In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Names Alive Are Like the Names in GravesBlack Life and Black Social Death in Terrance Hayes's American Sonnets for My Past and Future AssassinLee Spinks"After blackness was invented / people began seeing ghosts."1One of the most powerful and provoking responses to the political rise of Donald Trump appeared with the 2018 publication of Terrance Hayes's American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin. Hayes began writing (...) these poems straight after Trump's remarkable triumph in the 2016 presidential election, and they race to keep pace with the rapidly metastasizing effects of the Trump phenomenon, from his relentless radicalization of the modes and mores of political speech ("Newshounds ponder the tweets of a bullhorn"), his continuous assault on American democratic institutions, and his singular success in marshalling a newly cohesive political constituency seduced by the reactionary allure of resurgent white nationalism or what Hayes caustically calls "a mandate for whiteness, virility, sovereignty / stupidity" (AS: 38).2 As the phrase "mandate for whiteness" suggests, integral to the story of Trump's ascendancy in American Sonnets is another story, a story about race and social authority in the time of Black Lives Matter when blackness remains "the color of this country's current threat / advisory" (AS: 10). At home and abroad the appalling incandescence of Hayes's contemporary American political moment is reflected by the names of its black victims, names like Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, and, perhaps most explosively of all, George Floyd, whose May 2020 police killing on a Minneapolis street reprised such a familiar configuration of racial power that Hayes had already glimpsed its spectral outline two years earlier: "A [End Page 60] brother has to know how to time travel & doctor / himself when a knee or shoe stalls against his neck" (AS: 77).3Without compromising the intensity of Hayes's focus on this contemporary social emergency, I want in what follows to expand our sense of the historical and metaphysical scene of his writing by reading it as an imaginative response to a larger and more fundamental question: What does it mean to live a black life in an antiblack world? I'm moved to do so by the double register of his writing vividly exemplified by the penultimate sonnet in the sequence which memorializes "All the black people I'm tired of losing / All the dead from parts of Florida, Ferguson / Brooklyn, Charleston, Cleveland, Chicago / Baltimore, where the names alive are / Like the names in graves" (AS: 81). What's remarkable, to my mind at least, about the phrase "the names alive are / like the names in graves" is its fusion of a directly contemporary perception of the precariousness of black existence within a culture of white supremacy (the perception that every black life could share the social fate of Tamir Rice at any particular moment) with an encompassing metaphysical vision of blackness as the embodiment of social death and the continuing afterlife of slavery. Paying close attention to several of Hayes's poems, I will trace this double register to explore a number of ideas central to his thinking in American Sonnets including the foundational role of antiblackness in organizing American reality for both black and white identities, the dialectical relationship between antiblackness and the libidinal economy of white supremacy, and the hope of imagining new possibilities of life capable of contesting the antiblack conditions of contemporary social existence.4 In doing so I will place particular emphasis on Hayes's development of a distinctively dialectical and dialogical style of poetic address that reimagines lyric subjectivity as a drama of racial becoming focused on the relationship between black social death and the culture of white supremacy.5Black Social Death and the Libidinal Economy of WhitenessBefore continuing let me briefly develop three ideas above which help shape my reading of American Sonnets: the social life of social death, the continuing afterlife of slavery, and what Hayes calls in my epigraph "the [End Page 61] invention of blackness." The first draws on the Afropessimist radicalization of Orlando Patterson's famous redescription of slavery as social death that sees the slave as a "social nonperson" whose relation to... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 122.3 (2001) 433-436 [Access article in PDF] Sarah Iles Johnston. Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1999. xxi + 329 pp. Cloth, $40.00. This book, which focuses on ancient Greek beliefs about how the dead interact with the living, is an important addition to the study of Greek religion. The (...) subject has become unusually popular in recent years, and when Johnston wrote in her preface that "scholars of our generation... have paid the topic little attention" (xi), she had no way of knowing that two other books on the topic were being published nearly simultaneously with her own. Fortunately, there is so much to say about ancient beliefs concerning ghosts that the three studies do not overlap much. Antonio Stramaglia's Res inauditae, incredulae: Storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco-latino (Bari 1999) and D. Felton's Haunted Greece and Rome: Ghost Stories from Classical Antiquity (Austin 1999) take broad views, examining both Greek and Roman ghost stories from literary and folkloric points of view, respectively. Johnston's book focuses only on the Greek dead, and does so in more detail and with more attention to the religious aspects of the living-dead interaction than either of the other books. She uses models developed by cultural anthropology to examine how Greek ideas about the dead changed over time in response to changing social conditions, including contacts with other cultures and the development of the polis.Johnston divides her study into three major parts. Part 1, "A Short History of the Dead in Ancient Greece," covers several aspects of the Greek view of the dead in the archaic and classical periods. First we have a brief chronological overview of the dead in Greek society from the Homeric poems to the fifth century B.C. The information is unfortunately rather scattered and uneven, and Johnston gives much of it simply as introductory material for later parts of her book: "This is a topic that I take up in depth in another chapter" (10); "As we shall see in chapter 6" (18); "This... is analyzed in depth in chapter 3" (19). This brief survey might best have been included in an introduction (there is only a short prologue), since it does not stand well on its own here and does not accomplish much overall other than to provide us with several very general conclusions: that the Greeks, like many other peoples, believed that the unburied or prematurely dead were angry with the living and could harm them; that the dead could be called up by the living to serve them; that other than this, the dead are not particularly active, at least in early Greek belief.Part 1 also includes information concerning rituals to the dead and the role of the goe\s. For this discussion Johnston takes a topical rather than chronological approach to the problem of what the Greeks believed about the dead versus what they did about the dead; "participants need not have believed in a ritual to go through its motions" (37). Johnston briefly describes the nature of rituals for and against the dead, distinguishing funerals and festivals that expressed affection from defensive rituals and festivals held out of fear, to avert the wrath of the dead. One particularly interesting section deals with the relatively recent finds of [End Page 433] the Selinuntine lex sacra, the Cyrenean inscriptions, and the rituals for the dead described thereon: both contain detailed descriptions of real aversion rituals involving the appeasement of ancestral spirits. Johnston is careful to remind the reader of the fragmentary nature of this particular evidence and at times sounds overly defensive or cautious: "although the evidence is too scant for us to be certain" (58); "its brevity makes it impossible for us to be sure" (62). Much of Johnston's argument is therefore highly hypothetical but nonetheless interesting and provocative. She concludes that the dead began to be perceived as a bigger source of problems in the late... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:656 Feminist Studies 43, no. 3. © 2017 by Feminist Studies, Inc. Ghost Story The day our house burned, Mama dumped it in the river. Palms on the shore, finch in place of bruises. A hollowed tusk birthing pockets of gray glowing some kind of holy, salt-spittle and rattling. Carolina Horror Story Sandra, softest face south of the Mason Dixon line, got eggshells under her toes, eyes made (...) of salt and other things too holy to remember. Oil slicks and line breaks spilling out of her mouth, gets called sugar, sugar walkin’ down the street, sugar at high tide, high noon, peeled molasses at the bottom of the barrel, shotgun cool. Sugar’s got a face I can only look at crying, look at human, arranged and harmless. Sugar, sugar what’s wrong, Emily Zhang Emily Zhang 657 air’s so stale it could choke a hurricane? Turns to me like the tide, shoots me through and through with her face, refractin’ all the night’s light. Honey Open up the sky, shaken of its salt. Open up the lip of a run-on sentence, blurry and reeling, the way air turns into breath. Open when the smallest fires become streams of bright dust, swimming pools swelling from bee stings. Open the sweetness out of summer. Open when we dump frogs into bathtubs and the waves set like milk, when our mouths are full of spit and we shuck foam from our hair. Open for the movie theater trips when the sky is setting heavy, for the horror films where girls sound like rabbits and rabbits look like girls. Open with waxwings birthed from dirt, the Band-Aids and yawning trash cans, the cavities. Open for the way the air sticks to us like a hide, the way we feel like wine stains, but wanted. Open in the grocery store produce section when we see the damp crabs clawing each other and we think of womanhood. Open for the girls with lips like copper wiring, fluorescents, double-exposure, for our melting sense of un-worry, our hands always self-corrected. Open when we’re halfway over the fence and the neighbor’s Doberman is trying to bite the meat off our ankles. Open the way a sprinkler head looks like a rotting berry, the way we all fall lightly in love with witches. Open for the radios spilling music slow, elbows on the dashboard, weary elbows, loud elbows. Open for the unholy women throughout history who sat alone on islands where the sky was so blue it burned with borrowed static now lost.... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Indian Science Fiction: Patterns, History and Hybridity by Suparno BanerjeeBarnita BagchiSuparno Banerjee. Indian Science Fiction: Patterns, History and Hybridity. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2020. xiii + 256 pp. E-book, ISBN 9781786836670.Suparno Banerjee’s monograph examines science fiction (henceforth SF) from India, a country that has a rich and fascinating tradition of SF. This is a book that will be of interest and value to scholars and students in (...) higher education of utopia, dystopia, and speculative fiction, and to readers across disciplines interested in SF as a mode. It is quite clear today that Darko Suvin’s canonical definition of SF as cognitive estrangement, an interplay between the familiar and the strange, and its emphasis on the novum that is created in SF, has been enriched with further attention to context, including postcolonial contexts. Whose familiarity in cognition are we speaking about, and what happens when contexts are not necessarily hegemonic Anglo-American or Western ones? Indeed, even in Western contexts, science is not a given, but an element that always has political, historical, and ideological overtones. The novum, too, as with the term utopia, is moored in the contexts of the text.Banerjee’s book is one among several excellent monographs on Indian SF that have been published in the 2020s: Sami Ahmad Khan’s Star Warriors of the Modern Raj: Materiality, Mythology and Technology of Indian Science Fiction (2021) and Upamanyu Pablo Mukherjee’s Final Frontiers: Science Fiction and Techno-Science in Non-Aligned India (2020) come to mind. Khan adopts a refreshing fan’s guide to Indian SF register in his monograph, discussing mythology, materiality, ideology, and technology, and he coins the abbreviation TransMIT to capture his approach. Mukherjee’s book examines how Indian SF syncs with or questions the technological and scientific paradigms of India under Nehru and the Non-Aligned Movement; arguing that Indian SF needs to be seen as semiperipheral, the book also applies concepts from energy humanities [End Page 586] to Indian SF in an arresting way. Suparno Banerjee’s monograph is a solidly grounded work in its clearly explained choice of corpus, and a methodology that elicits particularly generative insights in a number of areas, including the epistemological status of science in Indian SF, the importance of SF written in bhasha or non-English Indian languages, the interplay between past and future in Indian SF, analysis of how Indian SF imaginatively represents the Other, and attention to Indian women writers of SF.Banerjee offers a lucid and useful chronology of Indian SF in four historical periods: 1835–1905, 1905–47, 1947–95, and 1995–2019. The period from 1835 to 1905 offers the first specimens of Indian SF, primarily in the form of future histories that question colonialism, in the utopian mode, and adventure tales and stories with scientific and technological elements. The establishment of a British education system, starting in the 1820s, gave an impetus to the birth of Indian SF. Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain’s “Sultana’s Dream” was published in 1905, a year that heralds the second period lasting until Indian independence. In this period, SF starts appearing not just in the English, Bengali, and Hindi languages, as in the first period, but also in a number of other Indian languages, such as Assamese, Marathi, and Tamil. Children’s and youth magazines develop from the 1920s, spaces where science writing and SF both appear. Nationalist, anticolonial stances emerge, challenging western hegemony, in the 1940s. In the early post-Independence period, the nationalistic elements become even stronger, and SF interacts quite strongly with older forms of fantastic writing such as myths, fairytales, and ghost stories. This third period, Banerjee argues, is the golden age of bhasha SF. From the 1990s English-language SF again becomes very prominent in India and its diaspora, though SF in bhashas continues to flourish.Banerjee examines fiction not just from post-Independence India, but also from colonial British India, and diasporic Indian writing. SF written primarily in Bengali, English, Hindi, and Marathi is examined and, when possible, the book also brings into its ambit of analysis SF written in the languages Assamese, Tamil, Telugu, and Kannada. Reflexivity about the corpus of... (shrink)

Remembering the year of 1989 does not always seem to produce a coherent narrative about the recent history of Romania. Most likely, when asked about their own experiences or what truly happened back then, Romanians would refer to it as “the events” because there still is a certain veil of ambiguity over their shared collective memory. The author’s personal encounters with such story tellers confirm that Romanians are still torn apart between various interpretations concerning what happened during December 1989.

Examines the theme of haunting in recent U.S. and postcolonial literature as a response to the dynamics of transnational literary circulation.

The intentions to simulate human cognition are permanently increasing. Nonetheless, our knowledge about human cognition is based on fragments of different points of view. Hence, it is necessary to examine which demands these points of view make on technologies aiming at simulating human cognition. In this paper it is argued that no technology can function beyond the cognitive abilities of its constructor. It seems that the cognitive limits and constrains of the constructor will also be implanted in the technologies. It (...) is perhaps the right time to think about what kind of future we are going to create by means of an artificial cognition built upon fragmentary, and many times confusing, premises. (shrink)

I draw attention to how Annie Saumont’s “You Should Have Changed at Dol” provides a solution to the paradox. With appropriate background knowledge, Saumont’s story, despite its modern form, displays various convergences with Descartes’ meditations; likewise the Bisa dance may feature convergences with traditional dance.

In Culture, Genre, and Literary Vocation, Michael Davitt Bell charts the important and often overlooked connection between literary culture and authors' careers. Bell's influential essays on nineteenth-century American writers—originally written for such landmark projects as The Columbia Literary History of the United States and The Cambridge History of American Literature—are gathered here with a major new essay on Richard Wright. Throughout, Bell revisits issues of genre with an eye toward the unexpected details of authors' lives, and invites us (...) to reconsider the hidden functions that terms such as "romanticism" and "realism" served for authors and their critics. Whether tracing the demands of the market or the expectations of readers, Bell examines the intimate relationship between literary production and culture; each essay closely links the milieu in which American writers worked with the trajectory of their storied careers. (shrink)

When the term “postfeminism” entered the media lexicon in the 1990s, it was often accompanied by breathless headlines about the “death of feminism.” Those reports of feminism’s death may have been greatly exaggerated, and yet contemporary popular culture often conjures up a world in which feminism had never even been born, a fictional universe filled with suburban Stepford wives, maniacal career women, alluring amnesiacs, and other specimens of retro femininity. In _Feminism and Popular Culture_, Rebecca Munford and Melanie Waters consider (...) why the twenty-first century media landscape is so haunted by the ghosts of these traditional figures that feminism otherwise laid to rest. Why, over fifty years since Betty Friedan’s critique, does the feminine mystique exert such a strong spectral presence, and how has it been reimagined to speak to the concerns of a postfeminist audience? To answer these questions, Munford and Waters draw from a rich array of examples from contemporary film, fiction, music, and television, from the shadowy cityscapes of _Homeland _to the haunted houses of _American Horror Story_. Alongside this comprehensive analysis of today’s popular culture, they offer a vivid portrait of feminism’s social and intellectual history, as well as an innovative application of Jacques Derrida’s theories of “hauntology.” _Feminism and Popular Culture_ thus not only considers how contemporary media is being visited by the ghosts of feminism’s past, it raises vital questions about what this means for feminism’s future. (shrink)

In “The Bioethics of Environmental Injustice: Ethical, Legal, and Clinical Implications of Unhealthy Environments,” Ray and Cooper (2024) initiate needed discourse on environmental justice and the...

Working the night shift can be fraught and experienced as demanding and, yet, is often dismissed as babysitting. Few researchers have explored the social and cultural meanings of night nursing, including storytelling rituals. In 2019, a narrative study was undertaken. The aim was to explore the stories recalled by nurses about working night shifts. Thirteen Australian nurses participated. Data were gathered using the Biographical Narrative Interview Method, and narrative analysis produced forty stories and three themes: strange and challenging experiences; colleagues (...) can be mentors (or not); and textbook knowledge is only part of what is needed on night shift. Nursing students who engage with these stories may come to understand the challenges of the night shift, and the valuable work that nurses engage in throughout a 24‐hr period, work that involves adept psychosocial and interpersonal skills alongside technical and physical competence. (shrink)

Žižek has argued in his books on Christianity and modernity that institutional Catholic Christianity has placed its members in a double bind by insisting on belief in a nonexistent God of Being. The laws of this God of the Symbolic are perverse in that they impose impossible requirements on all believers. By the mid-twentieth century, however, Catholicism was experiencing the revolutionary reforms of the Second Vatican Council. Dogmatic Law at this time gave way to a renewed emphasis on the community (...) of love associated in early Christianity with the Holy Spirit. This God of the Real is inherently Trinitarian: God-Father-Thing, Spirit as community of believers, and Christ as the imaginary Real gap between them. The American gothic writer Flannery O’Connor in her short story “A Temple of the Holy Ghost” provides a meditation on this Real Trinity. In O’Connor’s story a hermaphroditic circus freak becomes an emblem of the deadlock of sexual difference and a monstrous Christ-figure in the Žižekian sense. Its place is theologically incoherent and represents the passion for the Real emerging out of the perverse situation of mid-century Catholic orthodoxy. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.2 (2003) 19-30 [Access article in PDF] Bugged Out:A Reflection on Art Experience Christopher Perricone I used to enjoy art. Not all the arts equally. Overall literature spoke to me most clearly. I am not sure exactly why. I guess some combination of inborn and learned dispositions. Whatever is the case, my enjoyment of literature always seemed natural to me, since literature was of (...) a medium I already knew, the vocabulary and grammar of my own language. But I enjoyed paintings and musical pieces as well, some of which I shall never forget even though they have virtually faded from my life, from what I have become.I cannot say that I ever had a favorite artwork. I have always thought the idea foolish, reminiscent of children who think often in terms of favorites, whether colors, candies, or friends. However, there are some works that do stand out in memory, even though, as I say, I cannot bring myself to enjoy them now. They are ghosts whose forms are discernible, but whose flesh is long gone.I had read lots of literature. I even enjoyed the act and the atmosphere of reading. I remember the chair I sat in, the lighting, the room. I also used to love to wake up on weekends, eat a leisurely breakfast, and then get back into bed and read until noon. Of course the setting itself of reading was ultimately not crucial, it was merely a pleasant means of facilitating one's excursion into another world. It was the other world that counted. So many worlds. Of course, I entered joyfully the worlds of Shakespeare and Dante, which Harold Bloom recently has judged at the center of the Western canon, but I entered also lesser but personally not less significant worlds to which I was drawn. 1 I needed some tutoring in Shakespeare and Dante because they did not quite speak my language, my twentieth-century American tongue. I had trouble negotiating their worlds. However, I had none whatsoever when it came to the worlds of James Joyce, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, Graham Greene, Walt Whitman, T.S.Eliot, Herman Melville, Emily Dickinson, or Joseph Conrad. I was at home in these worlds, different [End Page 19] worlds, but nonetheless home. I loved Conrad's the "Heart of Darkness." For me this was one of the truly haunting tales. After my first reading of the "Heart of Darkness," I can honestly say, my life was changed. I neither talked nor walked the same. I moved among and around people and things differently. I saw myself differently both among others and when I would stand before my mirror alone. And subsequent readings brought about further changes, changes of my comportment in the world. I imagined that I saw, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled the details from the beginning of that story to its very end. I sat on the deck of the Nellie with Marlow, Conrad's character narrator, and his listeners. I watched with them as the sun went down over the Thames. I followed Marlow as he told the story of how he had "set off for the center of the earth," up the Congo perhaps where in his mind all human life had its source; how as he came closer to the center facts became less straightforward, the greed for ivory, the "flavor of mortality in lies," the hollowness of Mr. Kurtz, the final horror of it all. I sweated in the heat of the "Heart of Darkness." Like any experience of a masterpiece, the "Heart of Darkness" was a visceral experience for me. After such experiences one feels emotionally and physically drained. One feels comfort in thinking, as with a dream, it was not real. And yet there is a lingering discomfort: as it were no mere fantasy at all.I often had feelings of the same intensity and profundity in respect to painting and music. They, too, were worlds for me. I enjoyed the varioustouches of the painters. In particular, I enjoyed the gold, the... (shrink)

continent. 1.2 (2011): 136-140. In early 2011, Cow Heavy Books published The Official Catalog of the Library of Potential Literature , a compendium of catalog 'blurbs' for non-existent desired or ideal texts. Along with Erinrose Mager, I edited the project, in a process that was more like curation as it mainly entailed asking a range of contemporary writers, theorists, and text-makers to send us an entry. What resulted was a creative/critical hybrid anthology, a small book in which each page opens (...) to a new iteration of textual desire. These texts explore the material possibilities of the book. Somewhat parallel to the call of N. Katherine Hayles who, in her book Writing Machines , urges literary theorists to take up the practice of Medium Specific Analysis (to account for the way the medium in which it is presented conditions or at least bears on a literary text). I see in the imagined works of The Official Catalog a call for the innovative writers of today to become Medium-Responsive. This would mean thinking through the specific (materially constrained) possibilities offered by the media in which texts are presented, and in thinking of the literary text as a kind of art in the greater context of other arts and the book as a medium situated within the context of many other media. In doing so, the contemporary writer refutes the chorus of critics who lament the death of the book by consistently reinvigorating literary innovation. The following are selections from The Official Catalog of the Library of Potential Literature that show possible paths for (thinking about) new writing that engages with its medium. —Ben Segal, Editor THE CUBE Even the most radical non-linear texts have tended to exploit or subvert only the sequential possibilities of print—from the continuous loop of Joyce's Finnegans Wake to the shuffled cards of Marc Saporta's Composition No. 1 —but The Cube takes such multiplicities to an entirely new level. Set in a grid, the book's words can be read conventionally, across the page, as well as down each column—with either route making complete grammatical sense. But they can also be read as stacked strata and mined like lexical core samples through the layered pages of the book. Each path tells the same story from a different perspective (the narrative, naturally, hinges on the potential outcomes of a throw of cubed dice). By opening up the z-axis to reading in this way, The Cube recognizes the book as a three-dimensional sculptural space. Taking its lead from Armand Schwerner's (If Personal) and Raymond Queneau's Cent mille milliards de poèmes , The Cube reads like a experiment by Christian Bök precision printed by Emily McVarish. Craig Dworkin is the editor, most recently, of The Consequence of Innovation: 21st Century Poetics (Roof Books, 2008), The Sound of Poetry/The Poetry of Sound , with Marjorie Perloff (U. Chicago Press, 2009), and Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing , with Kenneth Goldsmith (Northwestern UP, 2010). He teaches at the University of Utah. HE GOES In He Goes , we read notes, letters and e-mails from a scholar father to his novelist daughter. We read of the father's musings on Beckett, on Pinter, on Anne Frank; his description of a woman hanging laundry from a line. We read about his journey toward dying, followed by a brief, third person account of his death, and his obituary. Then a long series of blank pages that demand to be read in real time, non-sentence by non-sentence, blank page by blank page. Finally—and it is here that this peculiar little book begins to soar—the dead father writes to his as-of-yet-still-living daughter. He does not write from death. He does not write from life. The words unprint, unstamp, unkindle. Still, they require no translation. The father "writes" (for lack of a better word) about the serendipitous, the commonplace; he recommends another book. He jokes. He asks his daughter how her stomach is. He says forget about presence in absence, darling; screw words as memorial and the guys in garbage cans and loss as redemption and I can't go on I must go on. He goes, "Love, Fodder." He goes, "incidentally." He goes, "I thought you might like to know." Elizabeth Graver is the author of a story collection, Have You Seen Me? , and three novels: Unravelling ; The Honey Thief ; and Awake . Her work has been anthologized in Best American Short Stories , Best American Essays , and Prize Stories: the O. Henry Awards . She teaches at Boston College. THE PAPER ARCHIVIST A stunning package and a triumph of imagination, The Paper Archivist at times looks to be less a book than an abstract expressionist painting. Softly bound, its contents unfold to a single sheet of uneven thickness and texture—a canvas splattered with colored lines, stickers, broken sentences, and nonsense pictographs. But by following the directions to fold, dip, smell, rub, scratch, and tear the sheet according to the contingencies of the weather and using only the objects at hand, the reader slowly brings the forces hidden in the noise into a glorious sculptural convergence, processing a different story and shape each time. This is the rare book that continues to stir, whirl, and pop on every new reading. Sean Higgins blogs at BOMBlog where he is responsible for the column Volumes and Territories, as well as Ghost Island , a fledgling collaborative intellectual collective. THE SLOW BOOK The Slow Book , written by an anonymous author at the dawn of literacy, on a minor planet (otherwise notable only as the source of that exceptionally hardy, not very tasty grain called “shef” sowed on hostile planets as an early step to colonization), and encoded into a series of punctures on a strip of copper coiled inside a clever device, something between a player piano and an old-fashioned film projector, is being released into print, as was the author’s intention, at a rate of one word per century (local time). Each word is, across the Forty Galaxies, agreed to be uncannily apt for the century in which it appears—even “of,” in a century during which the highest value was attached to fidelity, whether to ideals, worlds, or romantic love; even “the,” which governed two centuries, one extraordinarily materialistic, during which advances in propulsion and navigation accelerated the exchange of exceptional objects between the remotest planets of the Forty, and one in which the central concern, both of philosophers and the common man, was whether, in an age of rapidly proliferating hypothetical worlds, anyone or anything concretely existed at all. Even those words published long before interstellar contact can be seen in retrospect to have transgalactic pertinence. As a result, attempts to abstract the machine from its publishers, Hobson & Hui, in order to “predict the future” for insight or gain by “fast- forwarding” the copper strip have been many and ingenious. While, in centuries of skepticism (“maybe”), or of unrest (“go”) the book has been nearly forgotten, in others it seems to haunt every thought, every deed, despite the fact that the subject of The Slow Book is still unclear. So far only a few sentences exist in print; everyone knows them, can quote them, offer the standard exegeses and assorted heresies; yet certainties are the stuff of adolescence; mature readers are forced to acknowledge that these sentences are probably only a preamble to the main argument. They contain no proper nouns, nor can we identify any definite theme. There is even disagreement about their tone, whether coolly ironic, as some insist, or ardent. The appearance of an unusual grammatical case, sometimes called the future pluperfect continuous, used to describe events that at some future point will have always been true (but are not yet)—hitherto known to appear only in the synthetic dogmas of the Thanatographical Society, and in certain highly circumscribed religious contexts—has suggested to some scholars that the Slow Book was originally intended for ritual use, but the proximity of the usage to a term designating a small hand plow that, as Pott and Mielcke have convincingly shown, would have borne a distinctly obscene double meaning in its culture of origin in the author’s time, argues otherwise. It is likewise unclear whether the situation that seems to be—with teasing incompleteness—sketched out in these few lines is intended as an illustration of general principles, a case study, a dramatic scene, or an extended metaphor. In short, we have no idea what The Slow Book is about. In our own time, we believe that it is almost certainly a work of fiction, but that may be because we live in the century of “if”. In each age, perhaps, we see the book we most need to read. Some have dared to suggest that the metal strip is blank until, with millennial fanfare, it advances into its new position, that no ur-text exists, that the book itself is brought into being—written—by our need. But that is exactly the sort of thing we would believe, in 7645. Shelley Jackson is the author of the story collection The Melancholy of Anatomy , the novel Half Life , and hypertexts including Patchwork Girl . The recipient of a Howard Foundation grant, a Pushcart Prize, and the 2006 James Tiptree Jr Award, she has also written and illustrated several children's books, including The Old Woman and the Wave ; Sophia, the Alchemist's Dog ; and Mimi's Dada Catifesto . Her stories and essays have appeared in Conjunctions , McSweeney's , The Paris Review , and Cabinet Magazine . In 2004 she launched her project SKIN , a story published in tattoos on 2095 volunteers. THE BOOK OF SOUNDS The Book of Sounds is just that: a book of sounds made when letters are construed in new ways to bring forth out of the alphabet new forms of speech. A book meant to be read out loud, The Book of Sounds is not unlike Laurie Anderson's O Superman or Brian Eno's Music for Airports in its attempt to make music out of the most primary and simplest of methods. It breaks language down to its barest bones and makes out of the page a drum that has never before been beaten upon. Peter Markus is the author of a novel, Bob, or Man on Boat (Dzanc Books) as well as two books of short fiction, Good, Brother and The Singing Fish , both of which were published by Calamari Press. A new collection of stories, We Make Mud , is now available from Dzanc Books. PARADISE OF THE BLIND by Celan Solen Although the reclusive Celan Solen published his first and only book in 1963—paying out-of-pocket for a limited edition of the slim collection No One May Have the Same Knowledge Again —he remained in American obscurity for almost three decades. In 1992 a micro-press in Istanbul brought out No One in Turkish. A German translation followed in 1995. Soon it became clear in literary circles Solen was a world-class (if highly unclassifiable) artist—lyrical, dense, enigmatic—who could undo the conventional short story in 397 words by inventing impossible worlds housed in impossible whirls (in “Small Sadnesses,” a single chartreuse tree frog in Borneo unknowingly holds time together by its very presence in the universe, while each letter of its tale refers, not to itself, but to the one preceding it in the alphabet). By his disappearance last year, Solen was considered master by a generation of writers and critics (except, alas, for those gentlemen in the Swedish Academy). Imagine, then, that generation’s delight at the discovery, locked away in the author’s safe-deposit box, of his second and final composition. Had Lynch’s Lost Highway been book instead of film, and had it been penned by Beckett at his least certain, revised by Barthelme at his most formally deranged, and typeset by Derrida at his most semiotically catastrophic, the result might have been something like Paradise of the Blind : interlacing narratives of a man composed of borrowed organs (whose most cheerless and difficult to locate, god, could only have been invented by an empty heart), a nonexistent medieval painting blamed for the ruin of future hope, and the spread of a philosophy that holds earth a mistake constantly recurring in the dream of a fish lying on the floor of the Atlantic (if the fish wakes, our world winks off)—all contained in a text packed with typed-over passages, torn postcards, poems that can be deciphered only when held up to a mirror, pages ornamented with trompe-l'œil paperclips and coffee stains and buzzing houseflies, some busy with illegible runes that dissolve when exposed to light, three that smell like roses or lemons (depending on whether a man or woman is reading), two that stain with the bloody fingerprints of the those who handle them, one that ignites when brushed with breath, thirteen sewn from baby skin, one that moans when touched, and one that screams—yet all without mass, unimaginable, and invisible. Lance Olsen is author of more than 20 books of and about innovative fiction, including, most recently, the novels Calendar of Regrets (2010) and Head in Flames (2009). He teaches experimental narrative theory and practice at the University of Utah. SUPERSTRUCTURE! by Barbara D'Albi As soon as I opened the third drawer of Barbara D'Albi's wooden novel, everything became hopeless. Now in Ithaca, there was no going back. And it wasn't just the intricate series of shelves, hinged doors and locked drawers which D'Albi layered into the book, no, lo, I was constructed anew by the story. Who else but D'Albi to imagine a God who becomes a carpenter and gets killed?! And makes it good! You want stories? D'Albi is a skyscraper, built with planes and levers. Momentarily I wondered where I could shelve this book, and then I thought: no matter; I couldn't put it down. Adam Robinson lives in Baltimore, where he runs Publishing Genius. He is the author of Adam Robison and Other Poems and Say, Poem. 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The history of the modern oil industry begins along Oil Creek in August 1859 when Edwin Drake and Billy Smith found petroleum at the bottom of their well. Over the next decade and a half, Petrolia, the name given to this region in northwest Pennsylvania, produced more oil than anywhere else on earth. In the process, Petrolia became a massive industrial site and a vivid cultural image. Understanding this profound dual transformation is the object of Brian Black's sensitively drawn portrait (...) of the landscape of America's first oil boom.A landscape, according to Black, is a place where culture and nature meet, and in the 1860s a devastating crash occurred when the natural oil of Oil Creek met the commercial demand for lamp and machine oil. Oil Creek had been a quiet, lightly populated agricultural region whose sense of place was entirely self‐constructed by the local farmers. After Drake's discovery, the area became a place of unprecedented exploitation whose identity was hastily assembled by the thousands of outsiders that flooded the area looking for work, riches, or an exciting newspaper story. Petrolia soon became a mythic boom, a mania, a craze. Distant capitalists and recently arrived entrepreneurs painted fantastic pictures of endless and easy wealth. Oil became a prized commodity, and everything else—animals, plants, people, and even the creek itself—became expendable in a single‐minded market designed to pump as much oil as fast as possible. There seemed no legal, economic, or natural limitation to the exploitation—or to the boom mentality. Petrolia became the very embodiment of greed and speculation, instantaneous wealth and sudden failure. Its mores were as ephemeral as its transient population.All this is grist for Black's ethical mill, and he grinds it well, perhaps too relentlessly. There is no doubt that looking at the exploitation of oil from the obliteration of the wooded valleys, or the filth of boomtown streets, or the emptiness of ghost towns reveals a sacrificial landscape—an environment abused, wasted, ruined, and despoiled in pursuit of profit. Certainly Black is on firm ground when he ties what happened in Petrolia to what happened in Gilded Age America as a whole, but he may overstate the case when he argues that “industrial rationalization would never allow … humanitarianism to penetrate the utilitarian logic of Petrolia” .Was the logic of oil so ruthless and the motives of the Petrolians so shortsighted as to miss what was happening around them and what they were doing to themselves? They took photographs, after all. They criticized and complained endlessly about the mud, the floods, and the fires. Certain towns curbed land speculation, restricted development, and preserved a sense of community. And capitalists, by definition investors who try to reduce risk, worked to bring stability to petroleum production and prices. Black describes these valiant if sometimes vain efforts to restrain the oil rush. But taken together, they seem to suggest more of a struggle—communities versus companies, humanitarianism versus utilitarianism—than Black acknowledges.Many of those involved in the seeming chaos that was Petrolia wanted the oil industry to become a permanent, predictable branch of mining. This was especially true for the engineers, scientists, and other petroleum experts. To this end, Black provides a useful sketch of the technology of oil production along with a brief explanation of petroleum geology. He concludes, however, that none of these experts had much effect on the problems. “Science and technology were clearly tools of industry in Petrolia” .To an extent. In Black's account, the oil “industry” was a collective evil. Equal parts cultural and economic, it acts like a numberless, faceless mob, gripped by “oil on the brain” and motivated by an all‐pervasive ethic of progress and an insatiable drive to make money. It reduces to the sharp end of a rod used to bore through the earth for oil—environmentally insensitive and destructive. As an analytical device, however, “industry” is a blunt tool. Not all wells struck oil, not all companies manipulated knowledge and technique to their own purpose. Experts learned quite a bit and quite quickly about the habits of oil. The divining rod was not the most acceptable method of exploration . Again, there was more of a struggle—sci‐tech versus random wildcatting—than Black allows.The suggestion of situated struggles, however, does not detract from Black's larger theme. Petrolia was environmental hell. Black has rendered this nightmarish landscape into a powerful and at times passionate story about the physical changes to the land and its meaning . If there is a lesson to be found in Petrolia, it is that the modern oil industry is truly an American creation. (shrink)

In previous works such as Thinking Through the Imagination: Aesthetics in Human Cognition and Idealism, Pragmatism, and Feminism: The Philosophy of Ella Lyman Cabot, John Kaag firmly established his "street cred" as a scholar and interpreter of American philosophy. His name will also be familiar to readers of the Chronicle of Higher Education, The New York Times, and sundry other publications as he endeavors to impact a larger audience, off campus, to serve as a public intellectual, one we need (...) now more than ever—Richard Hofstadter's 1964 Anti-Intellectualism in American Life is all too relevant as challenges cloud our democratic vistas.An ambitious work, American... (shrink)

This book is about how we make choices. It is a compelling analysis of the nature of free will, drawing together evidence from chemistry, literature, politics, history and beyond. Psychiatrist Chris Nunn elegantly explores the revolutions in medicine, genetics, bioethics and neuroscience spurred by Julien de la Mettrie's 300-year-old tract Man the Machine . Nunn concludes that a mechanistic view of the human brain, though once fruitful, is now moribund. He proposes a powerful alternative: that stories, recorded in our memories (...) throughout life, are the mediators of free choice. Nunn demonstrates how this original approach could reconcile the latest brain-imaging results and our seemingly contradictory intuition about decision making and responsibility. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Scaena Feralium Nuptiarum: Wedding Imagery In Apuleius’ Tale Of Charite ( Met. 8.1–14)Stavros FrangoulidisThe implicit presence of wedding imagery in the servant’s narrative regarding the tragic end of Charite in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (8.1–14) 1 has received little scholarly attention. 2 In the tale of Charite, her unsuccessful suitor, Thrasyllus, devises a scheme to kill her husband, Tlepolemus, during a hunt and to marry the widowed Charite. After the (...) class='Hi'>ghost of Tlepolemus has exposed to his wife the actual circumstances of his death, the heroine devises a scheme for exacting vengeance on Thrasyllus, both for his cunning in killing her husband in the boar hunt and for his sexual ambitions toward her. The former is revealed in the similarities between Charite’s revenge scheme and Thrasyllus’ plot to bring about Tlepolemus’ death; the latter emerges from Charite’s clever exploitation of aspects of the wedding ritual in her revenge scheme. To be persuasive, the (fictional) marriage ritual, like the hunting scheme before it, requires role playing 3 and a reversal in gender roles such that [End Page 601] the heroine punishes her opponent most appropriately for his actions within the tale’s narrative. This wedding imagery is further sustained in the conclusion of the tale: Charite’s suicide on her husband’s tomb is represented as (re)marriage to her husband in death, since it reenacts several aspects of the wedding ritual from the earlier narrative of Tlepolemus’ liberation of his bride from her captivity in a robbers’ cave, and their subsequent marriage. 4 In the end, Thrasyllus’ suicide by starvation is also represented as a marriage in death, as Charite herself foreshadows in her angry speech as she prepares to attack him in his sleep.Our object here is to explore the ways in which Apuleius artfully designs the narrative of the latter portion of Charite’s story: the wedding imagery enhances her scheme for revenge, which is based both on Thrasyllus’ murderous plot against her husband and on Thrasyllus’ amatory designs upon her, and also intensifies the tragedy of the narrative, as all three marriages, Tlepolemus’, Charite’s, and Thrasyllus’, are fulfilled only in death. 5There are a number of intriguing resonances between the story of Charite and the tale of Cupid and Psyche that features so centrally in the novel as a whole. Space here does not permit much development of comparisons between the two narratives, but particularly striking points of similarity or contrast are indicated in the notes as we proceed.In the servant’s tale, Thrasyllus, the unsuccessful suitor, assumes the persona of a trusted friend in order to gain admission to the house of the married couple. After being forbidden access to Charite, he tricks his rival, Tlepolemus, into going hunting. Their departure on the hunt marks a spatial shift, from the interior of Tlepolemus’ home to the open space of wild nature, where Thrasyllus works his scheme.Charite has forbidden Tlepolemus to hunt horned and tusked animals (except mountain goats), a request that reveals her concern for her husband’s safety. Her apprehensions about his vulnerability also suggest a female aspect to Tlepolemus’ identity, an ambivalence of gender role that adumbrates her later worship of him as Liber/Dionysus, with both male and female characteristics. [End Page 602]For the tale’s authorial audience, Thrasyllus’ invitation to go hunting also recalls his own earlier advice to some robbers, to go on a hunt to collect animals for a sacrifice to their patron deity, Mars the Companion (7.10). In contrast to Tlepolemus’ earlier success in a hunt (which led to Charite’s liberation from captivity in the robbers’ den, and his marriage to her), Thrasyllus’ hunting scheme brings about Tlepolemus’ death, putting a violent end to Charite’s marriage. 6In a wedding context, Tlepolemus’ death may be interpreted as a prenuptial sacrifice for Thrasyllus’ planned marriage to Charite. Thrasyllus’ “sacrifice” here mirrors Tlepolemus’ earlier sacrifices of various animals at temples and public places in connection with the symbolic abduction of his bride from her parental home, at the opening of the Charite complex (4.26, ad nuptias... templis et aedibus publicis victimas [End Page 603] immolabat... (shrink)

The fierce debate about the reality of spirits and the “Invisible World” which flared up in the 1690’s helped define the early Enlightenment. All sides in this debate—from Spinoza and Balthasar Bekker to John Beaumont and Cotton Mather—refashioned familiar metaphors of light and darkness and connected them with the world beyond Europe in surprising new ways. This article shows how this key controversy of the early Enlightenment was built upon references to darkness, light, and the benighted pagan peoples of the (...) world. As new street lighting and improved domestic lighting nocturnalized daily life in the Netherlands, London, and Paris, the old denizens of the night - ghosts, spirits, and witches—were increasingly relegated to the extra-European world and used to articulate new categories of human difference based on civility, reason, and skin color. These new categories of human difference—new ways of seeing and ordering the world—were essential to the formation of early modern whiteness and the Enlightenment. (shrink)

This essay examines the contemporary masculinity of straight, white men in the business classes of the United States as a category of identity. I argue that this form of masculine identity is currently in crisis, and, through a reading of the 1995 film Toy Story, develop an argument about the value of ‘downsizing’ masculinity in an era of diminished work expectations.

In American philosophy at the end of the nineteenth century there was small interest in Empiricism and almost no interest in Realism.

The alignment problem in the context of large language models must consider the plurality of human values in our world. Whilst there are many resonant and overlapping values amongst the world’s cultures, there are also many conflicting, yet equally valid, values. It is important to observe which cultural values a model exhibits, particularly when there is a value conflict between input prompts and generated outputs. We discuss how the co- creation of language and cultural value impacts large language models (LLMs). (...) We explore the constitution of the training data for GPT-3 and compare that to the world’s language and internet access demographics, as well as to reported statistical profiles of dominant values in some Nation-states. We stress tested GPT-3 with a range of value-rich texts representing several languages and nations; including some with values orthogonal to dominant US public opinion as reported by the World Values Survey. We observed when values embedded in the input text were mutated in the generated outputs and noted when these conflicting values were more aligned with reported dominant US values. Our discussion of these results uses a moral value pluralism (MVP) lens to better understand these value mutations. Finally, we provide recommendations for how our work may contribute to other current work in the field. (shrink)

The epic wisdom contained in a lost library helps the author turn his life aroundIn American Philosophy, John Kaag--a disillusioned philosopher at sea in his marriage and career--stumbles upon a treasure trove of rare books on an old estate in the hinterlands of New Hampshire that once belonged to the Harvard philosopher William Ernest Hocking. The library includes notes from Whitman, inscriptions from Frost, and first editions of Hobbes, Descartes, and Kant. As he begins to catalog and preserve these (...) priceless books, Kaag rediscovers the very tenets of American philosophy--self-reliance, pragmatism, the transcendent--and sees them in a twenty-first-century context. Hocking was one of the last true giants of American philosophy. After studying under Harvard's Philosophical Four--William James, George Santayana, Josiah Royce, and George Herbert Palmer--he held the most prestigious chair at the university for the first three decades of the twentieth century. And when his teachers eventually died, he collected the great books from their libraries (filled with marginalia) and combined them with his own rare volumes at his family's estate. And there they remained for nearly eighty years, a time capsule of American thought. Part intellectual history, part memoir, American Philosophy is an invigorating investigation of American pragmatism and the wisdom that underlies a meaningful life. (shrink)

The National Center for Biomedical Ontology is now in its seventh year. The goals of this National Center for Biomedical Computing are to: create and maintain a repository of biomedical ontologies and terminologies; build tools and web services to enable the use of ontologies and terminologies in clinical and translational research; educate their trainees and the scientific community broadly about biomedical ontology and ontology-based technology and best practices; and collaborate with a variety of groups who develop and use ontologies and (...) terminologies in biomedicine. The centerpiece of the National Center for Biomedical Ontology is a web-based resource known as BioPortal. BioPortal makes available for research in computationally useful forms more than 270 of the world's biomedical ontologies and terminologies, and supports a wide range of web services that enable investigators to use the ontologies to annotate and retrieve data, to generate value sets and special-purpose lexicons, and to perform advanced analytics on a wide range of biomedical data. (shrink)

André-Marie Ampère fut un savant et un penseur éclectique. Sa pratique scientifique et sa réflexion philosophique n’ont cessé d’être hantées par le problème de la portée ontologique de nos connaissances. Ce problème émerge chez Ampère dans un cadre conceptuel kantien qui insiste sur la part de subjectivité déterminant nos représentations. La pensée d’Ampère va alors impliquer une véritable controverse intériorisée avec le fantôme de Kant. Tout en insistant sur l’origine subjective de nos idées, Ampère a cherché à contredire l’idéalisme qu’il (...) associait irrémédiablement au kantisme. Pour soutenir un réalisme structural, il interprète alors la notion de « forme » à travers un filtre physiologique lui permettant d’affirmer la probabilité d’une analogie entre les noumènes et les phénomènes. (shrink)