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Meridel Le Sueur describes her proletarian novel The Girl (1939/1978) as a "memorial to the great and heroic women of the depression" and a record of the varied stories of women in bus stations, food lines, and warehouses (133). (1) Le Sueur's novel chronicles these lives to prevent their appearance as "defeated, trashed, defenseless" (133). According to Le Sueur's afterword to the novel, the writer should "urge and nourish ... social vision" and provide a historical narrative of those women "who keep us all alive" (133). Indeed, the novel closes with a birth scene celebrating the work of memory: "Memory is all we got, I cried, we got to remember. We got to remember everything.... We got to remember to be able to fight. Got to write down the names. Make a list. Nobody can be forgotten" (126). Le Sueur's text works to re-member proletarian female experience and her own position in literary history. As most people familiar with Le Sueur's biography know, although she was widely published in the 1920s and 1930s, her popularity dwindled until the Feminist Press and John Crawford of the West End Press rediscovered her work in the late 1970s and early 1980s. (2) Early on, she frequently published work in journals such as Kenyon Review and Prairie Schooner and in magazines like Mademoiselle and was able to support herself financially (Pratt 255). With the onset of the McCarthy years--in Le Sueur's words "the dark of the time"--her mainstream popularity declined until she was published almost exclusively in Communist Party journals and read only within Party circles (qtd. in Pratt 255). (3) But even during her peak period, her work was not always met with approval. One editor at Scribner's suggested Le Sueur write more like Hemingway (Coiner 108), and the Communist Party itself instructed Le Sueur to move away from lyricism as a mode of expression and write literature that "would organize" (Pratt 257). The literary left established genres, such as Malcolm Cowley's classic proletarian plot, that "codified masculine metaphors for the working-class struggle" (Rabinowitz, Labor 61); these genres kept women writers' modes of representation from being recognized as worthy forms of expression. (4) The terms "proletarian" and "manly" often were used interchangeably, and so a female proletarian writer like Le Sueur was criticized by the dominant bourgeois culture and the Communist leadership. Le Sueur had rural roots (she was born in Iowa and lived most of her life in Minnesota) and little formal education; she found herself marginalized on all fronts. Set in St. Paul during the Great Depression, The Girl is a bildungsroman about a working-class girl. The main plot of the novel centers on her sexual awakening, the subsequent loss of her lover, and the birth of her child. The Girl explores the larger landscape of union work and "scabbing," unemployment, and social welfare for both men and women. The novel focuses on working-class struggles against larger economic forces and women's struggles against the control of men; therefore, the novel contributes substantially to discussions of gender in both modernist and proletarian fiction. Le Sueur's novel charts female experience through the body in the knowledge of sexuality, abortion, physical abuse, and birth. As a writer, Le Sueur projects a cogent social vision, and through this novel, she makes particular demands on her readers, who must serve as capable interpreters of the historical record. In interpreting this work, both writer and readers participate in constituting the cultural currency of the proletarian female experience and in assigning value to the varied subjectivities women assume in the narrative. The Girl situates the body as a register for physical, social, and political struggles. The novel asks its characters and readers to read the body as a text and chart its various discourses. In the wake of the work of Michel Foucault, the assumption that one can attain a proper reading is problematic; indeed, as Foucault argues, every reading is a misreading in some ways. …

A specter is haunting academe: the specter of collegiality. Everybody knows what it is not. Nobody knows what it is. So no powers young or old, faculty or administrative have entered into any sort of holy alliance in order to exorcize the specter. Perhaps in fact, some would maintain, it should not be exorcized. Instead, it ought to be made more manifest than it is, and more actively promoted or pursued. But how? Exactly why? And in either case, or in any case, in whose interests?

Sometime in February of 19851 took my first public transportation in Chicago. For a native of the little village of Mahnomen, Minnesota, it was a hellish day. I knew the train I boarded was supposed to take me within walking distance of the Chicago Circle campus, but it could have left me in Skokie, or Greenland for that matter, and I would not have been the wiser. I had been warned?repeatedly?not to talk to anyone. This talking to, smiling at, acknowledging people had already gotten me into several uncomfortable spots. The thrill of my city so journ at the Newberry Library had begun to wear off. The all-night traffic beneath my Chestnut Street apartment, my inability to keep "wheels" handy because of the astronomical parking fees, the ano nymity of all the faces, and my hunger for open spaces all left me feeling tense, stranded, homesick. But the gnawing in my stomach on this particular day came mostly from nervousness. I was this little imposter nobody, presum ing the role of an academic. I had taken the audacious and irretriev able step of announcing that I was going to write my dissertation on the work of Gerald Vizenor. Now here I was on my way to meet the woman who was the Vizenor expert, the scholar who had read all his work, had compiled a long, detailed bibliography, and had written an analysis of everything from his haiku to his trickster fiction. I don t remember what reassuring chant I must have repeated under my breath to keep myself moving toward her office that day. Maybe it was rent stipend, rent stipend, rent stipend.

1. Introduction: Time-use data in economics (D.S. Hamermesh, G.A. Pfann). Part I. When and with whom? 2. Timing constraints and the allocation of time: The effects of changing shopping hours regulations in the Netherlands (J.P. Jacobsen, P. Kooreman). 3. The timing and flexibility of housework and men's and women's wages (J. Bonke, N.D. Gupta, N. Smith). 4. Routine (D.S. Hamermesh). 5. Nobody to play with? The implications of leisure coordination (S.P. Jenkins, L. Osberg). Part II. What is done? 6. Estimates of a labor supply function using alternative measures of hours of work (N.A. Klevmarken). 7. Loafing or learning? The demand for informal education (R. Fahr). 8. Time use, consumption and saving over the life cycle (P. Apps, R. Rees). 9. "Mondays in the sun:" unemployment, time use and consumption patterns in Spain ( N. Ahn, J.F. Jimeno, A. Ugidos). Part III. Children's issues. 10. Reconciling motherhood and work: Evidence from time use data in three countries (A. Ichino, A.S. de Galdeano). 11. The distribution of children's developmental resources (F.P. Stafford, W.J. Yeung). Part IV. Developing time use surveys. 12. A study in the process of planning, designing and executing a survey program: The American time-use survey (M. Horrigan, D. Herz).

This paper brings to light the essential role played by the theme of forgiveness in Mozart's Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail (Singspiel created in Vienna in 1782). Several authors have already noted the recurrence of this theme in Mozart's operas, but nobody has yet done a systematical study of it. The one proposed here combines literary and musical analysis, confronting the presentation of the theme of forgiveness in the libretto and general structure of Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail to the two contemporary operas on which it was modelled, Bretzner's Belmont und Constance oder Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail (Berlin 1781) and Gluck's La Rencontre imprevue ou Les Pelerins de La Mecque (Vienna 1764). It emerges from this study that Mozart's Singspiel is the only one attaching to forgiveness a central dramatic role. This is confirmed by a musical analysis of excerpts from Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail, that shows how Mozart musically underlines the passages in which forgiveness plays an important role. Reflecting on the conventions of seria and buffa opera, the conclusion is a first attempt to trace the sources of the peculiar development of this theme in Mozart's Oeuvre.

The other day I was reading a short piece on Nepali music videos in Wave, a print and online English-language youth magazine published in the Kathmandu Valley. The article concluded with a quote from video director Simosh Sunuwar: "Music videos have responsibilities. They should inspire people, and, yes, nepalipan is essential." Nepalipan, meaning "Nepaliness," is a troublesome word troublesome because of its pervasiveness in discourse about music and film, art and culture in Kathmandu. Creativity can be many things, but the ideology of nepalipan suggests that it must include elements that mark the national and cultural identity of the work. This is the curse of the nation, the dilemma of artists working in electronic media outside the mainstream, outside the United States and Europe. Artists always have to represent something larger than just themselves. Akira Kurosawa was accused of not being Japanese enough. Cornershop, a British indie rock band, added sitar, harmonium, and Punjabi lyrics to their songs only after being encouraged by their label to capitalize on the Indian heritage of singer and instrumentalist Tjinder Singh. Afropop musicians who don't sound African enough have little chance of making it in the world music market. But nobody complains that Martin Scorsese's films aren't American enough. Certainly, some Nepalis dismiss Nepali rock music as simply kapi gareko, "copied" from English-language rock music: because it's rock, it's already incapable of harboring any nepalipan tendencies. Still, for musicians and others in the music business, originality and authenticity are embedded in nepalipan^ In this essay, I want first to trace the history of rock music in Nepal; then I will give a few examples of how nepalipan makes its appearance in the unlikely realms of rock music and music video. Perhaps surprisingly, it is more at the levels of lyrics and image rather than music that nepalipan manifests itself. Nepal was just emerging out of relative isolation in the 1950s when rock 'n' roll began in the United States. It wasn't until the late 1960s and early 1970s that rock began t take hold in the capital. Cassettes were the vehicle that enabled rock music to travel to Nepal. Extensively promoted in the United States and elsewhere around 1968, cass tte technology joined the growing wave of tourists visiting Nepal. Rock in Kathmandu, then, had its roots in the music of the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and the Eagles; such 1950 icons as Elvis Pre ley and Little Richard, missed the first time arou d, have remained less prominent. Cassettes and cassette players and recorders became more widely available in Kathmandu during the 1970s; he Ratna Recording Corporation in Kathmandu began producing cassettes in 1979.3 Also in the 1970s, several local bands began playing predominantly covers of Englishlanguage songs. The Melodies, the Hilloks, the Pakheys, Brotherhood, and Prism all found a small space for public rock performance in both cheap tourist hangouts and swankier restaurants and hotels like the Yak 'n' Yeti. As the

What's the difference between medical education and pharmaceutical public relations? Not much, according to the people who do it. "(T)he broad distinction between healthcare PR and medical education is becoming obsolete, writes Neil Kendle, chief executive officer of Lowe Fusion Healthcare, in a recent issue of Pharmaceutical Marketing magazine. So slender is the difference between education and PR than that Kendle cannot even say for certain which business he is in. "Sometimes I describe Lowe Fusion as a 'PR consultancy', sometimes as a 'healthcare communications agency'. Sometimes I just cop out and list the things we do." (1) Here's how the business works. The pharmaceutical industry puts up the money, usually in the form of an "unrestricted educational grant." The grant goes to a for-profit medical education and/or communications company (MECC), which, in consultation with its pharma sponsor, puts together an "educational program." (2) The company and the MECC recruit academic physicians to deliver the program in return for a small cut of the grant. If the MECC is accredited by the Accreditation Council for Continuing Medical Education, it can offer the educational program on its own. If not, it must go through the CME office of a medical school, which--again for a cut of the grant--accredits the program and certifies it free of commercial bias. Then doctors, nurses and other health care workers attend the "educational program" that pharma has funded in order to satisfy the CME requirements of their professional organizations. It is, as the corporate manuals like to say, a win-win situation. The doctors and nurses get CME credits; universities get a new revenue stream; academic physicians get some extra pocket money; MECCs get a lucrative market niche (over a billion dollars a year, according to The Lancet), and the pharmaceutical industry gets to shape the minds of medical America. (3) By laundering its message through the MECCS, pharma gives up some control, but the pay-off is even better: advertisements with the appearance of objectivity. PR practitioners call this a "third-party" strategy. As Kendle puts it, "Third party sources of information, as long as they are perceived to have expertise in the area they are talking about, are much more credible sources of information than the pharmaceutical company itself." Pharma now funds over 60 percent of continuing medical education in the United States. (4) Not bothered that your doctor's education comes from pharma? Have a look, then, at the "communications" arm of this lucrative business. Here the results are scientific articles, often in peer-reviewed medical journals. The money is laundered in much the same way. Pharma pays the MECC; the MECC puts together the articles; academic physicians are paid to sign onto the articles, and the MECC places the articles in medical journals. Some academics simply sign ghostwritten articles, while others work from a draft supplied by the company. Sticklers for honesty merely take the money and write the articles themselves. Fees vary. Some academics have signed on for as little as $1,000 or $1,500 per article, including-the two faculty members at the Medical University of South Carolina who recently "authored" a ghostwritten article on Ritalin for Novartis. (5) Others command much higher fees. When the debate over second-hand smoke was heating up in the early 1990s, the tobacco industry paid a biostatistician $10,000 to write a single letter to the Journal of the American Medical Association. (6) Warner Lambert, the maker of Neurontin, a seizure drug, gave a professor at the University of Minnesota over $300,000 to write a textbook on epilepsy. (7) None of this is exactly new. What is new is the magnitude of the phenomenon, which has only become evident through recent litigation. For years, nobody really knew how much of the medical literature was ghostwritten, or even how much had originated from pharma. …

The British social and cultural historian, Arthur Marwick, concluded his magisterial book on the cultural revolution of the 1960s in the West with a very brief final sentence on the transformation: "there has been nothing quite like it; nothing will be quite the same again."1 This deceptively simple and deliberately vague assertion masks an array of nuanced historical judgments in which Marwick teased out the complexities and contradictions of the sixties. In trying to characterize the decade, American author Hunter Thompson has succinctly formulated the analytical problem inherent in the dynamics of the period: History is hard to know-but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time-and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.... You could strike sparks anywhere.2 While there seems to be a firm understanding that the 1960s represent the confluence of meaningful social forces, there are some explanatory doubts as to how and why it happened. The conundrum invites historical analysis; the outlines of the phenomenon may appear clear, but the reasons for that are not immediately apparent nor is its historical significance self-evident.3 In a similar vein Afrikaans anti-apartheid social protest music during the 1980s was reminiscent, albeit in a much more muted form, of the cultural and social challenges to the status quo in the West two decades earlier. Perceptive observers picked up on this. Thus American journalist Tom Masland, who was based in South Africa, reported in mid-1989 on the similarities in dress, lyrics, and general political outlook between the followers of Afrikaans counterculture and what he considered to be their earlier American counterparts.4 The analogy, suggestive as it is, should not however be overdrawn. The South African variant had its own local character and emphases that impacted in a particular manner and generated its own complicated processes and codes of understanding. These need to be untangled and assessed primarily in the context they were moulded. This article has several related aims. It seeks to understand the conditions under which anti-apartheid Afrikaans protest music emerged in the '80s and why it took about twenty years after oppositional youth movements in the West for roughly comparable developments among Afrikaner youth to gain some traction. Central to the protest was an attempt to question, and even to reformulate through the medium of music, what it meant to be an Afrikaner during the latter phases of apartheid. The analysis disaggregates the dynamics and nuances of this process. Moreover, the actual impact of the phenomenon at the time is evaluated through a critical assessment of the claims made by band members and journalists. Finally the way in which the memory of this movement continued to have an influence among young Afrikaner people well into the post-apartheid era is explored. Emergence and Social Background One of the salient features of the tumultuous 1980s in South Africa was the cycle of on-going black protest orchestrated by the United Democratic Front and other extra-parliamentary anti-apartheid organizations and the declaration of successive states of emergencies by the predominantly Afrikaner National Party government. Overtly anti-apartheid Afrikaner voices were relatively mute during this period. However, initiatives such as the meeting between mainly Afrikaner intelligentsia and some of the leaders of the banned African National Congress in Dakar in Senegal in 1987 as well as the appearance of an uncompromisingly critical Afrikaans newspaper, the Vrye Weekblad (Free Weekly) stand out as distinct markers. To this must be added a sprinkling of Afrikaans literary works and some tentative soul searching in some Afrikaner churches about the morality of apartheid. …

Berlin has always seemed to me like an old man. An old roue, who, having careered through life, is overcome by dizziness whenever he's made to remember. This metropolis is younger than many others in the world it is in fact scarcely more than a century old as a world city yet on my first visit in the mid-1970s, there was something broken and weather-worn about it, as if the people here had lived through a thousand years in speeded-up time. Berlin's century was really only half a century. The blossoming of the city in the 1920s, with its artists' circles, its activism and its pulsating charm, gave way to the decade of the Nazis, culminating in World War II, which led to the city's destruction and division. At the end of the 1980s, I moved to this elderly city, where much had ground to a halt. Abandoned rail stations and factories, quiet corners quite untypical for a city of this magnitude, an almost mysterious slowness. The city felt as if it had long been waiting for someone to pick it up and take it away with them. Since nobody seemed to be coming, it had almost given up hope of going anywhere. Berlin's phlegmatic attitude was not off-putting, far from it: it was appealing, inviting one to join in the sitting and waiting, the sleeping before the kiss which will suddenly change the world. In 1989 a kiss did awaken the city. The celebrations were unrestrained; a hangover ensued as after a night of boozing; and the search for the prince who had made it all possible was unsuccessful. Instead of a prince, a homely-looking head groom showed up, and earned applause for his emergency repairs to the stable door. But he forgot to feed the

W HEN he agrees to make Achilles' armor, Hephaistos tells Thetis that any mortal "will wonder when he sees it" (18.466-467). But, as it happens, nobody in the poem singles out any one scene on the shield for comment, and only rarely is the shield even noted by a character in the Iliad. Rather than inspiring a specific response from characters in the poem, the detailed description of the scenes on the shield, like an extended simile, invites the audience of the poem to consider Hephaistos' creation against the larger story of which it is a part.' While vocabulary and theme in those vignettes resonate with key scenes in the poem proper, as critics have observed,2 it has proven more difficult to define the particular relevance, if any, of the god's work of art for the heroes of the Iliad and most particularly for the hero who is to bear that shield. In one scholar's words, the ekphrasis "represents the good life," its purpose to "make us ... see [war] in relation to peace," reminding the audience of all that will be lost with the fall of Troy.3 The description of

Before Los Angeles's South Central had become indelibly linked in the public mind with gang wars and riots, its main strip, Central Avenue, boasted glamorous nightclubs and swinging dance halls that rivaled the great African-American music centers back east. Saxophonist Art Pepper paints an idyllic picture of "the Stem" as he remembers it from the 1940s: It was a beautiful time. It was a festive time. The women dressed up in frills and feathers and long earrings and hats with things hanging off them, fancy dresses with slits in the skirts, and they wore black silk stockings that were rolled and wedgie shoes. Most of the men wore big, wide-brimmed hats and zoot suits with wide collars, small cuffs, and large knees, and their coats were real long with padded shoulders. They wore flashy ties with diamond stickpins; they wore lots of jewelry; and you could smell powder and perfume everywhere. And as you walked down the street you heard music coming out of everyplace. And everybody was happy... [T]here were all kinds of places to go, and if you walked in with a horn everyone would shout, "Yeah! Great! Get it out of the case and blow some!" They didn't care if you played better than somebody else. Nobody was trying to cut anybody or take their job, so we'd get together and blow. (Pepper and Pepper 1994, 41-42) Less than ten years after reaching its dizzying height during the war years, however, the Central Avenue club scene was on its way to extinction, and fifty years later, little remains of its former glory.

THOUGH CLEARLY A CENTRAL EPISODE in Arkansas's racial history and a tragedy of grievous proportions, much remains unknown about the Elaine riots of autumn 1919. It is certain that dozens and perhaps hundreds of African Americans died at the hands of whites in the days following an initial exchange of gunfire between deputies in Phillips County and members of a black sharecroppers' union. The precise sequence of events and the number of casualties, however, continue to be debated. So does the role of U.S. Army troops sent to Phillips County on the second day of the violence. Though the troops have long been credited with restoring order, Grif Stockley, author of the most comprehensive study of the episode-Blood in Their Eyes: The Elaine Race Massacres of 1919 (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 2001)-believes that soldiers participated in the slaughter of innocent black people. "On balance," he writes, "the evidence suggests that the military used excessive force and may have killed perhaps hundreds of blacks" (p. 66). Another student of the events, Jeannie M. Whayne, has suggested that the available evidence does not yet permit such a conclusion. In her essay, "Low Villains and Wickedness in High Places: Race and Class in the Elaine Riots" (Arkansas Historical Quarterly, Autumn 1999), she notes that troops disarmed white civilians as well as blacks and wonders whether Phillips County planters may have seen military intervention as a means to stop white violence before it undermined a sharecropping system based on black labor. Stockley and Whayne discussed the evidence with respect to federal troops and the Elaine massacres at a debate held on February 21, 2002, at the University of Arkansas School of Law in Fayetteville. The debate was conducted under the auspices of the Hartman Hotz lecture series and was moderated by Tom Dillard, curator of the Butler Center for Arkansas Studies, Central Arkansas Library System. Excerpts from the debate follow and are published with the permission of the University of Arkansas School of Law. Transcription is courtesy of the Arkansas Center for Oral and Visual History. Grif Stockley: Before I begin to try to put on some evidence that the military was involved, let me just briefly set the stage for you. On September 30, 1919, there was a shoot-out at a small church in Hoop Spur, which is three miles north of Elaine. Black sharecroppers were having a meeting to discuss how they could improve their situation. Probably some whites, and I'm summarizing here, came out to disrupt the meeting. There was a shoot-out. Nobody knows who fired the first shot, but one white man, W. H. Adkins, was killed. After that, the blacks fled the church. Many whites believed that blacks were fighting back. Calls went up and down the delta saying there was a revolt by blacks, and mobs of from six hundred to a thousand whites came in from neighboring counties the next day. But also the next day, there were some telegrams sent to the governor's office in Little Rock asking that United States troops be brought in to put down the situation. Governor [Charles Hillman] Brough came over on a train the next day with about six hundred U.S. troops. They were armed with twelve machine guns. The troops who came over were veterans of the Second Battle of the Marne. They were stationed at Camp Pike. Since all of this occurred, things have been debated back and forth. But essentially in my view there was a massive cover-up. Evidence shows that the United States troops were involved [in the deaths of blacks]. The first piece of evidence is from Walter White, a field secretary for the national NAACP who managed to get an interview with Governor Brough. [Although White was African-American], he looked white. He pretended to be a newsman. The next day he came down on a train to Helena and talked with some individuals, particularly whites. He was advised by [black attorney] Scipio Jones not to talk with blacks for fear he might get them in trouble. …

Lutz Koepnick's essay "Forget Berlin" (GQ 74.4: 343-54) raises a number of timely and interesting questions about the ways contemporary German Studies ought to rethink its critical self-understanding and methodological concepts vis-a-vis post-reunification Berlin's quarrels with architectural space, national history, and cultural memory. If I disagree with some of his suggestions, I do so in full recognition of the persuasive significance of his call for an interdisciplinary urban studies project that, by focusing on the capital in its totality, critically investigates the multiple and contradictory ways in which globalized Berlin's staging of elaborate scenarios of visual consumption, digital images, and fragmentized space may offer either emancipatory impulses for historical transformation or turn the celebrated past into reified spectacles. For a differentiated analysis of Berlin's self representation, Koepnick rightly asserts, it is insufficient to rely on the convenient trope of Disneyfication with its idealistic jargon of authenticity; nor should the dominant focus on the new capital lead us to ignore the diversity of regional sites of cultural memory outside the metropolitan center. It is within this context, however, that Koepnick displays what I see as a rather problematic anti-hermeneutic bias. He recommends that German Studies should not only familiarize itself with urban theory and cultural geography, but "must also resist any temptation to read built space in analogy to literary texts and poetic expressions" (345). As he claims, literary hermeneutics presumably displays the desire to decode authorial intentions and fixed meanings residing in texts as stable inscriptions. Following Fredric Jameson's and Jane Kramer's remarks on contingent processes of allegorization (as opposed to the deciphering of symbolically encoded meaning) he suggests that architectural sites, by contrast, require that we view historical meaning, public history, and individual memory "as products of projection on the part of historically situated users" (346). Although Koepnick concedes that architectural space "might shape the user's sense perception," "index the past," or incorporate "symbolic references," he claims that "[i]n itself, built space signifies nothing" (346). Therefore, "we should not forget that memory does not reside in certain buildings themselves, but in how given groups of people at given moments in time perceive and make use of them" (347). Consequently, Koepnick denounces the "high-cultural emphasis on the aesthetic, on an architect's intended meanings and references," as the "mother of all problems concerning postunification urban projects and architectural memories"(352). As he summarizes his position, "Far from actualizing the past in the present, the hermeneutic overdrive of postwall architectural discourse-the frenzied search for symbolic meaning and fixed interpretation-secretly suggests that monuments can do the work of memorization for us and it thus, in the final analysis, causes memory to recede" (352). Certainly, nobody would question Koepnick's thesis that the study of a metropolitan culture like Berlin calls for an interdisciplinary approach that goes beyond an "unmediated application of literary criticism to architectural forms" (my emphasis [345]). One will also agree with Koepnick when he asserts that in order to understand the relation of buildings to history and memory, "we need to do much more than simply decode their formal organization of space" (346). But contrary to what he goes on to claim, the hermeneutic reading of buildings "like texts or artistic expressions" entails much more than such a formalistic act of decoding fixed meanings. Koepnick, it seems, construes an unnecessary opposition between hermeneutics and architectural studies, as well as between poetic narrativity and visual sites of urban representations. By so doing, his argument threatens to undermine the very possibility for a dialectical mediation between different but intersecting cultural discourses that his essay otherwise advocates. …

My brother squatted on a white blanket and laughed into the camera. That was during the war, my mother said, the last year of the war, at home. Home was the East, and my mother had been born in the East. As my mother spoke the words "at home" she began to cry, as she so often did when the subject of my brother came up. His name was Arnold, like my father's. Arnold was a happy child, said my mother, looking at the photograph. She didn't say any more, and I didn't say anything either, and looked at Arnold squatting on a white blanket and being happy. I don't know what was making him happy, it was the war after all, and besides that he was in the East, and he was still happy. I envied him his happiness, I envied him the white blanket, and I envied him his place in the photo album, too. Arnold was right at the front of the album, ahead even of my parents' wedding pictures and the portraits of the grandparents, while I was way at the back. And Arnold's picture was quite big, while most of the photos I was in were small, not to say tiny. Snapshots taken by my parents with what they called a Box Brownie, and apparently this box thing could only make little tiny photos. You had to look at the photos with me in them very carefully to recognize anything at all. For example, one of these tiny snapshots was of a pool with several children in it, and one of them was me. All you could see of me was my head, because I didn't know how to swim then, and I was sitting in the water, which came up almost to my chin. And my head was partly hidden, by a child standing in the water in front of me, so that the minuscule photo with me in it only showed part of my head right above the surface of the water. And what's more there was a shadow on the visible part of my head which was probably made by the child standing in front of me, so that the only bit of me you could really see was my right eye. While my brother Arnold looked not just happy but important even when he was a baby, in most of the photos from my childhood I am either only partly visible or sometimes not really visible at all. One of the times I was not really visible at all was in the photo of my christening. My mother held a white cushion on her arm, with a white coverlet over it. Under the coverlet was me, which you could tell because it had been pushed aside at the bottom of the cushion and the toes of a baby foot were peeking out. All subsequent photos taken of me in my childhood continued this tradition, one way or the other, except that in later photos the foot was replaced by a right arm, or half a profile, or an eye, as in the picture from the swimming pool. I would have accepted my truncated self in the family album, if my mother hadn't made a habit of reaching for the album to show me the pictures in it. Every time, the little tiny Box Brownie photos that showed me or rather various parts of me were leafed through hastily, while the photo of Arnold, which seemed lifesize to me, was the object of endless contemplation. As a result I usually sat next to my mother on the sofa looking as miserable as I felt, and staring at cheerful and un-miserable Arnold, as my mother got more and more upset. I was still a small child when I became accustomed to my mother's tears, and I didn't spend any time wondering why Arnold's face made her cry so often. And the fact that although Arnold was my brother, I had never seen him in the flesh, didn't bother me in those first years, particularly because I was quite happy not having to share my room with him. At some point my mother explained what had happened to Arnold, inasmuch as she told me he had starved to death during their flight from the Russians. "Starved," said my mother, "starved in my arms.' Because she herself had been more or less starving during the long trek from the East to the West, and she had no milk to feed the baby, and nothing else besides. When I asked if nobody else had had milk for the baby either, she said nothing, nor did she answer all my other, more detailed questions about the flight and my brother starving. …

Christine has been living in New York ever since she came to the U.S. illegally from East Germany in the mid- 1980s and is working in a small theater. In the mid-1990s, when she runs into Leah, a West German photographer, she pretends to be an American by birth. But Leah finds out who she really is, and after tracking her down manages to break into the theater. -AS In the morning, shortly before seven, when it's still quiet and the cleaning woman is the only one she meets in the hall, Christine goes up to her office to plan her day. The cleaning woman nods with every step she takes, flapping her hands back and forth to dry them off. Every morning the soles of her blue sneakers squeak along the polished floor. Then, firmly holding on to her pail and scrubbing brush, she disappears, and Christine takes the key off the board. In the beginning, she used to sleep in the theater, in a dress that felt rough and heavy on her skin. During the day it hung in the huge closet on the other side of the room, where now only files are kept, files and a few pencil stubs. Jeff sharpens them till they're down to a fraction of a centimeter so he won't have to buy new ones. Jeff, the smell of wood, and the squeaking rubber soles on the linoleum floor: these are more familiar to her than anything else in the world. She feels like an old woman and suddenly realizes why there are never any young people involved in the theater. Stage characters are either children or old people, never young people. One can't afford to wait around. Only children know that, and old people. They live one day at a time. Christine closes the closet door, which had come open during the night. The room is already filled with glaring light that promises a hot day. There was a time when this would have bothered her. The blind is lowered halfway, and she stands there a while, gazing out at the empty street. Somewhere in the house she hears footsteps; the sound is muffled and far away, as though coming through glass. These are not the footsteps of the cleaning woman. They're determined, marked by brief pauses, sometimes barely audible, and then suddenly very loud as though they were right outside her door. It could be one of the actors. But it's too early; rehearsals don't start till eight. Nobody walks around in the house this early. As she always does, Christine had closed the front door behind her and checked to make sure it was locked before taking the key out of the lock. No one could have followed her in. Maybe there's a faucet dripping somewhere. The file binders on her desk are a mess; one is tipped over. Christine picks it up, leafs through some pages, and puts it back, in line with the others. Jeff has not touched them for years. It's the deficits that make him do it now. The increasingly bad runs of the productions. He isn't one to rummage through the files and, as back then, she won't mention it to him, even though this time it's disquieting. She can still hear the footsteps, irregular but persistent. A dull pounding. She listens for a while, can't figure out where they're coming from. They seem to be everywhere; on the stairs, in the hall, and inside her, in the rhythm of her heart, but that sounds the way it always does, even though without coffee it seems to be beating more slowly. The footsteps are outside on the stairs in her head; they run from one side of her head to the other, tapping, clacking against her forehead from within. Steps made by the broad square heels on a woman's shoes. Shoes that don't go with elegant stockings. Christine stands there, motionless. Down on the street someone is fussing around with the garbage cans in front of O'Heave's store. Maybe the footsteps are those of the person on the street, even though the window is closed and only very loud and high-pitched noises can penetrate it. Outside it's midsummer; the heat has shriveled the leaves on the trees; the office hardly cools off overnight. …

The Kyoto Protocol should not be a parti san issue. The percentage reduction of greenhouse-gas emissions to which the United States committed itself by signing the 1997 Protocol to the 1992 UN Frame work Convention on Climate Change was probably unachievable when the protocol was adopted. The protocol then languished in Washington for the final three years of the Clinton administration, which chose not to present it to the Senate for ratification. In accordance with a Senate resolution calling for the fitl par ticipation of the main developing countries in the protocol's emissions-cutting require ments, that pause was supposed to allow time for negotiation to bring those coun tries on board. But nobody thought any such negotiation could produce results, and no negotiation was ever attempted. George W. Bush, succeeding to the presidency three years after the protocol's signing, had some choices and may not have made the best choice when he rejected the plan outright last year. But the one option he did not have was to submit the protocol to the Senate for ratification. The U.S. "commitment" to the protocol meant cutting emissions significantly below their 1990 level by 2olo-which required a 25 or 30 percent reduction in projected emissions levels. Such a cut was almost certainly infeasible when the Clinton administration signed the protocol in 1997. Three years later, with no action toward reducing emissions, no evidence of any planning on how to reduce emis sions, and no attempt to inform the public or Congress about what might be required to meet that commitment, what might barely have been possible to achieve over 15 years-1997 to 2012-had become unreasonable. The Senate will not confirm a treaty unless it knows what actions the "commitment" entails, and no president could answer that question without a year's preparation. No such preparation appears to have been done in the Clinton administration. Bush, in stat ing that he would not submit the treaty to the Senate, at least avoided hypocrisy. In declining to support the Kyoto Protocol, Bush outlined three concerns regarding any future greenhouse-gas

Throughout the Suharto era, political scientists found Latin American corporatist models of the all-pervasive state among their most useful tools. But the Maluku conflict forces us to reexamine these long-held convictions about the Indonesian state and its relations with society. Today nobody talks corporatism, and observers are looking for other heuristic aids to help explain violence in Indonesia. Perhaps we should be looking at Africa's failed states. According to a comprehensive study of communal conflict around the world conducted by Ted Gurr and his colleagues, 42 percent of sub-Saharan Africans belong to a politicized communal group. Their leaders manipulate ethnicity not in order to break away from the state but to grab a bigger share of state power for themselves. Gurr labels this kind of conflict the "communal contenders" conflict.2

No one can interrogate poets about what they say, and most often when they are introduced into the discussion some say the poet's meaning is one thing and some another, for the topic is one on which nobody can produce a conclusive argument. - Plato, Protagorus From Politics to Aesthetics No issue more wracked the consciousness of late nineteenth-century and finde-siecle Europe, and Germany in particular, than the crisis of liberalism. It was a crisis fueled by a generational shift from institutional to cultural concerns, from the foundation of a unified state and the establishment of its institutional structures and practices to a fear of the cultural consequences that such institutionalization of political and social life would bear. Feelings of fear and revulsion toward liberal institutions found their most remarkable expression in the powerfully and enormously influential voice of Friedrich Nietzsche, whose virulently anti-democratic and especially anti-liberal rhetoric came to define the sentiments of two generations to come. Liberalism, he insisted, was an oxymoron. For liberals believed not in liberty and liberation but in its static, statist structures that actually constricted the possibility of freedom rather than expanding it: Die liberalen Institutionen horen alsbald auf, liberal zu sein, sobald sie erreicht sind: es giebt spater keine argeren and grundlicheren Schadiger der Freiheit, als liberate Institutionen. Man weiss ja, was sie zu Wege bringen: sie unterminiren den Willen zur Macht, sie sind die zur Moral erhobene Nivellirung von Berg and Tal, sie machen klein, feige and genisslich, - mit ihnen triumphirtjedesmal das Heerdenthier. Liberalismus: auf deutsch Heerden-Verthierung ... 1 For Nietzsche, then, it is in the process of striving for liberty that liberalization properly occurs, not in the apparently stultified institutions that routinize and normalize the forms of action formerly marked by spontaneity, collectivist struggle for emancipation, and the instinctual drive toward self-revelation in concert and conflict with others. Of course, such rhetoric is no less hostile to the conformity of pre-modern and pre-liberal politics than to liberalism itself. The generation-and-a-half of Germans from the cultural critics of the 1890s, to what Robert Wohl has called the "generation of 1914," were not disputing that the new regime was prompted by objectively transformed social and economic conditions.2 Nor did they argue that they offered too little or too much liberty.3 These dissidents believed rather that liberalism qualitatively conceived of liberty in an altogether abject and distorted way. Thus, the pervasive disillusionment with the institutionally defined political order, ever more hegemonic with the rise of mass society, industrialization, and state control, overlapped all too neatly with the emergence of a powerful Nietzsche legacy in Germany, fed in sometimes subtle, sometimes crass ways, by the rebellion against what Max Nordau-borrowing Nietzsche's own term-labeled the "fin-de-siecle:" the age of "Entartung."4 In the norms, rules, complex systems of economic regulation, and Wilhelmine cultural mores (in Nietzsche's parlance), "life" had been lost. The forms of self-expression unmediated by normative strictures; the modes of political and social life based on substantive relations rather than the weak, formal ties of institutionalized politics; the vitality of moral decision in the battle for values and ideals as opposed to the passive acceptance of a static, naturalized ethos of behavioral conformity: all of this was putatively choked off by a life-less, mechanistic understanding of political and social life in Wilhelmine Germany.5 Even at the other end of the Wilhelmine era, in 1919, Max Weber was still echoing the sentiment of a lost political immediacy. In a crowded Munich lecture hall shortly before his untimely death, he famously declared: Es ist das Schicksal unserer Zeit, mit der ihr eigenen Rationalisierung and Intellektualisierung, vor allem: Entzauberung der Welt, dass gerade die letzten and sublimsten Werte zurilckgetreten sind aus der Offentlichkeit, entweder in das hinterweltliche Reich mystischen Lebens oder in die Bruderlichkeit unmittelbarer Beziehungen der Einzelnen zueinander. …

There are heroes in this world: they are called district attorneys. They don't get to have clients, people who smile at them at the end of the trial, who look them in the eye and say "thank you." Nobody is there to appreciate the district attorneys, because we work for the state, and our gratitude comes only from knowing there is a tide out there, a tide the size of a tsunami, coming out of a bottomless cesspool, a tide, which, left unchecked, will rob every American of his freedom. A tide which strips individuals of the privilege of being able to walk down a dark street, or take $20 out of an ATM machine without the fear of being mugged. All Congress does is talk, but it is the district attorney who grabs his sword, who digs into the trenches and fights the fight, who dogs justice day after day after day, without thanks, without so much as a simple pat on the back, but we do, we do it, we do it because we are the crusaders, the last frontier of American justice, knowing that if a man cannot feel safe, he can never, never feel free.'

Martin Guggenheim's book review of Nobody's Children affirms his faith in family preservation and, not surprisingly, condemns my book, which he describes as "an unprecedented and extremely radical critique of child welfare practice." 1 Unfortunately, Guggenheim's hostility to my basic message apparently blinded him to what the book actually says in spelling out that message. The result is a review that grossly mischaracterizes and distorts my positions. This response addresses only what I see as some of the most significantly misleading aspects of Guggenheim's review, to clarify in brief the positions I actually take in Nobody's Children. I do not try to correct all or even most of his misstatements, nor do I engage in a debate on the merits. Instead, I encourage readers interested in the issues to read the book for themselves and then to decide what they think. POVERTY, FAMILY SUPPORT, AND FAMILY PRESERVATION Professor Guggenheim merges and thereby fundamentally confuses what I have to say about three different kinds of programs that might usefully address problems of child maltreatment: general social reform programs directed at poverty and at social injustice, early-intervention family support programs, and late-stage family preservation programs. Like Guggenheim, I believe that poverty and social injustice are the root causes of most child maltreatment, and that fundamental social and economic reform would be the most effective approach to child maltreatment prevention. Like Guggenheim, I also believe that earlystage intervention programs designed to support at-risk parents and to help them avoid the problems that spawn child maltreatment are important. Unlike Guggenheim, however, I am critical of many aspects of the late-stage family preservation programs that work to keep chil

ariner's signal flags in the Berlin streets announced the opening in June 1999 of the city's three-week Theater der Welt festival. Berlin, as the designated capital awaited the move of the federal government, was rather a stormy sea than a safe haven for theatre. The hosting of Germany's international theatre festival for the first time coincided with the final move of ministers and their armies of bureaucrats from Bonn to Berlin. Although the socalled Berlin Republic will partly be defined by its cultural aura, perhaps even invoking the status Berlin had in the 1920s, nobody dares to say if all this implies a return to the rigid centralization of cultural life of that earlier era. That Theater der Welt, a biennial or triennial festival which has moved from city to city since its inception in Hamburg in 1979, took place in the new capital is, of course, a sign of Berlin's growing importance in the life of the country.

South Bend, Indiana, 7 May 2000 W. MARTIN: In your two line poem "Grammar," you write: "What was, one should speak of in the past tense, / what isn't in some other tongue." The second line strikes me as somewhat utopian. I'm wondering how you became interested in English and English-language poetry and what has motivated your ongoing engagement with it. In particular, is there something like a utopian component to your interest in English-language poetry? PIOTR SOMMER: Well yes, I think there may be one. There is an element of that utopian longing or whatever one longs for when dealing with writing and when one writes. But I can only try to say a few words about it, reconstructing, as I remember it, how it was. It was still very much a time when no one knew much about American poetry or about the British scene, which at the time seemed to include the Irish scene, too. I had begun writing in high school, and went on to university to study English literature by some accident, I used to think, but who knows. I learned the language a bit in high school, and I was interested in literature, so I think I was intuitively hoping that I would learn something there that I wasn't getting, or wasn't hoping to get, from my own Polish background, although I wasn't aware of this yet. The "foreign" was always intriguing to me. And since in the twentieth century Polish literature was dominated by French poetry, in terms of translations, studying English literature sounded, I gu ess, to a guy of seventeen, eighteen, like a cool thing to do. Also, that was a time when we were getting a lot of the pop scene from Britain. So for that reason, too, it was an absolutely natural thing for me to do. Even though, again, I think I had an intuition that I'm going to really, well, profit somehow from English literature, as a writer, from knowing about it, especially when I started finding stuff, bits and pieces. I remember my first English-language book of contemporary poetry: a Penguin Modern Poets series book, The Mersey Sound, which was an introduction to the Liverpool group: Brian Patten, Roger McGough, Adrian Henri. I got it from an instructor who came from England to teach a semester at the University of Warsaw when I was eighteen or nineteen. So I knew at that point that they were doing something interesting that I knew nothing about, and it seemed like nobody else in Poland did either. I later cured myself a little of the Liverpool connection, although I translated a children's book by B rian Patten once, when my son was still very young, which I have always liked and still feel pretty good about. But that's probably what got me into the British scene at the beginning, while I was discovering that it wasn't just the pop scene that was interesting. And I started looking into other anthologies and texts, which were actually very difficult to get and use, back then. WM: Who else were you reading then, besides the Liverpool poets? PS: I was full of awe and admiration for Rozewicz, Bialoszewski, and Herbert. Rozewicz was my first great inspiration while I was still in high school. But he was in the textbooks, so in a way it wasn't difficult to "discover" him, and I probably needed discoveries. Then I read all I could get hold of by Miron Bialoszewski, who I discovered through his Diary of the Warsaw Uprising, a book with a somewhat misleading title, suggesting perhaps a boring book about history. And Herbert, who was such a wonderful poet to read, back in those days. All that was quite a discovery. But Bialoszewski very quickly emerged, surfaced for me as the most exciting and most intriguing Polish writer of what now would be the second half of the century. And as for the forefathers who sounded exotic and exciting in a contemporary way, I always loved Kochanowski and Lesmian. And I read plenty of others, so it was a kind of mixture. And I must have slowly come to realize that what I wanted was to escape the postromantic overtones and solemnities which to me sounded rather loud in a lot of Polish writing -- with a few exceptions that I then knew about, like Bialoszewski and, say, Andrzej Bursa. …

Today's episode will feature six dances, five embraces, nine kisses (thirty-three percent of them furtive), five coffee shop scenes and as many in the night club, two car chases, four close-calls of various sorts, one case of amnesia and two fatal car accidents. Each accident involves twins in some fashion, the more serious of the two because it takes place on the new tollroad at seventy-plus miles per hour between a pair of twin brothers, the additional cruel irony here being that the twins' father was both the mastermind and driving force behind the pro-tollroad campaign that convinced the electorate to pass the referendum that issued the municipal bonds that funded the contractors that hired the subcontractors that paid the construction crew that built the tollroad that resulted in the fiery, wee-hours-of-the-- morning deaths of his beloved twin boys, Cable and Cord. The other accident on today's episode is between a man and a woman who each have twins themselves but luckily are not accompanied by their twins today. Someone has to be there to grieve. The case of amnesia is also notable for involving twins, though this is a case of a woman forgetting that she has a twin, but then she forgets everything, so that stands to reason. On today's episode expect three corporate takeovers (two will fail, the third will succeed but at a great, unforeseen price). On today's episode a mansion will go up in flames, and the new butler whom nobody had a complaint in the world about and some even found kind of, well, cute-for a butler, I mean-will turn out to be well-versed in all the necessary evacuation techniques. Best of all he will know CPR! Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is not unlikely! Everyone in the mansion, the whole extended-family lot of them, will be spared. But their possessions! Their clothes! Their priceless collection of Ming silverware and Ping wall-coverings and Sing knickknacks will be lost to the fire. What sick person set this fire (because of course it is arson, we can expect that much from today's plot)? Who? Who? unfortunately is not a question to be answered today. But back to the plot, and the butler. In addition to his fire-fighting acumen (on this score we can expect to see him posed shirtless fighting the fire with a garden hose taken out of the startled hands of the gardener, "Juan Luis," of whom more later) we will also learn that the butler is someone from the past. He is in other words the "butler" and not the butler. The "butler" is not the butler we think he is. Neither is the in-house nurse at the other mansion in this affluent community on Long Island, New York, New York, New York a certified in-house nurse. This family living in this second mansion also employs "Juan Luis," a gardener and all-purpose groundskeeper and general observer of all bad things that pass. Also employed here is "Carmen," the housekeeper. Carmen we know is really Kimberly, the youngest daughter of the family, and one thought to have disappeared under, shall we say, inappropriate circumstances. Remember the scandal of discovered drugs, a period of yelling, the pictures (never shown) of her naked in a skin magazine called Skin, another period of yelling, the rash of neighborhood burglaries up and down the street all pointing back to this mansion and Kimberly's upstairs bedroom, the equally suspicious and attention-raising string of high-priced sales of Ming silverware, some of it actually counterfeit Mings, on Ebay, the Internet auction community, yet another period of yelling, and how she was last seen in the company of a "rodeo clown" transporting what we thought was a truckload of "hoof and tail shampoo many friends swear makes a good hand cream for humans" that in fact turned out to be an illegal arms shipment? Remember that? Now she is back in the mansion as "Carmen," waiting for the right moment to reveal herself to her family, testify to her reformed ways and new, righteously substance-free, lifestyle, and then fall into a joyous hugging mess of them. …

Huddie Ledbetter, better known as Leadbelly, was arguably the most famous African-American folk singer in U.S. history. (1) Born in 1889 in Caddo Parish, Louisiana (near Shreveport), Leadbelly grew up in an almost entirely black world at the beginning of the decade when the most virulent Jim Crow laws were passed across the United States. His life and music mediated between Reconstruction and post-industrial America; he grew up on a small farm owned by his sharecropping parents, rode horses, and carried a pistol but ended up living in Greenwich Village at the dawn of the modern Civil Rights movement. He died in 1949, just before Joseph McCarthy's Communist witch-hunts traumatized and bedeviled the United States. Leadbelly sang spirituals born in the antebellum South, played country dance tunes on the accordion, chanted the work songs that helped pass the time in cotton fields, and learned and contributed to the newly emerging blues tradition. He shared these genres with all of America, and for many white Americans, he was their first direct link with southern rural black musical culture. Leadbelly also shared a number of specific songs, such as "Goodnight, Irene" and "Midnight Special," with many icons of American music, including Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Burl Ives. But very early in his career, long before he left the South, Leadbelly met and shared his musical knowledge with Blind Lemon Jefferson. Becoming a Man In the years immediately before he met Blind Lemon Jefferson, Huddie Ledbetter picked cotton and undertook arduous farm work in the fields of northwest Louisiana and neighboring Harrison County, Texas. As his musicianship improved, he increasingly found work playing for dances. His self-confidence and brashness grew, and his skills with the guitar could not be matched by many of the local players. During the first decade of the twentieth century, not only did Ledbetter's musical skills expand but so did his worldview. He survived a life-threatening illness and briefly attended a school operated by Bishop College in nearby Marshall, Texas, before his wanderlust took him further away from home. Perhaps more important, he got married. On July 18, 1908, a marriage license was issued in Kaufman County, some thirty miles east of Dallas and one hundred miles west of Marshall, near the home of one of Ledbetter's uncles. The marriage was between "Juda" Ledbetter (an interesting, Hispanic misinterpretation of Huddie) and Miss Aletta Henderson. Most people remember Aletta's name as Aletha or simply Lethe, but nobody seems to recall how she and Huddie met. It was most likely during his ramblings between Dallas and his Harrison County home. The 1910 census records show the couple living back in Harrison County with the rest of the Lebetter clan. Huddie is described as a "farmer," while Lethe was counted as a "farm laborer." There were no children yet, but Lethe seemed to be making some progress in stabilizing Huddie's life. This included a brief association with the Baptist church. All of his life, Huddie Ledbetter had watched with a certain detachment as members of his mother's church would "get religion" and "go to shouting." Now he himself got caught up in the excitement, receiving the spirit. Although the lure of the sukey jumps and dances diminished, it did not go away entirely. Shortly after joining the church, he went down to Leigh, Texas, where he had often played dances. "The people, all of `em merchants, asked me about my guitar, and I wouldn't know what to do about it," he remembered. "They asked me `Say Huddie, where's your guitar?' I say, `I done joined the church now.' ... So I got to thinking about my guitar [and] next Saturday I went out to Leigh, Texas, with me riding horse, had my guitar sitting on my leg, and I went back and started playing the guitar and entertaining and picking up a little change. And so I been entertaining ever since. I didn't go back to church" (Cohn n. …

Apartheid was good for no one, but there was nobody it was worse for than African women. This was especially true with regard to housing. South Africa's vast collection of policies and regulations governing who could live in which areas under what conditions imposed more hardships upon African women than on any other group. Whether in rural African villages, white farms, or cities, they found themselves disadvantaged by discriminatory laws based on race and restricted because of their gender. Both legal and social structures assumed and demanded female dependence on men for housing and support. African women had few options and little autonomy in deciding where and how to live.

As with any other group, musicians tell stories and jokes to one another based upon their specialized knowledge and experience. In recent years there has been a joke cycle among musicians pertaining to the viola. The viola is a member of the of the string section of an orchestra-a slightly larger and deeper-sounding cousin of the violin which plays the alto or middle-range voice. Being a violist myself, as well as an ethnomusicologist trained in folklore, I paid particular attention to the telling of viola jokes. During a three-year period in the early 1990s, I personally collected more than fifty examples. The viola joke cycle offers an opportunity to study the function of telling jokes within a specialized community and also the dynamics of the joke cycle itself. What brings about the birth of a joke cycle? What brings about its demise? How do these jokes function in their specific context? What can be learned by comparing viola jokes with those about other musicians? Viola jokes are typically jokes of disparagement, similar in structure and content to ethnic, political, "dumb blonde," `Jewish American Princess" or lawyer jokes. Indeed many viola jokes are variants of other jokes of disparagement, with the viola as the subject. In order to organize my collection of viola jokes, I arranged them into six different categories, which are not necessarily mutually exclusive: 1. Jokes disparaging the viola itself. 2. Jokes disparaging viola players. 3. Jokes which offer a general disparagement, which can be easily understood outside musical circles. 4. Jokes which may only be understood among musicians. 5. Reverse jokes which get revenge on musicians telling viola jokes. Most of the viola jokes in these first five categories are in the form of a riddle, a short question and answer, so I added a sixth category which I call "Narrative viola jokes." 1. Jokes disparaging the viola itself: Q. What is the difference between a viola and a trampoline? A. You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline. Q. What is the difference between a viola and a vacuum? A. The vacuum has a better tone. Q. How is a viola different from a lawnmower? A. You can tune a lawnmower. Q. What is another difference between a viola and a lawnmower? A. A lawnmower vibrates. Q. Why isn't a viola like a lawnmower? A. Nobody minds if you borrow their viola. Q. How is a viola different that an onion? A. No one cries when you cut up a viola. Q. If you drop a viola and a bass tuba from the top floor of a building, which one hits the ground first? A. Who cares? Q. What is the difference between a viola and a violin? A. A viola burns longer. (+bassoon/oboe ... variants) Q. Why does a viola burn longer than a cello? A. The viola is always in its case. Q. What is another difference between a viola and a violin? A. A viola holds more beer. Q. How is a viola like a jury trial? [or lawyer's brief] A. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when the case is closed. Collected in Finland: (approximate English translation): Q. What is the difference between a viola and a condom? A. Both are perfectly fine for the purpose for which they were intended, but life would be a whole lot fanner without them. 2. Jokes disparaging violists: Q. You are lost in the forest You come upon a good violist, a bad violist and a nine-foot white rabbit. Of which of the three do you ask directions? A. The bad violist. The other two are figments of your imagination. Q What is the difference between a viola and a coffin? A. The coffin has the dead person on the inside. Q. Why do most people take an instant dislike to violists? A. Saves time. Q. What do violists use for birth control? A. …

Not since she arrived, an adopted cousin, small and forlorn, in the great house, has any child but Fanny herself penetrated the white-- painted attic where she sleeps. All we are told of the attic is that it is painted white. For years we are not told, either, anything about the lower room where eventually Fanny sits, the old schoolroom, which she will make a place of her own. Fanny takes refuge in her attic room on certain occasions, or so we may assume. As a small child from a fallen branch of the family, at first she is timid; everything in the house is big, anything might hurt her; so she creeps up to the attic, to cry. The maids have sneered at her clothes. Then as Fanny grows up we notice that her part as an outsider becomes even more painful: like all the other children, all the people in the house, she has to exist up-front, uniquely and conspicuously as member of a family. For fifteen chapters her actual refuge cannot be revealed-like everyone else she is exposed. Her exposure, to talk, to commands, to the activities and exigencies of a chattering collective. allows her no refuge, except in her silences. A white silence, a moral attic, Fanny's moon. While she is growing up a bit more, she is usually seen to be at her "work" in the drawing room, under the eye of her other aunt, frumpish Mrs. Norris. Her work must be knitting, or embroidering, or crochet-work; perhaps she darns socks. But on some occasions she is seen in the open air, on horseback, or admiring the shrubbery. At Sotherton she is dutifully waiting, alone, at an iron gate, which is locked. Open air and exercise flush her cheeks, as does dancing. Fanny loves to see vegetation flourish. Something in her is building up, a strength, a range of sympathies. Yet if she were told of a force deep in earth so blind, so stupefying that, when it became manifest, it would have to be a creature so huge and gnarled that its eyelids dragged along the ground, that it would need help to raise them and then, when it saw, it would see what people do not see, still she would answer: "Do you say so, Sir?" Now that all five children have grown out of the schoolroom, Fanny has adopted it. She makes it her own establishment (says Edmund). Soon after her arrival in the house, the other children had bestowed on her some of their "least valued toys." Perhaps those toys still console her, along with more recent acquisitions. She has one or two cast-off chairs (they have "suffered the ill-usage of children"); also she has been eagerly collecting books. Fanny tends various potted plants and cherishes a faded footstool. And here on the wall are some unwanted family profiles. Here too is a sketch, by her brother William, now a sailor, of HMS Antwerp, in the Mediterranean. The letters of the name are as tall as the mainmast. In three lower windowpanes, three transparencies: they are there to come to life whenever light might shine through the glass. Even when dark days gather round the house, Tintern Abbey is to be seen, a "moonlight lake in Cumberland," and between those images a cave in Italy. So there must be poems by Wordsworth among Fanny's books. Does nobody else in the house care to read? Edmund has just come into the room. He notices that Fanny was leaning over a huge volume about China, and he notices a book by the homely Suffolk poet Crabbe, also a copy of The Idler. (But all this, like the cave in Italy, is recessed in the narrative; the spotlight moves elsewhere.) Now, for the first time, Edmund attends to Fanny's good sense in her own space. Hitherto he has attended to it, yes, but elsewhere. Out of her baffled silences Fanny has stepped. The openings on the larger world are here, in her room, while up the stairs her attic remains closed and white. Yet in neither room is there a fire. Another volume has to pass before, early in the day, Sir Thomas comes to plead with Fanny, already eighteen. She is seated on a sofa, a shawl round her shoulders. …

Evanston, Illinois 18 July 2000 W. MARTIN: There are rumors that you are also a poet. Is this true? And do you consider translation to be a creative practice? CLARE CAVANAGH: Yes, and I'm not a poet. I'm a former poet. I feel like translating is the right place for me, rather than my own poetry. I think it is a creative enterprise in a different way than being a poet is. The way I think of it is more like being an actor or a musician, where somebody else composed the lines for you, the music for you. You feel like you've got the one interpretation, but of course, if it's a work of art at all worth looking at it's worth looking at more than once, in the same way a great work of music can have five different interpretations that can be quite at odds with each other. But I still pretend that I'm doing the definitive one, you know. But that's what I think it's like. WM: You've written one book on Eastern European poetry and you're currently working on another about poetry and politics. Could you talk a little about that? CC: Sure. My first book was on Osip Mandelstam,' it was exclusively on Russian poetry, which is technically my field, but I've gone off on a deviation that's taken over my life. The second book' reflects more of where I actually am in terms of my day-to-day work. It's sort-of half-Russian, half-Polish, and half-Anglo-American- it's got too many halves. It's a series of case studies on the relationship between the Romantic tradition of the poetic bard and twentieth century Eastern European politics, specifically with the totalitarian, or the Soviet, landscape, and what that does to the tradition of the poetic bard. So the first half deals with Russia from around 1905, what some historians consider the beginning of the Russian revolution, the failed uprising of 1905, and I start with Blok and Yeats, who are working on how the poet-prophet places himself in relation to national upheaval in interestingly comparable ways, even though politically they're at opposite ends of the spectrum. And then I have a chapter on Whitman and Mayakovsky. There was a huge cult of Whitman in Eastern Europe, and Mayakovsky clearly saw himself in competition with Whitman and was trying to create himself as a kind of bard. And then a chapter called "The Death of the Book a la russe" that's challenging post-Structuralist and post-Derridean ideas about writing based on an Eastern European model in which writing itself became an endangered model, or an impossible model, for the poet. The Derridean idea of orality is based on a Western, bourgeois model in which you have means of printing on hand all the time and nobody is shutting down the presses on a regular basis, let alone shooting you for running the press, or putting you in jail. In Stalinist Russia the cult of the oral poem, the spoken poem, became this dominant model, where people like Mandelstam and Akhmatova were composing poems that either were not written down at all or written down and destroyed. Mandelstam was sent to a camp for a poem he never wrote down; he wrote it down for the first time under interrogation. He recited it to a group of friends, and it got to Stalin that way. So he was demonstrating the power of the oral voice in a country in which speech was regulated beyond all comprehension. And then Akhmatova wrote her "Requiem" as part of her genre of "Poems for the Ashtray" -poems that she would write, memorize, have a group of friends commit to memory, and then bum. So, what I'm trying to do is challenge a lot of Western notions of poetry, language, politics, and so forth, because none of them fit the Eastern European model. I have another chapter on Pound, Mandelstam, and Khlebnikov, on ideas of the poet as legislator and the poet as "master-builder." And then I switch over to Poland after the importation of Soviet rule, late forties, early fifties. I have a chapter on the cult of Mayakovsky in Poland-which poets took up willingly, they didn't have crammed down their throats, right after World War II. …

Sprengel, Peter. Von Luther zu Bismarck: Kulturkampf and rationale Identitat bei Theodor Fontane, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer and Gerhart Hauptmann. Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 1999. 119pp. DM 34.00. Von Luther zu Bismarck proceeds from two unremarkable, but nevertheless important premises, first, that we know too little about the evolution and content of German identity, both in the Wilhelmine era and afterwards and, second, that we can learn useful things about Germany by reading "the nation's" literature. Our lack of detailed knowledge about the nation before Bismarck is no less striking, but this is a book of more paradigmatic than global ambitions. Its information illustrates where others would try to define. Nobody should fault a work's limited scope, especially if the undertaking provides a useful model for further research and synthesis, and Sprengel hints at inferences that one could make from his small sample. At one level he convincingly brings together three authors not normally considered members of a single category: Theodor Fontane, the skeptical Prussian realist, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, a Swiss writer of pan-Germanic ideals, and Gerhart Hauptmann, the supposedly humanistic representative of naturalism. At another level, while providing close readings of selected texts, Sprengel seems to be more interested in showing how literary history can shed light on political issues. Although the book concentrates on three authors' persistent use of motifs from the Kulturkampf, long after anti-Catholicism had ceased to matter to Bismarck, Sprengel apparently wants to argue that we would learn more about the questions that trouble a society by reading novels, poems, and plays than by studying an era's newspapers or its political history. What the pope did and stood for may have stopped troubling politicians after 1880, but, according to Sprengel's reading of the literary record, Luther and the papacy structured debate over what it meant to be German until well into the twentieth century. Again, the thesis sounds plausible, but even the most obvious proposition demands both a careful marshaling of evidence and a clear line of reasoning. Sprengel's shortcomings lie in arguments he refuses to make explicit and in conclusions he neglects to draw. This short book's two chapters might have formed the core of something larger, but they fail to measure up to the demands Sprengel implicitly places on them. The book starts well enough with a brief introduction devoted to explaining what Sprengel calls the "Legitimationsdefizit" (9) in imperial Germany, and he attempts to give his account current interest by linking the Kulturkampf to a present-day German bureaucracy's inability to deal with a Muslim teacher whose head scarf brought more than private beliefs into the classroom. …

I am an invisible man. (Ellison 1986, 17) And it's tough to see a man go to the rack and almost starve and die. --Blind Lemon Jefferson ("Tin Cup Blues," 1929) I can't see ya, but I can smell ya! --Blind Lemon Jefferson (quoted in James [1997, 14]) Because of his strong artistic influence and commercial impact on the newborn country blues race-records field, Blind Lemon Jefferson has often been considered by music critics as an archetypal figure. If it is true that "the blues are the true facts of life expressed in words and song, inspiration, feeling and understanding"--as bluesman Willie Dixon remarked (Dixon and Snowden 1989, 2)--then nobody better than Jefferson depicted African-American life in the 1920s South. After working as an itinerant street musician for more than ten years, he began an extremely successful recording career, which lasted from 1926 to 1929 and resulted in a total of 110 sides (including all his alternate takes), of which seven were not issued and six are not yet available in any format. (1) His compositions reflect a strong and complex personality expressing, in an ironic, humorous, sad, yet never contradictory and self-pitying manner, his own way of understanding existence. The purpose of this study is to reassert Jefferson's relevance as an artist through an examination of his lyrics and to show that the language he used is not casual, derivative, or negligible. A more-or-less cryptic message is present in each of his compositions, and such a message, in turn, represents a clear reflection of one of the most extensive, heterogeneous, and at the same time closely knit bodies of blues lyrics handed down to us. The tightly interconnected nature of his texts constitutes such an extremely variegated range of themes--either drawn from tradition and shaped into something new and vital or, especially in the latter part of his recording career, stemming directly from his textual creative power--that it is impossible to delve thoroughly into all of them here. However, unlike previous studies of Blind Lemon Jefferson's lyrics, this study's challenge is to outline the development of this bluesman's lyrical artistry and imagery by examining his poignant songs from a broader perspective. Jefferson's seemingly primitive and thoughtless approach to blues lyric composition turns out to be, in a more detailed analysis, the result of a careful--albeit instinctual--choice of the most suitable words to convey the deepest meanings and feelings. Blindness on Blindness In the past few years, researchers have focused their efforts on recovering biographical information on Jefferson. Such activity has been fundamental for preserving the memory of a musician who died over seventy years ago, but it may also have contributed to Jefferson's progressively lower degree of visibility in the pre-war blues panorama, from a critical point of view. Nevertheless, Jefferson's linguistic creative power has always been apparent since the first insightful pieces of criticism that blues scholars produced beginning at the end of the 1950s. To name just the most outstanding and relevant to this subject matter, there are the first pioneering acknowledgments of Jefferson's stature as a man and poet (Oliver [1959] 1988, 64-70; Charters 1959, 57-72; Charters [1967] 1991, 175-189); the first anthologized transcriptions of whole texts (Sackheim 1969, 72-91, 457-458), followed by a more complete serialized collection (Groom 1967-71, 1974; Groom 1970), amended--although not always enhanced--in successive stages (Taft 1983, 124-137; Macleod 1988, 65; Macleod 1992, 31-33, 379-397; Macleod 1994, 153-187); the hermeneutic, as well as statistical, study on the evolution of Jefferson's lyricism from a mainly traditional to a progressively more cohesive thematicism (Evans 1987, 75-81; Evans 1999, 1:607-609); and the meticulous attempt at assembling the pieces of Jefferson's biographical mysteries with a view to interpreting his songs (Govenar 1991; Govenar and Brakefield 1998, 61-79; Swinton 1997). …

One by one the four children, having climbed the wooden stair, appear in early light, clothed who knows how, on the deck of HMS Tremendous. One after the other, they yawn; then they stretch out their arms. Up and out go their arms, as if they were sending telegrams by semaphore. The amaranthine dawn of the Adriatic welcomes the children, their names are imprinted on the salt air: Achille, Letitia, Lucien, Louise. Their father is hiding in a cave behind Toulon; a farmer comes crunching up the mountain trail to the mouth of the cave: I have a place for you in my chicken house, nobody will find you there. The father follows the farmer and accomodates himself in the chicken house. Cluck. Having ferreted about in some straw, he can now eat a raw egg. At that moment his wife, the Queen of Naples, also appears on the deck of HMS Tremendous. Oh, good morning, children, she says. How high the sun is rising. Captain Robert Campbell, rather fat, who finds this Corsican woman, so self-possessed, quite admirable, calls from the galley: This capital cook is doing what he knows best; it's bacon again, grissini, and eggs Adriatica. Ha ha, how's that for Latin? Remark the space: the deck of a man-of-war. Here time is stored in tubs that are roped together beneath the booms. The ship creaks, all its wooden members call to the water, hush, call out, and strain again. There is time stored between the strakes and the shrouds which are bellying in the south wind now. Space too is stored with time in the oakwood deckboards. And on the deckboards skip the children's small bare feet and mother's in slippers. Mama, they shout, and they snuggle up to her huge underskirt. How close to the shore were they sailing? The Tremendous-- had it rounded the toe, sole, and heel of Italy, heading for Trieste, past Bari, all the way up the length of the Neapolitan kingdom? Meanwhile the children are using up the stored time, fooling, and prancing over ropes, and being interpreters, since the sailors can say no more than rumpy-pumpy, fooky-fooky, and shufty kush. The children speak Italian, French, elementary English, and a few phrases in German. Their mother, in her fingers a crisp rasher of bacon, says hardly anything. Joachim, she says to herself. Joachim: first Russia, now where can he be. Oh my, his thighs in those white trousers, when he rode his chestnut mare, his fancy waistcoat, velvet, green, gold frogging over his wounds, under his decorations. …

Vergil's Aeneid, the epic of national identity, was produced at a time when in all probability nobody in Italy (including quite possibly the Princeps himself) could have been easily confident of the significance of what history had now brought to pass.2 This essay accordingly seeks to contemplate the poem as an artifact in dialogue with its immediate audience's practical assumptions and expectations about new political realities in the Res Publica that Augustus so determinedly claimed to be resuscitating. Amid all "the very high level and density of relations and communications that united the Roman civic body in every direction" in the Republic, curiosity about the sentiments of the Populus Romanus still seems neglected.3 Excited interest in popular feelings was characteristic of many republican principes and consequently ever fundamental to political life at all manner of occasions for rhetorics of self-presentation, whether mundane or more extraordinarily charismatic, in the civic spaces of the city. But modem analysts have not always been ready to ponder whether in fact Vergil's artistry succeeded not only in pleasing the community at large but thereby also in communicating aesthetically a regime's legitimacy.4 The Aeneid quickly commanded great authority in Rome and so ever after

In a letter to Ethel Smyth on 21 Sept. 1930, Virginia Woolf spoke of her friend Morgan Forster as "E. M. Forster the novelist, whose books once influenced mine, and are very good, I think, though impeded, shrivelled and immature" (Letters 4: 218). In earlier letters Woolf had often alluded to Forster's influence, even insisting on one occasion that "I always feel that nobody, except perhaps Morgan Forster, lays hold of the thing I have done" (14 June 1925; Letters 3: 188). By 1930 this literary friendship had continued for more than two decades and was characterized by the kind of edginess that often marks the relationships of highly competitive artists. During the same year, Forster recorded his own anxieties about Woolf in a note that we find in his Commonplace Book: "Visit to Virginia, prospects of, not wholly pleasurable. I shall watch her curiosity and flattery exhaust themselves in turn. Nor does it do to rally the Pythoness" (54). These comments, written when both writers were well launched as established novelists and public figures, give some indication of the complex literary friendship that goaded and nourished both writers. In this essay we shall explore how that relationship manifests itself in two of their best-known novels, Howards End and The Waves, through significant parallels in their thematics, narrative voice, and imagery. Although Forster was himself just three years older than Woolf, he represents an earlier generation, in part because of his extraordinary precocity and also in part because Woolf - not enjoying some of the educational advantages afforded Forster - began her career more slowly, publishing her first novel when she was 33 years old. In contrast, Howards End, one of Forster's two most celebrated novels, was published when its author was barely 31, having been preceded by three other novels and followed a year later by a collection of tales. When Woolf's first novel appeared in 1915, Forster had been publishing fiction for ten years, and Woolf considered him a senior peer among British writers. Woolf and Forster related to one another as practicing novelists, as critics who reviewed each other's work, and as friends within their Bloomsbury connections. In 1910 Forster gave his first talk to the Friday Club on "The Feminine Note in Literature," and before that he had known Leonard Woolf at Cambridge through their membership in the Apostles (Furbank 1: 192). Forster began his practice of reviewing Woolf's novels with The Voyage Out. Indeed P. N. Furbank, Forster's biographer, claims that after Forster's "favourable review of The Voyage Out in 1915 [Woolf] 'became very dependent on his opinion'" (qtd. in Dowling 85). It is instructive to compare this relationship to the much more vexed one of Woolf and Katherine Mansfield. Viewed within that context, the ties between Forster and Woolf seem extraordinarily positive and long-lasting. Forster appears to have been most comfortable with Woolf's earlier works, such as The Voyage Out, a book similar to his own: in "The Early Novels of Virginia Woolf" (1925) he describes it as "a strange, tragic, inspired book . . . [whose] closing chapters . . . are as poignant as anything in modern fiction . . ." (Abinger Harvest 107). (It seems to us that in A Passage to India Forster repeats many of the structural and thematic motifs he found in The Voyage Out.) But when Woolf began, with Jacob's Room (1922), to assume her more distinctive voice, Forster's praise became more ambivalent. Even following the comparative success of Jacob's Room, however, Woolf continued to see Forster as her senior in accomplishment until the mid-20s, when her next novel, Mrs. Dalloway, established her as the equal of her friend. But we should not underestimate the element of competition. Both writers were trying to establish the narrative aesthetics of their time, and each resisted definitions developed by the other. In "Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown" (1924), Woolf places Forster among the Georgian, or new novelists who are moving away from old-fashioned realism (Captain's Death Bed 95); a year later, in "The Early Novels of Virginia Woolf," Forster praises Jacob's Room and Mrs. …

Editor's Note: Professor Hinderaker's book was reviewed in JER number 18:3 (1998), but regrettably his name was misspelled with unfailing consistency and nobody caught it. In this day of keyword searches, such an error might consign both author and review to uncharted cyberspace forever; therefore, we reprint the review correctly below and apologize for the error. Elusive Empire: Constructing Colonialism in the Ohio Valley, 16731800. By Eric Hinderaker. (New York: Cambridge University, 1997. Pp. xv, 299. Illustrations, figures. $49.95) Hinderaker discusses three models of empire that developed in the Ohio Valley between 1673 and 1800. During that period "the Ohio Valley was a crucible of imperial experimentation" (xiii) as France, Great Britain, and the United States sought to impose their concepts of empire upon that region and the Indian tribes that inhabited it. The author views these varieties of empire as being "more like processes than structures, and more as creations of the people immediately engaged in colonialization than of policy directives originating in London, Paris, Philadelphia, or Washington" (xi). The people who lived in the region and those who moved into it had considerable influence in determining how the empires developed. The first empire, one of commerce, featured British and French trade with the natives with furs as the commodity most sought by the Europeans. In return, they supplied the manufactured goods that weaned the Indians away from much of their traditional culture. In time liquor became an important item with disastrous results for many natives. The tribes north of the Ohio River were only loosely united in a confederation of social and cultural unity when the whites moved into the area; they became even less united thereafter. Few of the participants in the commercial enterprises made substantial profits, but both the French and the British sought alliances with the tribes. The French trade was most successful until the 1740s, but then it began to collapse as the Pennsylvania based traders became more aggressive. By the Seven Years War, Hinderaker asserts, the empire of commerce had become a complex "interdependent and interpenetrated world" (45) that produced considerable unity among the various groups that participated in it. The second empire saw land replacing trade as its major component, although there was much overlapping. Cheap good land attracted many Europeans and American colonists to the West. Traditional European land systems did not translate well to North America, and the emphasis upon private ownership clashed with the Indian concept of tribal possession. …

The counciliar policy of the french kingdom has been caricatured as that of permanent obstruction. But the councils persistence can be explained moreover by the structures of the political scene at that time. The counciliar policy of francis ist oscillated between that of collaboration and that of obstruction. The council was never just a secondary issue, even if the kind hoped to achieve around him a religious concord by means of an assembly of theologians under his control. This concern for control was the only constant in this period of french counciliar politics. Henry ii supported the council that was trasferred to bologna against the wishes of the emperor, whilst he refused its return to trent under julius iii. This "gallican crisis" reveals the limits of religious politics in france. After 1559, the council could be seen as a solution, although nobody ever interprets it in quiet the same fashion. The council helped to bolster up the moral of the party rather than towards the establishment of a concord. As regards the conceptions of the council in france, the decline of conciliarist theology was compensated by an historical conciliarism, which exalted the vertus of these assemblies, and a practice of councils in france itself. This model had to face up to the criticisms of the reform which took up the humanist and gallican themes. Despite these criticisms, trent did have its echo's. Studying the participation of the french in the council, we note their reluctance to attend, and yet also their sociability within it. They reveal their independence towards royal power. Indeed they support the council reforms. Along with the theologians, they clearly refuse all concession to the reform, but strive to maintain their gallican originality.

In Srinagar's Lai Chowk, the most volatile bazaar in the most volatile city in Indias most volatile state, life is as normal as life here ever gets. Merchants and marketers haggle over the price of bruised apples, auto-rickshaws jockey with oxcarts for passage through the bustling alleyways, and soldiers gaze lazily through the gun-slits of their sandbagged bunker. There's a rumor that the separatist leader Shabbir Shah will hold a rally at noon, but nobody seems particularly interested. It's almost time for lunch.

Looking back, maybe everyone was a little nervous when Jim and Barbara started sailing. They weren't water people, never had been, and everything about it seemed out of their league. But nobody said anything, maybe because their nervousness was so tangled up with their jealousy-jealousy that Jim had been able to take early retirement, jealousy that the two of them had enough money to take all those trips to the lakes, to the shore, down to Florida. Even their kids were jealous, maybe because Jim had always worked too hard to have time for anything like this when they were young, or maybe because they knew they were going to have to work equally hard and still might never get the chance to take early retirement and learn to sail for themselves. So Barbara bought a few books and rented instructional videos, Jim walked the docks and talked to boaters, and what started out as the occasional rental of a catamaran soon turned into the ownership of a twenty-eight-foot sailboat.

In January 1995 a federal judge ruled in favor of reintroducing the wolf in the state of Idaho, and against the American Farm Bureau in a lawsuit that sought to block the project. The Idaho legislature turned down a proposal made by the Idaho Department of Fish and Wildlife Services to contract with the Nez Perce tribe to manage the wolf recovery program. Since then, thirty-five wolves have been captured and released in Idaho and are monitored by Nez Perce tribal biologists.' The wolf reintroduction has received much attention in Idaho and throughout the United States. In the year that the wolves were first introduced, a major Idaho newspaper named the wolf reintroduction one of the top ten stories of the year.2 u At the onset of the program those directly and indirectly involved were eagerly anticipating the reintroduction. "The entire research community, not to mention politicians and the public at large is excited to see what the animals do."3 In an interview at the beginning of the project, Howard Teasley, head biologist for the Nez Perce tribe in charge of the wolf reintroduction, said that the program has already a 113 had much success, and he believed it would continue to be a success in the future.4 Ted Koch, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist stated, "Nobody imagined this level of success. Only two years and we've got potentially seven packs. At this rate we're going to be well ahead of schedule and under budget."5 As the first Native American tribe to ever head the introduction of an endangered species, members of the Nez

Covering the entire body of Mark Twain's fiction, Clark Griffith in Achilles and the Tortoise answers two questions: How did Mark Twain write? And why is he funny? Griffith defines and demonstrates Mark Twain's poetics and, in doing so, reveals Twain's ability to create and sustain human laughter.Through a close reading of the fictions short and long, early and late Griffith contends that Mark Twain's strength lay not in comedy or in satire or (as the 19th century understood the term) even in the practice of humor. Rather his genius lay in the joke, specifically the "sick joke." For all his finesse and seeming variety, Twain tells the same joke, with its single cast of doomed and damned characters, its single dead-end conclusion, over and over endlessly.As he attempted to attain the comic resolution and comically transfigured characters he yearned for, Twain forever played, for Griffith, the role of the Achilles of Zeno's Paradox. Like the tortoise that Achilles cannot overtake in Zeno's tale, the richness of comic life forever remained outside Twain's grasp.The last third of Griffith's study draws parallels between Mark Twain and Herman Melville. Although the two authors never met and seem not to have read each other's works, they labored under the sense of what, in Moby-Dick, Ishmael calls "a vast practical joke . . . at nobody's expense but [one's] own." The laughter occasioned by this cosmic conspiracy shapes the career of Huckleberry Finn fully as much as it does Ishmael's voyage. Out of the laughter are generated the respective obsessions of Captain Ahab and Bartleby, of Pudd'nhead Wilson and Hadleyburg. Reduced at last to a dry mock, the laughter is the prevailing tone of both Billy Budd and The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts."

Between Voice and Silence: Women and Girls, Race and Relationship. Jill M. Taylor, Carol Gilligan, & Amy M. Sullivan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. 1995. 253 pp. ISBN 0-674-06880-7. $14.95 paper. What thoughts and feelings do girls from poor and working-class families have about relationships, about school, about their futures, about their sexuality? By listening to the voices of 26 adolescent girls and examining the experience of the listeners, Jill Taylor, Carol Gilligan, and Amy Sullivan have produced a text that answers this question and contributes to our knowledge of the intricate relationship between voice and silence in the lives of girls growing up in marginalized cultures. The 26 girls selected to participate in the Understanding Adolescence Study all attended Boston public schools and were designated as at-risk for dropping out of school or for early motherhood. They were from poor and working-class Hispanic, Italian, Caribbean, or African American families and were interviewed annually for 3 years beginning in their eighth-grade school year. Their own words flow through the text and provide evidence of the tension between speaking up or staying silent. In eighth grade many of the girls voiced their thoughts, feelings, and experiences and also reported have close relationships with mothers and other adult women; 85% of them mentioned having an adult woman mentor, an "othermother" (p. 117) who encouraged them and validated their experiences by listening to them, understanding them, and taking them seriously. By tenth grade many of the same girls have found that speaking up can lead to reprisals at home and at school. Except for the African American girls, many by tenth grade have stopped telling their mothers about their lives, and all have moved on to high school where they feel nobody listens, nobody cares, and nobody asks. By tenth grade many of the girls identified the pressure for heterosexual relationships and the threat of pregnancy, the lack of support for going outside cultural and familial norms, the socialization to motherhood, and their own fatalistic outlook that "something is going to get in the way" (p. 180) as forces that compromise their chances to achieve their goals. Themes that emerged from the interviews with the girls were also explored by the women interviewers and by many of the girls' teachers who participated in retreats held during the Understanding Adolescence Study. These retreats provided the participants with the opportunity to listen to the girls as authorities of their own experience, to explore their own thoughts and feelings about race and relationships, and to examine how women might better support girls who are marginalized by class or culture. …

To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the end of World War II, the Smithsonian Institution's National Air and Space Museum (NASM) had planned to open an exhibition centering on the Enola Gay, the bomber that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. During its many years of preparation, the exhibit project became so controversial that the Smithsonian canceled it on 30 January 1995. In June of that year, the NASM opened another version of the exhibit, sharply reduced in size and radically expurgated in content. With the cancellation of the original Enola Gay exhibit, everyone lost. The NASM and the Smithsonian lost, not only for the obvious reasons of wasted effort and loss of prestige but also because the cancellation broke off, irreversibly so far as can be seen, a promising new direction for the NASM. The opposition forces who brought down the project lost, for history will view them poorly: the resulting literature will see to that.' Observers who watched the controversy unfold wasted their energies because they were not permitted to judge the end product for themselves. The public lost, too. It was deprived of the opportunity to discuss an issue of acute concern and left with the nagging memory of an illiberal thing happening before its eyes with virtually no one rising to prevent it. Clearly, the Enola Gay exhibit should have been presented to the public in the mature form forged by its creators during a long and painful gestation period. How good it would have been, we cannot know. I suspect that it would have been a decent exhibit, not without flaws, to be sure, but one that would have performed a useful and honorable role, and that would have offended nobody, not even those who so hysterically opposed it.

Gauguin's famous picture Christ in the Garden of Olive-Trees was painted in Brittany in 1889. Christ's features do not any doubt, that painting is the artist's self-portrait in which he wanted to express his state of prostration and despair. Simultaneously with his bitter feeling that nobody understood him, grew his con­viction that he was the "Saviour" of modern painting, one who could find the source and truth of art on an island in Oceania where lived good and happy people unaffected by European civ­ilization. He wanted to go there at any price, but he was penni­less and without prospects for help. In his picture he identified his life and suffering with the Passion of Christ. The composition is conceived as a diptych divided by a tree trunk. The half figure presentation of Christ pushed in the left corner of the painting seems to intensify his humiliation and grief. The figure of Christ is in a folk-naive style and the unnatural red of his hair symbolizes the Saviour's human suffering. The landscape is mysterious and enigmatic. While being fairly true to the description in the Gospel, it portrays neither the environs outside the walls of the holy city of Jerusalem nor the Breton landscape. It is identical with the landscape of an island of Polynesia with its fairyland colour and peaceful atmosphere. However, Gauguin has painted Christ in Britanny in such a setting before his trip to Tahiti. This was only his genial preconception and vision of a lost paradise, which, as he then believed, he was not destined to reach. In this way, the Breton Christ, depicted in the imaginary Tahitian setting, as Christ in the Garden of Olive-Trees, became a mystical and artistic con­nection between the two worlds created by Gauguin - the Breton and Tahitian mythologies.