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The problem I am concerned with is not just the disconnect between advocating the use of cooperative, peaceful resolution of differences to foreign governments while unilaterally waging a war of aggression against them, but why President George Bush, as the leader of a democratic republic, does not feel constrained from pursuing unilateral actions as deliberate public policy. To demonstrate how his stance reflects the lack of a broad democratic sensibility in the United States, I begin unearthing public perceptions of unilateralism and its antithesis; namely, sympathetic understanding and cooperative action, which Jane Addams, W.E.B. DuBois, and other pragmatists argue are the necessary expressions of a democratic way of life. I will therefore focus on the public press rather than academic journals and on the earlier phase of the war in Iraq when the United States both acted unilaterally and defended its right not to cooperate with other nations.

Sophists begins with the Lectures on the History of Philosophy presented by Hegel at Jena, Berlin, and Heidelberg between 1805 and 1830.1 But as many historians of rhetoric have pointed out, Hegel's lectures on the "pure science" of sophistry only serve to reinforce the critical arguments against the Sophists advanced by Plato, Aristotle, and Isocrates. As George Kerferd observes in The Sophistic Movement, Hegel does indeed manage to "rein sert" the Sophists into the history of philosophy, but only by portraying Gorgias and Protagoras as "subjectivists," thus leading future scholars to proceed with only a "partial modification of the profoundly hostile view" of the Sophists handed down by the philosophical tradition (1981, 6). Simi larly, in his essay, "The Misadventures of the Sophists," Steve Whitson shows how Hegel, in his efforts to "totalize" the history of philosophy into an encompassing system, subjugates the "radical heterogeneity" of sophistic thought by means of "binarity-polarities" and the dialectical machinery of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis: "perhaps, just perhaps, [Hegel] is playing the Sophists to his own advantage" (1991, 199). And in "Hegel's Reception of the Sophists," John Poulakos suggests that Hegel

The concept of transnationalism raises important questions with respect to the ways in which individuals define themselves within a given nation. The idea that a nation can consist as a cohesive singular entity is challenged as transnational communities undermine the idea that the symbolic structures, political systems, and economic centers singularly define a specific nation. Transnational communities represent complex sets of relations that cannot be characterized as the product of or are in the service of one specific nationality. At the same time, global capitalism has the potential to erode or efface all claims to the multiple sets of relations that characterize transnational experiences by arranging all experiences within a pre-existing set of categories that do not recognize the multiple dimensions of the material conditions of existence. There is an antithesis between the productive drives of individuals involved in creating forms of existence that are not already symbolized and coded and the large economic power bases that must conscript individuals into a codified system of global capital. In this paper, I wish to begin by discussing some of the ways in which transnationalism is defined; while at the same time, I wish to explore some of the complex theoretical underpinnings of transnational discourse. By taking the language of transnationalism and exploring some of the theoretical concepts that this language might imply, we can then begin to talk about some specific instances of transnationalism depicted by Francisco Goldman in The Ordinary Seamen. Recent scholarship on the subject of transnationalism has raised the prospect that the current language used to define immigrant experiences is becoming increasingly inadequate to describe the complexity of these experiences as they unfold in a highly mobile and technologically connected world. The very real prospect that immigrants in the United States, for example, may maintain strong ties

(ProQuest: ... denotes non-US-ASCII text omitted.) The Birkat ha-minim, the twelfth blessing in the Shemoneh Esreh or Eighteen Benedictions, has played an important role in some reconstructions of early Christian history.1 In 1964, for example, W. D. Davies urged that, sometime around 85 c.e., the twelfth benediction was reformulated so as to include a curse against Christians: "Let the notserim and minim perish in a moment." Davies thought this circumstance relevant for understanding the Gospel of Matthew, and especially the Sermon on the Mount, which he interpreted in the light of a growing hostility between the synagogue and followers of Jesus.2 A few years later, J. Louis Martyn offered a similar thesis regarding John.3 Paying special attention to John 9:22; 12:42; and 16:2, all of which use the term ..., Martyn related portions of the Fourth Gospel to the Birkat haminim, which, he argued, functioned to separate Christians from the synagogue. Since Davies and Martyn wrote in the 1960s, the Birkat ha-minim has been the subject of much critical debate, some of it skeptical of the proposition that Jews formally cursed Christians in the first or second centuries.4 This is not the place for a critical review of that complex discussion.5 Here instead, by way of preface to my argument, I can only express my conviction that recent work has made three propositions more probable than not. First, it is likely that a benediction against the minim goes back to at least the first century.6 Second, even if notserim (= Nazarenes or Nazoraeans, that is, Christians or Jewish Christians) was not added until 100 c.e. or later,7 minim by itself would almost inevitably have brought Jewish Christians to mind in places where they were perceived to be a problem.8 Third, Justin Martyr remains strong testimony to the circumstance that at least some Christians were cursed in some second-century synagogues, whatever the precise prayer(s) or formula( s) may have been. With all this as backdrop, I should like to call attention to a passage in the Epistle of James. The following appears in the middle of the discourse on the tongue in 3:1-12: (8) But no human is able to subdue the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly venom. (9) With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings made in the likeness of God. (10) From one and the same mouth come forth blessings and curses. This need not be, my brothers. (11) Does a spring pour forth from the same opening fresh water and brackish water? (12) Is a fig tree, my brothers, able to make olives, or a grapevine figs? No more than a salt spring can make fresh water. These lines contrast "blessing" ... with "cursing" .... This is a natural antithesis, one at home in both Jewish and Christian rhetoric. Illustrations include Gen 12:3 ("I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse"); 27:29 ("Cursed be everyone who curses you, and blessed be everyone who blesses you!"); Num 23:25 ("Balak said to Balaam, 'Do not curse them at all, and do not bless them at all'"); 1QS 2:10 ("All those who enter the covenant will say, after those who pronounce blessings and those who pronounce curses: 'Amen, amen'"); Rom 12:14 ("Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them"); and 2 En. A 52:1-4 ("Blessed is he who opens his heart for praise and praises the Lord. . . . Blessed is he who opens his lips, both blessing and praising the Lord. Cursed is he who opens his lips for cursing and blasphemy, before the face of the Lord").9 Not one of these texts, however, has to do with what we find in James, which is a group of people both blessing God and-perhaps simultaneously10-cursing other people.11 Yet this is precisely what we find also in the twelfth blessing of the Birkat ha-minim, for this immediately follows its curse of human beings-of the minim and notserim-with "Blessed are you, O Lord, who subdue the arrogant. …

1. Mr. Flosky, Mr. Coleridge, Professor Kant, and Jacques Lacan THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK'S SEND UP OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE IN Nightmare Abbey says more than its apparently reductive satire at first suggests. Through Nightmare Abbey's character Mr. Flosky, Peacock's novel links Coleridge's political apostasy, philosophically abstruse prevarications, and argumentative lacunae with "Kantian metaphysics." (1) The singularity of Peacock's satire is that it is not content to simply present Mr. Flosky as a long-winded fool who has merely substituted his own self-justifying mystifications for a deep scholarly understanding of Kantian thought. Rather, Mr. Flosky's interest in Kant, regardless of its accuracy, serves as a crucial point of reference under whose aegis personal beliefs and critical pronouncements on the subjects of politics, religion, and philosophy take on a certain ideological consistency. Further, Mr. Flosky claims that the obscurity and inaccessibility of his Kantian method is the secret to mental health; it is a process of "losing your way, and keeping your mind in perfect health, by perpetual exercise of an interminable quest" (67). His mental health and intellectual pursuits, Mr. Flosky claims, are sustained by the pure enjoyment of an impossible philosophical task. In Nightmare Abbey, ideological consistency and mental health emerge as intimately related to one another, the philosophical subject and the subject of philosophy bound up in the same "interminable quest." Beyond identifying Coleridge's treatment of Kantian philosophy as a predominant humour upon which to hang its characterization of Mr. Flosky, a technique whereby the subject of discourse becomes the subject as discourse, Nightmare Abbey also provides a critique of one of the perennial sites of critical interest in Coleridge scholarship, one which has developed a particularly sophisticated richness over the last thirty years: the gap in the Biographia Literaria's deduction of the imagination. This trouble spot in Coleridge's monumental work has been understood variously as an instance of philosophical obscurity, brilliant irony, intellectual dishonesty, and as a sign of its author's mental health. (2) In his desynonymizing lecture to the hapless Marionetta O'Carrol, Mr. Flosky demonstrates that the gap in the Biographia's philosophical argument is, indeed, the object of Peacock's satire. Here, Mr. Flosky insists: Think is not synonymous with believe--for believe, in many most important particulars, results from the total absence, the absolute negation of thought, and is thereby the sane and orthodox condition of the mind; and thought and belief are both essentially different from fancy, and fancy, again, is distinct from imagination. This distinction between fancy and imagination is one of the most abstruse and important points of metaphysics. I have written seven hundred pages of promise to elucidate it.... (83) In Peacock's satire, the allusion to Coleridge's promised deduction of the imagination in Chapter 13 becomes a specific manifestation of Mr. Flosky's enjoyment-in-deferral of an "interminable quest." Further, the gap occasioned by the non-sequitur association of the Biographia's philosophical endeavor with a preference for "belief" over "thought" is critically astute insofar as it performs its critique of the gap in the Biographia's deduction of the imagination as a gap in the Biographia's logic. What seems merely deferred in the Biographia, Nightmare' Abbey identifies simultaneously as an instance of circumlocutious prevarication and as a site of ideological consistency; "belief" makes orthodoxy and sanity interchangeable in the assertion of their syntactic equality. In the fractured Floskean logic of the passage, "belief" is the condition of the "orthodox" and the "sane," not because it is philosophically sound or even logically coherent, but precisely because the ideological consistency it produces is the antithesis of rational thought. …

Long Barn, Knole, Richmond and Bloomsbury. All too familiar and entrapping. Either I am at home, and you are strange; or you are at home, and I am strange; so neither is the real essential person, and confusion results. But in the Basque provinces, among a host of zingaros, we should both be equally strange and equally real. --Sackville-West to Woolf, Letters 54 When Vita Sackville-West tries to persuade Virginia Woolf to run away with the "zingaros," Spanish gypsies, she alludes to a discourse evident both in her earlier relationships with women and in her novels Challenge and Heritage, where gypsies represent liberation, excitement, danger, and the free expression of sexuality. Sackville-West's fantasy of homelessness among the gypsies provides the imagined means for two women lovers to value their estrangement from familiar and familial settings, to make it a virtue, part of their true selves. As my epigraph suggests, to be "strange" is to be "real." Confusion, Sackville-West implies, would vanish in a setting away from the deceptive comforts of home and England, with an alien band who are themselves both estranged from the lovers and identified with them. Sackville-West's letter provides one instance of the tantalizing presence of the gypsy as the antithesis of the "familiar and entrapping" in queer writing by women at the start of the twentieth century. The gypsy--and, as we shall see, the Spanish gypsy in particular--haunts texts about desire between women in this period. She wanders through writings by Sackville-West, Violet Trefusis, and Woolf, allusive, evasive, and teasing, a figure around whom fantasies and desires coalesce. The tentative identification with the gypsies in Sackville-West's letter to Woolf is an undercurrent in all three writers, a tug toward "gypsiness" that functions, I argue, as a hint of same-sex desire. Their allusions to gypsies, whether in letters to each other or in texts such as Orlando, formed part of a private discourse centered around Sackville-West's alleged gypsy heritage, which served as explanation and excuse for her unconventional behavior. In this, these writers also appropriated a popular interest in gypsy culture that emerged in this period. The decades between 1910 and 1930 were marked by an explosion of writings on gypsies--anthropological studies, popular fiction, poetry, travel writing, folktales, and linguistic studies--that placed the gypsy at the center of commentaries on exoticism, primitivism, nature, sexuality, and savagery. By setting Trefusis's letters to Sackville-West, for instance, in the context of these writings, we can see not only how the popular image of the gypsy was reworked to serve as an image of the lesbian writer, but also how popular accounts of the gypsy were themselves always haunted by implications of deviant sexuality, wayward femininity, and other transgressions against dominant societal standards. In her recent study of the Spanish gypsy in the popular European imagination, Lou Charnon-Deutsch concludes that representations of the female gypsy suggest "that the border between same and other is porous.... She is always hovering about, threatening the subject with regression" (242). The period in which such representations are most pronounced, according to Charnon-Deutsch, is roughly from the 1880s to the 1930s--the decades in which modern concepts of sexuality were in the process of formation. For early twentieth-century women writers, who would not necessarily have defined themselves as possessing a "core identity" as a lesbian, referencing gypsies, I argue, may have served as one means of blurring the boundaries between same and other, familiar and strange, and of situating lesbian sexuality within a recognizable cultural framework, while also subverting this framework by using the traditional image of the passionate heterosexual gypsy (Bizet's Carmen, for example, or Maggie Tulliver in George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss) to signal same-sex desire. …

JBL 122/1 (2003) 111-125 (ProQuest Information and Learning: ... denotes non-US ASCII text omitted.) At the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in 2000, the Pauline Epistles Section devoted a full session to a panel review of J. Louis Martyn's Anchor Bible commentary on Galatians.1 In the session, Beverly R. Gaventa stated that she understood how the antithesis Jew/Greek in Gal 3:28a related to the situation in Galatia but admitted that she could not comprehend how the antitheses slave/free and male/female in Gal 3:28bc pertained to Paul's argument.2 She asked Martyn what Paul meant by these last two antitheses and Martyn responded, "I don't know." Such an honest admission from someone who has devoted years to the study of Galatians emphasizes the difficulty of relating the antitheses slave/free and male/female to the situation in Galatia. I. The Baptismal-Formula Explanation In his treatment of Gal 3:28, Martyn follows the common explanation that Paul cites these antitheses by rigidly adhering to an early Christian baptismal formula.3 Martyn comments, "Paul names three of these elemental opposites because he is quoting the formula. In writing to the Galatians, however, he is interested only in the first pair."4 Thus, Martyn explains the occurrence of the three pairs of antitheses in Gal 3:28 because this grouping is how Paul finds them in the baptismal liturgy.5 Martyn concludes that the slave/free and the male/female pair have nothing to do with the situation in Galatia but are only vestiges of the formula Paul quotes to remind the Galatians that the Jew/Greek antithesis is abolished by Christian baptism.6 This baptismal-formula explanation of the three pairs of antitheses in Gal 3:28 is not entirely satisfactory, however, for at least three reasons.7 First, this explanation presents Gal 3:28 as the absolute abolition of the distinctions represented by these pairs of antitheses. Martyn comments, "To pronounce the nonexistence of these opposites is to announce nothing less than the end of the cosmos."8 This interpretation may adequately describe Col 3:11 and perhaps more precisely Tri. Trac. 1.5.132, but the argument in 1 Cor 12:13 presupposes that for Paul the distinctions of these antitheses continue, for otherwise the singular body could not have many members. Even Martyn is forced to admit, "From reading Paul's other letters, we know that the apostle was aware of the fact that even in the church, the beachhead of God's new creation, there were as yet some marks of sexual and social differentiation." Nevertheless, Martyn asserts, "In writing to the Galatians he [Paul] does not pause over that matter."9 The lack of clear evidence for Martyn's assertion leaves open the question of whether Gal 3:28 proclaims the absolute abolition of the distinctions represented by these pairs of antitheses. Second, the precise listing of the pairs in Gal 3:28 occurs in none of the other passages that supposedly contain this formula.10 First Corinthians 12:13 lacks the male/female pair, as does the list in Col 3:11, which nevertheless adds a circumcision/uncircumcision and barbarian/Scythian pair not present in Gal 3:28. Even the Jew/Greek antithesis, which Martyn identifies as so important to Galatians, is missing from the Tripartite Tractate's (1.5.132) formulation, which adds an angel/human antithesis to the other antitheses found elsewhere. Liturgical and kerygmatic formulas may indeed be flexible in their wording, but such flexibility is not indicative of a fixed baptismal formula that would have constrained Paul to include pairs of antitheses irrelevant to the situation in Galatia.11 Third, the baptismal-formula explanation presupposes that Gal 3:28 is not adapted to the situation in Galatia whereas the other lists are shaped by the situations and contexts in which they occur.12 In contrast to the singular formulation of the other lists, the pairs in 1 Cor 12:13 are plural to fit Paul's emphasis on the singular body's having various members such as Jews, Greeks, slaves, and free persons. …

(ProQuest Information and Learning: ... denotes non-USASCII text omitted.) (ProQuest Information and Learning: ... denotes formula omitted.) Gunther Bornkamm's seminal essay "Der Aufbau der Bergpredigt" rightly pointed out that the Sermon on the Mount is carefully constructed and symmetrically ordered.1 Where we do not see the order, he argued, it is likely that it is we who are not seeing it; the orderly Matthew likely has an order there. He pointed out several unsolved puzzles and said we should look again more carefully. To look again more carefully is what I should like to do. I. The Triadic Structure within Each Pericope in 5:21-7:12 Proposals for understanding the structure of the Sermon on the Mount have focused more on how to group the pericopes than on the structure within each pericope. Commentators see a high degree of careful craftsmanship and striking symmetry in the way the pericopes are grouped. My thesis is that the same is true within each pericope. Each pericope in the central section, 5:21-7:12, has a carefully crafted triadic structure, consistent across the pericopes, with one intriguing partial exception, and this unites them all as members of one family. The main section of the sermon, from 5:21 through 7:12, is composed of fourteen triads. The first member of each triad is traditional righteousness. The second member is the diagnosis of a vicious cycle and its consequence. The third member is a transforming initiative that points the way to deliverance from the vicious cycle. The internal triadic structure of each unit has been missed largely because scholars have been thinking of a dyadic structure-antitheses. Commentators typically arrange most of the units in 5:21-48 as "antithesis proper" and then "illustrations." This implies that the basic meaning is in the antithesis proper, composed of a traditional teaching and Jesus' authoritative antithesis. For example, the traditional teaching is "Thou shalt not murder," and Jesus' authoritative teaching is to prohibit anger. Some "illustrations" of the basic prohibition against anger are added, but the basic meaning is the prohibition. Several difficulties result: 1. A dyadic structure-antitheses-would be atypical for the Gospel of Matthew, which has about seventy-five triads but very few dyads.2 2. Placing the emphasis on the prohibition of anger, lust, and so on, makes the teachings primarily negative prohibitions and impossible ideals rather than positive ways of deliverance, as would fit the good news of the kingdom announced in the beatitudes. 3. Calling the antitheses "prohibitions"-as in Jesus' alleged commands against anger, lust, and so on-seems strained, since not one of the verbs in these "prohibitions" is an imperative. It is not that the sermon lacks imperatives; the central section of the sermon is well supplied with thirty-seven Greek imperatives. They occur, however, not in the "antitheses proper"3 but in the "illustrations." I suggest that these are more than illustrations; they are the climaxes. 4. Not seeing the triadic structure makes it difficult to see the symmetrical structure in 6:19-7:12, which we are led to expect by the thoroughly symmetrical 5:21-48 and 6:1-18. 5. Not seeing the triadic structure causes hopeless bafflement about the context and meaning of 7:6-the mysterious verse-without-context about dogs, pigs, and holy things. 6. Emphasizing the prohibition of anger, lust, and so on, places the importance on the hard human effort not to be angry rather than on the good news of the gracious deliverance of the reign of God. Then, though commentators often may emphasize the theme of grace-in the latter part of ch. 4, in the beatitudes, in the theme of forgiveness-it seems lacking in the teachings of the main section of the sermon. 7. Placing the emphasis on the prohibition of anger, lust, and so on, leads to an interpretation of Jesus' good news as high ideals, hard teachings, impossible demands. …

Argentina-s. Ricardo Piglia dialoga con la generacion del '37 en la discontinuidad. By Laura Demaria. Buenos Aires: Corregidor, 1999. 206 pages. Dialogue and discontinuity, the key connecting words of Laura Demaria's title, succinctly reveal her thesis about the work of Ricardo Piglia, one of Argentina's most innovative and groundbreaking contemporary writers. In his complex fiction, Piglia carries on a textual dialogue with Argentina's foundational nineteenth-century intellectuals about the meaning of national identity and its reformulation in moments of crisis in the twentieth century. Piglia engages with the Generation of 1837's definitions of nation, its discourse of power, and its systems of exclusion, as he refreshes public memory about the origins of the homologous political structures reasserted a century later. In contrast to the singular notions of national identity that members of the Generation fought over in the years of the early republic, Piglia's hybrid fiction proposes the multi-layered notion of plural "Argentina-s." Focusing on three primary texts of Piglia's-Prision perpetua (1988), Respiracion artificial (1980), and La ciudad ausente (1992)-Demaria deliberately limits her study to a partial but immensely important sector of Piglia's complex system of intertextuality with world literature, history and philosophy. By directing her attention solely to Piglia's dialogue with the foundational texts of Argentine nationalism, she builds on the work of critics such as Morello-Frosch and writes the first systematic, thorough, and nuanced reading to take up Piglia's dialogic invitation. By encouraging readers to join him in a "strabismic glance" at both the present and the past, Piglia teases out the internal contradictions of the Generation that were sometimes disguised beneath the desire to fight Rosas or establish a unified political alternative for the new nation. Piglia builds on the heterogeneity of the foundational texts, maximizing their differences, Comparing Sarmiento's Recuerdos de provincia to Piglia's "En otro pais," Demaria notes that the latter is the antithesis of the former in its formation of the autobiographical "I." Sarmiento establishes the genre in order to lay claim to a space of power and to undergird his criticism of Rosas. Piglia, in contrast re-invents and re-semanticizes the genre to subvert and negate the ideological tenets of Sarmiento. In Prision perpetua, Piglia symbolically kills the father of Argentine autobiography, in order to create an "otro pais," to re-inscribe the marginalized, the imprisoned, and the exiled who have been excluded from the official narrative of history. By creating a false autobiography (the character Steve Ratliff, for example, is fictional, and the story was not presented at a conference in New York as Piglia's footnote claims), Piglia inscribes prohibited voices and challenges the prescriptions for the genre established by Sarmiento and his class. …

Since the late 1970s, scholars, organizations, pressure groups, conferences, and governments have examined the brain drain phenomenon in Africa. More recently, brain gain, the antithesis of brain drain, has also attracted considerable attention. The focal point of the brain gain across the continent has been postapartheid South Africa, which has witnessed a large influx of professionals from other regions. Considering Africa as a whole, except for South Africa, the extant literature has overemphasized the debit side of the brain drain.

Both film noir and the Weimar street film hold a continuing fascination for film spectators and film theorists alike. The female characters, especially the alluring femmes fatales, remain a focus for critical and popular attention. In the tradition of such attention, "Dangerous Dames" focuses on the femme fatale and her antithesis, the femme attrapee. Unlike most theorists, Jans Wager examines these archetypes from the perspective of the female spectator and rejects the persistence of vision that allows a reading of these female characters only as representations of unstable postwar masculinity. Professor Wager suggests that the woman in the audience has always seen and understood these characters as representations of a complex aspect of her existence. "Dangerous Dames" looks at the Weimar street films "The Street," "Variety," "Asphalt," and "M" and the film noir movies "The Maltese Falcon," "Gun Crazy," and "The Big Heat." This book opens the doors to spectators and theorists alike, suggesting cinematic pleasures outside the bounds of accepted readings and beyond the narrow categorization of film noir and the Weimar street film as masculine forms."

Nick Adams, like Huck Finn, Jay Gatsby, or any other major character in American literature, is entitled to a life of his own, but Nick is seldom allowed such imaginative separation from Ernest Hemingway. Autobiographical assumption is virtually automatic among those who write about Nick. On the other hand, those who read the Nick stories generally become caught up in his experience, and eschew the vast Hemingway scholarship, for the time, to respond to Nick as his own person. This, of course, is the Nick Adams that Hemingway, with his disdain for academics, wanted to present to us. [1] Hemingway's future readers will surely remember him for his short stories, whose style of writing and subject matter won him his initial fame and played such a large part in the development of the modern short story. Although Hemingway has a thriving society of scholars to celebrate his achievements, he must ultimately depend on general readers for his fame. This latter group is far less likely than the scholars to remember his work after 1945, whose structural flaws, intrusive ego, and swollen prose at times make it seem the antithesis of the early great fiction. The short stories centering on Nick have often been seen as the loose configuration of a novel: creative writers from D. H. Lawrence to Joyce Carol Oates have so viewed them. Further, Philip Young's collection, The Nick Adams Stories, though fleshed out with unpublished narratives, offered most of the published "Nick materials" in one volume. A popular college textbook, it has prompted many readers to treat the stories as stages of a novel. That is the general approach taken here. "Indian Camp," with the devastating trauma of its Caesarian section and the suicide of the Indian father, not only scarred Nick Adams for life but also provided Hemingway with the framework of his metaphor in developing Nick. The stark realism of the first story was not something he used once and discarded. It went a long way toward explaining Nick, and Hemingway was not about to pass over it. What appears at first to be Hemingway's realistic detail in describing the Caesarian is in fact the basis for an extended system of metaphor, running through all of the stories and contributing greatly to their unity. Hemingway returned to the details, supplying new ones and integrating those of 1927 (Men Without Women) and 1933 (Winner Take Nothing) with the original ones of 1922-25 (In Our Time). He took each important detail of the Caesarian and began a sequence of images with it, story by story, in what Frank O'Connor called "elegant repetition" (159), a series of leitmotifs, of incremental metonymies, whose context s he juxtaposed and superimposed, in ever-complicating patterns, with Nick always the true center of experience but never escaping the Indian camp. The night of horror inflicted "the wound" that never healed; the physical wound at Fossalta came too late for such effects. The girl watching a childbirth on the Karagatch Road (71) [2] at least got to cry, and might well have recovered, but Nick appears never to have done so. The boy Nick's first sight of a naked woman involved, in rapid succession, the full form with its burgeoning abdomen, pubes (resembling a beard), and confusing absence of a penis; then, the piercing cut and explosion of blood, the laying bare of internal organs, and the tissue placed in his basin (68-69). Later, wounded by shrapnel at the Piave River (276), he identified with the Indian woman being held down for penetration by the steel of his father's knife. The Caesarian had to be severely damaging, intensifying his natural fear of castration. Followed immediately by the Indian father's gory throat-slashing, the Caesarian fixed Nick's association of blood and death with sex, and his obsession with the separation of body and soul, particularly at night. While life had come into the world from the mother's body in birth, it had gone out of the father's in suicide. …

Bell & Howell Information and Learning: Foreign text omitted The NRSV translates the first part of Gal 2:16: "We know that a person is justified not by the works of the law but (eav /Ij) through faith in Jesus Christ." Most translations and commentaries agree that Eav lij in Gal 2:16a is adversative and that the relationship between justification by observance of the law and justification by faith in Christ is antithetical.l J. D. G. Dunn sparked debate over Eav lIj in Gal 2:16a when he suggested the possibility of understanding these two words as introducing an exception: "we know that a person is justified not by the works of the law except (Eav Tij) through faith in Jesus Christ."2 In other words, the law would justify as long as one also had faith in Christ. The relationship between the law and faith would be complementary. In a recent article William O. Walker, Jr., agrees with Dunn in translating eav wn as exceptive and yet maintains an antithetical relationship between faith in Christ and observance of the law.3 The following chart summarizes the possibilities: In short, two distinct issues have emerged-translation and understanding. 'Eav its may be translated as introducing an exception, or it may be translated adversatively. If one accepts the adversative translation, then an antithetical understanding of the relationship between faith in Christ and the observance of the law in justification necessarily results. If one accepts the exceptive translation, one may still understand the relationship between faith in Christ and law observance in an antithetical manner (with Walker) or in a complementary manner (with Dunn). Hidden beneath these layers of scholarly debate is a rare glimpse into the mind-set and presuppositions of early Jewish Christianity with regard to justification and the Mosaic law. 1. A Plausible Translation Perhaps the most compelling advantage of an adversative translation of Eav g/j is that Paul clearly expresses an antithetical relationship at the end of v. 16 as well as elsewhere in his writings? On the other hand, apart from Gal 2:16a Paul never employs the adversative eav g.j. Since eav w&j occurs only twelve times in the undisputed Pauline corpus, a brief overview will demonstrate that Paul always uses eav gI to express exception. In Rom 10:15 "how are they to proclaim him unless (eav wrj) they are sent" (and then they will proclaim him). In Rom 11:23 Israel will be grafted back in unless they remain in unbelief (and in that case they will not be grafted back in). The apostle denies in 1 Cor 8:8 the position that he and his audience are worse off unless they eat. In 1 Cor 9:16 woe unto Paul unless he proclaims the gospel (and in that case there would be no woe for Paul). He is a noisy gong or clanging cymbal when he speaks in tongues unless he has love (1 Cor 13:1). Paul will not benefit the Corinthians unless he speaks to them "in some revelation or knowledge or prophecy or teaching" (1 Cor 14:6). How will anyone know what is being played unless there are distinct notes (1 Cor 14:7)? Likewise, how will anyone know what is being said unless the Corinthians utter intelligible speech ( 1 Cor 14:9)? Paul asserts that a conversation will be meaningless unless the participants know the meaning of a sound (1 Cor 14:11). In 1 Cor 14:28 potential tongues speakers should remain silent unless an interpreter is present (and then they may speak). In 1 Cor 15:36 what one sows does not come to life unless it dies (and then it does come to life). That Paul never uses the adversative Eav /rj elsewhere indicates that he is not likely doing so in Gal 2:16a.5 Throughout the rest of the NT, Eav '-j is normally translated as exceptive. Nevertheless, a few instances are adversative, which would indicate contrast or antithesis. John 15:4a says: "the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless (Eav tv MnI) it abides in the vine." The protasis, "unless it abides in the vine," is not an exception to the branch being unable to bear fruit by itself. …

BENJAMIN QUARLES (1904-1996) was professor of history at the historically black Morgan State University, from 1953 to 1981. During those years he quietly declined several invitations to positions at frontline research universities. These decisions represented neither the accommodation to segregation of Booker T. Washington, nor the Marxist PanAfricanism of W. E. B. Du Bois, for he rejected both postures, just as he rejected the black power separatism of the later 1960s. Notwithstanding his black college affiliation, Quarles' ideological stance formed a bridge between the assimilationist mission of Frederick Douglass in the late nineteenth century and the integration of crusade of the period 1954-64. Unassuming and steadfast, he embodied the antithesis of careerism, and he fostered-for unfathomable private reasons-the common, but mistaken, notion that he was not a historian of large concepts. If we have failed to recognize the metaphysical tide that surges through Quarles' work, it is because his ideology has become part of our collective consciousness and we take many of his presuppositions for granted. Quarles' ideas have become commonplace, mainly due to the success with which he, and others, have championed them. His work was a persistent statement of two themes that are a constant and often overlapping presence throughout all American history, but have their peculiar

John Cage insinuates Nature, understood broadly, into music. Unlike late nineteenth-century composers, for example, Cage never merely depicts Nature with his music, but rather unfolds music in many ways from nature. Cage's Nature extends far beyond the wild, the savage or the pristine, beyond any mere antithesis to the urban or civilized; it embraces the whole of contingent experience, the world as what happens. The multiple radios of Imaginary Landspaces make audible the complexity of our radio-wave environment, including the various human productions transmitted thereby; Child of Tree uses sounds made by amplified plant materials. In Cheap Imitation, Empty Words and elsewhere, Cage makes new works by processing the works of other artists much as he processes star charts to make the notes of Etudes Australes.

feeling that I am not quite alive," he wrote, "that my body is walking about with a bit of my brain inside it, and nothing else." Eliot's sense of empty cerebration was not specific to Oxford. "As you know," he told Aiken, "I hate university towns and university people, who are the same everywhere, with pregnant wives, sprawling children, many books, and hideous pictures on the walls." As a remedy, Eliot proposed to install two bell pulls at the entrance to his rooms, one labelled "Visitors" and the other "Professors and their wives." He stipulated that "the second should have no bell," and moreover that within this professorless, wifeless space there should be "no pictures on the walls, but I should like some good china. Of my own choosing: solid glowing colours, and a few Indian silks, and perhaps a terracotta by Maillol." Finally, his fantasy of making his rooms into a refuge gave way to a longing for escape: "Come let us desert our wives and fly to a land where there are no Medici prints, nothing but concubinage and conversation. That is my objection to Italian Art: the originals are all right, but I don't care for the reproductions" (Eliot, Letters 74). It is not altogether surprising that Eliot would see in Indian silks and colorful china a kind of antithesis to the pallid complexions and tweedy monotony of English academic life. By 1914, the motif of the civilizing, enlightening journey to distant isles had long since been transformed by figures like Paul Gauguin and Arthur

Pitching Politics for the People: An Analysis of the Metaphoric Speech of H. Ross Perot1 Journalists and voters alike commented on the speech of H. Ross Perot during the 1992 presidential race. Writing of the first debate, Robert Shogan of The Los Angeles Times suggested, "With a seemingly unending stock of folksy one-liners, independent candidate Ross Perot came close to stealing the show" (1992:Al). A pair of reporters from USA 70day characterized Perot's speech as containing "biting aphorisms" (Howlett 1992:3A), "down-home slogans," and "folksy one-liners" (Bendetto and Norman 1992:3A). One voter's comment, "He calls an ace an ace," registered her approval. These examples suggest that part of Perot's appeal was his rhetorical approach which apparently provided a noteworthy antithesis to expected political discourse. These comments are impetus for further investigation. The task of analyzing the discourse of Perot seems particularly suited to a researcher interested in exploring those linguistic phenomena termed folk speech. Perot's language is spiced with argot, slang, colloquialisms, and proverbs, among others. I have two fundamental purposes is this essay. First, I selectively identify examples in Perot's verbal repertoire which constitute traditional ways of talking. Second, I explore how these examples operate as metaphors which convey Perot's "pitch" that he is the candidate that can effectively lead a government "of, by, and for the people." Politicians may be compared to pitchmen. The skillful use of language required by pitchmen has not gone unnoticed by folklorists. One investigator suggests that "[t]he use and manipulation of language is [his] stock and trade" (Krell 1980:28). One pair of researchers state that a pitch is designed to help achieve the the practical goal of selling a product...to a large number of customers....Pitchmen and talkers must persuade their audiences to buy an untested product." (Dargan and Zeitlin 1983:34). Perot is a pitchman. But instead of peddling Pontiacs or paring knives, he intends to sell a cogently-presented political ideology: You own this country but you have no voice in it the way it's organized now....The facts are, you now have a government that comes at you and you're supposed to have a government that comes from you.2 Perot's pitch is for his conception of a more representative government; implicit in this passage is Perot's assertion that he is the man who can usher in necessary changes. Perot's metaphorical use of language throughout the debate illuminated and reinforced this pitch. In contrast to the other two candidates, Perot could not run for the presidency based on any official experience in government. In the debate, Clinton consistently used his twelve-year history as governor as a source of authority. Coupled with precise delivery of examples typically presented in threes,3 Clinton's political record created a considerable presence. Perot, however, could not point to past political accomplishments. Because of Perot's lack of experience, metaphorical language became an important vehicle for communicating his pitch. Perot's speech represents him as an "insider" with the voting public. Central is his need to distance himself from the powers which control the Washington constituency, thereby making himself one of "the people." By using formulaic expressions, Perot repeatedly emphasizes that he is not a politician. He says, "Now I'm not a politician, but I think I could go to Washington in a week and get everybody holding hands and get this bill [the Urban Aid Bill] signed." The success of such a mission was unlikely, but Perot metaphorically dissassociated himself from all the activities to which the word politician refers. Furthermore, because he must go to Washington, he is spatially and temporally separated from the locus of political control, and thus, by extension, not privy to its influences. An analogous example begins with a familiar introduction: "Now the thing I love about it-I'm just a businessman. …

So there we were again, an all-Nigerian delegation, thirty-five years after the Conference of African Writers that first brought me to Uganda.We had serious business, but I had an agenda of my own, consisting of two parts. One was to track down the birthplace of Transition. I did not intend to put a plaque on the wall, but I was, after all, visiting Uganda for the first time in some thirty eventful years of Africa's endless transition: post-Idi Amin; postMilton Obote's second coming; postJulius Nyerere's Ujaama; post-apartheid; postmortem Christopher Okigbo, who fell in Biafra; postmortem Robert Serumaga, "disappeared" in Moi's Kenya; but, most poignantly, postmortem Rajat Neogy, who gave us Africa's first forum of intellectual and artistic eclecticism. He was an inescapable presence at the Writer's Conference. So there was nostalgia, yes: a remembrance of friends gone, things done, battles lost and won. My second project was the very antithesis of nostalgia. When we set out from Nigeria in I962, we had been on an excursion of creative buoyancy and high optimism. Now we were returning in a season of despondency, of which the most gruesome manifestation was the massacre in Rwanda in I 994. I needed to visit Rwanda to confront the realization of my direst predictions. Had I not cautioned that the fashionable incantation of a humanistic African past might prove a romantic illusion in A Dance of the Forests, the play I composed for Nigeria's independence and read at the Writer's Conference in I962? Perhaps it was fitting, then, that our mission this time was purely political: to press African governments in the Commonwealth Ministerial Action Group for sanctions against Sani Abacha's Nigeria. (The politician of I998 confronts the artist of i962?) Our earlier incursion into Kampala had focused almost entirely on culture: we went to join a convocation of writers and intellectuals from every corner of the continent. In I962, we were a motley group: poet

The portrayal of Solomon in the Deuteronomistic History (DtrH) has occasioned much scholarly attention owing to the tantalizing ambivalence surrounding Solomon's image and the attendant ramifications for the composition of DtrH. In a recent article in this journal, Marvin A. Sweeney has provided a useful outline of the problem, focusing on the apparent discrepancy between Solomon's roles as first heir to the Davidic dynasty, wisest of all kings and founder of the Temple, on the one hand, and a sinner who is held responsible for the division of the united kingdom, on the other hand.1 Before offering his own solution, Sweeney briefly refers to two alternative lines of reasoning on the issue: first, that the dichotomous portrayals of Solomon are to be related to the notion of a double redaction of DtrH; second, that the negative portrayal of Solomon stems from the Deuteronomist's incorporation of northern material following the fall of Samaria. After successfully pointing to the weaknesses of the second approach in particular, Sweeney puts forward his own analysis, namely, that a closer inspection of the Solomon-related material in DtrH reveals signs of an ongoing critique, which purposely presents Solomon "as the foil for Josiah and the antithesis of ideal kingship in the DtrH" (p. 622). Moreover, Sweeney puts his literary analysis within a specific historical context in arguing that the overall critique of Solomon points to a Josianic historiographer who saw "the propagandistic value of condemning Solomon in relation to a policy that was designed to attract the people of the former northern kingdom of Israel back to Davidic rule" (p. 616 n. 33). In evaluating Sweeney's proposal, it is important to separate its literary and historical aspects. One must first question whether the overall portrayal of Solomon in DtrH can legitimately be read as a veiled critique. As a corollary, one may ask whether the critique, to the extent that it exists, indeed corresponds to the propagandistic purpose Sweeney attributes to it. On the literary-critical level, Sweeney's analysis represents a departure from those studies which view 1 Kings 11 as standing completely apart from the preceding chapters in its singular criticism of Solomon.2 To the contrary, Sweeney argues that two themesnamely, Solomon's apostasy through foreign marriages and his mistreatment of the northern tribes, the very causes for the breakup of the monarchy according to 1 Kings 11-12-permeate the narrative of 1 Kings 3-10 as well. Sweeney adduces his evidence for the first theme from the scattered notices referring to Pharaoh's daughter (1 Kgs 3:1; 7:8; 9:16, 24) and from the irony inherent in the fact that Jeroboam is given sanctuary by none other than Pharaoh (1 Kgs 11:40). As for Solomon's mistreatment of the northern tribes, Sweeney points to the royal district list in 1 Kgs 4:7-19, the report of a forced levy in 1 Kgs 5:27-32, and Solomon's ceding of twenty Galilean cities to Hiram mentioned in 1 Kgs 9:10-14, all of which appear to discriminate against northern interests. Methodologically, however, one must question the way in which Sweeney is using the evidence. Can the texts he cites indeed be said to consciously advance a historiographic agenda?3 And, if so, must that agenda necessarily carry negative overtones? Alternatively, might the texts in question, or at least some of them, be better appreciated in terms of their supplying the raw material, however unwittingly, for a modern, historical appreciation of Solomon's kingdom? Regarding these issues, Sweeney fails to distinguish between passages that form part of an editorially conditioned structure and those that do not constitute part of a particular literary patterning. In the first category, one may assign the notices relating to Pharaoh's daughter in 3:1-2(4) and 9:24-25. As noted recently by Marc Brettler, these verses form part of the Deuteronomist's overall literary frame, inasmuch as they define the boundaries of the two opposing portrayals of Solomon in 1 Kings 3-11 (a point we shall return to below). …

California from Brown to Reagan or the agony of liberalism (1958-1966), Antoine Coppolani. The most populous state of the United States, the most economically powerful in the 1960s, California is also the spring-board for many shifts of contemporary American history. The election of Reagan to the governorship in 1966 is only the symbol of a deeper movement that seriously upset the American political landscape, the passage of a dominant paradigm, liberalism to its conservative antithesis. Wheras the liberal consensus was prevailing, California had become the testing ground of this political philosophy applied to the government. Although incontestable social and economic progress was accomplished, it didn't prevent internal contradictions and especially adverse and unexpected effects of the liberal policy from blowing away any consensus, throwing liberalism in California, and therefore in America, to the wind., Coppolani Antoine. La Californie de Brown à Reagan, ou l'agonie du libéralisme (1958-1966). In: Vingtième Siècle, revue d'histoire, n°51, juillet-septembre 1996. pp. 27-42.

Ever since the birth of our nation, white America has had a schizophrenic personality on the question of race. She has been torn between selves-a self in which she proudly professed the great principles of democracy and a self in which she sadly practiced the antithesis of democracy.... The white backlash of today is rooted in the same problem that has characterized America ever since the black man landed in chains on the shores of this nation. The white backlash is an expression of the same vacillations, the same search for rationalizations, the same lack of commitment that have always characterized white America on the question of race. -King (68)

URING the 1950s, a group of revisionist, left-leaning historians (including Louis Hartz, Richard Hofstadter, and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.) rejected the Progressive emphasis on the important role a transition to capitalism played in American history. They championed instead a view of the United States as a liberal, postfeudal society without a precapitalist past (except that associated with the precontact, indigenous peoples, whom the revisionists largely ignored). According to them, the European settler societies of North America were almost wholly capitalist from their earliest days. ' Eugene D. Genovese opened the first serious breach in this soothing perspective in the i96os, arguing in The Political Economy of Slavery that the slave system of the South, "in its spirit and fundamental direction, represented the antithesis of capitalism, however many compromises it had to make." Genovese's subsequent work, both separately and together with Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, explores the implications of this insight, not only for the slave South but also for the entire country and, indeed, the Atlantic world.2 Challenges to the revisionists' wholly capitalist narrative have also lately come from the new social history of the American countryside, which demonstrates the existence and continuing importance of noncapitalist (and even noncommercial) relationships over the course of the eighteenth century and much of the nineteenth, and from the new labor history of primarily nineteenth-century working-class movements and communities, which highlights the continuing resistance to capitalism by artisans and other small producers and by factory operatives and outworkers.3

The article lays out in schematic fashion a composite of socio-intellectual processes, arguably evident in respect of all cosmologies, which might appropriately be labelled 'religious'. It does so by applying deductive reasoning to shamanism, the prevalent religion in societies whose social structures are simple and in whose cosmologies religious process is conspicuous; here the Canadian Inuit (Eskimo) provide the ethnographic focus. The article assumes that religious process finds its basis in fundamental contradictions concerning the conditions ofsocial eNistence, namely in the antithesis between social structure and communitas. Cosmology is generated as this contradiction is contemplated by, respectively, laypeople and specialists, both with their own interests in view. The argument also considers such central cultural and analytical issues as the existence ofdistinctive notions of the human person, and the pertinence for the study of religion of, variously, 'secondary elaborations', systems of classification, and religious edicts; and it joins with Barth in emphasizing the salience of the specialist in 'cosmology-making'.

IN HIS WINTER 1993 Perspectives article "Why Complexity?" James Boros presents a bipolar view of recent trends in new music with 'the school of complexity" pitted against the "new romantic" school, presenting the former as a musical savior and the latter as a "dungheap." It is absolutely unnecessary to begin an advocacy of one trend by first attacking a claimed, yet unqualified, antithesis. One tires of these Artusi/ Monteverdi, Hanslick/Wagner, Adorno/Stravinsky discourses where one school points its sword in the air, announcing the common enemy to all that is holy and sacred. Boros attempts to discredit the "new romantic" school by claiming that it fails "to explore the limitless inner spaces of the imagination, with the understanding that artistic creation is both life-affirming and lifethreatening." Here Boros not only borrows from antiquated Freudian

SEVERAL INTERPRETERS OF MELVILLE'S FIRST BOOK, TYPEE: A PEEP at Polynesian Life (1846), sense beneath the narrator's tone of bonhomie towards the natives a feeling of revulsion that arises out of more than his anxiety of not knowing whether he will become a cannibal meal.I Milton Stem, in his landmark analysis of the novel, suggests that Tommo finally finds himself discontent in the valley of the Typees because he dreads succumbing to mental torpor, to a day-to-day complacency, that, however pleasurable when compared to the toils and brutalities of shipboard life, cannot satisfy the questing, essentially modem Western hero.2 More recent critics, schooled in the dangers of ethnocentric "othering," have chided Tommo for failing to sustain an initial sympathy for the alien ways of the Typee tribe. Mitchell Breitwieser and John Samson, for instance, forcefully argue that Tommo's ambivalent response to native culture is shaped more by the conflicted mid-Victorian American values he brings with him than by his comprehension of what the real Typees may have been like. Both challenge, and in essence condemn, Tommo for the poverty of his ethnographic method.3 Their readings are cogent, yet they also continue -although with a reverse emphasis, because they implicitly celebrate native culture -the tradition begun by Stem of strongly dichotomizing the themes of Typee about the geographical antithesis of antebellum America, on the one hand, and the sequestered world of the Typees, on the other. In a usefully nontraditional reading, Wai-chee Dimock observes that

A LTHOUGH anyone who has looked for an academic job in the last two decades might justifiably dispute the assertion, let us begin frankly: there has never been a better time than the present to be an early American historian. The last half of the twentieth century in general, the last quarter in particular, has been a time of demographic transformation and intellectual vitality unparalleled in the history of our field. No single development bears more responsibility for this than the rise of what was, just a couple of decades ago, a "new social history." Scholars such as Carl Bridenbaugh and Thomas Jefferson Wertenbaker, of course, wrote social history long before I970. The publication in that year of four extraordinary books, however, made it clear that a new approach to the field had been born-one informed by theoretical insights, interdisciplinary in approach, and self-conscious in methodology.' Since then, the field has come to embrace such a multitude of topics and methods that today we have no trouble identifying as social history projects that range from the study of gender roles to the analysis of diet or the impact of climate on culture. In view of social history's great diversity, perhaps the most reliable generalization one can make about it is the claim many of its practitioners proudly staked circa I970-that in concerns, emphases, and objects, social history is the antithesis of traditional history. At the time this claim was first made, it seemed bolder and more confrontational than it does now, for although social history has never lacked critics, their numbers are steadily, and perhaps irreversibly, declin

Guadeloupe to France or Africa, they simultaneously set out on a parallel inner journey, thereby embarking upon the process of self-discovery. Seeking to conquer physical space, they move along a parallel trajectory, the appropriation of imaginative space. When her father, an island fisherman, prevents her from continuing studies that will further her identification with French colonial culture, the protagonist of Le Quimboiseur . . leaves her village in Guadeloupe, and sets sail for France with her mother. Suzette, an ambitious adolescent who has spent her childhood on an island "as big as two coconuts" does not intentionally reject her roots; she seeks greater depth and breadth of experience. Yet in her quest for open space and a wider field of action, she encounters its antithesis, closed space and confinement. Recounting her experience later, Suzette states: "J'avais choisi une route large et fleurie, elle s'6tait transforme'e en 6troit sentier plein d'embuches mais je devais poursuivre mon chemin, n' ayant pas d'autre choix possible" [I had chosen a wide, flower-filled road, it had become transformed into a narrow path full of ambushes; but I could not turn back, I had no other choice open to me] (139). Drawing attention to the important structuring devices of her narration, reversal and binary opposition, Suzette expresses the gap between goal and outcomes in terms of spatial metaphors. She acknowledges an important strategy of Third World women's writing, the conquest of physical space as a metaphor for psychological independence. Feminist theorists and critics remind us that questers require models that balance attachment with autonomy, and value relationships and bonding. Yet Suzette is physically and metaphorically "ex-iled." Once separated from her island home, she lacks a guide, a helper, a friend. In her world of reversal and binary opposition, her mother is "diabolically maternal." A lightskinned Mulatto escaping her Afro-Caribbean identity, trying to "pass" in a White world, Suzette's mother rejects her own African roots. Rosamonde divorces her dark-skinned husband for a Frenchman and abandons her children. Instead of guiding her daughter, she rejects her; rather than free her, she enslaves her. On board the ship en route to France, Rosamonde initiates the process of rejecting Suzette by

Humanism and science, like science and religion, form one of those subjects that invite periodic reassessments. In part this stems from the instinct that we are here dealing with another pair of antitheticals. It has seemed that way in Western culture from about the beginning of the nineteenth century, when proponents of Humanismus consciously set the reality and ideal of a classical education (i.e., one built around the study of the literary classics of ancient Greece and Rome) against the intellectual and cultural claims of science and technology. What science and technology trumpeted was their intellectual superiority and mastery over nature. Humanismus, on the other hand, proclaimed a kind of moral superiority in its educational program claiming that here lay the better half of humankind's experience and response to life.1 Even in that disarticulated version of Humanismus that today we call "the humanities," educated society seems to seek some remedy-or is it merely solace-for the alienating effects of the dehumanized categories of modern science and technology. "Take more humanities courses" is a familiar nostrum. I raise these points not because I wish to identify Humanismus and "the humanities" with the early modern phenomenon of humanism that is the subject of this group of papers, although they are clearly historically connected.2 I do so in order to provide a reminder that the antithesis between science and humanism is of fairly recent origin and came into being only in response to the maturation and professionalization of science in the academy at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was no part of humanism in the sixteenth century when the recovery of ancient learn

Behavior of ants and bees was perceived by medieval European writers as virtuous. Singing by crickets and cicadas was perceived as profligate. Medieval writers used these precepts to impart order to human behavior. Aggressive behavior by antlions was noted by a medieval writer, but defensive behavior by insects, the complement of aggression, was overlooked. Crickets were credited with medicinal properties, perhaps by error of transcription. Public perception of insect behavior may have deteriorated in the ensuing centuries. Plants use chemicals in defense against herbivores, and humans use chemicals extracted from plants to defend other plants. Herbivores extract chemicals from plants in defense against predators and parasitoids. Parasitoids use chemical cues to detect herbivores, aided by the plants themselves. The concept of chaos provides an explanation of some complexities, though it seems the antithesis of medieval order.

Commentators are agreed on the central position taken by "The Night Visitor" (1928) in the B. Traven canon, and on the unusual complexity of the story. Donald Chankin placed it "among Traven's finest works," Michael Baumann rated it as "perhaps the most important" of the stories, while Robert T Goss has described it as one of the author's "few attempts at carefully organized and balanced architecture."' There has been less consensus, though, as to what the story actually means. In Chankin's reading, the main interest of the story lies in the questions it raises about identity, illegitimacy, and the "descent into the womb" which he claims is enacted by the narrator. Baumann draws attention to the story as "an allegory of the white man's destruction of pre-Columbian culture" and as a "study of appearance and reality and of the power of imagination."2 In the most detailed and certainly the most thoughtful analysis of the story to date, John M. Warner interprets it as an expression of an existentialist truth: "the tragic inevitability of Western, rationalistic man face-to-face with dread and anxiety."3 The story is probably intricate enough to support all of these views. I wish to examine the story within the context of Traven's evolving thematic concerns during the later 1920s. In this phase of his career, Traven was shifting his attention away from what he saw as the decadence of white (that is, North American) technological society and towards the antidote which he apparently felt he had found in the traditional values of the Mexican Indians. He was developing a concern with the relationship between two mutually exclusive systems of value-the materialistic and rationalistic ethic of the "civilized" West against the more intuitive and unacquisitive code of the "primitive" Indian. This was by no means a clear-cut antithesis in Traven's mind, however, as "The Night Visitor" demonstrates.

Nicholas Hawksmoor is usually seen as the antithesis of the English neo-Palladians. The unprecedented originality of Christ Church, Spitalfields, and St George-in-the-East has little in common with the carefully derived compositions of Colen Campbell or Lord Burlington. Lord Shaftesbury, often seen as the harbinger of neo-Palladianism, condemned the sterility of Wren’s court-based architecture, much of which involved Hawksmoor, and, without mentioning its name, Blenheim Palace, designed by Hawksmoor and Vanbrugh in collaboration. Campbell’s neo-Palladian manifesto, the Introduction to Vitmvius Britannicus, attacked the ‘odd and chimerical Beauties’ of Borromini, and so by inference, it is assumed, Hawksmoor, the only English architect whose attitude to the Classical orders was as unrestrained as Borromini’s. Because of this, because Hawksmoor was dismissed from his main posts in the Office of Works by the neo-Palladians, and because Lord Burlington criticized his lack of architectural purity, the links between Hawksmoor and the neo-Palladians have never been given the detailed consideration they deserve.

OULD PHILOSOPHICAL ANALYSIS have anything to do with the activity that Michel Foucault called the history of the present? Yes, I say. No, says almost everyone else. So I have some explaining to do. Philosophical analysis is an activity, a way of doing philosophy, defined in part by its practitioners. It used to think of itself as analyzing concepts, and then turned to words. I think of J. L. Austin, C. D. Broad, Paul Grice, G. E. Moore, Bertrand Russell, Gilbert Ryle, Ludwig Wittgenstein, but of course there are many very much younger, very much American, and very much alive analysts today. The men whom I have mentioned knew, in some cases, a great deal about the past and in particular about ancient philosophy. Some felt intellectual kinship with Aristotle. But a sense of the past played little role in their most creative work. Analytic philosophy is widely regarded as the very antithesis of historical sensibility. It needn't be, or so I contend. I have no desire to make peace between different traditions. Attempts to reconcile continental and analytic philosophy are at best bland, lacking the savor or pungency of either. I should add that in connecting philosophical analysis with certain techniques used by Foucault I am not making a point about recent French thought in general. I am discussing one kind of use of the past, represented by some of Foucault's books. Finally, although I in no way dissociate myself from analytic philosophy as at present practiced in America, my list of heroes in the second paragraph shows my connection with those roots primarily concerned with the analysis of concepts. There are other roots, those of the Vienna Circle, that are less

"Look here," says Hamlet to his mother, "upon this picture, and on this." Two kings, two brothers, two husbands of Gertrude, are shaped in the Prince's idealizing and then damning rhetoric into total antithesis. Hamlet's artistic strategy was a popular one in his time, when, as Marjorie Nicolson notes, painters frequently rendered husband and wife or brother and sister in portraits separate but parallel.1 Set against the same background and/or accompanied by the same motifs, the figures thus announce both their connection to one another and their differences (of feature, of gender and its concomitant costume and orientation, and so on). Companion-poems work the same way as companion-pictures, shared patterns and references grounding careful opposition: Raleigh's nymph replies to Marlowe's shepherd stanza by stanza, Donne's Second Anniversary recasts the occasion of the First from an inert lifeless body under dissection to a soul in progress, and, of course, Milton's own Penseroso explores a soberer life unknown to cheery Allegro. An analogous pair of companion-pictures in Lycidas, linked by common subject rather than parallel patterning but working out their profound contrast just as carefully, offers a beginning focus for my concern in this essay: the role of time in the elegy's complex struggles and resolution. Look, then, on this picture

LUon Daudet, the son of Alphonse Daudet, who was himself an important writer and a leader of France's Royalist Party, once gave a report in his Action FranCais on the Salon de l'Automobile which concluded, in perhaps somewhat different words, with the equation: "L'automobile c'est la guerre." This surprising association of ideas was based on the perception of an increase in technical artifacts, in power sources, and in tempo generally that the private sector can neither absorb completely nor utilize adequately but that nonetheless demand vindication. But vindication can only occur in antithesis to a harmonious balance, in war, and the destructive power of war provides clear evidence that social reality was not ready to make technology its own organ, and that technology was not strong enough to master the elemental forces of society. Without approaching the surface of the significance of the economic causes of war, one may say that the harshest, most disastrous aspects of imperialist war are in part the result of the gaping discrepancy between the gigantic power of technology and the minuscule moral illumination it affords. Indeed, according to its economic nature, bourgeois society cannot help but insulate everything technological as much as possible from the so-called spiritual, and it cannot help but resolutely exclude technology's right of co-determination in the social order. Any future war will also be a slave revolt of technology. Today factors such as these determine all questions of war and one would hardly expect to have to remind the authors of the present volume of this, nor to remind them that these are questions of imperialist war. After all, they were themselves soldiers in the World War and, dispute what one may, they indisputably proceed from the experience of this war. It is therefore quite astonishing to find, and on the first page at that, the statement that "it is of secondary importance in which century, for which ideas, and with which weaspons the fighting is done." What is most astonishing about this statement is that its author, Ernst Jiinger, is thus adopting one of the principles of pacifism, and pacifism's cliched ideal of peace have little to criticize each other for. Even

In a review of Robert Smithson's collected writings, published in this journal in Fall 1979, I proposed that Smithson's "genius" was an allegorical one, involved in the liquidation of an aesthetic tradition which he perceived as more or less ruined. To impute an allegorical motive to contemporary art is to venture into proscribed territory, for allegory has been condemned for nearly two centuries as aesthetic aberration, the antithesis of art. In Aesthetic Croce refers to it as "science, or art aping science"; Borges once called it an "aesthetic error." Although he surely remains one of the most allegorical of contemporary writers, Borges nevertheless regards allegory as an outmoded, exhausted device, a matter of historical but certainly not critical interest. Allegories appear in fact to represent for him the distance between the present and an irrecoverable past

TO ANALYZE INTONATION, we need to know the nature of the units. Are they, as some claim, the same kind of relatively meaningless articulatory integers that we find in word-based grammars, where a phoneme /n/ in contrast with an /r/ makes a workable distinction between a gnat and a rat even though /n/'s have nothing particular to do with gnats and /r/'s are scarcely symbolic of rats? Or do their meanings in some way reflect their own inner nature, as the order of the clauses in John came in and sat down reflects the order of the events? The position adopted here is that intonation-meaning strictly the rise and fall of pitch as it occurs along the speech chain-has its symbolizing power thanks to a primitive drive mechanism that raises pitch as tension rises and lowers it as tension falls. Whether the physiological substrate depends on subglottal pressure or on direct adjustment of the vocal folds at this point makes no difference. The observable fact is that voice pitch registers tension' and that high pitch is associated with high tension and low pitch with low, a binary opposition. The communicative use of this, to quote Tronick, Als and Brazelton (1980, p. 271), follows "the Darwinian principle . . . of antithesis: opposite emotions are expressed by opposite behaviors." The opposition is already systematic in infancy: "The infant in Play sits up straight, raises his head and 'uplifts' his face into a smile. In Protest, the infant looks away, turns his body away and 'drops' his face into a frown." We shall see later how such parallels between up-down in intonation and up-down in bodily gesture are realized.

A university recently spent $77,000 to do a survey designed to assess the needs of the elderly in its state. 1 After two years of extensive interviews, the team discovered that the problems of the elderly were (in this order): income, health care, transportation, crime, isolation, nutrition, housing, activity, employment, age discrimination, and education-$77,000 to discover problems that cover most of the ills we all are heir to, with no solutions sought, or offered. Obviously such studies cannot be discounted, and they deserve the respect their ability to effect social change earns. However, I could not help but ruefully observe that a quick reading of Stephen Crane's Maggie, Tillie Olsen's Tell Me a Riddle, Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables, Ellen Glasgow's Barren Ground, John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, Muriel Spark's Memento Mori, and of course Charles Dickens' Bleak House could have exposed all those problems, with a lot less cost and a lot more pleasure. Yet despite the books just mentioned, and there are of course others, relatively few works of literature explore the aged in depth, much less with sympathy. The antithesis is everywhere: the lecherous old man or woman, the shrew, and the ever-present addle-brained female-the list of stereotypes could go on. The eighteenth century was particularly savage in much of its literary treatment of aging, and especially aging women. Nineteenthcentury British literature shows some softening; but though Browning could assert, "Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be," one hardly believes him. The fact remains that attitudes toward the elderly, held by some of the best and most humane minds the world has known, have been either unrealistic or extremely negative. A modern exception to this pattern is May Sarton, one of the very few writers, especially in our culture, to explore profoundly both the perils and the possibilities confronted by older people; one of the few writers to treat the aged, and particularly older women, with dignity without ignoring the threats of senility, the helplessness of physical decay, the frustrations of waning power. Sarton's work has been late in gaining recognition and, once recognized, has been justly studied for its treatment of friendship, lesbian relationships, the female muse, and the growth of an artist. Yet Sarton's particular strength, and what she especially can offer to women readers as she develops her characters and explores her own personality in her journals, is an insightful study of the years when the drive for sexual release seeks different channels, when the muse (for Sarton at least) has been identified without being destroyed; the years when autobiography has both past and perspectivein short, the years when the term "middle age" no longer signifies. Sarton's canon is extensive-over thirty books in allsixteen novels to date, plus poetry and a series of journals. Obviously intended to present "seemings, or personal impressions," as Thomas Hardy would say, rather than a factual history, the journals give abundant examples not only of the healthy concern with mortality that en

That in Germany the essay is decried as a hybrid; that it is lacking a convincing tradition; that its strenuous requirements have only rarely been met: all this has been often remarked upon and censured. "The essay form has not yet, today, travelled the road to independence which its sister, poetry, covered long ago; the road of development from a primitive, undifferentiated unity with science, ethics, and art."' But neither discontent with this situation, nor discontent with the mentality that reacts to the situation by fencing up art as a preserve for the irrational, identifying knowledge with organized science and excluding as impure anything that does not fit this antithesis: neither discontent has changed anything in the customary national prejudice. The bestowal of the garland "writer" still suffices to exclude from academia the person one is praising. Despite the weighty perspicacity that Simmel and the young Lukics, Kassner and Benjamin entrusted to the essay, to the speculative investigation of specific, culturally predetermined objects,2 the academic guild only has patience for philosophy that dresses itself up with the nobility of the universal, the everlasting, and today when possible with the primal; the cultural artifact is of interest only to the degree that it serves to exemplify

In 1933 a group of Nazi women published a book of open letters, Deutsche Frauen an Adolf Hitler (German Women to Adolf Hitler), to convince their FUhrer that the new Third Reich needed German women in positions of power.1 They were eager to demonstrate their loyalty to him and to National Socialism but they were equally willing to criticize the men's state that they felt Hitler's subordinates were forming. All seven letters are imbued with Nazi ideology and forcefully present feminist insights. This combination of National Socialism and feminism may well be incomprehensible to modern readers. The destructive nature of the Third Reich--its racism, nationalism, militarism, elitism, and sexism--has been demonstrated in dozens of articles and books. It is without doubt the antithesis

As a late-bloomer in the field of genre, the novel has traditionally made rules by breaking rules. Without the precedence or precedents of other literary forms, the novel responded to a creative rather than a re-creative impetus. Those conventions that do exist occupy no sacrosanct space in the compositional process and may be as easily ignored or contradicted as respected. As a result, the concept of intertextuality-the presence and transformation of other texts in a given work becomes problematic, for this "presence" may manifest itself as imitation, antithesis, or absence. Because form and meaning are open in the multiperspectivist universe of the novel, analysis and classification must attempt to illuminate a text or series of texts while recognizing both the multiple possibilities and the limitations of the critical enterprise. A comparative focus juxtaposes texts to offer individual and collective insights. Although criteria for selection are by no means absolute, the method is significant for a number of reasons. Critically speaking, new approaches may provide valuable new readings of texts; metacritically speaking, these approaches

In this sentence, Hofmannsthal appears to have uttered the secret of his existence, perhaps, even, the secret of artistic life in general. The sentence pattern reminds us of such similar sentences as: "What health is, only the sick can grasp," or "what freedom is, only the imprisoned can grasp." Nevertheless, the former sentence does not quite fit in with these others. Immediately, we sense that it expresses a deeper, more essential meaning than that only deprivation of a good can bring about the true grasping of its value. There is something in us that resists even placing spirit and oppression into such an antithesis. Linguistically, the term oppression or being-oppressed (Bedrangtsein) means more than being constrained (Befangensein) and less than being caught or imprisoned (Gefangensein). The stronger or weaker meaning derives from just how much our freedom has been curtailed. The German language distinguishes degrees in the limitation of freedom very exactly in such sayings: we are constrained or biased vis-a-vis (against) someone; we are oppressed by something or someone; we are caught or

Since Augustus Jessopp's biography of Donne in 1897 and, more particularly, since Edmund Gosse's in 1899, the life of John Donne has proven irresistibly fascinating to biographers. Following Gosse's Life, thirteen full-length biographies (including two fictional adaptations of Donne's life) and numerous essays, articles, and letters elucidating one facet or other of his life have been written. Donne's life attracts writers, R. C. Bald argues, partly because Donne is the first English poet about whom enough is known to write a modern biography. Accounts of Shakespeare's life, Bald continues, dwell on his times or on autobiographical readings of the Sonnets; there are gaps in our knowledge of Dryden's and Spenser's lives; and few of Milton's intimate communications to friends have survived. For Donne, however, letters and verse letters to friends, relatives, and patrons; certain undeniably autobiographical poems; and Izaak Walton's seventeenth-century biography of Donne all exist to help, or sometimes to hinder, the modern biographer in piecing together Donne's life.' Nonetheless, much of the twentieth century's fascination with John Donne's biography arises from the seemingly contradictory nature of his life. Jack Donne the Rake and Dr. John Donne, Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral, is certainly the best-known antithesis. But such antinomies as Donne the Catholic great-nephew of Sir Thomas More and Donne the Anglican preacher, Donne the poet who extolled "full nakedness" and Donne the sermon writer who condemned lust, Donne the worldly courtier and Donne the other-worldly divine, also exist and continue to generate attempts to reconcile the apparent contradictions. These attempts have sometimes taken the form of interpreting Donne's poetry biographically, of emphasizing one side or aspect of his life more than another, or of speculating about his motives for seemingly contradictory actions. Naturally, the life of any author, especially if he lived before the eighteenth century, is subject to some biographical guesswork: some of the activities of Chaucer and Shakespeare, for example, may never be fully known, much less accurately dated, and will continue to provide opportunities for scholarly research and dis

Although rhetoric can be defined as something politicians often accuse each other of, the political dimensions of the scholarly study of rhetoric have gone largely unexplored by literary critics. What, indeed, could seem more dry and apolitical than a rhetorical treatise? What could seem farther away from budgets and guerrilla warfare than a discussion of anaphora, antithesis, prolepsis, and preterition? Yet the notorious CIA manual ' on psychological operations in guerrilla warfare ends with just such a rhetorical treatise: an appendix on techniques of oratory which lists definitions and examples for these and many other rhetorical figures. The manual is designed to set up a Machiavellian campaign of propaganda, indoctrination, and infiltration in Nicaragua, underwritten by the visible display and selective use of weapons. Shoot softly, it implies, and carry a big schtick. If rhetoric is defined as language that says one thing and means another, then the manual is in effect attempting to maximize the collusion between deviousness in language and accuracy in violence, again and again implying that targets are most effectively hit when most indirectly aimed at. Rhetoric, clearly, has everything to do with covert operations. But are the politics of violence already encoded in rhetorical figures as such? In other words, can the very essence of a political issue-an issue like, say, abortionhinge on the structure of a figure? Is there any inherent connection between figurative language and questions of life and death, of who will wield and who will receive violence in a given human society? As a way of approaching this question, I will begin in a more traditional way by discussing a rhetorical device that has come to seem almost synonymous with the lyric voice: the figure of apostrophe. In an essay in The Pursuit of Signs, Jonathan Culler indeed sees apostrophe as an embarrassingly explicit emblem of procedures inherent, but usually better hidden, in lyric poetry as such.2 Apostrophe in the sense in which I will be using it involves the direct

The conventional wisdom holds two related propositions regarding Smith's presentation of his case for laissez-faire in The Wealth of Nations. One is that he employs, for the sake of expository convenience, a strawman -the mercantilist view -against which he presents the alternative of free trade [2; 15]. It has become accepted by some scholars that mercantilist writers held much more intelligent views and that Smith "invented" an opposition by distortion, making his alternative win by default [7; 23; 9; 11]. The other proposition, which has also gained currency since the 1940s, is that Smith falsely portrayed himself as an iconoclast in opposition to the mercantilist orthodoxy. It is nowadays alleged that Smith was instead merely offering an able articulation of an orthodox view which had already emerged [23; 11]. Laissez-faire prejudices were the dominant fashion, and Smith provided a rationalization of them ex post. We feel that this conventional wisdom about Smith is wrong, and we believe that this can be demonstrated by means of a close examination of the most prominent mercantilist writer in Smith's time (who was, in fact, an acquaintance of Smith): Sir James Steuart. Our case regarding Steuart can be easily summarized-he was virtually the complete antithesis of Smith. Although some older writers [1] sensed this, the more recent fashion has been to characterize Steuart as basically a classical liberal with Keynesian leanings, committed to the furtherance of economics as a science. The sophistication and trenchancy of his analysis is stressed, along with the manifest superiority of some of it to Smith's. We believe that we can demonstrate, quite apart from any Keynes-like demand management ideas, that Steuart presented a political economy and an approach to economic science that differed fundamentally from Smith. In short, Smith did not have to build a strawman; he had James Steuart. Furthermore, there is considerable evidence to suggest that Steuart's alternative gave a real run for the money and that Smith offered a truly radical program which gained considerable influence, overturning rather than rationalizing popular prejudices. In Section II, we outline the extent of Steuart revivalism in the literature. In Section III, we examine Steuart's emphasis on classes rather than individuals as units of analysis.