.6 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/13-probyn.php>. APA Style Probyn, E. (Dec. 2005) "A-ffect: Let Her RIP," M/C Journal, 8(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/13-probyn.php>.

Closer examination of contemporary art forms including music videos in addition to the Gothic’s literature legacy is essential, “as it is virtually impossible to ignore the relationship the Gothic holds to popular culture” (Piatti-Farnell ii). This article critically examines how Gothic themes and modes are used in the music videos of Lana Del Rey; particularly the “ways in which Gothic is dispersed through contemporary non-literary media” (Spooner and McEvoy 2). This work follows the argument laid down by Edwards and Monnet who describe Gothic’s assimilation into popular culture —Pop Gothic— as a powerful pop cultural force, not merely a subcultural or cult expression. By interpreting Del Rey’s work as a both a component of, and a contributor to, the Pop Gothic advance, themes of social climate, consumer culture, gender identity, sexuality and the male gaze can be interrogated. Indeed the potential for a collective crisis of these issues in early 21st Century western culture is exposed, “the façade of carnivalised surfaces is revealed to hide the chaos and entropy of existential emptiness.” (Yeo 17). Gothic modes have been approximated by Pop Gothic into the mainstream (Edwards and Monnet) as a driving force behind these contradictions and destabilisations. The Gothic has become ubiquitous within popular culture and continues to exert influence. This is easily reflected in the $392 million the first Twilight movie grossed at the box office (Edwards and Monnet). Examples are abundant in pop culture across music, film and television. Edwards and Monnet cite the movies Zombieland and Blade in the Pop Gothic march, along with TV shows including Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Being Human, True Blood as well as Lady Gaga’s Fame Monster music album. Edwards and Monnet observe that the Gothic aesthetics of the 1980s and 1990s, “melancholy and imagery associated with death, dying and the undead” (3), shifted from the corners of subculture to the mainstream of millennial popular culture. With this shift comes the rebelliousness and melancholy that characterises Gothic texts. This is evident when a pop star of Lana Del Rey’s popularity —her Summertime Sadness video alone has over 160 million views on youtube.com (YouTube)— narratively represents themes of death and suicide repeatedly in her videos. In two of Lana Del Rey’s music videos —Blue Jeans and Born to Die— either she or a representation of her persona dies. In a third video, Summertime Sadness, her companion takes her own life and Lana ultimately follows suit. Themes of death and loss are just the most obvious of Gothic elements present in Del Rey’s work. Del Rey’s songs and videos speak of the American dream, of aestheticised beauty, of being immaculately presented, well dressed and having hair “beauty queen style”, as in Summertime Sadness. She depicts an excess of hedonistic consumption and love that knows no bounds, not even death. Much of the delivery has resonance with the Gothic; performatively, visually and musically, and shows a subversion and fatalism that juxtaposes, contests and contradicts pop cultural tropes (Macfarlane). This contrary nature of the Gothic, as characterised by Botting, can provoke a sense of otherness; the uncanny, including “displays of uncontrolled passion, violent emotion or flights of fancy to portrayals of perversion or obsession” (Gothic 2). It is argued that these characteristics have been commodified into merchandisable and mainstream stylistic representations (Edwards and Monnet). Del Rey’s visual work uses this otherness and representation of repressed darkness as subversion or contestation to the bubble gum consumerist, fairy tale sexualisation of the Katy Perry brand of neo-liberal pop music that floods the mainstream (Macfarlane). Del Rey also harnesses the Gothic mode in her music, underscoring social anxieties through moments of sound which act as “a sonic imp, this music enters perception through the back door, and there it does its destabilising work” (van Elferen 137). As potential psychosocial sources of this otherness in the Gothic (Botting, Gothic), Jung argued that as a collective consciousness by repressing our darkest side, we can be dislocated from it. Further he argued that many modern ills —conflict, war, disenfranchisement, poverty— stem from culturally rationalised divisions of ‘good vs evil’ (Tacey). Providing a space for these dark sides to surface, Swirski comments that cultural product can act "as a social barometer and a cultural diagnostic tool. It identifies social trends and cultural patterns and weaves elaborate counterfactuals- literary fictions- that hang human faces on large-scale human abstractions such as society and culture" (1). Jung proposes the large-scale social abstraction; that to truly live with ourselves we need embrace the otherness inside us— to learn to live with it (Tacey). The Gothic may enable this living with, rather than living without. Jung asserts that we now rely so much on what we can touch, taste and own, that western culture has become a “creed without substance” (Tacey 32). In more concrete terms, Hoffie argues that popular media today tells stories: in terms of disaster and crisis: weather patterns: disastrous. Climate Change: disastrous. Global Financial Crisis: disastrous. Political situations: disastrous. Unemployment: disastrous. And so on. The high-pitched wail of this lament corrodes the peaks and troughs of potential emotional responsiveness; the vapours of benumbing apathy steam upwards like a bewitching spell. All stands still. Action, like in a bad dream, seems impossible. (14) This apathy in the face of crisis or disaster is well expressed in Del Rey’s work through the Gothic influenced lyrics and videos; she describes her partner as so good looking as to be “sick as cancer” in Blue Jeans and that her lover left her because he was “chasing paper”. Represented here is the social current that the need to acquire goods in late capitalism’s climate “of unrestrained consumerism” (Heine and Thakur 2) is her lover’s priority over companionship. Revealing more of the Gothic aesthetic is that her videos and songs represent this loss, they depict “disturbances of sanity and security” (Botting, Gothic 2) and thematically reflect the social climate of “disaster and crisis” (Hoffie 14). This sense of otherness through Gothic influences of the uncanny, death and melancholy have a significant impact on creative expression creating music videos that play like a kind of half remembered nightmare (Botting, Love Your Zombie; Macfarlane). In the black and white video for Blue Jeans the opening shot shows an image of Del Rey rippling and blurred, framed by circular waves of water as black as oil. The powerful Gothic aesthetic of the abyss is rendered here, “to convey the figurative meaning of a catastrophic situation seen as likely to occur whereby the individual will sink to immeasurable intellectual, ethical or moral depths” (Edwards and Monnet 9). This abyss is represented as Del Rey sings to her ghostly tattooed lover that she will love him until “the end of time” and climaxes in the suggestion that he drowns her. As in Edwards and Monnet‘s description of zombie films, Del Rey’s videos narratively “suggest that the postmodern condition is itself a form of madness that disseminates cultural trauma and erases historical memory” (8). This view is evident in contrasting Del Rey’s interview comment that she finds conversations about feminism boring (Cooper). Yet in her song delivery and lyrics she retains an ironic tone regards feminine power. This combination helps “produce a darkly funny and carnivalesque representation of sex and waste under late capitalism” (Edwards and Monnet 8). Further evidence of these ironies and distorted juxtapositions of loss and possession are evident in the song Radio. The video —a bricolage of retrospective fashion imagery— and lyrics hint at the persistent desire for goods in US western culture (Heine and Thakur). Simultaneously in her song Radio, she is corruptibly engorged by consumption and being consumed (Mulvey) as she sings that life is “sweet like cinnamon, a fucking dream on Ritalin”. The video itself represents distorted dreams hyper-real on Ritalin. Del Rey’s work speaks of an excess; the overflow of sensations, sexual excess, of buying, of having, of owning, and at the same time the absence; of loss or not knowing what to have (Botting, Love Your Zombie). Exemplified by the lyrics in What Makes Us Girls, “do I know what I want?” and again in Radio “American dreams came true somehow, I swore I’d chase until I was dead”. Increasingly it is evident that Del Rey sings “as a woman who does not know what she wants” (Vigier 5). She illustrates the “endemic narcissism” (Hoffie 15) of contemporary western culture. Del Rey therefore clearly delineates much of “the loneliness, emptiness, and alienation that results from rampant consumerism and materialism under advanced capitalism” (Edwards and Monnet 8). As a theme of this representation, Del Rey implies a sense of commodified female sexual energy through the male gaze (Mulvey), along with a sense of wasted youth and opportunity in the carnivalesque National Anthem. The video, shot as if on Super 8 film, tells the story of Del Rey’s ‘character’ married to a hedonistic style of president. It is reminiscent of the JFK story including authentic and detailed presentation of costume —especially Del Rey’s Jackie Onassis fashions— the couple posing in presidential gardens with handsome mixed-race children. Lavish lifestyles are depicted whilst the characters enjoy drinking, gambling and consumerist excess, Del Rey sings "It's a love story for the new age, For the six page, We're on a quick sick rampage, Wining and dining, Drinking and driving, Excessive buying, Overdose and dyin'". In National Anthem sexual excess is one of the strongest themes communicated. Repeatedly depicted are distinct close up shots of his hand on her thigh, and vice versa. Without being sexually explicit in itself, it is an overtly sexual reference, communicating something of sexual excess because of the sheer number of times it is highlighted in close-up shots. This links to the idea of the Gothic use of jouissance, a state of: excessive energies that burst in and beyond circuits of pleasure: intensities are read in relation to a form of subjectivity that finds itself briefly and paradoxically in moments of extreme loss. (Botting, Love Your Zombie 22) Del Rey represents these moments of loss —of herself, of her man, of her power, of her identity being subsumed by his— as intense pleasure, indicated in the video through sexual referencing. Botting argues that these excesses create anxieties; that in the pursuit of postmodern excess, of ownership, of consumption: the subject internalises the inconsistencies and contradictions of capitalism, manifesting pathologies not of privation but overabundance: stress, eating disorders, self-harming, and a range of anxieties. (Love Your Zombie 22) These anxieties are further expressed in National Anthem. Del Rey sings to her lover that he cannot keep his “pants on” and she must “hold you like a python”. The python in this tale simultaneously symbolises the exotic, erotic and dangerous entrapment by her male suitor. Edwards and Monnet argue for the Gothic monster, whose sign is further referenced as Del Rey swims with crocodiles in Blue Jeans. Here the male power, patriarchy and dominance is represented as monstrous. In the video she shares the pool with her beau yet we only see Del Rey swim and writhe with the crocodiles. Analogous of her murderous lover, this adds a powerful otherness to the scene and reinforces the symbols of threatening masculinity and impeding disaster. This expression of monstrousness creates a cathartic tension as it “puts the ‘pop’ in Pop Goth: its popularity is based on the frisson of selling simultaneous aversion from and attraction to self-destruction and cultural taboo” (Edwards and Monnet 9). In a further representation of anxieties Del Rey conforms to the sexual object persona in large part through her retro pin-up iconography —meticulous attention to costume, continuous posing and pouting— and song lyrics (Buszek). As in National Anthem her lyrics talk of devotion and male strength to protect and to “keep me safe in his bell tower”. Her videos, whilst they may show some of her strength, ultimately reside in patriarchal resolution (Mulvey). She is generally confounded by the male figures in her videos appearing to be very much alone and away from them: most notably in Blue Jeans, Born to Die and Video Games. In two cases it is suggested she is murdered by the male figures of her love. Her costume and appearance —iconic 1960’s swimsuits, pantsuits and big hairstyles in National Anthem— portray something of the retro pin-up. Buszek argues that at one time “young feminists may poke fun at the pin-up, but they do so in ways that betray affinities with, even affection for, the genre itself” (3). Del Rey simultaneously adheres to and confronts these normative gender roles, as is characteristic of the Gothic mode (Botting, Gothic). These very Gothic contradictions are also evident in Del Rey’s often ironic or mocking song delivery, undermining apparent heteronormative sexual and gender positioning. In National Anthem she sings, as if parodying women who might sincerely ask, “do you think he’ll buy me lots of diamonds?”. Her conformity is however, subverted. In Del Rey’s videos, clear evidence exists in her facial expressions where she consistently portrays Gothic elements of uncertainty, sorrow, grief and a pervading sense that she does not belong in this world (Botting, Gothic). Whilst depicted as a brooding and mourning widow —simultaneously playing the mistress luxuriating on a lion skin rug— in National Anthem Del Rey sings, “money is the anthem of success” without a smile or sense of any attachment to the lyrics. In the same song she sings “God you’re so handsome” without a trace of glee, pleasure or optimism. In the video for Blue Jeans she sings, “I will love you til the end of time” staring sorrowfully into the distance or directly at the camera. This confident yet ‘dead stare’ emphasises the overall juxtaposition of the largely positive lyrical expression, with the sorrowful facial expression and low sung notes. Del Rey signifies repeatedly that something is amiss; that the American dream is over and that even with apparent success within this sphere, there exists only emptiness and isolation (Botting, Love Your Zombie). Further contradictions exist as Lana Del Rey walks this blurred line —as is the Gothic mode— between heteronormative and ambiguous gender roles (Botting, Gothic; Edwards and Monnet). Lana Del Rey oscillates between positions of strength and independence —shown in her deadpan to-camera delivery— to that of weakness and subjugation. As she plays narrator, Del Rey symbolically reclaims some power as she retells the tragic story of Born to Die from her throne. Represented here Del Rey’s persona exerts a troubled malevolence, with two tigers calmly sat by her side: her benevolent pets, or symbols of contrived excess. She simultaneously presents the angelic —resplendent in sheer white dress and garland ‘crown’ headdress of the spurned bride in the story— and the stoic as she stares down the camera. Del Rey is powerful and in many senses threatening. At one point she draws a manicured thumbnail across her neck in a cut-throat gesture; a movement echoed later by her lover. Her character ultimately walks symbolically —and latently— to her death. She neither remedies her position as subservient, subordinate female nor revisits any kind of redemption for the excessive male dominance in her videos. The “excess is countered by greater excess” (Botting Love Your Zombie 27) and leads to otherness. In this reading of Del Rey’s work, there are representations that remain explicitly Pop Gothic, eliciting sensations of paranoia and fear, overloading her videos with these signs (Yeo). These signs elicit the otherness of the Gothic mode; expressed in visual symbols of violence, passion or obsession (Botting, Gothic). In our digital visual age, subjecting an eager viewer to this excess of signs creates the conditions for over-reading of a growing gender or consumerist paranoia, enabled by the Gothic, “paranoia stems from an excessive over-reading of signs and is a product of interpretation, misinterpretation and re-interpretation based on one’s knowledge or lack of it” (Yeo 22). Del Rey stimulates these sensations of paranoia partly through interlaying intertextual references. She does this thematically —Gothic melancholy— and pop culturally channelling Marilyn Monroe and other fashion iconography, as well as through explicit textual references, as in her most recent single Ultraviolence. In Ultraviolence, Del Rey sings “He hit me and it felt like a kiss”. Effortlessly and simultaneously she celebrates and lays bare her pain; however the intertextual reference to the violent controversy of the film A Clockwork Orange serves to aestheticise the domestic violence she describes. With Del Rey it may be that as meaning is sought amongst the texts as Macfarlane wrote about Lady Gaga, Del Rey’s “truth is ultimately irrelevant in the face of its interlayed performance” (130). Del Rey’s Gothic mode of ambiguity, of transgressed boundaries and unclear lines, shows “this ambience of perpetually deferred climax is no stranger to contemporary culture” (Hoffie 15) and may go some way to expressing something of the “lived experience of her audience” (Vigier 1). Hermes argues that in post-feminist pop culture, strong independent post-feminist women can be characterised by their ability to break traditional taboos, question or hold up for interrogation norms and traditions, but that ultimately narrative arches tend to restore the patriarchal norm. Edwards and Monnet assert that the Gothic in Pop Gothic cultural representation can become “post-race, post-sexuality, post-gender” (6). In places Del Ray exhibits this postmodernism but through the use of Gothic mode goes outside political debates and blurs clear lines of feminist discourse (Botting, Love Your Zombie). Whilst a duality in the texts exists; comments on consumerism, the emptiness of capitalist society and a suicidal expression of hopelessness, are undermined as she demonstrates conformity to subservient gender roles and her ambiguously ironic need to be “young and beautiful”. To be consumed by her man thus defines her value as an object within a consumerist neo-liberal trope (Jameson). This analysis goes some way to confirming Hermes’ assertion that in this post-feminist climate there has been a “loss of a political agenda, or the foundation for a new one, where it signposts the overcoming of unproductive old distinctions between feminist and feminine” (79). Hermes further argues, with reference to television shows Ally McBeal and Sex and the City, that presentation of female characters or personas has moved forward; the man is no longer the lone guarantor of a woman’s happiness. Yet many of the tropes in Del Rey’s work are familiar; overwhelming love for her companion equal only to the emphasis on physical appearance. Del Rey breaks taboos —she is powerful, sexual and a romantic predator, without being a demon seductress— and satirises consumerist excess and gender inequality; yet she remains sexually and politically subservient to the whim and sometimes violently expressed or implied male gaze (Mulvey). Del Rey may well represent something of Vigier’s assertion that whilst society has clear direction for the ‘success’ of women, “that real liberation and genuine satisfaction elude them” (1). In closing, there is no clear answer as to whether Del Rey is a Beauty Queen or Gothic Princess; she is neither and she is both. In Vigier’s words, “self-exploitation or self-destruction cannot be the only choices open to young women today” (13). Del Rey’s work is provocative on multiple levels. It hints at the pull of rampant consumerism and the immediacy of narcissistic desires, interlinked with contradictions which indicate the potential for social crises. This is shown in Del Rey’s use of the Gothic — otherness, the monstrous, darkness and death— and its juxtaposition with heteronormative gender representations which highlights the persistent commodification of the female body, its subjugation to male power and the potential for deep anxieties in 21st-century identity. References Blue Jeans. Dir. Yoann Lemoine. Perf. Lana Del Rey. Interscope Records, 2012. Botting, Fred. Gothic. New York: Routledge, 2014. Botting, Fred. "Love Your Zombie." The Gothic in Contemporary Literature and Popular Culture. Ed. Edwards, Justin and Agnieszka Monnet. New York: Routledge, 2012. 19-36. Buszek, Maria. Pin-Up Grrrls Feminism, Sexuality and Popular Culture. London: Duke University Press, 2006. Cooper, Duncan. "Lana Del Rey Cover Interview." Fader, June 2014. Edwards, Justin, and Agnieszka Monnet. "Introduction." The Gothic in Contemporary Literature and Popular Culture. Eds. Justin Edwards and A. Monnet. New York: Routledge, 2012. 1-18. Heine, Jorge, and Ramesh Thakur. The Dark Side of Globalisation. New York: UN UP, 2011. Hermes, Joke. "The Tragic Success of Feminism." Feminism in Popular Culture. Eds. Joanne Hollows and Rachel Moseley. New York: Berg, 2006. 79-95. Hoffie, Pat. "Deadly Ennui." Artlink Magazine 32.4 (2012): 15-16. Jameson, Fredric. "Globalisation and Political Strategy." New Left Review 2.4 (2000): 49-68. Lana Del Rey. "Radio." Born To Die. Interscope Records, 2012. "Lana Del Rey - Summertime Sadness" YouTube, n.d. 12 June 2014 ‹http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVjsGKrE6E8›. Lana Del Rey. "This Is What Makes Us Girls." Born To Die. Interscope Records, 2012. Macfarlane, K. "The Monstrous House of Gaga." The Gothic in Contemporary Literature and Popular Culture. Ed. Justin Edwards and A. Monnet. New York: Routledge, 2012. 114-134. Mestrovic, Stjepan. Postemotional Society. London: Sage, 1997. Mulvey, Laura. Visual and other Pleasures. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. National Anthem. Dir. Anthony Mandler. Perf. Lana Del Rey. Interscope Records, 2012. Paglia, Camille. Lady Gaga and the Death of Sex. 12 Sep. 2010. 2 June 2014 ‹http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/public/magazine/article389697.ece›. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna. "Introduction: a Place for Contemporary Gothic." Aeternum: the Journal of Contemporary Gothic Studies 1.1 (2014): i-iv. Spooner, Catherine, and Emma McEvoy. The Routledge Companion to Gothic. New York: Routledge, 2007. Summertime Sadness. Dir. Chris Sweeney. Perf. Lana Del Rey. Interscope Records, 2013. Swirski, Peter. American Utopia and Social Engineering in Literature, Social Thought, and Political History. New York: Routledge, 2011. Tacey, David. The Jung Reader. New York: Routledge, 2012. Van Elferen, Isabella. "Spectural Liturgy, Transgression, Ritual and Music in Gothic." The Gothic in Contemporary Literature and Popular Culture. Eds. Justin Edwards and A. Monnet. New York: Routledge, 2012. 135-147. Vigier, Catherine. "The Meaning of Lana Del Rey." Zeteo: The Journal of Interdisciplinary Writing Fall (2012): 1-16. Yeo, David. "Gothic Paranoia in David Fincher's Seven, The Game and Fight Club." Aeternum: The Journal Of Contemporary Gothic Studies 1.1 (2014): 16-25. Young and Beautiful. Dir. Chris Sweeney. Perf. Lana Del Rey. Interscope Records, 2013.

This issue of M/C Journal is devoted to all things cute – Internet animals and stuffed toys, cartoon characters and branded bears. In what follows our nine contributors scrutinise a diverse range of media objects, discussing everything from the economics of Grumpy Cat and the aesthetics of Furbys to Reddit’s intellectual property dramas and the ethics of kitten memes. The articles range across diverse sites, from China to Canada, and equally diverse disciplines, including cultural studies, evolutionary economics, media anthropology, film studies and socio-legal studies. But they share a common aim of tracing out the connections between degraded media forms and wider questions of culture, identity, economy and power. Our contributors tell riveting stories about these connections, inviting us to see the most familiar visual culture in a new way. We are not the first to take cute media seriously as a site of cultural politics, and as an industry in its own right. Cultural theory has a long, antagonistic relationship with the kitsch and the disposable. From the Frankfurt School’s withering critique of cultural commodification to revisionist feminist accounts that emphasise the importance of the everyday, critics have been conducting sporadic incursions into this space for the better part of a century. The rise of cultural studies, a discipline committed to analysing “the scrap of ordinary or banal existence” (Morris and Frow xviii), has naturally provided a convincing intellectual rationale for such research, and has inspired an impressive array of studies on such things as Victorian-era postcards (Milne), Disney films (Forgacs), Hallmark cards (West, Jaffe) and stock photography (Frosh). A parallel strand of literary theory considers the diverse registers of aesthetic experience that characterize cute content (Brown, Harris). Sianne Ngai has written elegantly on this topic, noting that “while the avant-garde is conventionally imagined as sharp and pointy, as hard- or cutting-edge, cute objects have no edge to speak of, usually being soft, round, and deeply associated with the infantile and the feminine” (814). Other scholars trace the historical evolution of cute aesthetics and commodities. Cultural historians have documented the emergence of consumer markets for children and how these have shaped what we think of as cute (Cross). Others have considered the history of domestic animal imagery and its symptomatic relationship with social anxieties around Darwinism, animal rights, and pet keeping (Morse and Danahay, Ritvo). And of course, Japanese popular culture – with its distinctive mobilization of cute aesthetics – has attracted its own rich literature in anthropology and area studies (Allison, Kinsella). The current issue of M/C Journal extends these lines of research while also pushing the conversation in some new directions. Specifically, we are interested in the collision between cute aesthetics, understood as a persistent strand of mass culture, and contemporary digital media. What might the existing tradition of “cute theory” mean in an Internet economy where user-generated content sites and social media have massively expanded the semiotic space of “cute” – and the commercial possibilities this entails? As the heir to a specific mode of degraded populism, the Internet cat video may be to the present what the sitcom, the paperback novel, or the Madonna video was to an earlier moment of cultural analysis. Millions of people worldwide start their days with kittens on Roombas. Global animal brands, such as Maru and Grumpy Cat, are appearing, along with new talent agencies for celebrity pets. Online portal I Can Haz Cheezburger has received millions of dollars in venture capital funding, becoming a diversified media business (and then a dotcom bubble). YouTube channels, Twitter hashtags and blog rolls form an infrastructure across which a vast amount of cute-themed user-generated content, as well as an increasing amount of commercially produced and branded material, now circulates. All this reminds us of the oft-quoted truism that the Internet is “made of kittens”, and that it’s “kittens all the way down”. Digitization of cute culture leads to some unusual tweaks in the taste hierarchies explored in the aforementioned scholarship. Cute content now functions variously as an affective transaction, a form of fandom, and as a subcultural discourse. In some corners of the Internet it is also being re-imagined as something contemporary, self-reflexive and flecked with irony. The example of 4Chan and LOLcats, a jocular, masculinist remix of the feminized genre of pet photography, is particularly striking here. How might the topic of cute look if we moving away from the old dialectics of mass culture critique vs. defense and instead foreground some of these more counter-intuitive aspects, taking seriously the enormous scale and vibrancy of the various “cute” content production systems – from children’s television to greeting cards to CuteOverload.com – and their structural integration into current media, marketing and lifestyle industries? Several articles in this issue adopt this approach, investigating the undergirding economic and regulatory structures of cute culture. Jason Potts provides a novel economic explanation for why there are so many animals on the Internet, using a little-known economic theory (the Alchian-Allen theorem) to explain the abundance of cat videos on YouTube. James Meese explores the complex copyright politics of pet images on Reddit, showing how this online community – which is the original source of much of the Internet’s animal gifs, jpegs and videos – has developed its own procedures for regulating animal image “piracy”. These articles imaginatively connect the soft stuff of cute content with the hard stuff of intellectual property and supply-and-demand dynamics. Another line of questioning investigates the political and bio-political work involved in everyday investments in cute culture. Seen from this perspective, cute is an affect that connects ground-level consumer subjectivity with various economic and political projects. Carolyn Stevens’ essay offers an absorbing analysis of the Japanese cute character Rilakkuma (“Relaxed Bear”), a wildly popular cartoon bear that is typically depicted lying on the couch and eating sweets. She explores what this representation means in the context of a stagnant Japanese economy, when the idea of idleness is taking on a new shade of meaning due to rising under-employment and precarity. Sharalyn Sanders considers a fascinating recent case of cute-powered activism in Canada, when animal rights activists used a multimedia stunt – a cat, Tuxedo Stan, running for mayor of Halifax, Canada – to highlight the unfortunate situation of stray and feral felines in the municipality. Sanders offers a rich analysis of this unusual political campaign and the moral questions it provokes. Elaine Laforteza considers another fascinating collision of the cute and the political: the case of Lil’ Bub, an American cat with a rare genetic condition that results in a perpetually kitten-like facial expression. During 2011 Lil’ Bub became an online phenomenon of the first order. Laforteza uses this event, and the controversies that brewed around it, as an entry point for a fascinating discussion of the “cute-ification” of disability. These case studies remind us once more of the political stakes of representation and viral communication, topics taken up by other contributors in their articles. Radha O’Meara’s “Do Cats Know They Rule YouTube? How Cat Videos Disguise Surveillance as Unselfconscious Play” provides a wide-ranging textual analysis of pet videos, focusing on the subtle narrative structures and viewer positioning that are so central to the pleasures of this genre. O’Meara explains how the “cute” experience is linked to the frisson of surveillance, and escape from surveillance. She also explains the aesthetic differences that distinguish online dog videos from cat videos, showing how particular ideas about animals are hardwired into the apparently spontaneous form of amateur content production. Gabriele de Seta investigates the linguistics of cute in his nuanced examination of how a new word – meng – entered popular discourse amongst Mandarin Chinese Internet users. de Seta draws our attention to the specificities of cute as a concept, and how the very notion of cuteness undergoes a series of translations and reconfigurations as it travels across cultures and contexts. As the term meng supplants existing Mandarin terms for cute such as ke’ai, debates around how the new word should be used are common. De Seta shows us how deploying these specific linguistic terms for cuteness involve a range of linguistic and aesthetic judgments. In short, what exactly is cute and in what context? Other contributors offer much-needed cultural analyses of the relationship between cute aesthetics, celebrity and user-generated culture. Catherine Caudwell looks at the once-popular Furby toy brand its treatment in online fan fiction. She notes that these forms of online creative practice offer a range of “imaginative and speculative” critiques of cuteness. Caudwell – like de Seta – reminds us that “cuteness is an unstable aesthetic that is culturally contingent and very much tied to behaviour”, an affect that can encompass friendliness, helplessness, monstrosity and strangeness. Jonathon Hutchinson’s article explores “petworking”, the phenomenon of social media-enabled celebrity pets (and pet owners). Using the famous example of Boo, a “highly networked” celebrity Pomeranian, Hutchinson offers a careful account of how cute is constructed, with intermediaries (owners and, in some cases, agents) negotiating a series of careful interactions between pet fans and the pet itself. Hutchinson argues if we wish to understand the popularity of cute content, the “strategic efforts” of these intermediaries must be taken into account. Each of our contributors has a unique story to tell about the aesthetics of commodity culture. The objects they analyse may be cute and furry, but the critical arguments offered here have very sharp teeth. We hope you enjoy the issue.Acknowledgments Thanks to Axel Bruns at M/C Journal for his support, to our hard-working peer reviewers for their insightful and valuable comments, and to the Swinburne Institute for Social Research for the small grant that made this issue possible. ReferencesAllison, Anne. “Cuteness as Japan’s Millenial Product.” Pikachu’s Global Adventure: The Rise and Fall of Pokemon. Ed. Joseph Tobin. Durham: Duke University Press, 2004. 34-48. Brown, Laura. Homeless Dogs and Melancholy Apes: Humans and Other Animals in the Modern Literary Imagination. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010. Cross, Gary. The Cute and the Cool: Wondrous Innocence and Modern American Children's Culture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Forgacs, David. "Disney Animation and the Business of Childhood." Screen 33.4 (1992): 361-374. Frosh, Paul. "Inside the Image Factory: Stock Photography and Cultural Production." Media, Culture & Society 23.5 (2001): 625-646. Harris, Daniel. Cute, Quaint, Hungry and Romantic: The Aesthetics of Consumerism. New York: Basic Books, 2000. Jaffe, Alexandra. "Packaged Sentiments: The Social Meanings of Greeting Cards." Journal of Material Culture 4.2 (1999): 115-141. Kinsella, Sharon. “Cuties in Japan” Women, Media and Consumption in Japan. Ed. Lise Skov and Brian Moeran. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1995. 220 - 54. Frow, John, and Meaghan Morris, eds. Australian Cultural Studies: A Reader. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1993. Milne, Esther. Letters, Postcards, Email: Technologies of Presence. New York: Routledge, 2012. Morse, Deborah and Martin Danahay, eds. Victorian Animal Dreams: Representations of Animals in Victorian Literature and Culture. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. 2007. Ngai, Sianne. "The Cuteness of the Avant‐Garde." Critical Inquiry 31.4 (2005): 811-847. Ritvo, Harriet. The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987. West, Emily. "When You Care Enough to Defend the Very Best: How the Greeting Card Industry Manages Cultural Criticism." Media, Culture & Society 29.2 (2007): 241-261.