By Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn
It is exciting for us that the Italy-U.S. Fulbright Commission requested permission to post links to the pieces, thus featuring the USIH blog internationally. Here are all the posts: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V.
As I reread the five brief essays, I asked myself, looking back, what major points other than the specifics that I wished readers might get out of my random meditations on my semester’s exposure to Italian intellectual life. Most of what I was getting at fall under the following headings:
1. Living with Precarity. Bad news: we are not alone in this. Good news: we are not in this alone. Italian faculty members, graduate students, and others devoted to scholarly inquiry in the Humanities face the same crisis we do.Yet, like us—--like USIH—--many of them are actively nurturing passions and practices in areas intersecting with American intellectual history, often in spite of a lack of institutional and moral support from above.
2. Conversation. Social critics and cultural historians must at some point generalize. Yet there is a very real fear that the line between drawing general conclusions about other people (or ourselves), on the one hand, and stereotyping or “othering” them (or ourselves), on the other hand, can become blurred. Instead of complexification as the answer to simplification, the veils between us and those we are analyzing (even when we have met them and they are us) are as much the subject as any kind of authentic identity beneath they might reveal if lifted. They can only be an understood part of the subject if we are at once self-reflective and conversant—--linguistically, physically, imaginatively—--that is, in conversation with those whom we would like to understand and with others trying to understand them.
3. Food. The Slow Food Movement in Italy suggests that hope can be found in the blend of tradition and innovation that allows us to fuse longstanding practices of pleasure, insight, and excellence with visions and desires for changing what ails us. This transcends tired liberal-conservative dichotomies that frustrate and siphon off potentially new, dissenting, or oppositional energies. Being able to feed ourselves literally and figuratively, in ways that do not separate need from taste, is the starting point.
4. Place. As American scholars of things American, cultivating a habit of looking beyond our usual geographically delimited horizons could bring new possibilities for comradeship and conviviality. This is not the call for the internationalization of American history with which we are already familiar, but a new kind of inter-continental localism that suggests that alertness to and immersion in the particular locations in which inquiry takes place can deepen our personal-professional pursuits. The magic of face-to-face interaction and specific settings in which the intellectual arts are practiced can and should affect our scholarship.
5. Intimacy. Intellectual historical inquiry is one pathway of connection to another person and his or her inner life. The physical aspect of another person’s library, in part or whole, brings to light overlapping worlds of the abstract and the material, the mundane and the timeless. Even the most searing criticism of the past and present involves and invokes reverence, awe, humility, acknowledgement of mystery, and limits upon knowledge.Libraries confide all of this and more.
Intimacy, place, food, conversation…sounds like Italy, right? It’s the best way to live with precarity, isn’t it? No, it’s the only way.
Stepping back now, the overarching sense of things I was trying to convey in ruminating over some of my Italian adventures was just that possibilities for life-enhancing and even at times life-saving connection can be found in places we might not necessarily look first. In other words, it is nothing more than the truism most readers of this blog probably knew long before I did, that a change of location can foster a vitally new perspective on matters one thought one already had some kind of window into—such as, in our case, intellectual life in one’s own country. After all, no one from USIH stared dumbfounded, though others certainly did, at the thought of a modern Americanist’s itinerary to study and conduct research in Rome. In sum, I was invited to Rome to teach and, predictably, Rome taught me more than I could ever have learned otherwise—and not just about Rome.
At the start of his life of Demosthenes, Plutarch ridicules the notion that “to a man's being happy it is in the first place requisite he should be born in ‘some famous city’” (Quotes from John Dryden’s translation as it appears here). As with the word “is,” that depends on what your definition of “happy” is:
But for him that would attain to true happiness, which for the most part is placed in the qualities and disposition of the mind, it is, in my opinion, of no other disadvantage to be of a mean, obscure country, than to be born of a small or plain-looking woman. For it were ridiculous to think that Iulis, a little part of Ceos, which itself is no great island, and Aegina, which an Athenian once said ought to be removed, like a small eyesore, from the port of Piraeus should breed good actors and poets, and yet should never be able to produce a just,temperate, wise, and high-minded man. Other arts, whose end it is to acquire riches or honour, are likely enough to wither and decay in poor and undistinguished towns; but virtue, like a strong and durable plant, may take root and thrive in any place where it can lay hold of an ingenuous nature, and a mind that is industrious.
Then he goes on to talk about what living in a location, such as a major urban center, especially when not one’s place of birth,can offer. His view of travel for research is an expansive one that would call into question the asocial archival burrower of our time as the consummate professional historian.
But if any man undertake to write a history that has to be collected from materials gathered by observation and the reading of works not easy to be got in all places, nor written always in his own language, but many of them foreign and dispersed in other hands, for him, undoubtedly, it is in the first place and above all things most necessary to reside in some city of good note, addicted to liberal arts, and populous; where he may have plenty of all sorts of books, and upon inquiry may hear and inform himself of such particulars as, having escaped the pens of writers, are more faithfully preserved in the memories of men, lest his work be deficient in many things, even those which it can least dispense with.
But for me, I live in a little town…
As I return to my own little town, the small city of Syracuse, Plutarch’s words resound with an uncanny, otherworldly echo, just as the place names of Central New York will never sound in my ears with their Italian counterparts far behind. Since his travels “in Rome and other parts of Italy,” he wrote, “that which happened to me may seem strange, though it be true; for it was not so much by the knowledge of words that I came to the understanding of things, as by my experience of things I was enabled to follow the meaning of words.” Perhaps this should be the same for us.
Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn
Syracuse, New York
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Rome. Tampilkan semua postingan
Tampilkan postingan dengan label Rome. Tampilkan semua postingan
Senin, 25 Juni 2012
Minggu, 03 Juni 2012
From Rome with Love IV
by Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn
My experience in Rome this semester has taught me or made me realize anew just how narrow are the contours of the academic specializations and institutional arrangements we have inherited. Not only are they embarrassingly limited, but they are limiting.
My brief exposure to Italian intellectual life here has brought into my view everything from particular writers whose works I did not know before to movements, approaches, events, ideas, places, institutions, and much more. After a couple of decades in the historical profession in the U.S., I don't think it is too much of a stretch to say many American historians today are unaware of intellectual currents in Italy and beyond. Why? That is for another post. Here I'll just pass on some observations about one of the events here that I found inspiring.
Last post I wrote about the Fulbright seminar on food and sustainability at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, which had ramifications well beyond that topic. Also worthy of your attention, I believe, is an annual conference, organized by the U.S.- Italy Fulbright Commission, the Italian Association for North American Studies (Associazione Italiana di Studi Nord-Americani or AISNA), and Rome's Center for American Studies (Centro Studi Americani), where the conference takes place. As a Fulbright Scholar this year, I was invited to deliver three talks throughout the week at this year's conference, "Turning in and Out of the American Century," which took place from May 7-11. The program is available here.
First, a word on this location. Go see this incredible place if you can. After seeing it, I think we should seek out such centers wherever we go. The Centro Studi Americani is located in a spectacular 17th-century building on one of the most charming cobblestone streets in Rome. When I finally found my way to the Center (this was before I knew a street address and a map without every street, however tiny and un-street-like, does not get one very far in Rome), I walked through a courtyard with statuary, up gracious steps, and through a wrought iron gate (I was buzzed in after announcing myself). The helpful library staff gave me a tour of the serene reading room, the seminar and lecture rooms, and the floor to ceiling bookcases everywhere (it has a library begun at the start of the 20th-century), broken only by huge windows that let in soft natural light. It's a great place to work--or daydream. Stunning murals glow from the ceilings. When we came to the end of the tour of one room leading to yet another charming room, with high ceilings balanced by cozy, gratifyingly old-school reading/conversation nooks, I was shown the lecture hall in which I would speak. Here it is, from the Center's website:
Just seeing this room made me bring a whole new kind of energy, and even content, to my little triad of papers. What is so often missing in American academic settings for the presentation and reception of work like ours, I see now by contrast with the parts of the Italian practices to which I have been exposed, is a certain quality difficult to put into words but having to do with respect for and appreciation of the intellectual arts. A valuing of this work in the larger scheme of things. An unwillingness to trivialize it. A sense of its beauty and importance and allure.
Of course, the building could be a fluke. In Italy, the combination of the disastrous economic situation generally and the factors of recent decades in the tragic decline in the humanities have starved in familiar fashion history and closely related disciplines like literature and philosophy. But at this event, and others like it today, there were signs that long traditions of inquiry are stronger than the current obstacles they face. It seems to me this is what we are saying by practicing what we do even when financial and other practicalities and priorities are arrayed against us. It helped to be in a room and a building that silently spoke volumes about the vital importance of the study of culture.
The setting would have rung hollow, of course, without the voices of the particular people involved in the "Seminario"; the Fulbright fellows, of course, but also those from Italy who set the tone of the whole event. For one, the current president of AISNA, Professor Andrea Mariani, who teaches in the Dipartimento di Studi Comparati e Comunicazione Interculturale at the Università “G. D’Annunzio” di Chieti-Pescara. He welcomed us with rare wit and warmth. He embodies that perfect blend of intellectual seriousness and conviviality so rare in modern academe, except in oases like USIH. He told me about AISNA's journal, which we should know about since we study its themes. (I noticed the submission deadline is June 15 of each year, so if you have something of immediate interest, you should check out submission guidelines and see the contact information on the website.)
Besides other organizers and hosts were the faculty members and graduate students who attended from all over Italy. Although for many English was their second language, many were clearly eager to be challenged with new perspectives at the highest level. Many were literary scholars, though others came from political science, history, and even in at least one case from translation studies, another field that should be more closely entwined with ours. Though aware of postmodernism, many were interested in supposedly old-fashioned approaches--those still based on text and context, not theory unmoored, or worse, mere intellectual politics. From talking at considerable length with some of these students, this radical interest in the written word made them truer contrarians, as in genuinely going against the grain, as USIH clearly is. Their interest in the resurgent conversation about just the kinds of themes we study was manifest. This commonality (not just with Italians but with those throughout the world the neglect of whose serious interest in American intellectual history impoverishes us) could be the basis for an infusion of new blood in the form of collaboration and exchange, the most meaningful kind of support for what we--and they--do.
One more detail I find indicative that there are exciting possibilities for connections between USIH and Italian scholars is that the keynote speaker for this wonderful event was none other than our own T.J. Jackson Lears of No Place of Grace and Raritan fame, among his many other stellar accomplishments. His talk, "Animal Spirits Revisted: American Capitalism and Emotional Life," was a brilliant tour--for me a parallel, in a way, to the tour I received through the beautiful Center from one room to the other until ending up in the engulfing heart of a room in which we met--through era after era of economic and cultural history as major developments affected the warp and woof of Americans' emotional lives.
On a personal note, finally getting to meet this scholar I had looked up to for many years had a surreal quality to it. Or maybe the conversation we had in Rome--along with this ideal seminar of students and faculty members, the elegant room in which the conference took place, our host's genuinely gentlemanly demeanor, and the rest--was too good to be true. These things might help broaden the contours of what is possible in our conversations and scholarship, helping us continue imagining new kinds of events and experiences, or maybe they were just idealized images painted somehow within the isolated chamber of my own mind. Maybe it is just my mind's own ceiling murals casting everything in a warm glow. As I said, the Center is a great place to work--or daydream.
My experience in Rome this semester has taught me or made me realize anew just how narrow are the contours of the academic specializations and institutional arrangements we have inherited. Not only are they embarrassingly limited, but they are limiting.
My brief exposure to Italian intellectual life here has brought into my view everything from particular writers whose works I did not know before to movements, approaches, events, ideas, places, institutions, and much more. After a couple of decades in the historical profession in the U.S., I don't think it is too much of a stretch to say many American historians today are unaware of intellectual currents in Italy and beyond. Why? That is for another post. Here I'll just pass on some observations about one of the events here that I found inspiring.
Last post I wrote about the Fulbright seminar on food and sustainability at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, which had ramifications well beyond that topic. Also worthy of your attention, I believe, is an annual conference, organized by the U.S.- Italy Fulbright Commission, the Italian Association for North American Studies (Associazione Italiana di Studi Nord-Americani or AISNA), and Rome's Center for American Studies (Centro Studi Americani), where the conference takes place. As a Fulbright Scholar this year, I was invited to deliver three talks throughout the week at this year's conference, "Turning in and Out of the American Century," which took place from May 7-11. The program is available here.
First, a word on this location. Go see this incredible place if you can. After seeing it, I think we should seek out such centers wherever we go. The Centro Studi Americani is located in a spectacular 17th-century building on one of the most charming cobblestone streets in Rome. When I finally found my way to the Center (this was before I knew a street address and a map without every street, however tiny and un-street-like, does not get one very far in Rome), I walked through a courtyard with statuary, up gracious steps, and through a wrought iron gate (I was buzzed in after announcing myself). The helpful library staff gave me a tour of the serene reading room, the seminar and lecture rooms, and the floor to ceiling bookcases everywhere (it has a library begun at the start of the 20th-century), broken only by huge windows that let in soft natural light. It's a great place to work--or daydream. Stunning murals glow from the ceilings. When we came to the end of the tour of one room leading to yet another charming room, with high ceilings balanced by cozy, gratifyingly old-school reading/conversation nooks, I was shown the lecture hall in which I would speak. Here it is, from the Center's website:
Just seeing this room made me bring a whole new kind of energy, and even content, to my little triad of papers. What is so often missing in American academic settings for the presentation and reception of work like ours, I see now by contrast with the parts of the Italian practices to which I have been exposed, is a certain quality difficult to put into words but having to do with respect for and appreciation of the intellectual arts. A valuing of this work in the larger scheme of things. An unwillingness to trivialize it. A sense of its beauty and importance and allure.
Of course, the building could be a fluke. In Italy, the combination of the disastrous economic situation generally and the factors of recent decades in the tragic decline in the humanities have starved in familiar fashion history and closely related disciplines like literature and philosophy. But at this event, and others like it today, there were signs that long traditions of inquiry are stronger than the current obstacles they face. It seems to me this is what we are saying by practicing what we do even when financial and other practicalities and priorities are arrayed against us. It helped to be in a room and a building that silently spoke volumes about the vital importance of the study of culture.
The setting would have rung hollow, of course, without the voices of the particular people involved in the "Seminario"; the Fulbright fellows, of course, but also those from Italy who set the tone of the whole event. For one, the current president of AISNA, Professor Andrea Mariani, who teaches in the Dipartimento di Studi Comparati e Comunicazione Interculturale at the Università “G. D’Annunzio” di Chieti-Pescara. He welcomed us with rare wit and warmth. He embodies that perfect blend of intellectual seriousness and conviviality so rare in modern academe, except in oases like USIH. He told me about AISNA's journal, which we should know about since we study its themes. (I noticed the submission deadline is June 15 of each year, so if you have something of immediate interest, you should check out submission guidelines and see the contact information on the website.)
Besides other organizers and hosts were the faculty members and graduate students who attended from all over Italy. Although for many English was their second language, many were clearly eager to be challenged with new perspectives at the highest level. Many were literary scholars, though others came from political science, history, and even in at least one case from translation studies, another field that should be more closely entwined with ours. Though aware of postmodernism, many were interested in supposedly old-fashioned approaches--those still based on text and context, not theory unmoored, or worse, mere intellectual politics. From talking at considerable length with some of these students, this radical interest in the written word made them truer contrarians, as in genuinely going against the grain, as USIH clearly is. Their interest in the resurgent conversation about just the kinds of themes we study was manifest. This commonality (not just with Italians but with those throughout the world the neglect of whose serious interest in American intellectual history impoverishes us) could be the basis for an infusion of new blood in the form of collaboration and exchange, the most meaningful kind of support for what we--and they--do.
One more detail I find indicative that there are exciting possibilities for connections between USIH and Italian scholars is that the keynote speaker for this wonderful event was none other than our own T.J. Jackson Lears of No Place of Grace and Raritan fame, among his many other stellar accomplishments. His talk, "Animal Spirits Revisted: American Capitalism and Emotional Life," was a brilliant tour--for me a parallel, in a way, to the tour I received through the beautiful Center from one room to the other until ending up in the engulfing heart of a room in which we met--through era after era of economic and cultural history as major developments affected the warp and woof of Americans' emotional lives.
On a personal note, finally getting to meet this scholar I had looked up to for many years had a surreal quality to it. Or maybe the conversation we had in Rome--along with this ideal seminar of students and faculty members, the elegant room in which the conference took place, our host's genuinely gentlemanly demeanor, and the rest--was too good to be true. These things might help broaden the contours of what is possible in our conversations and scholarship, helping us continue imagining new kinds of events and experiences, or maybe they were just idealized images painted somehow within the isolated chamber of my own mind. Maybe it is just my mind's own ceiling murals casting everything in a warm glow. As I said, the Center is a great place to work--or daydream.
Minggu, 13 Mei 2012
From Rome with Love, II
By Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn
When encountering something outside one's usual experience, one's first instinct is to draw comparisons and contrasts with what one knows. Trite and true, right?
It sounds so simple.
But of course there are deep philosophical and psychological questions about what makes us us and what makes them them--and ethical questions about whether it should. Layer onto this questions from theology, cognitive science, anthropology, and history, let alone art and literature, and we must ask, in more ways than one, who do we think we are?
When we take note of so-called cultural differences, is a generalization about our own or another culture ever accurate? Many recent reviews of Woody Allen's To Rome with Love (still haven't seen it) judge it replete with superficial stereotypes. Are works of cultural history or social criticism often that different, however careful they might try to be? Isn't the risk of over-simplifying--or, obversely, of over-complicating, more au courant in academia these days--a pitfall of generalizing at all, and thus of characterizing, portraying, or observing?
I am excited about the "For the Love of Film" preservation blogathon that begins today. (Look out for the upcoming posts by some of my fellow USIH bloggers later this week.) Musing on the Italian/American film connection, I came across a blog that compared Italian and American posters for the same classic American films by setting the posters side by side (here for Hitchcock film posters). They really do seem different. As with album cover art or wine labels, movie posters become increasingly intriguing the more I see.
This blogger and those who commented on her posts see the Italian posters as largely more compelling because "more artistic/intriguing/seductive." Other people, though, argue that translation isn't always an improvement, as when Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in English becomes the equivalent of If You Leave Me, I Delete You in Italian. (For this and other amusing examples from countries in addition to Italy, see here)
If we see differences, do we automatically conclude they are the result of cultural differences? If we see similarities, do we assume cultural similarity? Or perhaps these are gross generalizations, categorical simplifications.
Study after study these days, no matter what the subject matter, concludes: it was complex. Isn't that how it always is, once one gets to know anything better? That is is more complicated than it first appeared?
Not necessarily. Some of us actually might be predisposed to think of things as more complicated than they really are, only to find out, upon closer acquaintance that they are more understandable. People whose differences scared us through their foreign-ness might have seemed complicated until we see the patterns of their lives up close. Unfortunately, a workable simplicity only comes to some people by discovering that others are "just like us." This can do injustice to others, and to ourselves, as much as the famous faux pas (or worse) of "othering." To make matters worse, an excessive fear of "othering" can actually lead to the "othering" of oneself, I think, through the self-accusation: otherer. Like Hester Prynne, only with an "O."
The aim of the Fulbright Commission, by whose good graces I am living and teaching in Rome this semester, is "to increase understanding between the people of the United States and the people of other countries." With so much to be wary of today in terms of self-advertisement and what institutions really deliver, it is refreshing to see the ways Fulbright actually does make this possible. By supporting scholars at all levels for different lengths of time in numerous locations, but always in service of this kind of mutual learning, Fulbright offers opportunities for intellectual exchanges of the humble, day-to-day sort. It could be an inspiration to USIH, but then it seems that this is precisely what USIH is doing.
As we often see others as though through veils of our own past, present, and hopes or fears of the future, it is amazing we can ever see anyone at all. (As the Dylan line goes, "It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves." And of course, it remains to be seen if we can. In an upcoming post, I hope to describe my experience in Pollenzo, where the Slow Food movement took root.) As in an earlier Woody Allen film, in a bedroom scene in which he cannot abandon himself to love making because of the superimposition of the image of his mother on his lover's face, our imaginations--whether from guilt or another state--often make it impossible to glimpse one another at all. Other people become figments of our fantasies, whether pleasant or horrifying, and another place at best a mere utopia, from the Greek, meaning "no place."
To get beyond this might be a worthy goal, but it might also be an impossible one. And it may be undesirable, in any event. Worse than superficiality and stereotyping, it casts the multitudinous veils, which are just as much a part of anyone as anything else, as irrelevant. Drawing them back is a particular technique of observing. But it is when we strive for abstracted knowledge (abstracted from them, yes; abstracted from ourselves as well) of other people and places, we are prone to over-simplify or over-complicate. Understanding is another thing entirely.
[Updated: 5/14/2012, 7:40 am CST]
When encountering something outside one's usual experience, one's first instinct is to draw comparisons and contrasts with what one knows. Trite and true, right?
It sounds so simple.
But of course there are deep philosophical and psychological questions about what makes us us and what makes them them--and ethical questions about whether it should. Layer onto this questions from theology, cognitive science, anthropology, and history, let alone art and literature, and we must ask, in more ways than one, who do we think we are?
When we take note of so-called cultural differences, is a generalization about our own or another culture ever accurate? Many recent reviews of Woody Allen's To Rome with Love (still haven't seen it) judge it replete with superficial stereotypes. Are works of cultural history or social criticism often that different, however careful they might try to be? Isn't the risk of over-simplifying--or, obversely, of over-complicating, more au courant in academia these days--a pitfall of generalizing at all, and thus of characterizing, portraying, or observing?
I am excited about the "For the Love of Film" preservation blogathon that begins today. (Look out for the upcoming posts by some of my fellow USIH bloggers later this week.) Musing on the Italian/American film connection, I came across a blog that compared Italian and American posters for the same classic American films by setting the posters side by side (here for Hitchcock film posters). They really do seem different. As with album cover art or wine labels, movie posters become increasingly intriguing the more I see.
This blogger and those who commented on her posts see the Italian posters as largely more compelling because "more artistic/intriguing/seductive." Other people, though, argue that translation isn't always an improvement, as when Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in English becomes the equivalent of If You Leave Me, I Delete You in Italian. (For this and other amusing examples from countries in addition to Italy, see here)
If we see differences, do we automatically conclude they are the result of cultural differences? If we see similarities, do we assume cultural similarity? Or perhaps these are gross generalizations, categorical simplifications.
Study after study these days, no matter what the subject matter, concludes: it was complex. Isn't that how it always is, once one gets to know anything better? That is is more complicated than it first appeared?
Not necessarily. Some of us actually might be predisposed to think of things as more complicated than they really are, only to find out, upon closer acquaintance that they are more understandable. People whose differences scared us through their foreign-ness might have seemed complicated until we see the patterns of their lives up close. Unfortunately, a workable simplicity only comes to some people by discovering that others are "just like us." This can do injustice to others, and to ourselves, as much as the famous faux pas (or worse) of "othering." To make matters worse, an excessive fear of "othering" can actually lead to the "othering" of oneself, I think, through the self-accusation: otherer. Like Hester Prynne, only with an "O."
The aim of the Fulbright Commission, by whose good graces I am living and teaching in Rome this semester, is "to increase understanding between the people of the United States and the people of other countries." With so much to be wary of today in terms of self-advertisement and what institutions really deliver, it is refreshing to see the ways Fulbright actually does make this possible. By supporting scholars at all levels for different lengths of time in numerous locations, but always in service of this kind of mutual learning, Fulbright offers opportunities for intellectual exchanges of the humble, day-to-day sort. It could be an inspiration to USIH, but then it seems that this is precisely what USIH is doing.
As we often see others as though through veils of our own past, present, and hopes or fears of the future, it is amazing we can ever see anyone at all. (As the Dylan line goes, "It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves." And of course, it remains to be seen if we can. In an upcoming post, I hope to describe my experience in Pollenzo, where the Slow Food movement took root.) As in an earlier Woody Allen film, in a bedroom scene in which he cannot abandon himself to love making because of the superimposition of the image of his mother on his lover's face, our imaginations--whether from guilt or another state--often make it impossible to glimpse one another at all. Other people become figments of our fantasies, whether pleasant or horrifying, and another place at best a mere utopia, from the Greek, meaning "no place."
To get beyond this might be a worthy goal, but it might also be an impossible one. And it may be undesirable, in any event. Worse than superficiality and stereotyping, it casts the multitudinous veils, which are just as much a part of anyone as anything else, as irrelevant. Drawing them back is a particular technique of observing. But it is when we strive for abstracted knowledge (abstracted from them, yes; abstracted from ourselves as well) of other people and places, we are prone to over-simplify or over-complicate. Understanding is another thing entirely.
[Updated: 5/14/2012, 7:40 am CST]
Minggu, 06 Mei 2012
From Rome with Love
[Post #2 from Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn. -TL]
As Woody Allen's new movie, "To Rome with Love," opens here only in dubbed form and to mixed reviews, I am happy many Americans will see new Rome footage. Since I have a strong preference for a synchronization of lips and words, I haven't yet seen the movie. But the idea of seeing Woody Allen mouthing one set of words while hearing a masculine Italian voice providing another may prove a set piece of ventriloquistic humor impossible to resist. I just caught a few minutes of "Cheaper by the Dozen" on Italian t.v. and Steve Martin's interior monologue, funny enough in English no doubt, reached the level of true hilarity. The thought that this quintessentially American actor, playing a bumbling and quintessentially American father on a quintessentially American family vacation, turns to Italian when thinking to himself is so far-fetched that it makes me laugh even now.
That Woody Allen's new flick has a role for Rome is exciting to me because, as farfetched as it still seems three months into my stay, with only six weeks remaining, I am actually here in Rome. Thus, the film's locations are sure to include some of my current stomping grounds. As Fulbright Lecturer in American Intellectual History at the University of Rome III (Roma Tre), Rome is miraculously my home away from home for the semester. Like the invitation to join the USIH blogging community, this Fulbright is a great surprise and honor. Nothing in my past ever seemed to indicate to me I would one day be here (no path I was on ever seemed destined to lead to Rome, that is, unless you meant Rome, New York). Now I am walking on cobblestones well trodden upon, not only by vast numbers of Romans over the ages, and visitors from all over the globe with varying motives and degrees of welcome, but more recently, by our distinguished colleagues and friends, mainstays of USIH and all things intellectual in this country, Casey Blake and Wilfred McClay. The names of other previous holders of this teaching and research fellowship might also be familiar to intellectual history aficionados: Alex Bloom, author of Prodigal Sons: The New York Intellectuals and Their World, for one, whom it was my joy to meet here this March.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I think we are not paying enough attention to Italy. Anyone at all moved by its rich heritage and contribution would say the same. But I am not talking here solely about the "we" of my fellow countrymen and women in general. For the tourists among them, at least, Italy is in the forefront of their minds, a charm many hope to add to their little bracelets, along with the other wonders of the world. (For a little more on the littleness of some touristic tendencies, see my Longing For The Real post "Tourism or Narcissism?") And Americans deeply interested in everything from art and archeology to cuisine and classical antiquity have always had their attention riveted on Italy.
Here, in my first regular Sunday installment on the USIH blog, I am thinking instead of how little attention many of us, scholars of American history, have been paying of late to Italian things or, for that matter, German--and the list goes on. Within the discipline of history, as we are well aware, the post-1960s period saw fields such as Diplomatic History and Intellectual History eclipsed by the New Social History and specializations such as African American History and Women's History. American and European history increasingly found themselves sharing shrinking resources with the (misleadingly) so-called non-Western fields, sometimes for reasons that were more political than intellectual. At the same time, the Humanities have been eclipsed by an invidious occupationalism whereby many view liberal study and utilitarian programs of professional certification as mutually exclusive. As a result the purposes of the University itself have been altered almost beyond recognition.
All of this, on top of our already considerable, even legendary self-centeredness, forms quite a dead-weight.
But to understand causes for historical developments is not the same as accepting the results. This is the genius of innovations like USIH and other like-spirited efforts. Remarkably, they have risen at precisely a time of the utmost precarity for our field and all of the related fields and institutions that are ordinarily its vital supports. (For two excellent meditations on precarity in our profession and beyond, see the posts by my fellow Longing For The Real bloggers, my doctoral student colleagues Erik Hmiel (also my advisee at Syracuse University) and the University of Rochester's Michael Fisher. (Pace Michael, my thanks go to Erik for summoning the word, which far better than the bland solidity of precariousness captures the feeling of teetering on the brink of the abyss.) At a time when we cannot pretend there will be academic jobs in intellectual history to allow all of the deserving scholars in the field to make a living with their true talents, it is truly astounding, and heartening, that endeavors like this should emerge.
So why not go all the way? There is great work going on here too in American intellectual history, as in many other countries, and much never gets translated. We are missing out! "Foreign" films may be subtitled in English instead of dubbed, but works of scholarship are neither. Italians interested in this field are also no strangers to the precarity of an area of inquiry they hold dear. A student in one of my graduate seminars here, whose English is impressive but whose vocabulary does not have the free range of a native speaker's, surprised me during our last class by dubbing the situation facing the field of intellectual history here one precisely of...pracarity.
The most famous line of Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee" is surely "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Separating ourselves from traditions and current practices so entwined with our own is asking for the kind of inner emptiness she rendered so poignant and poignantly.
The song presents the predicament of freedom so central to the experience of being American, and of being human, for that matter. The tension between independence and the yearning for rootedness and lasting connection is embodied in this story of two people who experience true yet fleeting communion hitch-hiking one rainy night aboard an eighteen-wheeler, "window wipers slapping time," singing every song they knew. While this song is ostensibly all about not getting attached, not being tied down, it simultaneously lingers longingly and lovingly over specific people and places. Particular cities are mentioned (Baton Rouge, New Orleans) and we learn there is such a thing as home after all: "I let him slip away./He's looking for that home and I hope he finds it." The sweet languor of the song's opening gives way by the end to unbridled movement forward and the frantic cry of passion and loss. Early references to the blues foreshadow the painful cataclysm of the line, "I would trade all of my tomorrows for just one yesterday." With precarity like this in the best of times, who needs anything worse?
Precarity in personal and professional life can run hauntingly parallel for each of us at any time. We have surely chosen a vocation in which they not only intersect, but often become one inseparable line. Always there is the possibility of letting what is really important slip away. (Oops, I lost Bobby McGee. Oh, well.) But then again, we might prefer not to--when we can help it.
For the remainder of my Roman stay, I hope to put in words, if I can, some of what I have seen here in Italy that interests me and might be of interest to USIH readers. And I just might comment on an interior monologue or two of Woody Allen's. As we all know, he conducts them solely in Italian.
As Woody Allen's new movie, "To Rome with Love," opens here only in dubbed form and to mixed reviews, I am happy many Americans will see new Rome footage. Since I have a strong preference for a synchronization of lips and words, I haven't yet seen the movie. But the idea of seeing Woody Allen mouthing one set of words while hearing a masculine Italian voice providing another may prove a set piece of ventriloquistic humor impossible to resist. I just caught a few minutes of "Cheaper by the Dozen" on Italian t.v. and Steve Martin's interior monologue, funny enough in English no doubt, reached the level of true hilarity. The thought that this quintessentially American actor, playing a bumbling and quintessentially American father on a quintessentially American family vacation, turns to Italian when thinking to himself is so far-fetched that it makes me laugh even now.
That Woody Allen's new flick has a role for Rome is exciting to me because, as farfetched as it still seems three months into my stay, with only six weeks remaining, I am actually here in Rome. Thus, the film's locations are sure to include some of my current stomping grounds. As Fulbright Lecturer in American Intellectual History at the University of Rome III (Roma Tre), Rome is miraculously my home away from home for the semester. Like the invitation to join the USIH blogging community, this Fulbright is a great surprise and honor. Nothing in my past ever seemed to indicate to me I would one day be here (no path I was on ever seemed destined to lead to Rome, that is, unless you meant Rome, New York). Now I am walking on cobblestones well trodden upon, not only by vast numbers of Romans over the ages, and visitors from all over the globe with varying motives and degrees of welcome, but more recently, by our distinguished colleagues and friends, mainstays of USIH and all things intellectual in this country, Casey Blake and Wilfred McClay. The names of other previous holders of this teaching and research fellowship might also be familiar to intellectual history aficionados: Alex Bloom, author of Prodigal Sons: The New York Intellectuals and Their World, for one, whom it was my joy to meet here this March.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I think we are not paying enough attention to Italy. Anyone at all moved by its rich heritage and contribution would say the same. But I am not talking here solely about the "we" of my fellow countrymen and women in general. For the tourists among them, at least, Italy is in the forefront of their minds, a charm many hope to add to their little bracelets, along with the other wonders of the world. (For a little more on the littleness of some touristic tendencies, see my Longing For The Real post "Tourism or Narcissism?") And Americans deeply interested in everything from art and archeology to cuisine and classical antiquity have always had their attention riveted on Italy.
Here, in my first regular Sunday installment on the USIH blog, I am thinking instead of how little attention many of us, scholars of American history, have been paying of late to Italian things or, for that matter, German--and the list goes on. Within the discipline of history, as we are well aware, the post-1960s period saw fields such as Diplomatic History and Intellectual History eclipsed by the New Social History and specializations such as African American History and Women's History. American and European history increasingly found themselves sharing shrinking resources with the (misleadingly) so-called non-Western fields, sometimes for reasons that were more political than intellectual. At the same time, the Humanities have been eclipsed by an invidious occupationalism whereby many view liberal study and utilitarian programs of professional certification as mutually exclusive. As a result the purposes of the University itself have been altered almost beyond recognition.
All of this, on top of our already considerable, even legendary self-centeredness, forms quite a dead-weight.
But to understand causes for historical developments is not the same as accepting the results. This is the genius of innovations like USIH and other like-spirited efforts. Remarkably, they have risen at precisely a time of the utmost precarity for our field and all of the related fields and institutions that are ordinarily its vital supports. (For two excellent meditations on precarity in our profession and beyond, see the posts by my fellow Longing For The Real bloggers, my doctoral student colleagues Erik Hmiel (also my advisee at Syracuse University) and the University of Rochester's Michael Fisher. (Pace Michael, my thanks go to Erik for summoning the word, which far better than the bland solidity of precariousness captures the feeling of teetering on the brink of the abyss.) At a time when we cannot pretend there will be academic jobs in intellectual history to allow all of the deserving scholars in the field to make a living with their true talents, it is truly astounding, and heartening, that endeavors like this should emerge.
So why not go all the way? There is great work going on here too in American intellectual history, as in many other countries, and much never gets translated. We are missing out! "Foreign" films may be subtitled in English instead of dubbed, but works of scholarship are neither. Italians interested in this field are also no strangers to the precarity of an area of inquiry they hold dear. A student in one of my graduate seminars here, whose English is impressive but whose vocabulary does not have the free range of a native speaker's, surprised me during our last class by dubbing the situation facing the field of intellectual history here one precisely of...pracarity.
The most famous line of Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee" is surely "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Separating ourselves from traditions and current practices so entwined with our own is asking for the kind of inner emptiness she rendered so poignant and poignantly.
The song presents the predicament of freedom so central to the experience of being American, and of being human, for that matter. The tension between independence and the yearning for rootedness and lasting connection is embodied in this story of two people who experience true yet fleeting communion hitch-hiking one rainy night aboard an eighteen-wheeler, "window wipers slapping time," singing every song they knew. While this song is ostensibly all about not getting attached, not being tied down, it simultaneously lingers longingly and lovingly over specific people and places. Particular cities are mentioned (Baton Rouge, New Orleans) and we learn there is such a thing as home after all: "I let him slip away./He's looking for that home and I hope he finds it." The sweet languor of the song's opening gives way by the end to unbridled movement forward and the frantic cry of passion and loss. Early references to the blues foreshadow the painful cataclysm of the line, "I would trade all of my tomorrows for just one yesterday." With precarity like this in the best of times, who needs anything worse?
Precarity in personal and professional life can run hauntingly parallel for each of us at any time. We have surely chosen a vocation in which they not only intersect, but often become one inseparable line. Always there is the possibility of letting what is really important slip away. (Oops, I lost Bobby McGee. Oh, well.) But then again, we might prefer not to--when we can help it.
For the remainder of my Roman stay, I hope to put in words, if I can, some of what I have seen here in Italy that interests me and might be of interest to USIH readers. And I just might comment on an interior monologue or two of Woody Allen's. As we all know, he conducts them solely in Italian.
Kamis, 03 November 2011
Book Review: Varad Mehta on Shalev's *Rome Reborn on Western Shores*
Review of Eran Shalev's Rome Reborn on Western Shores: Historical Imagination and the Creation of the American Republic (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2009). ISBN 0-8139-2833-3. Pp. xiii, 311. $45.00.Reviewed by Varad Mehta
Independent Scholar
Scratch an American of the Revolutionary era and underneath you’ll find a Roman. That impression has been long conveyed by a robust scholarship exploring the myriad influences of classical culture on eighteenth-century British North America and the Revolution of its inhabitants against their colonial mother.[1] Especially successful in scholarly circles has been the argument that the primary ideology of the Revolution was a strand of republicanism whose genealogy can be traced back to classical Greece and Rome by way of Machiavelli.[2] Eran Shalev unites the histories of the classics and republicanism in the revolutionary era in order to argue that classical antiquity “played a crucial role in articulating the revolutionaries’ quarrel and their coming to terms with history and time” (3). While Shalev does an excellent job explicating the influence of classical conceptions of time and history in this period, he is less successful in demonstrating that these were the primary, let alone the only, inspirations for the revolutionary generation’s understanding of them. The result is a book which, typical of those in the so-called republican paradigm, must make its case by ignoring the most important aspects of the Revolution, in particular the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.
Shalev divides his study into six chapters, each exploring a specific aspect of his theme. The first introduces the pervasiveness of the classics and the various rhetorical uses to which each book or author was put. The second analyzes representations of Britain in the colonists’ rhetoric. Shalev shows how Britain, initially perceived as recreating the glory of republican Rome, underwent a process of “Nerofication.” Angry Americans, believing Britain was embarking upon a corrupt campaign to destroy their liberties, began to depict Britain as embodying all the worst excesses and tyranny of a decadent, imperial Rome. The third chapter was to me the most revealing and interesting. Shalev makes a provocative argument, compelling but not entirely convincing, that two conceptions of time and history prevailed in eighteenth-century America, one above and one below the Mason-Dixon Line. Southern conceptions of history were dominated by the cyclical mode of history. Southern patriots saw an America imperiled by the same forces of declension and disintegration to which all previous republics had succumbed. A product of history, America could not escape history’s pattern of youth, maturity, and decline in old age. Shalev does not say so, but this Southern version of history offers an apparent exception to American exceptionalism. North of the Mason-Dixon Line, however, cycles did not factor into the historical imagination. Here a mode of historical typology (i.e., progress) triumphed, with modern American exemplars being regarded as the fulfillment of classical archetypes. This kind of historical thinking was heavily influenced by Christian millennialism, which beholds history not as cyclical but as progressing unceasingly forward to the end of time. America would “escape the cycle that had plagued human societies through recorded time” by transcending it. This Northern mode of history was “exceptional” (87).
Chapter 4 focuses on what Shalev calls Americans’ “performance” of classical antiquity. A main issue is whether Joseph Warren wore a toga when delivering the annual memorial oration on the Boston Massacre in 1775. Warren’s wife, Mercy Otis Warren, wrote several closet dramas about the imperial tensions inflaming Boston in which the setting and the characters are all given classical names, some thinly disguised ones, that indicate what she thought of them. Boston becomes “Servia” and Governor Thomas Hutchinson is renamed “Rapatio.” Shalev argues that by re-imaging the conflict as taking place on a classical stage, Warren transformed it into an episode in classical history. By “taking the toga” (the chapter’s title), revolutionary Americans collapsed the distance between classical times and their own and re-enacted their history as part of Rome’s.
In the fifth chapter, Shalev investigates the uses of classical pseudonyms during the ratification debate on the Constitution. Such pseudonyms allowed authors to adopt classical personae to indicate their views of the Constitution and to claim history for their side. Thus “Cato” once more opposed “Caesar” and “Brutus” emerged again to thwart tyranny. In chapter 6, Shalev analyzes classical themes in histories of the Revolution written in its immediate aftermath. He concludes that compared to the Roman drama of the Revolution, with its great heroes and battles, the post-revolutionary period felt like a disappointment. Being once more submerged in history, the Revolution felt as far away as Roman times, a distancing which historians such as David Ramsay, David Humphreys, and Mercy Warren perpetuated at the very moment they tried to explain the Revolution. In the epilogue, Shalev traces two classical tropes through the rest of American history, those of the Roman patriot Cincinnatus and the tyrant Caesar.
Shalev’s study makes several valuable contributions to the scholarship on the classics’ influence on the American Revolution, and his colleagues will likely be answering his contention that they shaped Americans’ conceptions of time and history for some time to come. It is intriguing and provocative. But it is not persuasive. It is unpersuasive not because it claims Americans had a particular historical consciousness, which is undoubtedly true.[3] It is unpersuasive because we must believe that it was mostly an ahistorical one, that literate Americans of this age thought not only that they could emulate Brutus, but that the “American Brutus” would actually be the Brutus, resurrected 1,800 years later. Moreover, this ahistorical consciousness requires the Americans to have no sense of their own place in time, and to be utterly unaware of “[t]he inventions in mechanic arts, the discoveries in natural philosophy, navigation, and commerce, and the advancement of civilization and humanity,” which John Adams, in the prologue of Defence of the Constitutions of the United States (1787), posits have completely changed the world since ancient times.[4] We might number among these such epochal transformations as the rise of Christianity, the Reformation, the discovery of the Americas, and the invention of printing, events of which the Americans were surely cognizant. Shalev also ignores basic philosophical issues about how and why people think about and use the past as they do.[5] The lack of a theoretical perspective is a significant shortcoming, one which if rectified would have placed the book on a more solid foundation. The numerous typos (“Canae” becomes “Cane” [95], Benedict Arnold crosses “Canadia’s Alpnie hills” [101], etc.) are also quite irritating, but do not compromise Shalev’s interpretive framework.
Shalev operates according to the rules of what John Pocock, in defending his controversial work on republicanism, described as “tunnel history.” Shalev, that is, tunnels through one particular issue or problem to the ignorance of all others.[6] In other words, for us to believe him we must assume that no other ways of looking at the past were available to Americans in this period. It is true that classical pseudonyms were plentiful in the ratification debate. To make that claim and stop, however, is to ignore the fact that the debate was about ratifying a Constitution whose authors had spent their four months in Philadelphia deciding that history had very little to tell them and that if they were going to get anywhere the first thing they’d have to do was go their own way. The most famous classical pseudonym of them all deals a severe blow to Shalev. So we find “Publius” (aka James Madison) declaring in The Federalist No. 14 that the source of the American people’s greatness is their not having “suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, for custom, or for names, to overrule the suggestions of their own good sense, the knowledge of their own situation, and the lessons of their own experience.” Indeed, if they had taken no steps for which no precedent could be found, they would still be stuck in the miserable situation from which they had spilled so much blood and treasure to escape. Classical pseudonyms abounded, but they did so in a debate about a Constitution antithetical to the wisdom of the ancients. There is no turning this into a fulfillment of antiquity however hard one tries.
Shalev’s scheme has no place in it for Thomas Jefferson, that great optimist and evangelist of America. Jefferson can never be considered a pessimistic Southerner fearful of America’s eventual decline.[7] Not the Jefferson who avowed that the Earth belongs to the living, or that laws should be rewritten every nineteen years,[8] or that he preferred the dreams of the future to the history of the past,[9] or that his epoch was a new one.[10] No classical historical paradigm can make room for such anomalies. Shalev, therefore, mostly ignores Jefferson.[11] Just as he ignores the other historical sources to which the revolutionaries could turn, not least the history of their mother country, Britain.[12]
What Shalev really misses, then, is any real sense of the Americans’ understanding of themselves. That they looked to the past is indubitable. But they looked to it not to recreate or relive it, but to understand their present and, especially, to shape their future. No reader would have believed, as Shalev implies, that the essays issued over the name of “Publius” had actually “been written by the founder of the Roman republic.” Even to suggest that is to make fools and dupes out of the Americans, who knew perfectly well that such a possibility was nonsense. Of course that prospect was a “false pretense,” and it also makes Hamilton, Madison, and Jay look like fools for believing they could trick their readers into believing it (177). The Americans knew perfectly well what they were, and that was not neo-Romans. This reality was expressed by John Stephens. In taking the name “Americanus” for his essays, he adopted the classical form to convey a substance beyond the ancients’ imagination. His message was one that ultimately all his countrymen heeded: “it is principally from our own experience that we can derive just notions” of the foundations of liberty.[13] Their own experience, and none other.
The Americans called their achievement a novus ordo seclorum because that is what they believed it was. There is no reconciling that conviction with the notion that they were the second coming of Rome. Rome was not reborn on Western shores. What was born there was something new under the sun.
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[1] The classic study remains Meyer Reinhold, Classica Americana: The Greek and Roman Heritage in the United States (Detroit, 1984). More recent works include Carl J. Richard The Founders and the Classics: Greece, Rome, and the American Enlightenment (Cambridge, Mass., 1994); idem, The Golden Age of the Classics in America: Greece, Rome, and the Antebellum United States (Cambridge, Mass., 2009); Caroline Winterer, The Culture of Classicism: Ancient Greece and Rome in American Intellectual Life, 1780-1910 (Baltimore, 2002).
[2] Fittingly, the republican interpretation is dominated by a triumvirate: Bernard Bailyn, The Ideological Origins of the American Revolution (1967; Cambridge, Mass, 1992); Gordon S. Wood, The Creation of the American Republic, 1776-1787 (1969; Chapel Hill, 1998); J. G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition (1975; Princeton, 2003). All three discuss the influence of the classics on republican thought. A recent overview of the debate about the place of classical republicanism in the American Revolution is Alan Gibson, Understanding the Founding: The Crucial Questions (Lawrence, KS, 2007), 130-64.
[3] The subject has not received all the attention it warrants, but those who have noticed its importance include Trevor Colbourn, The Lamp of Experience: Whig History and the Intellectual Origins of the American Revolution (1965; Indianapolis, 1998); Ruth H. Bloch, Visionary Republic: Millennial Themes in American Thought, 1756-1800 (Cambridge, 1988); Michael Lienesch, New Order of the Ages: Time, the Constitution, and the Making of Modern American Political Thought (Princeton, 1988). For the nineteenth century see Dorothy Ross, “Historical Consciousness in Nineteenth-Century America,” American Historical Review 89 (1984): 909-28; Thomas M. Allen, A Republic in Time: Temporality and Social Imagination in Nineteenth-Century America (Chapel Hill, 2007).
[4] John Adams, A Defence of the Constitutions of Government of the United States of America, 3 vols. (London, 1787), vol. 1., Preface. Online here.
[5] Issues like those David Lowenthal plumbs in The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge, 1985)
[6] J. G. A. Pocock, “The Machiavellian Moment Revisited: A Study in History and Ideology,” Journal of Modern History 53 (1981): 53.
[7] “It is this rejection of the past as a repository of wisdom that constitutes the most important element in the ideology of the victorious Jeffersonian Republicans.” Joyce Appleby, Capitalism and a New Social Order: The Republican Vision of the 1790s (New York and London, 1984), 79. See also eadem, “What is Still American in Jefferson’s Political Philosophy?,” in Liberalism and Republicanism in the Historical Imagination (Cambridge, Mass., 1992), 291-319.
[8] He makes both assertions in a letter to James Madison dated 6 September 1789, which can be found in Jefferson, Writings, ed. Merrill Peterson (New York, 1984), 959-64.
[9] Jefferson to John Adams, 1 August 1816, in Lester J. Cappon, ed., The Adams-Jefferson Letters (Chapel Hill, 1959), 485.
[10] Jefferson to Joseph Priestley, 12 March 1801, in Writings, 1086.
[11] What is true of this book is not necessarily true of Shalev himself. In an essay published only this month (and which I consequently have yet to read), Shalev perhaps fills this lacuna. See “Jefferson’s Classical Silence, 1774-76: Historical Consciousness and Roman History in the Revolutionary South,” in Peter Onuf and Nicholas Cole, eds., Thomas Jefferson and the Classics (Charlottesville, 2011). Jefferson always evinced a pronounced skepticism about the (mis)application of classical exempla to America, notably in Query XIII of his Notes on the State of Virginia (1785), where he lambastes attempts by the Virginia legislature to institue a Roman-style dictatorship during the Revolution.
[12] This dimension of the Americans’ historical outlook is discussed in Colbourn, Lamp of Experience, 3-68.
[13] [John Stephens, Jr.], “Americanus” VI, Daily Advertiser (New York), 12 January 1788, in Bernard Bailyn, ed., The Debate on the Constitution, 2 vols. (New York, 1993), 1:788.
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