Journal articles: 'Language arbiter' – Grafiati (2024)

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Abstract The trustworthiness of translators and interpreters has long been an issue in the profession. In some cases, a set of procedures are established to ensure the trust of clients and end-users. In the International Military Tribunal for the Far East (1946-1948), such procedures took on remarkable form. During the trial, three ethnically and socially different groups of language personnel engaged in three different functions within the overall interpreting process: Japanese nationals as interpreters, Japanese Americans as monitors, and U.S. military officers as language arbiters who ruled on the disputed interpretations. Sociopolitical aspects such as trust, power and control are evident in this hierarchical structure. In such political settings, and in others seen today, the trustworthiness of the interpreter may override the quality of interpreting.

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Abstract This brief article discusses one particular aspect of John Philoponus’ Christology, his understanding of nature or substance. It makes the case that Philoponus adapted Plotinus’ definition of sensible substance because it helped him defend the notion that the incarnated Word is one single nature but nevertheless has two sets of natural qualities.

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Since Estonia is in the midst of a national redefinition and examination of past traditions and future aspirations, it makes an excellent case study for the potentiality of theatre as an arbiter of national identity. The changing value of the institution itself is part of the equation (will Estonians continue to appreciate and attend the theatre in coming years?). In addition, the historical role of Estonian theatre as a repository for national narratives, especially literary ones, makes it a significant site for struggles around print and technology, and between embodied performances and archival performatives. This essay introduces a series of articles that address how Estonia and its theatre might be regarded and understood in light of its history, memories, present experiences, and future possibilities. The idea of pretence that lies at the heart of theatricality itself provides an ideal means for interrogating national identity in a time of great instability and flux. The examples of productions discussed in these three essays share more than a deliberate utilization of the rubrics of theatricality. It seems no coincidence that the reworking of national classics, Estonian national myths, and ethnic folk songs and ceremonies takes place concurrently with the representation of new technologies, commodity capitalism, and diasporic collisions. Embodying precisely the predicament of culture in a country reassessing its past and confronting its future, the theatre is an important institution for national resignification.

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The current research study investigates the effectiveness of online blogging for students’ individual and group writing skills. The participants were divided into individual learners and group learners. They produced pre-writing and post-writing samples through blogging practices. The study conducted lasted for 14 weeks so that blogging could be optimized. The results of the study reveal that unlike traditional ways of improving writing skills, blogging has revolutionized EFL pedagogy and methodology (learning and teaching). Blogging-based writing practice is more participatory and interactive in that learners can dramatically improve their writing skills in terms of content, word choice, style, language mechanics and the like. The learner-blogger becomes aware that the arbiter is no longer the classroom teacher, the audience or readership. This study recommends that blogging be part of writing classes and be incorporated into school curricula. This essentially requires pedagogical consideration of the design of blogging-based writing materials.

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The aim of this study was to explore the concept of role identity among Iranian English language teachers. Narrative inquiry was adopted as an approach of the study. Twenty-one Iranian English language teachers from three educational contexts (university, school, and institute) were interviewed and provided their written narratives. Then, the collected data were analyzed through thematic analysis and credibility and trustworthiness of the data were ensured through data triangulation and coding agreement. Results of the study revealed that Iranian EFL teachers conceptualized their role identity from multi-dimensional perspectives, including managerial, professional, and socio-cultural perspectives. The findings also showed that thirteen sub- role identities were explored and emerged under three main themes of role identity for Iranian EFL teachers. The three main themes included teachers’ role identity as manager, professional, and acculturator and the thirteen sub-role identities consisted of ‘knowledge transmitter, trader, juggler, interaction supervisor, promoter, arbiter, entertainer, pundit, collaborator, learner, social panacea, cultural adapter, and tutelage-provider’. The results of the current study can be useful for policy makers, teacher educators, and evaluators to have a better judgment and make appropriate decisions about teachers. Finally, the limitation of the study along with suggestion for the further research were also discussed.

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Ben Davis’s 9.5 Theses on Art and Class argues from a Marxist perspective that art and politics should be understood as distinct fields. In a collection of essays on different aspects of contemporary art, Davis attacks the tendency towards ‘aesthetic politics’ and the prevalence of Frankfurt School and post-operaist Marxism in contemporary art. Davis affirms that an understanding of class allows the relationship between art and politics to be correctly gauged, and excessive claims for art to be moderated. While it contains some useful observations, his argument often misrepresents recent art theory and deploys militant populist arguments in support of a conservative notion of the art critic as arbiter of artistic value. Davis’s hostility to work that blurs the boundary between art and politics is part of this conservatism. His argument is contrasted to rigorous analyses of the relation between art and class that emerged from the Art & Language collective since the mid-1970s. The work of this collective demonstrates that a thorough class-analysis always tends to destabilise the field of art, rather than clarifying it.

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CERN is using an increasing number of DNS based load balanced aliases (currently over 700). This article explains the Go based concurrent implementation of the Load Balancing Service, both the client (lbclient) and the server (lbd). The article describes how it is being progressively deployed using Puppet and how concurrency greatly improves scalability, ultimately allowing a single master-slave couple of Openstack virtual machines to server all the aliases. It explains the new implementation of the lbclient, which, among other things, allows to incorporate Collectd metrics to determine the status of the node and takes advantage of the Go language concurrency features to reduce the real time needed for checking the status of the node. The article explains that the LBD server acts as an arbiter getting feedback on load and health from the backend nodes using snmp (Simple Network Management Protocol) to decide which IP addresses the LB alias will present. While this architecture has been used since long at CERN for DNS based aliases, the LBD code is generic enough to drive other load balancers. A proof of concept using HAProxy to provide adaptive responses to load and health monitoring has been implemented.

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AbstractThe conflict between Prometheus and Zeus has long dominated critical discussion of the play and diverted attention from the only mortal to appear onstage. Prometheus is widely applauded as humanity's saviour and Zeus condemned as an oppressive tyrant, but the fate of the maiden Io is largely discounted. Her encounter with Prometheus, however, is the longest and most complex episode in the play, and it provides a very different perspective on events. The elaborate forecast of her journeys delivered by Prometheus deploys the ‘discourse of barbarism’ to picture a primitive world ravaged by savage violence and hostile monsters. The lands through which Io is to travel are devoid of the civil and religious institutions of the classical Greek polis and oikos. Yet the episode also foretells how this barbaric world will evolve under the aegis of Zeus. Argive Io, as ‘wife’ of Zeus, will found a ‘new family’ of mortals who will introduce and champion the norms of Greek civic culture in his and her name alike. Prophecy, allusion and foreshadowing thus reveal the Zeus of this play to be not the harsh and destructive despot imagined by most today, but the benevolent source and ultimate arbiter of justice for both gods and humanity.

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Both in the Party Charter and in the State Constitution, the Chinese Communist Party claims to represent the Chinese people. Instead of treating this claim as mere rhetoric made by the party for propaganda purposes, this article demonstrates that it indicates a rather significant transition in the party’s understanding of its relationship with the people. Particularly, roughly about two decades into the Open and Reform policy initiated under the leadership of Deng Xiaoping, the party made a strategic choice in imagining itself as the representative of the people instead of the revolutionary vanguard. This change in the language was very remarkable in the post-1949 Chinese history, in the sense that the party no longer considers itself as the facilitator of proletariat revolution, but as the authoritarian representative in the political community. If representation means “re-presentation”, as in bringing something absent present, this appears to be what the party tries to do. By embodying the nation, the party tries to represent both the rich and the poor, acting as the arbiter of forever present discords and conflicts within the society. Clearly, this representation has nothing to do with what people usually call “democratic” representation. But considering that representation and democracy are conceptually rooted in very different sources, exploring “authoritarian representation” in contemporary China would enable us to better understand both China and democratic representation.

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Abstract The objectives of this research are to know the description of changes in phonological structure of vocabulary prokem language, and morphologically used between characters in Ganteng Ganteng Serigala (GGS) cinema in each scene. This research is descriptive qualitative research. The subject in this research is inter-character dialogue between the characters in the GGS cinema in episode 1-30. The objects of this study include speech prokem languages that exist in interpersonal dialogues in the GGS cinema. Data collection techniques used in this research is the technique observed and noted. Data analysis in this research using descriptive method. The technique used is distributional technique. The results showed that 1. Based on changes in the phonological structure, the vocabulary of the language between the GGS cinema has a sound change. Experiencing sound changes. Changes that occur are modifications and neutralization. Modification is the change in vowel sound as a result of the influence of other sounds that follow, while neutralization is a change in phonemic sound as a result of environmental influences, which means that the phonological changes in the prokem language between the GGS cinema have changed which are arbitrators. The process of change is the removal of vowels, replacement of vowels, removal of the last syllables, and insertion of vowel consonants. 2. Based on the morphological formation of vocabulary language between the characters of the GGS cinema, there is a process of abbreviation of the word. The process is 1) abbreviation consisting of acronyms formed from one initial letter of each word, 2) acronyms are formed from two words and duplicated, 3) acronyms are formed from three words, and 4) acronyms are formed from two syllables last in the first word and combined with the second word. Keyword: style, language, prokem, cinema Abstrak Penelitian ini untuk mengetahui deskripsi perubahan struktur fonologis kosakata bahasa prokem dan secara morfologis yang digunakan antartokoh sinetron Ganteng Ganteng Serigala (GGS) dalam setiap adegan. Penelitian ini menggunakan pendekatan deskriptif. Subjek dalam penelitian ini adalah dialog bahasa prokem antartokoh dalam sinetron GGS dalam setiap adegan setiap episode 1-30 yang ditayangkan. Objek penelitian ini meliputi tuturan-tuturan bahasa prokem yang ada pada dialog antartokoh dalam sinetron GGS. Teknik pengumpulan data yang digunakan dalam penelitian ini adalah teknik simak dan catat. Analisis data dalam penelitian ini menggunakan metode deskriptif. Teknik yang digunakan adalah teknik distribusional. Data analisis memberikan paparan bahwa1.Berdasarkan pembentukan secara morfologis kosakata bahasa prokem antartokoh sinetron GGS, terdapat proses abreviasi (pemendekan) kata. Proses tersebut yaitu 1) abreviasi yang terdiri atas akronim yang dibentuk dari satu huruf awal dari masing-masing kata, 2) akronim dibentuk dari dua kata dan direduplikasi, 3) akronim dibentuk dari dari tiga kata, dan 4) akronim dibentuk dari dua suku kata terkahir pada kata pertama dan digabungkan dengan kata kedua. 2. Berdasarkan perubahan struktur fonologisnya, kosakata bahasa prokem antartokoh sinetron GGS mengalami perubahan bunyi. mengalami perubahan bunyi. Perubahan yang terjadi adalah modifikasi dan netralisasi. Modifikasi yakni perubahan bunyi vokal sebagai akibat dari pengaruh bunyi lain yang mengikutinya, sedangkan netralisasi merupakan perubahan bunyi fonemis sebagai akibat pengaruh lingkungan, yang artinya perubahan fonologis bahasa prokem antartokoh sinetron ganteng ganteng serigala mengalami perubahan yang bersifat arbiter. Proses perubahan tersebut yakni penghilangan vokal, penggantian vocal, penghilangan suku kata terkahir, dan penyisipan konsonan vokal. Kata kunci: ragam,bahasa, prokem, sinetron.

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From the older handbooks to the more recent scholarly literature, Gorgias's professions about his art (not to say about reality) are taken literally at their word: conjured up in all of these accounts is the image of a hearer irresistibly overwhelmed by Gorgias's apagogic and psychagogic persuasions. Gorgias's own description of his art, in effect, replaces our description of it. "His proofs... give the impression of ineluctability" (Schmid-Stählin). "Thus logos is almost an independent external power which forces the hearer to do its will" (Segal). "Incurably deceptive," logos has an "enormous power" that acts upon opinion, which is "easy to change" (Kerferd). Surprisingly, the urge to describe or paraphrase Gorgias's art has caused commentators to overlook the very best witness of it that we have: its enactment, which is to say the performative value of Gorgias's writings, especially the speeches. For if Gorgias's literary remains do nothing else, they demonstrate how one can do things with words without being explicit about what is being done, even if this means contradicting, performatively, what is being said-as for instance in his statements, so unconvincingly made, about the ostensible aims of rhetoric. Was Gorgias persuasive in practice? Was persuasion even the goal? Is logos the solitary arbiter of reality that it is so often made out to be? Through close examination of Gorgias's Helen and parts of On Not-Being, I attempt to show that persuasion is manifestly not the goal of his arguments, which in the first instance are aporetic paradoxes that expose the difficulties of defining the nature of either language or reality, and which in the last instance are instruments of cultural demystification. The only deception at work in Gorgias's writings is that of the self-deception of their audience. It is this that gives these curiously revealing documents of fifth-century Greek culture their "dissuasive," not persuasive, character.

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This narrative inquiry study aims to unveil the incorporation of policy agency within the construction of teacher identity of pre-service teachers in their academic practic*ms. Drawing on a critical-sociocultural approach to narrative inquiry, language policy, and teacher identity, the narratives of five students of an English teaching program in Medellín, Colombia, were examined. Their reflections and decision making on foreign language policies regulating their pedagogical practices at various schools show their social and critical awareness. Teaching represents a high moral load for them as they embrace a humanistic perspective. However, their narratives also pose challenges to language teaching programs in helping pre-service teachers to build micropolitical agency supported on solid theoretical knowledge to participate in policymaking. On the one hand, their narrations of the policy appropriation process they undertook show their frustration and disappointment in trying to participate when policy structures and other policy arbiters were close to them. On the other hand, when policy structures and arbiters openly allowed their policy participation, their actions and reflections focused on methodological concerns but rarely addressed social or critical awareness regarding curriculum design and development. Therefore, supporting pre-service teachers in strengthening their identities with solid theoretical constructs should be a priority because they will build micropolitical agency to overcome political tensions and negotiate their policy participation.

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Abstract In the realm of Polish law, arbitration is anything but a new concept. In an ever-developing economy, arbitration has become a useful tool in resolving disputes that are commercial in nature. The issue pertinent to the choice of language in an arbitral proceeding has been thoroughly investigated in the doctrine of international arbitration, yet the conclusions are not set in stone and are likely to change and evolve over time. As evidenced by the technological revolution, introduction of mechanical translations, and artificial intelligence (“AI”) it may seem that the challenges will be difficult to predict. Alternatively, the status quo of the English language as the number one language in the arbitral proceedings will remain. The parties can easily dismiss the linguistic and interpretative problems surrounding arbitration agreements. Thus, this article endeavors to consider the possible implications of a case scenario, wherein a party would attempt to arbitrate an international dispute with a Polish party on the basis of a contract that would be in a language that differs from Polish. Additionally, attention is drawn to the role of witnesses in an arbitration proceeding as such witnesses may speak languages that are the same, similar, or entirely different to the language spoken by the parties involved in the arbitration, as well as differ from the primary language of the arbiters. This article examines the aforementioned hypothetical case-scenario with the emphasis on relevant Polish acts of law. The research presented in this article is also focused on the examination of regulations vested in the statute of the most prominent Arbitration Court in Poland, and its provisions pertinent to language.

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Bahasa merupakan alat untuk berkomunikasi yang bersifat arbitrer. Komunitas alay atau anak layangan menggunakan bahasa alay untuk berkomunikasi di kalangan mereka. Kosakata alay berasal dari bahasa Indonesia dan bahasa Inggris yang mereka modifi kasi sehingga terbentuklah kata baru. Penelitian ini menggunakan metode deskriptif dan bertujuan untuk mengetahui proses pembentukan kata bahasa alay. Berdasarkan hasil penelitian, proses morfologis pada bahasa alay adalah singkatan dan akronim, perubahan sebagian vokal dan konsonan, pembalikan susunan fonem, dan pengacuan makna.ABSTRACT Language is a tool for communicating. A language is arbitrary. Alay community using alay language to communicate among them. Alay vocabulary derived from Indonesian and English that they were modifi ed, forming new words. This research uses descriptive method and aims to determine the process of word formation Alay language. Based on the results of the study, morphological processes in language Alay are abbreviations and acronyms, changes in some vowels and consonants, the reversal of the arrangement of phonemes, and that the reference meaning. Â

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Abstract Applied linguists have developed complex theories of the ability to communicate in a second language (L2). However, the perspectives on L2 communication ability of speakers who are not trained language professionals have been incorporated neither into theories of communication ability nor in the criteria for assessing performance on general-purpose oral proficiency tests. This potentially weakens the validity of such tests because the ultimate arbiters of L2 speakers’ oral performance are not trained language professionals. This study investigates the perspectives of these linguistic laypersons on L2 communication ability. Twenty-three native and non-native English-speaking linguistic laypersons judged L2 speakers’ oral performances and verbalized the reasons for their judgments. The results showed that the participants focus not only on the linguistic aspects of the speaker’s output but also on features that applied linguists have less paid attention to. Even where speaker’s linguistic errors were acknowledged, message conveyance and comprehensibility of the message contributed to their judgment. The study has implications for language testing and the development of tests reflecting the construct of English as a lingua franca.

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Summary In Methodvs didactica (1668) and other works Johann Joachim Becher (1635–1682) developed a theory of grammar which was based on the study of lexical, syntactic and semantic relations of words within the lexicon of a language. Matthias Kramer (1640–C.1730), in his many bilingual dictionaries, applied Becher’s grammatical theory to develop a general theory of linguistic analysis, studying the morphological relationships between roots, derivatives and/or compounds, synonymy between words, and the relationships of words in sentences and idioms in various languages. The paper demonstrates that Kramer’s approach effectively marks a breakaway from traditional grammar as still found in the works of Justus Georg Schottel (1612–1676), Kaspar Stieler (1632–1707), and others, because it applies an explicit grammatical model and because it does away with the traditional separation between lexicon and grammar. Kramer also breaks with the traditional association between form and meaning, which not only affects his concept of grammatical explanation, but also his way of establishing a comparison between languages. Kramer’s linguistic approach, it is suggested, presents certain similarities with modern studies of lexical grammar, since both try to study linguistic phenomena in the lexicon and both eliminate the arbitary separation between lexicon and grammar.

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Abstract: As a verbal communication instrument, language is a system with arbitrer. People realize that language activity actually is an activity to exspress language symbols to inform the meaning of the symbols to another people (in oral communication) or to the reader (in a letter communication). This thing can be seen from some of these proof, teacher in educational world already forgot about what was Ki Hajar Dewantara said, in that motto, teacher not only have to teach about educational in the class, but also to build the characteristic of their students. This observation use documentation methods in written text or language in the motto of Ki Hajar Dewantara, because Ki Hajar Dewantara wrote a message in that motto about education in the world, including in our environment to send a message about what was he did. The motto that written by Ki Hajar Dewantara use many interesting words. This thing make the writer use behavioral approachment to be a reference to make a meaning of the educational motto from Ki Hajar Dewantara.Keywords: representation, motto, education, meaning.Abstrak: Sebagai alat komunikasi verbal bahasa merupakan suatu sistem lambang bunyi yang bersifat arbitrer. Orang menyadari bahwa kegiatan berbahasa sesungguhnya adalah kegiatan mengekspresikan lambang – lambang bahasa untuk menyampaikan makna- makna yang ada pada lambang tersebut,kepada lawan bicaranya (dalam komunikasi lisan) atau pembaca ( dalam komunikasi tulis). Hal ini dapat dilihat dari bukti berikut, pendidik dalam dunia pendidikan suda mulai lupa dengan semboyan Ki Hajar Dewantara, dalam semboyan tersebut pendidik tugas dan tanggungjawabnya selain mengajar juga harus membentuk karakteristik peserta didiknya,memberikan contoh dalam bersikap.Penelitian ini menggunakan metode dokumentasi dalam penggunaan bahasa tulis yang dituangkan di semboyan Ki Hajar Dewantara sangatlah menarik, karena Ki Hajar Dewantara menuliskan pesan terhadap dunia pendidikan, baik dilingkungan sekitar maupun dilingkungan luar untuk menyampaikan pesan terhadap apa yang dialaminya. Tulisan Ki Hajar Dewantara tersebut mengandung makna atau arti, apa yang dituliskan Ki Hajar Dewantara banyak menggunakan istilah- istilah yang unik, yang sulit dinalar oleh manusia lainnya. Hal ini menyebabkan penulis menggunakan pendekatan behavioral manjadi acuan untuk memaknai istilah yang ada di semboyan pendidikan Ki Hajar Dewantara.Kata kunci: representasi, semboyan, edukasi, makna.

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To write poetry you don’t have to like it. I’ve been increasingly recognising that language and its correlatives in music and art are not the pure coordinates or sole arbiters of poetry. There are two issues evolving out of these comments that seem pivotal to me. The first pertains to the suggestion that poetry might happen either out of necessity, or, paradoxically, incidentally. The second, that poetry does not rely on an aesthetic response to the tensions involved in reconciling interiority and articulation of the external world. These two simple principles are becoming the turning points for a personal re-evaluation of what constitutes the poem for me as a reader, or more precisely ‘experiencer’, and what it means for me as a maker of poems.

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This case study investigates language teacher agency in the context of ESP curriculum reform in a Chinese university. Data collected from classroom observations and semi-structured interviews with both teachers and students from five ESP classes are analyzed by conducting a thorough thematic analysis. It is revealed that instead of following the national curriculum and institutional requirements, language teachers as policy arbiters make their own implicit policies which are creating spaces for their own discourses, and in this sense, they are “adjusting” the curriculum policy rather than “implementing” it. Teachers’ academic background, their views on the nature of language learning, their profound distrust of the efficacy of ESP courses, and students’ explicit performance are the main causes of teachers’ actual resistance to the policy. Unlike previous studies of teacher agency, an analysis of students’ needs and implicit discourses indicates that teachers’ agency excised through their hidden agenda may turn out to be a defense of their unwillingness to change, to the detriment of students’ academic performance. This study then suggests that policymakers should notice the negative side of teacher agency and stresses the necessity of a bottom-up survey on teachers’ ideologies in the implementation of a language education policy, and argues that creating spaces for negotiating and adjusting the policy at the instructional level, and offering effective teacher education programs are the key to the enactment of the national curriculum.

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A mock theogony from Cratinus' Chirones seems straightforward and uncomplicated evidence of the jibes of the comic poets against Pericles. The source for this fragment, Plutarch's Life of Pericles, chapter 3, in fact connects it with the usual sallies of the archaia about the shape of Pericles' head. Yet, the fragment equally reflects the presence of contemporary opposition in Periclean Athens against the statesman. Plutarch simply covers the density of its allusion, which is something beyond the comic resource of attacking marked peculiarities of appearance of politically prominent individuals: the Homeric-style hapaxκεΦαληγερέταν alludes to the deformity of Pericles' head but also to his demagogic ability to assemble the masses in the so-called ‘language of the gods’.Many questions are, however, posed when we attempt to account for the allegories or the analogies the passage establishes. As Hanow wondered back in 1830: verum quidΧρόνος πρεσβυγενήςad Periclem faciat, non reperio; quamquam certam quandam rem a Cratino spectatam arbitror. The main purpose of this paper, therefore, is to examine the fragment afresh, in the hope of showing that the source for the parody of this piece of Cratinus may be traced elsewhere than so far suggested, and that there is good reason for Stasis and Chronus fathering this sinister infant.

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This paper investigates the place of pedagogy in language-in-education policy through an analysis of how the macro-level government policy interacts with the micro-level English language teaching practices. Since 2015, the teaching and learning of English language to grade 3 students, in all public schools of the Punjab, has been carried out through a literacy and numeracy drive called LND. The present study investigated the effectiveness of teaching English to grade 3 through literacy drive policy (LDP) of LND programme. It locates the implementation of LDP, in language in acquisition policy perspective and supports the stance that language teaching and learning is central to language planning and policy research (Johnson, 2013; Menken & García, 2010). It argues that language interventions deployed at any level of education are extension of language education policies which aim to improve the quality of education and to promote the learning of the language. Like all language in acquisition policies, LDP for teaching and learning of English is being executed in the same context of increasing the number of language users through teaching of foreign or second language (Cooper, 1989). The study investigated perceptions of teachers regarding teaching and learning of English through LDP with the notion that effective implementation of any language programme is linked with the understanding and practices of teachers who are the real implementers and final arbiters at micro level (Menken, 2008). The present study included a portion of data from my PhD dissertation. It collected teachers’ experiential standpoints to explore teachers’ awareness regarding implementation of LDP and issues they face inside the classrooms when they carried out teaching learning of English through LDP. The findings of the study revealed that teachers teaching English to grade 3 lack awareness in terms of clear understanding regarding LDP mainly because it is less elaborated and not accessible. It ultimately hindered the successful implementation and poses multiple classroom challenges.

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Predominant status of English in politics, science, technology and intercultural communications leads to fierce debate over the so-called “ownership” of the English language. Considering the major agent in the spread and development of English around the world, increasing arguments have favoured the position of English as a lingua franca (ELF) shaped more by English’s non-native speakers. This echoes growing advocacy in Chinese academia of legitimatising Chinese ELF and implementing it to the English education. This paper suggests the emergence of an imagined Chinese ELF community in response to the paradox under the Post-Multilingual context that individuals adopt and adapt English for intercultural communication while this may endanger local culture and identity. However, it argues that Chinese ELF is hard to be legitimatised officially and applied to teaching contexts due to its immanent self-contradiction and attitudes of the Chinese public — its aimed recipients — towards embracing and using it formally. Key point lies in the fact that under today’s context of Anglo-hegemony, it is still native speakers who remain arbiters of the form of the English language spread and taught over the globe, essentially preventing Chinese ELF from being recognised.

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For James Haar on his 70th BirthdayThe sixteenth century in Italy was a time when academies of all kinds flourished as venues, and often as arbiters, of literature and high culture. A casual look at the academies might give the impression that they were mostly social in nature, that they functioned as a pastime for bored aristocrats and ambitious letterati. As originally constituted, the Accademia degli Umidi, founded 1 November 1540, indeed fitted this description, but with one difference characteristic of Florentine society - it was organised by twelve men of various social classes with a common interest in poetry and language. The academy expanded considerably under the patronage of Duke Cosimo I de' Medici and on 25 March 1541 was reconstituted as the Accademia Fiorentina. Its avowed purpose was to promote the Tuscan language as an instrument of literature and knowledge, in an age when mastery of Latin was required of any educated man. In advancing the cause of vernacular literature, the Accademia Fiorentina, like other academies of the time, greatly extended the programme of Italian humanism, making available the fruits of humanist thought and enquiry to a larger public.

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AbstrakBahasa rahasia, yaitu argot digunakan secara terbatas pada kalangan tertentu dan memiliki variasi pemakaian yang berbeda dari bahasa sehari-hari. Salah satu tujuan pemakaian bahasa rahasia adalah untuk merahasiakan percakapan mereka agar tidak dapat dipahami oleh orang yang bukan komunitasnya. Tujuan penelitian ini adalah untuk mendeskripsikan proses pembentukan kosakata, mendeskripsikanmakna acuan, dan fungsi pemakaian kosakata yang digunakan oleh pengguna napza di Kota/Kabupaten Bandung. Metode yang digunakan dalam penelitian ini adalah metode kualitatif dengan teknik wawancara kepada pengguna napza di Kota/Kabupaten Bandung. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan tiga hal, yaitu (1) proses pembentukan kosakata meliputi penggabungan (blending), pemendekan (clipping), singkatan (initialism), pemajemukan (compounding), infleksi (inflection), derivasi (derivation), dialek dan penyerapan (borrowing), metatesis, ikonitas, asosiasi, dannonprediktif /arbitrer, (2) acuan makna yang terkandung dalam kosakata pengguna napza bervariasi, bergantung pada makna leksikal dan gramatikal, dan (3) terdapat dua fungsi penggunaan bahasa rahasia pada kalangan pengguna napza di Kota/Kabupaten Bandung, yaitu sebagai alat komunikasi dan pelindung kelompok.

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Abstract Many physicians were not formally trained in the evaluation and management of disability and must understand the language of disability, how disability is evaluated, what to expect from a medical evaluation, and how to communicate effectively to achieve the best outcomes. The very language of disability is complex and often is misunderstood. For example, the AMA Guides to the Evaluation of Permanent Impairment (AMA Guides), Sixth Edition, defines impairment as “a significant deviation, loss, or loss of use of any body structure or body function in an individual with a health condition, disorder, or disease.” In contrast, disability is variously defined by the administrative or legal system with jurisdiction, and the AMA Guides broadly defines disability as “activity limitations and/or participation restrictions in an individual with a health condition, disorder, or disease.” Another useful concept is “needless disability” or days away from work that are not medically necessary; workless populations experience a two- to threefold increased risk of poor general health, including higher rates of cardiovascular disease, lung cancer, and respiratory infections, among other problems that contribute to an excess mortality of 20% among individuals in this group. Physicians help establish but are not the final arbiters of disability determinations; their role is to provide accurate, complete, and clear information that allows others to determine the presence, extent, and compensability of disability.

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Maturation of network technologies and high-speed broadband has led to significant developments in multi-user platforms that enable synchronous networked improvisation across global distances. However sophisticated the interface, nuances of face-to-face communication such as gesture, facial expression, and body language are not available to the remote improviser. Sound artists and musicians must rely on listening and the semiotics of sound to mediate their interaction and the resulting collaboration. This paper examines two case studies of networked improvisatory performances by the inter-cultural tele-music ensemble Ethernet Orchestra.It focuses on qualities of sound (e.g. timbre, frequency, amplitude) in the group's networked improvisation, examining how they become arbiters of meaning in dialogical musical interactions without visual gestural signifiers. The evaluation is achieved through a framework of Distributed Cognition, highlighting the centrality of culture, artefact and environment in the analysis of dispersed musical perception. It contrasts salient qualities of sound in the groups’ collective improvisation, highlighting the interpretive challenges for cross-cultural musicians in a real-time ‘jam’ session. As network technologies provide unprecedented opportunities for diverse inter-cultural collaboration, it is sound as the carrier of meaning that mediates these new experiences.

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Analysis ofFilm "Sang Kyai" (Islamic Nationalism Nusantara Perspective Semiotics Roland Barthes).One of the fundamental problems underlying the author's take on this study, becauseas long as it has begun to wear off Indonesia citizen nationalism stance. Such is the case, the tendency of citizens that Indonesia is more loved by the people of the West,dressing style that follows the culture of people of the West,so this leads to a lack of respectcopyright, the initiative of the Indonesian nation.Another unique phenomenon is when a writer tries to analyze many among small children who haven't cultivated an attitude of nationalism or patriotismby their parents this is evident from the songs the children sing a lot of them sing songs welcoming love of the opposite sexeven more deadly many of them don't know the national anthem of the Republic of Indonesia.The author tried to examine this film in the perspective of semiotics Roland Barthes.According to Roland Barthes there are three meanings in the study of semiotics are denotation, connotation and mitos. By formulating a problem formulation is; How can the representation of Islamic Nationalism signs nusantara which is contained in the film "Sang Kyai". This research uses qualitative research using type approach figure KH Hasyim Ash'ari as the driving force of Nahdhatul Ulama (NU) and the founder of the first cottage Tebuireng Jombang. In this study the author uses the analysis of semiotics Roland Barthes, a theory of semiotics examines about signs. The study in this research is the study of linguistic,language is a system of sound arbitrer coat of arms,used by members of a community to work together,interact, and identifyWhile the studies related to the science of signs as well as very useful once semiotik in studies of languagebecause with through signs everything can be interpreted.As for the results of this study indicate that Islamic Nationalism in the movie "Sang Kyai" perspective of semiotics Roland Barthes can be categorized into three are;(1) maintaining the unity and the unity of the country that is described in the corpus of 1, 2 and 3, (2)Cultivating Shura (consultation), which elaborated on the bodies of 4, 5 and 6,(3) the fight for Justice that is described in the corpus 7 and 8.

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Onomatopoeia is the naming of objects or deeds by sound imitation. Imitation of sound does not only include animal, human, natural, or audible sounds, but also sounds that describe moving objects, collisions, or human feelings or emotions. In this study, onomatopoeia is the result of an imitation of sound (which is more or less the same as the original sound) and is arbitrary. This study aims to describe the Devayan language onomatopoeia of natural sounds, animal sounds and human voices. This type of research uses a qualitative descriptive approach. The data source of this research is 7 community leaders of Simeulue, namely native speakers of the Devayan language in Simeulue Cut, data obtained from sounds imitated by the community. Data collection techniques used in this study were interview, record, see and note technique. The results showed that imitations of sounds originating from natural sounds were found to be around 26 imitations of sounds, including imitations of the sound "Falls" Druuhhmm! and the sound of "Thunder" geudamdum !. Furthermore, the sound of animals found about 25 sounds, such as imitation of the sound of "Buffalo" ongng ... a ... k !, the sound of "Rooster at dawn" my.ku..ut ...! and the sound of "Cats" meauu !. Finally, imitations of sounds originating from human voices found about 19 sounds, including imitation of human voice "sneeze" hacyhihh! The form of words contained in the mock sound data is a form of compounding morpheme to indicate a repetitive, prolongation of the voice that indicates activities and conditions that last long, and condensation of sounds that are marked with small letters that indicate something fast. They use these imitations in various conditions. Abstrak Onomatope adalah penamaan benda atau perbuatan dengan peniruan bunyi. Peniruan bunyi tersebut tidak hanya mencakup suara hewan, manusia, alam, atau suara yang dapat didengar saja, namun juga suara yang menggambarkan benda bergerak, benturan, maupun perasaan atau emosi manusia. Dalam penelitian ini, onomatope merupakan hasil tiruan bunyi (yang kurang lebih sama dengan suara aslinya) dan bersifat arbitrer. Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk mendeskripsikan onomatope bahasa Devayan suara alam, suara hewan dan suara manusia. Jenis penelitian ini menggunakan pendekatan deskriptif kualitatif. Sumber data penelitian ini adalah 7 tokoh masyarakat Simeulue, yaitu penutur asli bahasa Devayan yang ada di Simeulue Cut, data diperoleh dari bunyi-bunyi yang ditirukan oleh masyarakat tersebut. Teknik pengumpulan data yang digunakan dalam penelitian ini ialah teknik wawancara, rekam, simak dan catat. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa tiruan bunyi yang berasal dari suara alam ditemukan sekitar 26 tiruan bunyi, diantaranya seperti tiruan suara “Terjun” Druuhhmm!, suara “Angin berhembus kencang” Ffeooff! dan suara “Guntur” geudamdum!. Selanjutnya, suara hewan ditemukan sekitar 25 tiruan bunyi, diantaranya seperti Tiruan suara “Kerbau” ongng…a..k!, suara “Ayam jantan waktu subuh” ku.ku..ut…! dan suara “Kucing” meauu!. Terakhir, tiruan bunyi yang berasal dari suara manusia ditemukan sekitar 19 tiruan bunyi, diantaranya seperti Tiruan suara manusia “Bersin” hacyhihh!, suara “Batuk” huk..uhuk!, dan suara “Waktu teriris pisau pada bagian jari tangan” auch!. Bentuk kata yang terdapat pada data tiruan bunyi adalah bentuk pemajemukan morfem untuk menunjukkan suatu yang berulang-ulang, pemanjangan suara yang menunjukkan aktivitas dan keadaan yang berlangsung lama, dan pemadatan suara yang ditandai dengan huruf kecil yang menunjukkan sesuatu yang cepat. Mereka menggunakan tiruan tersebut dalam berbagai kondidsi yang ada. Kata Kunci: Onomatope, Bahasa, Devayan

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Aim. This paper is the continuation of [1] that proposes using the R programming language for fault tree analysis (FTA). In [1], three examples are examined: fault tree (FT) calculation per known probabilities, dynamic FT calculation per known distributions of times to failure for a system’selements. In the latter example, FTA is performed for systems with elements that are described by different functional and service models. Fault tree analysis (FTA) is one of the primary methods of dependability analysis of complex technical systems. This process often utilizes commercial software tools like Saphire, Risk Spectrum, PTC Windchill Quality, Arbitr, etc. Practically each software tool allows calculating the dependability of complex systems subject to possible common cause failures (CCF). CCF are the associated failures of a group of several elements that occur simultaneously or within a short time interval (i.e. almost simultaneously) due to one common cause (e.g. a sudden change in the climatic service conditions, flooding of the premises, etc.). An associated failure is a multiple failure of several system elements, of which the probability cannot be expressed simply as the product of the probabilities of unconditional failures of individual elements. There are several generally accepted models used in CCF probability calculation: the Greek letters model, the alpha, beta factor models, as well as their variations. The beta factor model is the most simple in terms of associated failures simulation and further dependability calculation. The other models involve combinatorial search associated events in a group of n events, that becomes labor-consuming if the number n is large. Therefore, in the above software tools there are some restrictions on the n, beyond which the probability of CCF is calculated approximately. In the current R FaultTree package version there are no above CCF models, therefore all associated failures have to be simulated manually, which is not complicated if the number of associated events is small, as well as useful in terms of understanding the various CCF models. In this paper, for the selected diagram a detailed analysis of the procedure of associated failures simulation is performed for alpha and beta factor models. The Purposeof this paper consists in the detailed analysis of the alpha and beta factor methods for a certain diagram, in the demonstration of fault tree creation procedure taking account of ССF using R’s FaultTree package. Methods. R’s FaultTree scripts were used for the calculations and FTA capabilities demonstration.Conclusions. Two examples are examined in detail. In the first example, for the selected block diagram that contains two groups of elements subject to associated failures, the alpha factor model is applied. In the second example, the beta factor model is applied. The deficiencies of the current version of FaultTree package are identified. Among the main drawbacks we should indicate the absence of some basic logical gates.

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International audience We prove that the topological entropy of subshifts having decidable language is uncomputable in the following sense: For no error bound less than 1/4 does there exists a program that, given a decision procedure for the language of a subshift as input, will approximate the entropy of the subshift within the error bound. In addition, we prove that not only is the topological entropy of sofic shifts computable to arbitary precision (a well-known fact), but all standard comparisons of the topological entropy with rational numbers are decidable.

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Language policies generally seek to establish, regulate, and conform linguistic practices – whether explicit or implicit – that occur within an ‘authorized’ domain. While there are multiple levels (societal, institutional, and interpersonal) at which such policies are enacted (Hornberger & Johnson, 2007), academic institutions are often significant policy arbiters as they serve as crucial switchboards (Blommaert, 2010; De Costa, 2010) that connect policies at the societal and interpersonal levels. In particular, English medium of instruction (EMI) policies that mandate English as the primary means of academic content delivery have played a pivotal role in enabling universities in countries such as Bangladesh (Rahman & Mehar Singh, 2019), China (e.g., Hu, 2009; Song, 2019; Zhang, 2018), Saudi Arabia (Barnawi, 2018; Phan & Barnawi, 2015), and Vietnam (Phan, 2018) to establish themselves on the world stage and engage with the global community. Even though several scholars (e.g., Coleman, 2006; Jenkins, 2019a; Knight, 2013, 2016; Macaro et al., 2018) have investigated EMI policies across different contexts, the following central question concerning these policies still persists: in what ways has the implementation of EMI policies transformed the higher education sector, and subsequently affected primary social actors, such as students, teachers, and administrators embedded within these shifting contexts? These concerns, we posit, are amplified by the transnational movements of people and institutions (Duff, 2015) and the ever-increasing speed and agility with which TESOL as a field has to respond to the shifting tides of globalization (Barnawi, 2020). Given this conspicuous gap in an ever-evolving English language policy landscape, we set out to critically review previous works that have examined the implementation of EMI policies within a transnational higher education (TNHE) context. TNHE is characterized by the transformation of higher education across the globe (Knight, 2013; Kosmützky & Putty, 2016) as Western-based universities export models – driven by a neoliberal agenda to maximize financial profit – through the establishment of overseas branch campuses. In reviewing works that examine TNHE, we aim to stimulate dialogue on this contemporary phenomenon.

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This consideration of British poet, novelist, and critic Iain Sinclair’s ‘bad’ writing begins at the summit of Beckton Alp, a pile of waste in London’s east that has been reconstituted as recreational space. For Sinclair, Beckton Alp functions as a totem signifying the pervasive regulatory influence of Panopticism in contemporary urban culture. It shares the Panopticon’s ‘see/being seen dyad’, which is delineated thus by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Punish: In the peripheric ring [which in this case acts as an analogue for London] one is seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower [for our purposes, Beckton Alp], one sees everything without being seen. (201) In his most recent novel, Dining on Stones (or, The Middle Ground), the prospect from Beckton Alp offers Sinclair the following image of London: Leaning on a creosoted railing London makes sense. There is a pattern, a working design. And there’s a word for it too: Obscenery. Blight. Stuttering movement. The distant river. The time membrane dissolves, in such a way that the viewer becomes the thing he is looking at. (190) The city, following Michel de Certeau, can be read as a text from Beckton Alp, one that appears intelligible, one that ‘makes sense’ (92). But what “sense” is the reader to make of Sinclair’s vision of London, a London characterised by this intriguing (and typically Sinclairean) neologism, obscenery? Obscenery’s etymological origins in the word ‘obscene’ suggest that it is indecent, unruly, offensive. It would seem to encompass everything that hegemonic culture would prefer to keep off-stage and unseen, everything that it considers ‘bad.’ Yet as Sinclair makes clear, it is hardly hidden—it can be seen from the Alp. By all accounts, obscenery proves to be the completely visible manifestation of what is normally segregated, managed and disposed of by disciplinary apparatuses, such as the Panoptic schema, which organise and supervise urban space. In summary, obscenery contends the regulatory power of Panopticism by being visible, obscenely so. Sinclair is careful to avoid a dialectic positing obscenery as the disordered antinomy to the pattern of hegemonic order. Instead, obscenery problematises the differentiations demarcating ‘good’ and ‘bad’ culture. Sinclair’s poiesis also blurs the boundaries between divergent spheres of culture as it oscillates between small press publishing and the mass market. His mimeographed chapbooks and limited edition hardcovers have for the major part of his career been conceived, produced, and disseminated outside the parameters of mainstream culture. An affiliation with the avant-garde British Poetry Revival indicates Sinclair’s dedication to alternative publishing, as does the existence of his own imprints: the punningly named horz commerz, and the Albion Village Press. But his mainstream publications (including Dining on Stones, which was released by multinational publishing house Penguin) complicate this position because although he is published and circulated within the sights of hegemonic literary culture, and therefore subject to the gaze of the Panopticon, Sinclair rejects hegemonic expectations about what comprises literature. He exploits written language, a tool licensed by the Panopticon, for unlicensed praxis. Identifying Sinclair’s cultural production as a type of textual obscenery, or ‘bad’ writing proposes an alternative model of cultural production, one that enables the creative practitioner to loosen the panoptic bonds with which Foucault pinions the individual and productively negotiate the archetypal struggle faced in a capitalist political economy: the conflict between artistic integrity and commercial imperative. In a sense, Sinclair and his circle of collaborators constitute a modern day la bohème—a league of artistic and literary putschists conspiring against the established order of cultural production, distribution, and consumption. As Sinclair commented in an interview: There’s no anxiety. Most of the stuff I have done didn’t have to win anybody’s approval. For me, there wasn’t that question of ‘How do I get published?’ that seems to preoccupy writers now. I used to publish myself. (Jeffries) For Sinclair, hegemonic culture is marching acquiescently, mindlessly to the ‘military/industrial two-step. That old standard… YES was the word.’ (Sinclair, London Orbital 4) If ‘yes’ is the mantra of this type of (false) consciousness, then Sinclair’s contrary creations are asserting a politics of ‘no.’ Sinclair’s refusal to accede to hegemonic attitudes regarding what is ‘good’ writing points to a deliberate decision to preserve what Herbert Marcuse terms ‘artistic alienation’ (Sinclair 63). According to Marcuse, artistic alienation, as distinct from traditional Marxist notions of alienation, should be encouraged in order to preserve the integrity of the work of art as something that has the power to rupture reality. In late era capitalism, reality is the totality of commodity culture, thus art must remain antagonistic to the ubiquity of the commodity form. Or, in Marcuse’s words, ‘art has …magic power only as the power of negation. It can speak its own language only as long as the images are alive which refuse and refute the established order’ (65). Within the panoptic schema, the disciplinary apparatus of capitalism, refusal, or refuse, is equivalent to obscenery. Like raw sewage washing up on the beach, or a split garbage bag lying uncollected in the street, Sinclair’s writing is matter out-of-place. If Panopticism, as Foucault theorises, is to efficiently and effectively implement discipline via real and imagined networks of surveillance that shift constantly between operations extrinsic and intrinsic to the subject, it does not necessarily prevent heterogeneous, transgressive, or subversive practice from emerging. However, it will, by means of this surveillance, draw attention to these practices, classify and segregate them, apply pejorative labels such as ‘bad’, ‘useless’, ‘harmful’, and relegate them to a social or spatial sphere outside the realm of the normative tastes and standards. In this process lies the Panopticon’s vast potential to devise, standardise, and regulate patterns of production and consumption. Practices and production that do not conform to hegemonic conventions are deemed aberrant, and rendered invisible. In a capitalist political economy, where governing institutions and operations function as extensions of systems predicated upon the fetishism of commodities, regulating patterns of consumption—by deciding what can and can’t be seen—imposes control. According to the logic of scopophilic culture, to be ‘unseen,’ by choice or otherwise, necessarily restricts consumption. In this manner, the Panopticon reinforces its role as arbiter of public taste. Obscenery’s visibility, however, rejects panoptic classification. It resists the panoptic systems that police cultural production, not by remaining hidden, or Other, but by declaring its presence. Unlike the commodity, which in its conformity is seamlessly assimilated into consumer culture, obscenery draws attention. Beckton Alp, a sanitised pile of waste rendered useful, palatable, is, in contrast, an example of obscenery averted (see endnote). As Marx explains, for a product to exist fully it must be consumed (91). A book becomes a product only when it is read. Writing that is designed to refuse the act of reading is perverse according to any schema of cultural logic, but particularly according to the logic of an economy driven by consumption. This refusal resonates with particular force within a capitalist schema of cultural production because it is fundamentally contrary to the process of commodification. Sinclair’s texts deny easy, uncritical consumption and subsequently cause a blockage in the process of commodification. In this manner, Sinclair contends the logos of capitalist alchemy. A book that resists being easily read, but is still visible to mainstream culture, constitutes a type of obscenery. Situating Sinclair’s poiesis within the domain of obscenery enables an understanding of why his texts have been judged by some critics and readers as ‘bad,’ difficult, inaccessible, impenetrable, even ‘unreadable’. Practitioners of counter-cultural and sub-cultural art and literature traditionally protect their minoritarian status and restrict access to their work by consciously constructing texts which might be considered ‘sh*t’; in other words, creating something that is deemed excremental, or ‘bad’ according to hegemonic tastes and standards. They create something that inhibits smooth digestion, something that causes a malfunction in the order of consumption. Stylistically, Sinclair employs a number of linguistic and formal devices to repulse the reader. Unrelenting verbiage and extreme parataxis are two such contrivances, as this exemplary excerpt from Dining on Stones illustrates: HEALTHY BOWELS? No problem in that department. Quite the reverse. Eyes: like looking out of week-old milk bottles. Ears clogged and sticky nose broken. But bowels ticked like a German motor: Stephen X, age unknown: writer. Marine exile. His walk, the colonnade. Wet suits for scuba divers. Yellowed wedding dresses. Black god franchises. Fast food. NO CASH KEPT ON PREMISES. The shops, beneath the hulk of the Ocean Queen flats, dealt in negatives, prohibitions – fear. They kept no stock beyond instantly forgotten memorabilia, concrete floors. Stephen releases a clutch of bad wind. (Sinclair 308) Sinclair’s writing constructs linguistic heterotopias that ‘desiccate speech, stop words in their tracks, contest the very possibility of grammar’ (Foucault, Archaeology xix). His language is clipped, elliptical, arrhythmic. In fact, Sinclair’s prose often doesn’t resemble prose; formally and syntactically, it is more aligned with poetry. It is peppered with paradoxical conceits—‘forgotten memorabilia’—which negate meaning and amplify the inscrutability of his words. His imagery is unexpected, discordant, frequently unsettling, as is his unpredictable register which veers from colloquialisms (‘No problem in that department’; Sinclair 308) to more formal, literary modes of expression (‘Stephen X, age unknown: writer’; Sinclair 308). Sinclair also alienates the reader through the use of digressive narrative, which in its Blakean insistence on cyclical shapes resists the linear structure associated with the shape of rational imagination. In terms of the economy of a teleological narrative, Sinclair’s storytelling in novels like Dining on Stones is wasteful in its diversions. His fictions and non-fictions contain characters and events that are incidental to what only occasionally resembles a plot. The apotheosis of the urge to contend linear forms of narrative is chronicled in Sinclair’s 2002 book London Orbital, a navigation of the M25 that as a circuitous journey has neither defined point of origin nor a locatable terminus. Sinclair’s novels, criticism, poetry, films constitute a hermeneutic circle, insisting that you have a working knowledge of the other texts in order to decipher the single text, and the body of work gives meaning to each discrete text. Acquiring Sinclair’s recondite code—which those who are cognisant with his style are well aware—is not a task for the uncommitted. The reader must assume the role of detective tracking down his poetry in second-hand bookshops. Obscure references that saturate the page must be researched. To read and understand Sinclair requires what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has called ‘cultural competence’ (2). Bourdieu’s ideas on taste and consumption provide a framework for understanding Sinclair’s textual allegiances, his affinity for other types of textual obscenery—unsanctioned graffiti, small magazine poetry—which are also derided as ‘sh*t’, as ‘bad’ writing by those who have not acquired the cultural competence necessary to understand their coded information. There is a self-reflexive joke contained in the title Dining on Stones. After all, it is a novel that constantly urges the reader to swallow indigestible text and unsavoury subject matter. Sinclair’s writing continually forces our attentions back to the purlieus of urban culture, to everything that the centrifugal forces of Panopticism have driven to the periphery: social inequality, marginal spatial practice, refuse, sh*t. Sinclair’s textual obscenery is perceived as ‘bad’, as excremental because it denies mainstream literary audiences the satisfaction of uncomplicated, uncritical consumption. According to the restrictive logic of late era capitalism, Sinclair’s slippery, complex, inaccessible narratives are perverse. But they are also the source of perverse pleasure for those who refuse the inhibitions of conformity. Endnote Visual technology in the service of surveillance has been steadily integrated into the everyday, and, by virtue of its ubiquity, has become ‘unseen.’ Similar to the panoptic technologies described by Foucault, Beckton Alp, ‘a considerable event that nobody notices,’ (Sinclair, Dining on Stones, 179) is also assimilated into the urban landscape. References Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge, 2003. De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin, 1977. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Jeffries, Stuart. “On the Road.” The Guardian Online 24 Apr. 2004. 28 Apr. 2004 http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,1201856,00.html>. Marcuse, Herbert. One-Dimensional Man. London & New York: Routledge, 2002. Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy (Rough Draft). Trans. Martin Nicolaus. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973. Sinclair, Iain. Dining on Stones (or, the Middle Ground). London: Hamish Hamilton, 2004. Sinclair, Iain. London Orbital. London: Granta, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Seale, Kirsten. "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>. APA Style Seale, K. (Feb. 2005) "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>.

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While the term “visual literacy” has grown in popularity in the last 50 years, its meaning remains nebulous. It is described variously as: a vehicle for aesthetic appreciation, a means of defence against visual manipulation, a sorting mechanism for an increasingly data-saturated age, and a prerequisite to civic inclusion (Fransecky 23; Messaris 181; McTigue and Flowers 580). Scholars have written extensively about the first three subjects but there has been less research on how visual literacy frames civic life and how it might help the public as a tool to address disadvantage and assist in removing social and cultural barriers. This article examines a forerunner to visual literacy in the push to create an international symbol language born out of popular education movements, a project that fell short of its goals but still left a considerable impression on graphic media. This article, then, presents an analysis of visual literacy campaigns in the early postwar era. These campaigns did not attempt to invent a symbolic language but posited that images themselves served as a universal language in which students could receive training. Of particular interest is how the concept of visual literacy has been mobilised as a pedagogical tool in design, digital humanities and in broader civic education initiatives promoted by Third Space institutions. Behind the creation of new visual literacy curricula is the idea that images can help anchor a world community, supplementing textual communication. Figure 1: Visual Literacy Yearbook. Montebello Unified School District, USA, 1973. Shedding Light: Origins of the Visual Literacy Frame The term “visual literacy” came to the fore in the early 1970s on the heels of mass literacy campaigns. The educators, creatives and media theorists who first advocated for visual learning linked this aim to literacy, an unassailable goal, to promote a more radical curricular overhaul. They challenged a system that had hitherto only acknowledged a very limited pathway towards academic success; pushing “language and mathematics”, courses “referred to as solids (something substantial) as contrasted with liquids or gases (courses with little or no substance)” (Eisner 92). This was deemed “a parochial view of both human ability and the possibilities of education” that did not acknowledge multiple forms of intelligence (Gardner). This change not only integrated elements of mass culture that had been rejected in education, notably film and graphic arts, but also encouraged the critique of images as a form of good citizenship, assuming that visually literate arbiters could call out media misrepresentations and manipulative political advertising (Messaris, “Visual Test”). This movement was, in many ways, reactive to new forms of mass media that began to replace newspapers as key forms of civic participation. Unlike simple literacy (being able to decipher letters as a mnemonic system), visual literacy involves imputing meanings to images where meanings are less fixed, yet still with embedded cultural signifiers. Visual literacy promised to extend enlightenment metaphors of sight (as in the German Aufklärung) and illumination (as in the French Lumières) to help citizens understand an increasingly complex marketplace of images. The move towards visual literacy was not so much a shift towards images (and away from books and oration) but an affirmation of the need to critically investigate the visual sphere. It introduced doubt to previously upheld hierarchies of perception. Sight, to Kant the “noblest of the senses” (158), was no longer the sense “least affected” by the surrounding world but an input centre that was equally manipulable. In Kant’s view of societal development, the “cosmopolitan” held the key to pacifying bellicose states and ensuring global prosperity and tranquillity. The process of developing a cosmopolitan ideology rests, according to Kant, on the gradual elimination of war and “the education of young people in intellectual and moral culture” (188-89). Transforming disparate societies into “a universal cosmopolitan existence” that would “at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop” and would take well-funded educational institutions and, potentially, a new framework for imparting knowledge (Kant 51). To some, the world of the visual presented a baseline for shared experience. Figure 2: Exhibition by the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, photograph c. 1927. An International Picture Language The quest to find a mutually intelligible language that could “bridge worlds” and solder together all of humankind goes back to the late nineteenth century and the Esperanto movement of Ludwig Zamenhof (Schor 59). The expression of this ideal in the world of the visual picked up steam in the interwar years with designers and editors like Fritz Kahn, Gerd Arntz, and Otto and Marie Neurath. Their work transposing complex ideas into graphic form has been rediscovered as an antecedent to modern infographics, but the symbols they deployed were not to merely explain, but also help education and build international fellowship unbounded by spoken language. The Neuraths in particular are celebrated for their international picture language or Isotypes. These pictograms (sometimes viewed as proto-emojis) can be used to represent data without text. Taken together they are an “intemporal, hieroglyphic language” that Neutrath hoped would unite working-class people the world over (Lee 159). The Neuraths’ work was done in the explicit service of visual education with a popular socialist agenda and incubated in the social sphere of Red Vienna at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) where Otto served as Director. The Wirtschaftsmuseum was an experiment in popular education, with multiple branches and late opening hours to accommodate the “the working man [who] has time to see a museum only at night” (Neurath 72-73). The Isotype contained universalist aspirations for the “making of a world language, or a helping picture language—[that] will give support to international developments generally” and “educate by the eye” (Neurath 13). Figure 3: Gerd Arntz Isotype Images. (Source: University of Reading.) The Isotype was widely adopted in the postwar era in pre-packaged sets of symbols used in graphic design and wayfinding systems for buildings and transportation networks, but with the socialism of the Neuraths’ peeled away, leaving only the system of logos that we are familiar with from airport washrooms, charts, and public transport maps. Much of the uptake in this symbol language could be traced to increased mobility and tourism, particularly in countries that did not make use of a Roman alphabet. The 1964 Olympics in Tokyo helped pave the way when organisers, fearful of jumbling too many scripts together, opted instead for black and white icons to represent the program of sports that summer. The new focus on the visual was both technologically mediated—cheaper printing and broadcast technologies made the diffusion of image increasingly possible—but also ideologically supported by a growing emphasis on projects that transcended linguistic, ethnic, and national borders. The Olympic symbols gradually morphed into Letraset icons, and, later, symbols in the Unicode Standard, which are the basis for today’s emojis. Wordless signs helped facilitate interconnectedness, but only in the most literal sense; their application was limited primarily to sports mega-events, highway maps, and “brand building”, and they never fulfilled their role as an educational language “to give the different nations a common outlook” (Neurath 18). Universally understood icons, particularly in the form of emojis, point to a rise in visual communication but they have fallen short as a cosmopolitan project, supporting neither the globalisation of Kantian ethics nor the transnational socialism of the Neuraths. Figure 4: Symbols in use. Women's bathroom. 1964 Tokyo Olympics. (Source: The official report of the Organizing Committee.) Counter Education By mid-century, the optimism of a universal symbol language seemed dated, and focus shifted from distillation to discernment. New educational programs presented ways to study images, increasingly reproducible with new technologies, as a language in and of themselves. These methods had their roots in the fin-de-siècle educational reforms of John Dewey, Helen Parkhurst, and Maria Montessori. As early as the 1920s, progressive educators were using highly visual magazines, like National Geographic, as the basis for lesson planning, with the hopes that they would “expose students to edifying and culturally enriching reading” and “develop a more catholic taste or sensibility, representing an important cosmopolitan value” (Hawkins 45). The rise in imagery from previously inaccessible regions helped pupils to see themselves in relation to the larger world (although this connection always came with the presumed superiority of the reader). “Pictorial education in public schools” taught readers—through images—to accept a broader world but, too often, they saw photographs as a “straightforward transcription of the real world” (Hawkins 57). The images of cultures and events presented in Life and National Geographic for the purposes of education and enrichment were now the subject of greater analysis in the classroom, not just as “windows into new worlds” but as cultural products in and of themselves. The emerging visual curriculum aimed to do more than just teach with previously excluded modes (photography, film and comics); it would investigate how images presented and mediated the world. This gained wider appeal with new analytical writing on film, like Raymond Spottiswoode's Grammar of the Film (1950) which sought to formulate the grammatical rules of visual communication (Messaris 181), influenced by semiotics and structural linguistics; the emphasis on grammar can also be seen in far earlier writings on design systems such as Owen Jones’s 1856 The Grammar of Ornament, which also advocated for new, universalising methods in design education (Sloboda 228). The inventorying impulse is on display in books like Donis A. Dondis’s A Primer of Visual Literacy (1973), a text that meditates on visual perception but also functions as an introduction to line and form in the applied arts, picking up where the Bauhaus left off. Dondis enumerates the “syntactical guidelines” of the applied arts with illustrations that are in keeping with 1920s books by Kandinsky and Klee and analyse pictorial elements. However, at the end of the book she shifts focus with two chapters that examine “messaging” and visual literacy explicitly. Dondis predicts that “an intellectual, trained ability to make and understand visual messages is becoming a vital necessity to involvement with communication. It is quite likely that visual literacy will be one of the fundamental measures of education in the last third of our century” (33) and she presses for more programs that incorporate the exploration and analysis of images in tertiary education. Figure 5: Ideal spatial environment for the Blueprint charts, 1970. (Image: Inventory Press.) Visual literacy in education arrived in earnest with a wave of publications in the mid-1970s. They offered ways for students to understand media processes and for teachers to use visual culture as an entry point into complex social and scientific subject matter, tapping into the “visual consciousness of the ‘television generation’” (Fransecky 5). Visual culture was often seen as inherently democratising, a break from stuffiness, the “artificialities of civilisation”, and the “archaic structures” that set sensorial perception apart from scholarship (Dworkin 131-132). Many radical university projects and community education initiatives of the 1960s made use of new media in novel ways: from Maurice Stein and Larry Miller’s fold-out posters accompanying Blueprint for Counter Education (1970) to Emory Douglas’s graphics for The Black Panther newspaper. Blueprint’s text- and image-dense wall charts were made via assemblage and they were imagined less as charts and more as a “matrix of resources” that could be used—and added to—by youth to undertake their own counter education (Cronin 53). These experiments in visual learning helped to break down old hierarchies in education, but their aim was influenced more by countercultural notions of disruption than the universal ideals of cosmopolitanism. From Image as Text to City as Text For a brief period in the 1970s, thinkers like Marshall McLuhan (McLuhan et al., Massage) and artists like Bruno Munari (Tanchis and Munari) collaborated fruitfully with graphic designers to create books that mixed text and image in novel ways. Using new compositional methods, they broke apart traditional printing lock-ups to superimpose photographs, twist text, and bend narrative frames. The most famous work from this era is, undoubtedly, The Medium Is the Massage (1967), McLuhan’s team-up with graphic designer Quentin Fiore, but it was followed by dozens of other books intended to communicate theory and scientific ideas with popularising graphics. Following in the footsteps of McLuhan, many of these texts sought not just to explain an issue but to self-consciously reference their own method of information delivery. These works set the precedent for visual aids (and, to a lesser extent, audio) that launched a diverse, non-hierarchical discourse that was nonetheless bound to tactile artefacts. In 1977, McLuhan helped develop a media textbook for secondary school students called City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. It is notable for its direct address style and its focus on investigating spaces outside of the classroom (provocatively, a section on the third page begins with “Should all schools be closed?”). The book follows with a fine-grained analysis of advertising forms in which students are asked to first bring advertisem*nts into class for analysis and later to go out into the city to explore “a man-made environment, a huge warehouse of information, a vast resource to be mined free of charge” (McLuhan et al., City 149). As a document City as Classroom is critical of existing teaching methods, in line with the radical “in the streets” pedagogy of its day. McLuhan’s theories proved particularly salient for the counter education movement, in part because they tapped into a healthy scepticism of advertisers and other image-makers. They also dovetailed with growing discontent with the ad-strew visual environment of cities in the 1970s. Budgets for advertising had mushroomed in the1960s and outdoor advertising “cluttered” cities with billboards and neon, generating “fierce intensities and new hybrid energies” that threatened to throw off the visual equilibrium (McLuhan 74). Visual literacy curricula brought in experiential learning focussed on the legibility of the cities, mapping, and the visualisation of urban issues with social justice implications. The Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute (DGEI), a “collective endeavour of community research and education” that arose in the aftermath of the 1967 uprisings, is the most storied of the groups that suffused the collection of spatial data with community engagement and organising (Warren et al. 61). The following decades would see a tamed approach to visual literacy that, while still pressing for critical reading, did not upend traditional methods of educational delivery. Figure 6: Beginning a College Program-Assisting Teachers to Develop Visual Literacy Approaches in Public School Classrooms. 1977. ERIC. Searching for Civic Education The visual literacy initiatives formed in the early 1970s both affirmed existing civil society institutions while also asserting the need to better inform the public. Most of the campaigns were sponsored by universities, major libraries, and international groups such as UNESCO, which published its “Declaration on Media Education” in 1982. They noted that “participation” was “essential to the working of a pluralistic and representative democracy” and the “public—users, citizens, individuals, groups ... were too systematically overlooked”. Here, the public is conceived as both “targets of the information and communication process” and users who “should have the last word”. To that end their “continuing education” should be ensured (Study 18). Programs consisted primarily of cognitive “see-scan-analyse” techniques (Little et al.) for younger students but some also sought to bring visual analysis to adult learners via continuing education (often through museums eager to engage more diverse audiences) and more radical popular education programs sponsored by community groups. By the mid-80s, scores of modules had been built around the comprehension of visual media and had become standard educational fare across North America, Australasia, and to a lesser extent, Europe. There was an increasing awareness of the role of data and image presentation in decision-making, as evidenced by the surprising commercial success of Edward Tufte’s 1982 book, The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. Visual literacy—or at least image analysis—was now enmeshed in teaching practice and needed little active advocacy. Scholarly interest in the subject went into a brief period of hibernation in the 1980s and early 1990s, only to be reborn with the arrival of new media distribution technologies (CD-ROMs and then the internet) in classrooms and the widespread availability of digital imaging technology starting in the late 1990s; companies like Adobe distributed free and reduced-fee licences to schools and launched extensive teacher training programs. Visual literacy was reanimated but primarily within a circ*mscribed academic field of education and data visualisation. Figure 7: Visual Literacy; What Research Says to the Teacher, 1975. National Education Association. USA. Part of the shifting frame of visual literacy has to do with institutional imperatives, particularly in places where austerity measures forced strange alliances between disciplines. What had been a project in alternative education morphed into an uncontested part of the curriculum and a dependable budget line. This shift was already forecasted in 1972 by Harun Farocki who, writing in Filmkritik, noted that funding for new film schools would be difficult to obtain but money might be found for “training in media education … a discipline that could persuade ministers of education, that would at the same time turn the budget restrictions into an advantage, and that would match the functions of art schools” (98). Nearly 50 years later educators are still using media education (rebranded as visual or media literacy) to make the case for fine arts and humanities education. While earlier iterations of visual literacy education were often too reliant on the idea of cracking the “code” of images, they did promote ways of learning that were a deep departure from the rote methods of previous generations. Next-gen curricula frame visual literacy as largely supplemental—a resource, but not a program. By the end of the 20th century, visual literacy had changed from a scholarly interest to a standard resource in the “teacher’s toolkit”, entering into school programs and influencing museum education, corporate training, and the development of public-oriented media (Literacy). An appreciation of image culture was seen as key to creating empathetic global citizens, but its scope was increasingly limited. With rising austerity in the education sector (a shift that preceded the 2008 recession by decades in some countries), art educators, museum enrichment staff, and design researchers need to make a case for why their disciplines were relevant in pedagogical models that are increasingly aimed at “skills-based” and “job ready” teaching. Arts educators worked hard to insert their fields into learning goals for secondary students as visual literacy, with the hope that “literacy” would carry the weight of an educational imperative and not a supplementary field of study. Conclusion For nearly a century, educational initiatives have sought to inculcate a cosmopolitan perspective with a variety of teaching materials and pedagogical reference points. Symbolic languages, like the Isotype, looked to unite disparate people with shared visual forms; while educational initiatives aimed to train the eyes of students to make them more discerning citizens. The term ‘visual literacy’ emerged in the 1960s and has since been deployed in programs with a wide variety of goals. Countercultural initiatives saw it as a prerequisite for popular education from the ground up, but, in the years since, it has been formalised and brought into more staid curricula, often as a sort of shorthand for learning from media and pictures. The grand cosmopolitan vision of a complete ‘visual language’ has been scaled back considerably, but still exists in trace amounts. Processes of globalisation require images to universalise experiences, commodities, and more for people without shared languages. Emoji alphabets and globalese (brands and consumer messaging that are “visual-linguistic” amalgams “increasingly detached from any specific ethnolinguistic group or locality”) are a testament to a mediatised banal cosmopolitanism (Jaworski 231). In this sense, becoming “fluent” in global design vernacular means familiarity with firms and products, an understanding that is aesthetic, not critical. It is very much the beneficiaries of globalisation—both state and commercial actors—who have been able to harness increasingly image-based technologies for their benefit. To take a humorous but nonetheless consequential example, Spanish culinary boosters were able to successfully lobby for a paella emoji (Miller) rather than having a food symbol from a less wealthy country such as a Senegalese jollof or a Morrocan tagine. This trend has gone even further as new forms of visual communication are increasingly streamlined and managed by for-profit media platforms. The ubiquity of these forms of communication and their global reach has made visual literacy more important than ever but it has also fundamentally shifted the endeavour from a graphic sorting practice to a critical piece of social infrastructure that has tremendous political ramifications. Visual literacy campaigns hold out the promise of educating students in an image-based system with the potential to transcend linguistic and cultural boundaries. This cosmopolitan political project has not yet been realised, as the visual literacy frame has drifted into specialised silos of art, design, and digital humanities education. It can help bridge the “incomplete connections” of an increasingly globalised world (Calhoun 112), but it does not have a program in and of itself. Rather, an evolving visual literacy curriculum might be seen as a litmus test for how we imagine the role of images in the world. References Brown, Neil. “The Myth of Visual Literacy.” Australian Art Education 13.2 (1989): 28-32. Calhoun, Craig. “Cosmopolitanism in the Modern Social Imaginary.” Daedalus 137.3 (2008): 105–114. Cronin, Paul. “Recovering and Rendering Vital Blueprint for Counter Education at the California Institute for the Arts.” Blueprint for Counter Education. Inventory Press, 2016. 36-58. Dondis, Donis A. A Primer of Visual Literacy. MIT P, 1973. Dworkin, M.S. “Toward an Image Curriculum: Some Questions and Cautions.” Journal of Aesthetic Education 4.2 (1970): 129–132. Eisner, Elliot. Cognition and Curriculum: A Basis for Deciding What to Teach. Longmans, 1982. Farocki, Harun. “Film Courses in Art Schools.” Trans. Ted Fendt. Grey Room 79 (Apr. 2020): 96–99. Fransecky, Roger B. Visual Literacy: A Way to Learn—A Way to Teach. Association for Educational Communications and Technology, 1972. Gardner, Howard. Frames Of Mind. Basic Books, 1983. Hawkins, Stephanie L. “Training the ‘I’ to See: Progressive Education, Visual Literacy, and National Geographic Membership.” American Iconographic. U of Virginia P, 2010. 28–61. Jaworski, Adam. “Globalese: A New Visual-Linguistic Register.” Social Semiotics 25.2 (2015): 217-35. Kant, Immanuel. Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View. Cambridge UP, 2006. Kant, Immanuel. “Perpetual Peace.” Political Writings. Ed. H. Reiss. Cambridge UP, 1991 [1795]. 116–130. Kress, G., and T. van Leeuwen. Reading images: The Grammar of Visual Design. Routledge, 1996. Literacy Teaching Toolkit: Visual Literacy. Department of Education and Training (DET), State of Victoria. 29 Aug. 2018. 30 Sep. 2020 <https://www.education.vic.gov.au:443/school/teachers/teachingresources/discipline/english/literacy/ readingviewing/Pages/litfocusvisual.aspx>. Lee, Jae Young. “Otto Neurath's Isotype and the Rhetoric of Neutrality.” Visible Language 42.2: 159-180. Little, D., et al. Looking and Learning: Visual Literacy across the Disciplines. Wiley, 2015. Messaris, Paul. “Visual Literacy vs. Visual Manipulation.” Critical Studies in Mass Communication 11.2: 181-203. DOI: 10.1080/15295039409366894 ———. “A Visual Test for Visual ‘Literacy.’” The Annual Meeting of the Speech Communication Association. 31 Oct. to 3 Nov. 1991. Atlanta, GA. <https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/ED347604.pdf>. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. McGraw-Hill, 1964. McLuhan, Marshall, Quentin Fiore, and Jerome Agel. The Medium Is the Massage, Bantam Books, 1967. McLuhan, Marshall, Kathryn Hutchon, and Eric McLuhan. City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. Agincourt, Ontario: Book Society of Canada, 1977. McTigue, Erin, and Amanda Flowers. “Science Visual Literacy: Learners' Perceptions and Knowledge of Diagrams.” Reading Teacher 64.8: 578-89. Miller, Sarah. “The Secret History of the Paella Emoji.” Food & Wine, 20 June 2017. <https://www.foodandwine.com/news/true-story-paella-emoji>. Munari, Bruno. Square, Circle, Triangle. Princeton Architectural Press, 2016. Newfield, Denise. “From Visual Literacy to Critical Visual Literacy: An Analysis of Educational Materials.” English Teaching-Practice and Critique 10 (2011): 81-94. Neurath, Otto. International Picture Language: The First Rules of Isotype. K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1936. Schor, Esther. Bridge of Words: Esperanto and the Dream of a Universal Language. Henry Holt and Company, 2016. Sloboda, Stacey. “‘The Grammar of Ornament’: Cosmopolitanism and Reform in British Design.” Journal of Design History 21.3 (2008): 223-36. Study of Communication Problems: Implementation of Resolutions 4/19 and 4/20 Adopted by the General Conference at Its Twenty-First Session; Report by the Director-General. UNESCO, 1983. Tanchis, Aldo, and Bruno Munari. Bruno Munari: Design as Art. MIT P, 1987. Warren, Gwendolyn, Cindi Katz, and Nik Heynen. “Myths, Cults, Memories, and Revisions in Radical Geographic History: Revisiting the Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute.” Spatial Histories of Radical Geography: North America and Beyond. Wiley, 2019. 59-86.

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IntroductionThe role, function, and future of the Western public intellectual have been highly contested over the last three decades. The dominant discourse, which predicts the decline of the public intellectual, asserts the institutionalisation of their labour has eroded their authority to speak publicly to power on behalf of others; and that the commodification of intellectual performance has transformed them from sages, philosophers, and men of letters into trivial media entertainers, pundits, and ideologues. Overwhelmingly the crisis debates link the demise of the public intellectual to shifts in public culture, which was initially conceptualised as a literary and artistic space designed to liberate the awareness of citizens through critique and to reflect upon “the chronic and persistent issues of life, meaning and representation” (McGuigan 430). This early imagining of public culture as an exclusively civilising space, however, did not last and Jurgen Habermas documented its decline in response to the commodification and politicisation of culture in the 20th century. Yet, as social activism continued to flourish in the public sphere, Habermas re-theorised public culture as a more pluralistic site which simultaneously accommodates “uncritical populism, radical subversion and critical intervention” (436) and operates as both a marketplace and a “site of communicative rationality, mutual respect and understanding (McGuigan 434). The rise of creative industries expanded popular engagement with public culture but destabilised the authority of the public intellectual. The accompanying shifts also affected the function of the curator, who, like the intellectual, had a role in legislating and arbitrating knowledge, and negotiating and authorising meaning through curated exhibitions of objects deemed sacred and significant. Jennifer Barrett noted the similarities in the two functions when she argued in Museums and the Public Sphere that, because museums have an intellectual role in society, curators have a public intellectual function as they define publics, determine modes of engagement, and shape knowledge formation (150). The resemblance between the idealised role of the intellectual and the curator in enabling the critique that emancipates the citizen means that both functions have been affected by the atomisation of contemporary society, which has exposed the power effects of the imposed coherency of authoritative and universal narratives. Indeed, just as Russell Jacoby, Allan Bloom, and Richard Posner predicted the death of the intellectual, who could no longer claim to speak in universal terms on behalf of others, so museums faced their own crisis of relevancy. Declining visitor numbers and reduced funding saw museums reinvent themselves, and in moving away from their traditional exclusive, authoritative, and nation building roles—which Pierre Bourdieu argued reproduced the “existing class-based culture, education and social systems” (Barrett 3)—museums transformed themselves into inclusive and diverse sites of co-creation with audiences and communities. In the context of this change the curator ceased to be the “primary producer of knowledge” (Barrett 13) and emerged to reproduce “contemporary culture preoccupations” and constitute the “social imagery” of communities (119). The modern museum remains concerned with explaining and interrogating the world, but the shift in curatorial work is away from the objects themselves to a focus upon audiences and how they value the artefacts, knowledge, and experiences of collective shared memory. The change in curatorial practices was driven by what Peter Vergo called a new “museology” (Barrett 2), and according to Macdonald this term assumes that “object meanings are contextual rather than inherent” or absolute and universal (2). Public intellectuals and curators, as the custodians of ideas and narratives in the contemporary cultural industries, privilege audience reception and recognise that consumers and/or citizens engage with public culture for a variety of reasons, including critique, understanding, and entertainment. Curators, like public intellectuals, also recognise that they can no longer assume the knowledge and experience of their audience, nor prescribe the nature of engagement with ideas and objects. Instead, curators and intellectuals emerge as negotiators and translators of cultural meaning as they traverse the divides in public culture, sequestering ideas and cultural artefacts and constructing narratives that engage audiences and communities in the process of re-imagining the past as a way of providing new insights into contemporary challenges.Methodology In exploring the idea that the public intellectual acts as a curator of ideas as he or she defines and privileges the discursive spaces of public culture, this paper begins by providing an overview of the cultural context of the contemporary public intellectual which enables comparisons between intellectual and curatorial functions. Second, this paper analyses a random sample of the content of books, newspaper and magazine articles, speeches, and transcripts of interviews drawn from The Australian, The Age, The Sydney Morning Herald, The Sydney Institute, the ABC, The Monthly, and Quadrant published or broadcast between 1996 and 2007, in order to identify the key themes of the History Wars. It should be noted that the History War debates were extensive, persistent, and complex—and as they unfolded over a 13-year period they emerged as the “most powerful” and “most disputed form of public intellectual work” (Carter, Ideas 9). Many issues were aggregated under the trope of the History Wars, and these topics were subject to both popular commentary and academic investigation. Furthermore, the History Wars discourse was produced in a range of mediums including popular media sources, newspaper and magazine columns, broadcasts, blogs, lectures, and writers’ forums and publications. Given the extent of this discourse, the sample of articles which provides the basis for this analysis does not seek to comprehensively survey the literature on the History Wars. Rather this paper draws upon Foucault’s genealogical qualitative method, which exposes the subordinated discontinuities in texts, to 1) consider the political context of the History War trope; and 2) identify how intellectuals discursively exhibited versions of the nation’s identity and in the process made visible the power effects of the past. Public Intellectuals The underlying fear of the debates about the public intellectual crisis was that the public intellectual would no longer be able to act as the conscience of a nation, speak truth to power, or foster the independent and dissenting public debate that guides and informs individual human agency—a goal that has lain at the heart of the Western intellectual’s endeavours since Kant’s Sapere aude. The late 20th century crisis discourse, however, primarily mourned the decline of a particular form of public authority attached to the heroic universal intellectual formation made popular by Emile Zola at the end of the 19th century, and which claimed the power to hold the political elites of France accountable. Yet talk of an intellectual crisis also became progressively associated with a variety of general concerns about globalising society. Some of these concerns included fears that structural shifts in the public domain would lead to the impoverishment of the cultural domain, the end of Western civilisation, the decline of the progressive political left, and the end of universal values. It was also expected that the decline in intellectuals would also enable the rise of populism, political conservatism, and anti-intellectualism (Jacoby Bloom; Bauman; Rorty; Posner; Furedi; Marquand). As a result of these fears, the function of the intellectual who engages publicly was re-theorised. Zygmunt Bauman suggested the intellectual was no longer the legislator or arbiter of taste but the negotiator and translator of ideas; Michel Foucault argued that the intellectual could be institutionally situated and still speak truth to power; and Edward Said insisted the public intellectual had a role in opening up possibilities to resolve conflict by re-imagining the past. In contrast, the Australian public intellectual has never been declared in crisis or dead, and this is probably because the nation does not have the same legacy of the heroic public intellectual. Indeed, as a former British colony labelled the “working man’s paradise” (White 4), Australia’s intellectual work was produced in “institutionalised networks” (Head 5) like universities and knowledge disciplines, political parties, magazines, and unions. Within these networks there was a double division of labour, between the abstraction of knowledge and its compartmentalisation, and between the practical application of knowledge and its popularisation. As a result of this legacy, a more organic, specific, and institutionalised form of intellectualism emerged, which, according to Head, limited intellectual influence and visibility across other networks and domains of knowledge and historically impeded general intellectual engagement with the public. Fears about the health and authority of the public intellectual in Australia have therefore tended to be produced as a part of Antonio Gramsci’s ideological “wars of position” (Mouffe 5), which are an endless struggle between cultural and political elites for control of the institutions of social reproduction. These struggles began in Australia in the 1970s and 1980s over language and political correctness, and they reappeared in the 1990s as the History Wars. History Wars“The History Wars” was a term applied to an ideological battle between two visions of the Australian nation. The first vision was circulated by Australian Labor Party Prime Minister Paul Keating, who saw race relations as central to 21st century global Australia and began the process of dealing with the complex and divisive Indigenous issues at home. He established the Council for Aboriginal Reconciliation in 1991; acknowledged in the 1992 Redfern speech that white settlers were responsible for the problems in Indigenous communities; and commissioned the Bringing Them Home report, which was completed in 1997 and concluded that the mandated removal of Indigenous children from their families and communities throughout the 20th century had violated their human rights and caused long-term and systemic damage to Indigenous communities.The second vision of Australia was circulated by Liberal Prime Minister John Howard, who, after he came to power in 1996, began his own culture war to reconstruct a more conservative vision of the nation. Howard believed that the stories of Indigenous dispossession undermined confidence in the nation, and he sought to produce a historical view of the past grounded in “Judeo-Christian ethics, the progressive spirit of the enlightenment and the institutions and values of British culture” (“Sense of Balance”). Howard called for a return to a narrative form that valorised Australia’s achievements, and he sought to instil a more hom*ogenised view of the past and a coherent national identity by reviewing high school history programs, national museum appointments, and citizenship tests. These two political positions framed the subsequent intellectual struggles over the past. While a number of issues were implicated in the battle, generally, left commentators used the History Wars as a way to circulate certain ideas about morality and identity, including 1) Australians needed to make amends for past injustices to Indigenous Australians and 2) the nation’s global identity was linked to how they dealt with Australia’s first people. In contrast, the political right argued 1) the left had misrepresented and overstated the damage done to Indigenous communities and rewritten history; 2) stories about Indigenous abuse were fragmenting the nation’s identity at a time when the nation needed to build a coherent global presence; and 3) no apology was necessary, because contemporary Australians did not feel responsible for past injustices. AnalysisThe war between these two visions of Australia was fought in “extra-curricular sites,” according to Stuart Macintyre, and this included newspaper columns, writers’ festivals, broadcast interviews, intellectual magazines like The Monthly and Quadrant, books, and think tank lectures. Academics and intellectuals were the primary protagonists, and they disputed the extent of colonial genocide; the legitimacy of Indigenous land rights; the impact of the Stolen Generation on the lives of modern Indigenous citizens; and the necessity of a formal apology as a part of the reconciliation process. The conflicts also ignited debates about the nature of history, the quality of public debates in Australia, and exposed the tensions between academics, public intellectuals, newspaper commentators and political elites. Much of the controversy played out in the national forums can be linked to the Bringing Them Home: National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families report Stolen Generation inquiry and report, which was commissioned by Keating but released after Howard came to office. Australian public intellectual and professor of politics Robert Manne critiqued the right’s response to the report in his 2001 Quarterly Essay titled “In Denial: The Stolen Generation and The Right”. He argued that there was a right-wing campaign in Australia that sought to diminish and undermine justice for Aboriginal people by discounting the results of the inquiry, underestimating the numbers of those affected, and underfunding the report’s recommendations. He spoke of the nation’s shame and in doing so he challenged Australia’s image of itself. Manne’s position was applauded by many for providing what Kay Schaffer in her Australian Humanities Review paper called an “effective antidote to counter the bitter stream of vitriol that followed the release of the Bringing Them Home report”. Yet Manne also drew criticism. Historian Bain Attwood argued that Manne’s attack on conservatives was polemical, and he suggested that it would be more useful to consider in detail what drives the right-wing analysis of Indigenous issues. Attwood also suggested that Manne’s essay had misrepresented the origins of the narrative of the Stolen Generation, which had been widely known prior to the release of the Stolen Generation report.Conservative commentators focused upon challenging the accuracy of those stories submitted to the inquiry, which provided the basis for the report. This struggle over factual details was to characterise the approach of historian Keith Windschuttle, who rejected both the numbers of those stolen from their families and the degree of violence used in the settlement of Australia. In his 2002 book The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, Volume One, Van Diemen’s Land 1803–1847 he accused left-wing academics of exaggerating the events of Aboriginal history in order to further their own political agenda. In particular, he argued that the extent of the “conflagration of oppression and conflict” which sought to “dispossess, degrade, and devastate the Aboriginal people” had been overstated and misrepresented and designed to “create an edifice of black victimhood and white guilt” (Windschuttle, Fabrication 1). Manne responded to Windschuttle’s allegations in Whitewash: On Keith Windschuttle’s Fabrication of Aboriginal History, arguing that Windschuttle arguments were “unpersuasive and unsupported either by independent research or even familiarity with the relevant secondary historical literature” (7) and that the book added nothing to the debates. Other academics like Stephen Muecke, Marcia Langton and Heather Goodall expressed concerns about Windschuttle’s work, and in 2003 historians Stuart Macintyre and Anna Clark published The History Wars, which described the implications of the politicisation of history on the study of the past. At the same time, historian Bain Attwood in Telling the Truth About Aboriginal History argued that the contestation over history was eroding the “integrity of intellectual life in Australia” (2). Fractures also broke out between writers and historians about who was best placed to write history. The Australian book reviewer Stella Clarke wrote that the History Wars were no longer constructive discussions, and she suggested that historical novelists could colonise the territory traditionally dominated by professional historians. Inga Clendinnen wasn’t so sure. She wrote in a 2006 Quarterly Essay entitled “The History Question: Who Owns the Past?” that, while novelists could get inside events through a process of “applied empathy,” imagination could in fact obstruct the truth of reality (20). Discussion The History Wars saw academics engage publicly to exhibit a set of competing ideas about Australia’s identity in the nation’s media and associated cultural sites, and while the debates initially prompted interest they eventually came to be described as violent and unproductive public conversations about historical details and ideological positions. Indeed, just as the museum curator could no longer authoritatively prescribe the cultural meaning of artefacts, so the History Wars showed that public intellectuals could not adjudicate the identity of the nation nor prescribe the nature of its conduct. For left-wing public intellectuals and commentators, the History Wars came to signify the further marginalisation of progressive politics in the face of the dominant, conservative, and increasingly populist constituency. Fundamentally, the battles over the past reinforced fears that Australia’s public culture was becoming less diverse, less open, and less able to protect traditional civil rights, democratic freedoms, and social values. Importantly for intellectuals like Robert Manne, there was a sense that Australian society was less able or willing to reflect upon the moral legitimacy of its past actions as a part of the process of considering its contemporary identity. In contrast right-wing intellectuals and commentators argued that the History Wars showed how public debate under a conservative government had been liberated from political correctness and had become more vibrant. This was the position of Australian columnist Janet Albrechtsen who argued that rather than a decline in public debate there had been, in fact, “vigorous debate of issues that were once banished from the national conversation” (91). She went on to insist that left-wing commentators’ concerns about public debate were simply a mask for their discomfort at having their views and ideas challenged. There is no doubt that the History Wars, while media-orchestrated debates that circulated a set of ideological positions designed to primarily attract audiences and construct particular views of Australia, also raised public awareness of the complex issues associated with Australia’s Indigenous past. Indeed, the Wars ended what W.E.H Stanner had called the “great silence” on Indigenous issues and paved the way for Kevin Rudd’s apology to Indigenous people for their “profound grief, suffering and loss”. The Wars prompted conversations across the nation about what it means to be Australian and exposed the way history is deeply implicated in power surely a goal of both intellectual debate and curated exhibitions. ConclusionThis paper has argued that the public intellectual can operate like a curator in his or her efforts to preserve particular ideas, interpretations, and narratives of public culture. The analysis of the History Wars debates, however, showed that intellectuals—just like curators —are no longer authorities and adjudicators of the nation’s character, identity, and future but cultural intermediaries whose function is not just the performance or exhibition of selected ideas, objects, and narratives but also the engagement and translation of other voices across different contexts in the ongoing negotiation of what constitutes cultural significance. ReferencesAlbrechtsen, Janet. “The History Wars.” The Sydney Papers (Winter/Spring 2003): 84–92. Attwood, Bain. Telling the Truth about Aboriginal History. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2005.Bauman, Zygmunt. Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post Modernity and Intellectuals. Cambridge, CAMBS: Polity, 1987. Barrett, Jennifer. Museums and the Public Sphere. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons, 2010. Bloom, Allan. Closing of the American Mind. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987.Bourdieu. P. Distinctions: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Trans. R. Nice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1984. Bringing Them Home: National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families. Commonwealth of Australia. 1997.Carter, David. Introduction. The Ideas Market: An Alternative Take on Australia’s Intellectual Life. Ed. David Carter. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2004. 1–11.Clendinnen, Inga. True Stories. Sydney: ABC Books, 1999.Clendinnen, Inga. “The History Question: Who Owns the Past?” Quarterly Essay 23 (2006): 1–82. Foucault, Michel, and Giles Deleuze. Intellectuals and Power Language, Counter Memory and Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Ed. and trans. David Bouchard. New York: Cornell UP, 1977. Gratton, Michelle. “Howard Claims Victory in National Culture Wars.” The Age 26 Jan. 2006. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.theage.com.au/news/national/pm-claims-victory-in-culture-wars/2006/01/25/1138066861163.html›.Head, Brian. “Introduction: Intellectuals in Australian Society.” Intellectual Movements and Australian Society. Eds. Brian Head and James Waller. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1988. 1–44.Hohendahl, Peter Uwe, and Marc Silberman. “Critical Theory, Public Sphere and Culture: Jürgen Habermas and His Critics.” New German Critique 16 (Winter 1979): 89–118.Howard, John. “A Sense of Balance: The Australian Achievement in 2006.” National Press Club. Great Parliament House, Canberra, ACT. 25 Jan. 2006. ‹http://pmtranscripts.dpmc.gov.au/browse.php?did=22110›.Howard, John. “Standard Bearer in Liberal Culture.” Address on the 50th Anniversary of Quadrant, Sydney, 3 Oct. 2006. The Australian 4 Oct. 2006. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/opinion/john-howard-standard-bearer-in-liberal-culture/story-e6frg6zo-1111112306534›.Jacoby, Russell. The Last Intellectuals: American Culture in the Age of Academe. New York: The Noonday Press, 1987.Keating, Paul. “Keating’s History Wars.” Sydney Morning Herald 5 Sep. 2003. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/09/05/1062549021882.html›.Macdonald, S. “Expanding Museum Studies: An Introduction.” Ed. S. Macdonald. A Companion to Museum Studies. Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2006. 1–12. Macintyre, Stuart, and Anna Clarke. The History Wars. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2003. ———. “The History Wars.” The Sydney Papers (Winter/Spring 2003): 77–83.———. “Who Plays Stalin in Our History Wars? Sydney Morning Herald 17 Sep. 2003. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/09/16/1063625030438.html›.Manne, Robert. “In Denial: The Stolen Generation and the Right.” Quarterly Essay 1 (2001).———. WhiteWash: On Keith Windshuttle’s Fabrication of Aboriginal History. Melbourne. Black Ink, 2003.Mark, David. “PM Calls for End to the History Wars.” ABC News 28 Aug. 2009.McGuigan, Jim. “The Cultural Public Sphere.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 8.4 (2005): 427–43.Mouffe, Chantal, ed. Gramsci and Marxist Theory. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979. Melleuish, Gregory. The Power of Ideas: Essays on Australian Politics and History. Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2009.Rudd, Kevin. “Full Transcript of PM’s Apology Speech.” The Australian 13 Feb. 2008. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/nation/full-transcript-of-pms-speech/story-e6frg6nf-1111115543192›.Said, Edward. “The Public Role of Writers and Intellectuals.” ABC Alfred Deakin Lectures, Melbourne Town Hall, 19 May 2001. Schaffer, Kay. “Manne’s Generation: White Nation Responses to the Stolen Generation Report.” Australian Humanities Review (June 2001). 5 June 2015 ‹http://www.australianhumanitiesreview.org/archive/Issue-June-2001/schaffer.html›. Shanahan, Dennis. “Howard Rallies the Right in Cultural War Assault.” The Australian 4 Oct. 2006. 6 Aug. 2015 ‹http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/nation/howard-rallies-right-in-culture-war-assault/story-e6frg6nf-1111112308221›.Wark, Mackenzie. “Lip Service.” The Ideas Market: An Alternative Take on Australia’s Intellectual Life. Ed. David Carter. Carlton, VIC: Melbourne UP, 2004. 259–69.White, Richard. Inventing Australia Images and Identity 1688–1980. Sydney: George Allen and Unwin, 1981. Windschuttle, Keith. The Fabrication of Australian History, Volume One: Van Diemen’s Land 1803–1847. Sydney: McCleay, 2002. ———. “Why There Was No Stolen Generation (Part One).” Quadrant Online (Jan–Feb 2010). 6 Aug. 2015 ‹https://quadrant.org.au/magazine/2010/01-02/why-there-were-no-stolen-generations/›.

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IntroductionBritish initiatives to manage both the number of arrivals of asylum seekers and the experiences of those who arrive have burgeoned in recent years. The budget dedicated to asylum seeker management increased from £357 million in 1998-1999 to £1.71 billion in 2004-2005, making the Immigration and Nationality Directorate (IND) the second largest concern of the Home Office behind the Prison Service in 2005 (Back et al). The IND was replaced in April 2007 by the Border and Immigration Agency (BIA), whose expenditure exceeded £2 billion in 2007-2008 (BIA). Perhaps as a consequence the number of asylum seekers applying to the UK has fallen dramatically, illustrating the continuing influence of exclusionary state policies despite the globalisation and transnationalisation of migrant flows (UNHCR; Koser).One of the difficulties with the study of asylum seekers is the persistent risk that, by employing the term ‘asylum seeker’, research conducted into their experiences will contribute towards the exclusion of a marginalised and abject group of people, precisely by employing a term that emphasises the suspended recognition of a community (Nyers). The ‘asylum seeker’ is a figure defined in law in order to facilitate government-level avoidance of humanitarian obligations by emphasising the non-refugeeness of asylum claimants (Tyler). This group is identified as supplicant to the state, positioning the state itself as a legitimate arbiter. It is in this sense that asylum seekers suffer a degree of cruel optimism (Berlant) – wishing to be recognised as a refugee while nevertheless subject to state-defined discourses, whatever the outcome. The term ‘forced migrant’ is little better, conveying a de-humanising and disabling lack of agency (Turton), while the terms ‘undocumented migrant’, ‘irregular migrant’ and ‘illegal migrant’ all imply a failure to conform to respectable, desirable and legitimate forms of migration.Another consequence of these co-opted and politically subjugating forms of language is their production of simple imagined geographies of migration that position the foreigner as strange, unfamiliar and incapable of communication across this divide. Such imaginings precipitate their own responses, most clearly expressed in the blunt, intrusive uses of space and time in migration governance (Lahav and Guiraudon; Cohen; Guild; Gronendijk). Various institutions exist in Britain that function to actually produce the imagined differences between migrants and citizens, from the two huge, airport-like ‘Asylum Screening Units’ in Liverpool and London where asylum seekers can lodge their claims, to the 12 ‘Removal Centres’ within which soon-to-be deported asylum seekers are incarcerated and the 17 ‘Hearing Centres’ at which British judges preside over the precise legal status of asylum applicants.Less attention, however, has been given to the tension between mobility and stillness in asylum contexts. Asylum seeker management is characterised by a complex combination of enforced stillness and enforced mobility of asylum seeking bodies, and resistance can also be understood in these terms. This research draws upon 37 interviews with asylum seekers, asylum activists, and government employees in the UK conducted between 2005 and 2007 (see Gill) and distils three characteristics of stillness. First, an association between stillness and safety is clearly evident, exacerbated by the fear that the state may force asylum seekers to move at any time. Second, stillness of asylum seekers in a physical, literal sense is intimately related to their psychological condition, underscoring the affectual properties of stillness. Third, the desire to be still, and to be safe, precipitates various political strategies that seek to secure stillness, meaning that stillness functions as more than an aspiration, becoming also a key political metric in the struggle between the included and excluded. In these multiple and contradictory ways stillness is a key factor that structures asylum seekers’ experiences of migration. Governing through Mobility The British state utilises both stillness and mobility in the governance of asylum seeking bodies. On the one hand, asylum seekers’ personal freedoms are routinely curtailed both through their incarceration and through the requirements imposed upon them by the state in terms of ‘signing in’ at local police stations, even when they are not incarcerated, throughout the time that they are awaiting a decision on their claim for asylum (Cwerner). This requirement, which consists of attending a police station to confirm the continuing compliance of the asylum seeker, can vary in frequency, from once every month to once every few days.On the other hand, the British state employs a range of strategies of mobility that serve to deprive asylum seeking communities of geographical stillness and, consequently, also often undermines their psychological stability. First, the seizure of asylum seekers and transportation to a Removal Centre can be sudden and traumatic, and incarceration in this manner is becoming increasingly common (Bacon; Home Office). In extreme cases, very little or no warning is given to asylum seekers who are taken into detention, and so-called ‘dawn raids’ have been organised in order to exploit an element of surprise in the introduction of asylum seekers to detention (Burnett). A second source of forced mobility associated with Removal Centres is the transfer of detainees from one Removal Centre to another for a variety of reasons, from the practical constraints imposed by the capacities of various centres, to differences in the conditions of centres themselves, which are used to form a reward and sanction mechanism among the detainee population (Hayter; Granville-Chapman). Intra-detention estate transfers have increased in scope and significance in recent years: in 2004/5, the most recent financial year for which figures are available, the British government spent over £6.5 million simply moving detainees from one secure facility to another within the UK (Hansard, 2005; 2006).Outside incarceration, a third source of spatial disruption of asylum seekers in the UK concerns their relationship with accommodation providers. Housing is provided to asylum seekers as they await a decision on their claim, but this housing is provided on a ‘no-choice’ basis, meaning that asylum seekers who are not prepared to travel to the accommodation that is allocated to them will forfeit their right to accommodation (Schuster). In other words, accommodation is contingent upon asylum seekers’ willingness to be mobile, producing a direct trade-off between the attractions of accommodation and stillness. The rationale for this “dispersal policy”, is to draw asylum seekers away from London, where the majority of asylum seekers chose to reside before 2000. The maintenance of a diverse portfolio of housing across the UK is resource intensive, with the re-negotiation of housing contracts worth over a £1 billion a constant concern (Noble et al). As these contracts are renegotiated, asylum seekers are expected to move in response to the varying affordability of housing around the country. In parallel to the system of deportee movements within the detention estate therefore, a comparable system of movement of asylum seekers around the UK in response to urban and regional housing market conditions also operates. Stillness as SanctuaryIn all three cases, the psychological stress that movement of asylum seekers can cause is significant. Within detention, according to a series of government reports into the conditions of removal centres, one of the recurring difficulties facing incarcerated asylum seekers is incomprehension of their legal status (e.g. HMIP 2002; 2008). This, coupled with very short warning of impending movements, results in widespread anxiety among detained asylum seekers that they may be deported or transferred imminently. Outside detention, the fear of snatch squads of police officers, or alternatively the fear of hate crimes against asylum seekers (Tyler), render movement in the public realm a dangerous practice in the eyes of many marginalised migrants. The degree of uncertainty and the mental and emotional demands of relocation introduced through forced mobility can have a damaging psychological effect upon an already vulnerable population. Expressing his frustration at this particular implication of the movement of detainees, one activist who had provided sanctuary to over 20 asylum seekers in his community outlined some of the consequences of onward movement.The number of times I’ve had to write panic letters saying you know you cannot move this person to the other end of the country because it destabilises them in terms of their mental health and it is abusive. […] Their solicitors are here, they’re in process, in legal process, they’ve got a community, they’ve got friends, they may even have a partner or a child here and they would still move them.The association between governance, mobility and trepidation highlights one characteristic of stillness in the asylum seeking field: in contra-distinction to the risk associated with movement, to be still is very often to be safe. Given the necessity to flee violence in origin countries and the tendency for destination country governments to require constant re-positioning, often backed-up with the threat of force, stillness comes to be viewed as offering a sort of sanctuary. Indeed, the Independent Asylum Commission charity that has conducted a series of reviews of asylum seekers’ treatment in the UK (Hobson et al.), has recently suggested dispensing with the term ‘asylum’ in favour of ‘sanctuary’ precisely because of the positive associations with security and stability that the latter provides. To be in one place for a sustained period allows networks of human trust and reciprocity to develop which can form the basis of supportive community relationships. Another activist who had accompanied many asylum seekers through the legal process spoke passionately about the functions that communities can serve in asylum seekers’ lives.So you actually become substitute family […] I think it’s what helps people in the midst of trauma when the future is uncertain […] to find a community which values them, which accepts them, which listens to them, where they can begin to find a place and touch a creative life again which they may not have had for years: it’s enormously important.There is a danger in romanticising the benefits of community (Joseph). Indeed, much of the racism and xenophobia directed towards asylum seekers has been the result of local community hostilities towards different national and ethnic groups (Boswell). For many asylum seekers, however, the reciprocal relations found in communities are crucially important to their well-being. What is more, the inclusion of asylum seekers into communities is one of the most effective anti-state and anti-deportation strategies available to activists and asylum seekers alike (Tyler), because it arrests the process of anonymising and cordoning asylum seekers as an hom*ogenous group, providing instead a chance for individuals to cast off this label in favour of more ‘humane’ characteristics: families, learning, friendship, love.Strategies for StillnessFor this reason, the pursuit of stillness among asylum seekers is both a human and political response to their situations – stillness becomes a metric in the struggle between abject migrants and the state. Crucial to this political function is the complex relationship between stillness and social visibility: if an asylum seeker can command their own stillness then they can also have greater influence over their public profile, either in order to develop it or to become less conspicuous.Tyler argues that asylum seekers are what she calls a ‘hypervisible’ social group, referring to the high profile association between a fictional, dehumanised asylum seeking figure and a range of defamatory characteristics circulated by the popular printed press. Stillness can be used to strategically reduce this imposed form of hypervisibility, and to raise awareness of real asylum seeker stories and situations. This is achieved by building community coalitions, which require physically and socially settled asylum seeking families and communities. Asylum advocacy groups and local community support networks work together in the UK in order to generate a genuine public profile of asylum seekers by utilising local and national newspapers, staging public demonstrations, delivering speeches, attending rallies and garnering support among local organisations through art exhibitions, performances and debates. Some activist networks specialise explicitly in supporting asylum seekers in these endeavours, and sympathetic networks of journalists, lawyers, doctors and radio producers combine their expertise with varying degrees of success.These sorts of strategies can produce strong loyalties between local communities and the asylum seekers in their midst, precisely because, through their co-presence, asylum seekers cease to be merely asylum seekers, but become active and valued members of communities. One activist who had helped to organise the protection of an asylum seeker in a church described some of the preparations that had been made for the arrival of immigration task forces in her middle class parish.There were all sorts of things we practiced: if they did break through the door what would we do? We set up a telephone tree so that each person would phone two or three people. We had I don’t know how many cars outside. We arranged a safe house, where we would hide her. We practiced getting her out of the room into a car […] We were expecting them to come at any time. We always had people at the back […] guarding, looking at strangers who might be around and [name] was never, ever allowed to be on her own without a whole group of people completely surrounding her so she could feel safe and we would feel safe. Securing stillness here becomes more than simply an operation to secure geographic fixity: it is a symbolic struggle between state and community, crystallising in specific tactics of spatial and temporal arrangement. It reflects the fear of further forced movement, the abiding association between stillness and safety, and the complex relationship between community visibility and an ability to remain still.There are, nevertheless, drawbacks to these tactics that suggest a very different relationship between stillness and visibility. Juries can be alienated by loud tactics of activism, meaning that asylum seekers can damage their chances of a sympathetic legal hearing if they have had too high a profile. Furthermore, many asylum seekers do not have the benefits of such a dedicated community. An alternative way in which stillness becomes political is through its ability to render invisible the abject body. Invisibility is taken to mean the decision to ‘go underground’, miss the appointments at local police stations and attempt to anticipate the movements of immigration removal enforcement teams. Perversely, although this is a strategy for stillness at the national or regional scale, mobile strategies are often employed at finer scales in order to achieve this objective. Asylum seekers sometimes endure extremely precarious and difficult conditions of housing and subsistence moving from house to house regularly or sleeping and living in cars in order to avoid detection by authorities.This strategy is difficult because it involves a high degree of uncertainty, stress and reliance upon the goodwill of others. One police officer outlined the situation facing many ‘invisible’ asylum seekers as one of poverty and desperation:Immigration haven’t got a clue where they are, they just can’t find them because they’re sofa surfing, that’s living in peoples coffee shops … I see them in the coffee shop and they come up and they’re bloody starving! Despite the difficulties associated with this form of invisibility, it is estimated that this strategy is becoming increasingly common in the UK. In 2006 the Red Cross estimated that there were some 36 000 refused and destitute asylum seekers in England, up from 25 000 the previous year, and reported that their organisation was having to provide induction tours of soup kitchens and night shelters in order to alleviate the conditions of many claimants in these situations (Taylor and Muir). Conclusion The case of asylum seekers in the UK illustrates the multiple, contradictory and splintered character of stillness. While some forms of governance impose stillness upon asylum seeking bodies, in the form of incarceration and ‘signing in’ requirements, other forms of governance impose mobility either within detention or outside it. Consequently stillness figures in the responses of asylum seeking communities in various ways. Given the unwelcome within-country movement of asylum seekers, and adding to this the initial fact of their forced migration from their home countries, the condition of stillness becomes desirable, promising to bring with it stability and safety. These promises contrast the psychological disruption that further mobility, and even the threat of further mobility, can bring about. This illustrates the affectual qualities both of movement and of stillness in the asylum-seeking context. Literal stillness is associated with social and emotional stability that complicates the distinction between real and emotional spaces. While this is certainly not the case uniformly – incarceration and inhibited personal liberties have opposite consequences – the promises of stillness in terms of stability and sanctuary are clearly significant because this desirability leads asylum advocates and asylum seekers to execute a range of political strategies that seek to ensure stillness, either through enhanced or reduced forms of social visibility.The association of mobility with freedom that typifies much of the literature surrounding mobility needs closer inspection. At least in some situations, asylum seekers pursue geographical stillness for the political and psychological benefits it can offer, while mobility is both employed as a subjugating strategy by states and is itself actively resisted by those who constitute its targets.ReferencesBack, Les, Bernadette Farrell and Erin Vandermaas. A Humane Service for Global Citizens. London: South London Citizens, 2005.Bacon, Christine. The Evolution of Immigration Detention in the UK: The Involvement of Private Prison Companies. Oxford: Refugee Studies Centre, 2005.Berlant, Lauren. “Cruel Optimism.” differences : A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 17.3 (2006): 20—36.Border and Immigration Agency. Business Plan for Transition Year April 2007 – March 2008: Fair, Effective, Transparent and Trusted. London: Home Office, 2007.Boswell, Christina. “Burden-Sharing in the European Union: Lessons from the German and UK Experience.” Journal of Refugee Studies 16.3 (2003): 316—35.Burnett, Jon. Dawn Raids. PAFRAS Briefing Paper Number 4. Leeds: Positive Action for Refugees and Asylum Seekers, 2008. ‹http://www.statewatch.org/news/2008/apr/uk-patras-briefing-paper-4-%2Ddawn-raids.pdf›.Cohen, Steve. “The Local State of Immigration Controls.” Critical Social Policy 22 (2002): 518—43.Cwerner, Saulo. “Faster, Faster and Faster: The Time Politics of Asylum in the UK.” Time and Society 13 (2004): 71—88.Gill, Nick. "Presentational State Power: Temporal and Spatial Influences over Asylum Sector." Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 2009 (forthcoming).Granville-Chapman, Charlotte, Ellie Smith, and Neil Moloney. Harm on Removal: Excessive Force Against Failed Asylum Seekers. London: Medical Foundation for the Care of Victims of Torture, 2004.Groenendijk, Kees. “New Borders behind Old Ones: Post-Schengen Controls behind the Internal Borders and inside the Netherlands and Germany”. In Search of Europe's Borders. Eds. Kees Groenendijk, Elspeth Guild and Paul Minderhoud. The Hague: Kluwer International Law, 2003. 131—46.Guild, Elspeth. “The Europeanisation of Europe's Asylum Policy.” International Journal of Refugee Law 18 (2006): 630—51.Guiraudon, Virginie. “Before the EU Border: Remote Control of the 'Huddled Masses'.” In Search of Europe's Borders. Eds. Kees Groenendijk, Elspeth Guild and Paul Minderhoud. The Hague: Kluwer International Law, 2003. 191—214.Hansard, House of Commons. Vol. 440 Col. 972W. 5 Dec. 2005. 6 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200506/cmhansrd/vo051205/text/51205w18.htm›.———. Vol. 441 Col. 374W. 9 Jan. 2006. 6 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200506/cmhansrd/vo060109/text/60109w95.htm›.Hayter, Theresa. Open Borders: The Case against Immigration Controls. London: Pluto P, 2000.HM Inspectorate of Prisons. An Inspection of Campsfield House Immigration Removal Centre. London: HM Inspectorate of Prisons, 2002.———. Report on an Unannounced Full Follow-up Inspection of Campsfield House Immigration Removal Centre. London: HM Inspectorate of Prisons, 2008. Hobson, Chris, Jonathan Cox, and Nicholas Sagovsky. Saving Sanctuary: The Independent Asylum Commission’s First Report of Conclusions and Recommendations. London: Independent Asylum Commission, 2008.Home Office. “Record High on Removals of Failed Asylum Seekers.” Press Office Release, 27 Feb. 2007. London: Home Office, 2007. 6 Mar. 2009 ‹http://press.homeoffice.gov.uk/press-releases/asylum-removals-figures›. Joseph, Miranda. Against the Romance of Community. Minnesota: U of Minnesota P, 2002.Koser, Khalid. “Refugees, Trans-Nationalism and the State.” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 33 (2007): 233—54.Lahav, Gallya, and Virginie Guiraudon. “Comparative Perspectives on Border Control: Away from the Border and outside the State”. Wall around the West: State Borders and Immigration Controls in North America and Europe. Eds. Gallya Lahav and Virginie Guiraudon. The Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000. 55—77.Noble, Gill, Alan Barnish, Ernie Finch, and Digby Griffith. A Review of the Operation of the National Asylum Support Service. London: Home Office, 2004. Nyers, Peter. "Abject Cosmopolitanism: The Politics of Protection in the Anti-Deportation Movement." Third World Quarterly 24.6 (2003): 1069—93.Schuster, Lisa. "A Sledgehammer to Crack a Nut: Deportation, Detention and Dispersal in Europe." Social Policy & Administration 39.6 (2005): 606—21.Taylor, Diane, and Hugh Muir. “Red Cross Aids Failed Asylum Seekers” UK News. The Guardian 9 Jan. 2006. 6 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2006/jan/09/immigrationasylumandrefugees.uknews›.Turton, David. Conceptualising Forced Migration. University of Oxford Refugee Studies Centre Working Paper 12 (2003). 6 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.rsc.ox.ac.uk/PDFs/workingpaper12.pdf›.Tyler, Imogen. “'Welcome to Britain': The Cultural Politics of Asylum.” European Journal of Cultural Studies 9.2 (2006): 185—202.United Nations High Commission for Refugees. Refugees by Numbers 2006 Edition. Geneva: UNHCR, 2006.

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Introduction Crime fiction is one of the world’s most popular genres. Indeed, it has been estimated that as many as one in every three new novels, published in English, is classified within the crime fiction category (Knight xi). These new entrants to the market are forced to jostle for space on bookstore and library shelves with reprints of classic crime novels; such works placed in, often fierce, competition against their contemporaries as well as many of their predecessors. Raymond Chandler, in his well-known essay The Simple Art of Murder, noted Ernest Hemingway’s observation that “the good writer competes only with the dead. The good detective story writer […] competes not only with all the unburied dead but with all the hosts of the living as well” (3). In fact, there are so many examples of crime fiction works that, as early as the 1920s, one of the original ‘Queens of Crime’, Dorothy L. Sayers, complained: It is impossible to keep track of all the detective-stories produced to-day [sic]. Book upon book, magazine upon magazine pour out from the Press, crammed with murders, thefts, arsons, frauds, conspiracies, problems, puzzles, mysteries, thrills, maniacs, crooks, poisoners, forgers, garrotters, police, spies, secret-service men, detectives, until it seems that half the world must be engaged in setting riddles for the other half to solve (95). Twenty years after Sayers wrote on the matter of the vast quantities of crime fiction available, W.H. Auden wrote one of the more famous essays on the genre: The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on the Detective Story, by an Addict. Auden is, perhaps, better known as a poet but his connection to the crime fiction genre is undisputed. As well as his poetic works that reference crime fiction and commentaries on crime fiction, one of Auden’s fellow poets, Cecil Day-Lewis, wrote a series of crime fiction novels under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake: the central protagonist of these novels, Nigel Strangeways, was modelled upon Auden (Scaggs 27). Interestingly, some writers whose names are now synonymous with the genre, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Raymond Chandler, established the link between poetry and crime fiction many years before the publication of The Guilty Vicarage. Edmund Wilson suggested that “reading detective stories is simply a kind of vice that, for silliness and minor harmfulness, ranks somewhere between crossword puzzles and smoking” (395). In the first line of The Guilty Vicarage, Auden supports Wilson’s claim and confesses that: “For me, as for many others, the reading of detective stories is an addiction like tobacco or alcohol” (406). This indicates that the genre is at best a trivial pursuit, at worst a pursuit that is bad for your health and is, increasingly, socially unacceptable, while Auden’s ideas around taste—high and low—are made clear when he declares that “detective stories have nothing to do with works of art” (406). The debates that surround genre and taste are many and varied. The mid-1920s was a point in time which had witnessed crime fiction writers produce some of the finest examples of fiction to ever be published and when readers and publishers were watching, with anticipation, as a new generation of crime fiction writers were readying themselves to enter what would become known as the genre’s Golden Age. At this time, R. Austin Freeman wrote that: By the critic and the professedly literary person the detective story is apt to be dismissed contemptuously as outside the pale of literature, to be conceived of as a type of work produced by half-educated and wholly incompetent writers for consumption by office boys, factory girls, and other persons devoid of culture and literary taste (7). This article responds to Auden’s essay and explores how crime fiction appeals to many different tastes: tastes that are acquired, change over time, are embraced, or kept as guilty secrets. In addition, this article will challenge Auden’s very narrow definition of crime fiction and suggest how Auden’s religious imagery, deployed to explain why many people choose to read crime fiction, can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment. This latter argument demonstrates that a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. Crime Fiction: A Type For Every Taste Cathy Cole has observed that “crime novels are housed in their own section in many bookshops, separated from literary novels much as you’d keep a child with measles away from the rest of the class” (116). Times have changed. So too, have our tastes. Crime fiction, once sequestered in corners, now demands vast tracts of prime real estate in bookstores allowing readers to “make their way to the appropriate shelves, and begin to browse […] sorting through a wide variety of very different types of novels” (Malmgren 115). This is a result of the sheer size of the genre, noted above, as well as the genre’s expanding scope. Indeed, those who worked to re-invent crime fiction in the 1800s could not have envisaged the “taxonomic exuberance” (Derrida 206) of the writers who have defined crime fiction sub-genres, as well as how readers would respond by not only wanting to read crime fiction but also wanting to read many different types of crime fiction tailored to their particular tastes. To understand the demand for this diversity, it is important to reflect upon some of the appeal factors of crime fiction for readers. Many rules have been promulgated for the writers of crime fiction to follow. Ronald Knox produced a set of 10 rules in 1928. These included Rule 3 “Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable”, and Rule 10 “Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them” (194–6). In the same year, S.S. Van Dine produced another list of 20 rules, which included Rule 3 “There must be no love interest: The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar”, and Rule 7 “There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better” (189–93). Some of these directives have been deliberately ignored or have become out-of-date over time while others continue to be followed in contemporary crime writing practice. In sharp contrast, there are no rules for reading this genre. Individuals are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction. There are, however, different appeal factors for readers. The most common of these appeal factors, often described as doorways, are story, setting, character, and language. As the following passage explains: The story doorway beckons those who enjoy reading to find out what happens next. The setting doorway opens widest for readers who enjoy being immersed in an evocation of place or time. The doorway of character is for readers who enjoy looking at the world through others’ eyes. Readers who most appreciate skilful writing enter through the doorway of language (Wyatt online). These doorways draw readers to the crime fiction genre. There are stories that allow us to easily predict what will come next or make us hold our breath until the very last page, the books that we will cheerfully lend to a family member or a friend and those that we keep close to hand to re-read again and again. There are settings as diverse as country manors, exotic locations, and familiar city streets, places we have been and others that we might want to explore. There are characters such as the accidental sleuth, the hardboiled detective, and the refined police officer, amongst many others, the men and women—complete with idiosyncrasies and flaws—who we have grown to admire and trust. There is also the language that all writers, regardless of genre, depend upon to tell their tales. In crime fiction, even the most basic task of describing where the murder victim was found can range from words that convey the genteel—“The room of the tragedy” (Christie 62)—to the absurd: “There it was, jammed between a pallet load of best export boneless beef and half a tonne of spring lamb” (Maloney 1). These appeal factors indicate why readers might choose crime fiction over another genre, or choose one type of crime fiction over another. Yet such factors fail to explain what crime fiction is or adequately answer why the genre is devoured in such vast quantities. Firstly, crime fiction stories are those in which there is the committing of a crime, or at least the suspicion of a crime (Cole), and the story that unfolds revolves around the efforts of an amateur or professional detective to solve that crime (Scaggs). Secondly, crime fiction offers the reassurance of resolution, a guarantee that from “previous experience and from certain cultural conventions associated with this genre that ultimately the mystery will be fully explained” (Zunshine 122). For Auden, the definition of the crime novel was quite specific, and he argued that referring to the genre by “the vulgar definition, ‘a Whodunit’ is correct” (407). Auden went on to offer a basic formula stating that: “a murder occurs; many are suspected; all but one suspect, who is the murderer, are eliminated; the murderer is arrested or dies” (407). The idea of a formula is certainly a useful one, particularly when production demands—in terms of both quality and quantity—are so high, because the formula facilitates creators in the “rapid and efficient production of new works” (Cawelti 9). For contemporary crime fiction readers, the doorways to reading, discussed briefly above, have been cast wide open. Stories relying upon the basic crime fiction formula as a foundation can be gothic tales, clue puzzles, forensic procedurals, spy thrillers, hardboiled narratives, or violent crime narratives, amongst many others. The settings can be quiet villages or busy metropolises, landscapes that readers actually inhabit or that provide a form of affordable tourism. These stories can be set in the past, the here and now, or the future. Characters can range from Edgar Allan Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin to Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, from Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple to Kerry Greenwood’s Honourable Phryne Fisher. Similarly, language can come in numerous styles from the direct (even rough) words of Carter Brown to the literary prose of Peter Temple. Anything is possible, meaning everything is available to readers. For Auden—although he required a crime to be committed and expected that crime to be resolved—these doorways were only slightly ajar. For him, the story had to be a Whodunit; the setting had to be rural England, though a college setting was also considered suitable; the characters had to be “eccentric (aesthetically interesting individuals) and good (instinctively ethical)” and there needed to be a “completely satisfactory detective” (Sherlock Holmes, Inspector French, and Father Brown were identified as “satisfactory”); and the language descriptive and detailed (406, 409, 408). To illustrate this point, Auden’s concept of crime fiction has been plotted on a taxonomy, below, that traces the genre’s main developments over a period of three centuries. As can be seen, much of what is, today, taken for granted as being classified as crime fiction is completely excluded from Auden’s ideal. Figure 1: Taxonomy of Crime Fiction (Adapted from Franks, Murder 136) Crime Fiction: A Personal Journey I discovered crime fiction the summer before I started high school when I saw the film version of The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. A few days after I had seen the film I started reading the Raymond Chandler novel of the same title, featuring his famous detective Philip Marlowe, and was transfixed by the second paragraph: The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armour rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the visor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying (9). John Scaggs has written that this passage indicates Marlowe is an idealised figure, a knight of romance rewritten onto the mean streets of mid-20th century Los Angeles (62); a relocation Susan Roland calls a “secular form of the divinely sanctioned knight errant on a quest for metaphysical justice” (139): my kind of guy. Like many young people I looked for adventure and escape in books, a search that was realised with Raymond Chandler and his contemporaries. On the escapism scale, these men with their stories of tough-talking detectives taking on murderers and other criminals, law enforcement officers, and the occasional femme fatale, were certainly a sharp upgrade from C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia. After reading the works written by the pioneers of the hardboiled and roman noir traditions, I looked to other American authors such as Edgar Allan Poe who, in the mid-1800s, became the father of the modern detective story, and Thorne Smith who, in the 1920s and 1930s, produced magical realist tales with characters who often chose to dabble on the wrong side of the law. This led me to the works of British crime writers including Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy L. Sayers. My personal library then became dominated by Australian writers of crime fiction, from the stories of bushrangers and convicts of the Colonial era to contemporary tales of police and private investigators. There have been various attempts to “improve” or “refine” my tastes: to convince me that serious literature is real reading and frivolous fiction is merely a distraction. Certainly, the reading of those novels, often described as classics, provide perfect combinations of beauty and brilliance. Their narratives, however, do not often result in satisfactory endings. This routinely frustrates me because, while I understand the philosophical frameworks that many writers operate within, I believe the characters of such works are too often treated unfairly in the final pages. For example, at the end of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, Frederick Henry “left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain” after his son is stillborn and “Mrs Henry” becomes “very ill” and dies (292–93). Another example can be found on the last page of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four when Winston Smith “gazed up at the enormous face” and he realised that he “loved Big Brother” (311). Endings such as these provide a space for reflection about the world around us but rarely spark an immediate response of how great that world is to live in (Franks Motive). The subject matter of crime fiction does not easily facilitate fairy-tale finishes, yet, people continue to read the genre because, generally, the concluding chapter will show that justice, of some form, will be done. Punishment will be meted out to the ‘bad characters’ that have broken society’s moral or legal laws; the ‘good characters’ may experience hardships and may suffer but they will, generally, prevail. Crime Fiction: A Taste For Justice Superimposed upon Auden’s parameters around crime fiction, are his ideas of the law in the real world and how such laws are interwoven with the Christian-based system of ethics. This can be seen in Auden’s listing of three classes of crime: “(a) offenses against God and one’s neighbor or neighbors; (b) offenses against God and society; (c) offenses against God” (407). Murder, in Auden’s opinion, is a class (b) offense: for the crime fiction novel, the society reflected within the story should be one in “a state of grace, i.e., a society where there is no need of the law, no contradiction between the aesthetic individual and the ethical universal, and where murder, therefore, is the unheard-of act which precipitates a crisis” (408). Additionally, in the crime novel “as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder” (408). Thus, as Charles J. Rzepka notes, “according to W.H. Auden, the ‘classical’ English detective story typically re-enacts rites of scapegoating and expulsion that affirm the innocence of a community of good people supposedly ignorant of evil” (12). This premise—of good versus evil—supports Auden’s claim that the punishment of wrongdoers, particularly those who claim the “right to be omnipotent” and commit murder (409), should be swift and final: As to the murderer’s end, of the three alternatives—execution, suicide, and madness—the first is preferable; for if he commits suicide he refuses to repent, and if he goes mad he cannot repent, but if he does not repent society cannot forgive. Execution, on the other hand, is the act of atonement by which the murderer is forgiven by society (409). The unilateral endorsem*nt of state-sanctioned murder is problematic, however, because—of the main justifications for punishment: retribution; deterrence; incapacitation; and rehabilitation (Carter Snead 1245)—punishment, in this context, focuses exclusively upon retribution and deterrence, incapacitation is achieved by default, but the idea of rehabilitation is completely ignored. This, in turn, ignores how the reading of crime fiction can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment and how a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. One of the ways to explore the connection between crime fiction and justice is through the lens of Emile Durkheim’s thesis on the conscience collective which proposes punishment is a process allowing for the demonstration of group norms and the strengthening of moral boundaries. David Garland, in summarising this thesis, states: So although the modern state has a near monopoly of penal violence and controls the administration of penalties, a much wider population feels itself to be involved in the process of punishment, and supplies the context of social support and valorization within which state punishment takes place (32). It is claimed here that this “much wider population” connecting with the task of punishment can be taken further. Crime fiction, above all other forms of literary production, which, for those who do not directly contribute to the maintenance of their respective legal systems, facilitates a feeling of active participation in the penalising of a variety of perpetrators: from the issuing of fines to incarceration (Franks Punishment). Crime fiction readers are therefore, temporarily at least, direct contributors to a more stable society: one that is clearly based upon right and wrong and reliant upon the conscience collective to maintain and reaffirm order. In this context, the reader is no longer alone, with only their crime fiction novel for company, but has become an active member of “a moral framework which binds individuals to each other and to its conventions and institutions” (Garland 51). This allows crime fiction, once viewed as a “vice” (Wilson 395) or an “addiction” (Auden 406), to be seen as playing a crucial role in the preservation of social mores. It has been argued “only the most literal of literary minds would dispute the claim that fictional characters help shape the way we think of ourselves, and hence help us articulate more clearly what it means to be human” (Galgut 190). Crime fiction focuses on what it means to be human, and how complex humans are, because stories of murders, and the men and women who perpetrate and solve them, comment on what drives some people to take a life and others to avenge that life which is lost and, by extension, engages with a broad community of readers around ideas of justice and punishment. It is, furthermore, argued here that the idea of the story is one of the more important doorways for crime fiction and, more specifically, the conclusions that these stories, traditionally, offer. For Auden, the ending should be one of restoration of the spirit, as he suspected that “the typical reader of detective stories is, like myself, a person who suffers from a sense of sin” (411). In this way, the “phantasy, then, which the detective story addict indulges is the phantasy of being restored to the Garden of Eden, to a state of innocence, where he may know love as love and not as the law” (412), indicating that it was not necessarily an accident that “the detective story has flourished most in predominantly Protestant countries” (408). Today, modern crime fiction is a “broad church, where talented authors raise questions and cast light on a variety of societal and other issues through the prism of an exciting, page-turning story” (Sisterson). Moreover, our tastes in crime fiction have been tempered by a growing fear of real crime, particularly murder, “a crime of unique horror” (Hitchens 200). This has seen some readers develop a taste for crime fiction that is not produced within a framework of ecclesiastical faith but is rather grounded in reliance upon those who enact punishment in both the fictional and real worlds. As P.D. James has written: [N]ot by luck or divine intervention, but by human ingenuity, human intelligence and human courage. It confirms our hope that, despite some evidence to the contrary, we live in a beneficent and moral universe in which problems can be solved by rational means and peace and order restored from communal or personal disruption and chaos (174). Dorothy L. Sayers, despite her work to legitimise crime fiction, wrote that there: “certainly does seem a possibility that the detective story will some time come to an end, simply because the public will have learnt all the tricks” (108). Of course, many readers have “learnt all the tricks”, or most of them. This does not, however, detract from the genre’s overall appeal. We have not grown bored with, or become tired of, the formula that revolves around good and evil, and justice and punishment. Quite the opposite. Our knowledge of, as well as our faith in, the genre’s “tricks” gives a level of confidence to readers who are looking for endings that punish murderers and other wrongdoers, allowing for more satisfactory conclusions than the, rather depressing, ends given to Mr. Henry and Mr. Smith by Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell noted above. Conclusion For some, the popularity of crime fiction is a curious case indeed. When Penguin and Collins published the Marsh Million—100,000 copies each of 10 Ngaio Marsh titles in 1949—the author’s relief at the success of the project was palpable when she commented that “it was pleasant to find detective fiction being discussed as a tolerable form of reading by people whose opinion one valued” (172). More recently, upon the announcement that a Miles Franklin Award would be given to Peter Temple for his crime novel Truth, John Sutherland, a former chairman of the judges for one of the world’s most famous literary awards, suggested that submitting a crime novel for the Booker Prize would be: “like putting a donkey into the Grand National”. Much like art, fashion, food, and home furnishings or any one of the innumerable fields of activity and endeavour that are subject to opinion, there will always be those within the world of fiction who claim positions as arbiters of taste. Yet reading is intensely personal. I like a strong, well-plotted story, appreciate a carefully researched setting, and can admire elegant language, but if a character is too difficult to embrace—if I find I cannot make an emotional connection, if I find myself ambivalent about their fate—then a book is discarded as not being to my taste. It is also important to recognise that some tastes are transient. Crime fiction stories that are popular today could be forgotten tomorrow. Some stories appeal to such a broad range of tastes they are immediately included in the crime fiction canon. Yet others evolve over time to accommodate widespread changes in taste (an excellent example of this can be seen in the continual re-imagining of the stories of Sherlock Holmes). Personal tastes also adapt to our experiences and our surroundings. A book that someone adores in their 20s might be dismissed in their 40s. A storyline that was meaningful when read abroad may lose some of its magic when read at home. Personal events, from a change in employment to the loss of a loved one, can also impact upon what we want to read. Similarly, world events, such as economic crises and military conflicts, can also influence our reading preferences. Auden professed an almost insatiable appetite for crime fiction, describing the reading of detective stories as an addiction, and listed a very specific set of criteria to define the Whodunit. Today, such self-imposed restrictions are rare as, while there are many rules for writing crime fiction, there are no rules for reading this (or any other) genre. People are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction, and to follow the deliberate or whimsical paths that their tastes may lay down for them. Crime fiction writers, past and present, offer: an incredible array of detective stories from the locked room to the clue puzzle; settings that range from the English country estate to city skyscrapers in glamorous locations around the world; numerous characters from cerebral sleuths who can solve a crime in their living room over a nice, hot cup of tea to weapon wielding heroes who track down villains on foot in darkened alleyways; and, language that ranges from the cultured conversations from the novels of the genre’s Golden Age to the hard-hitting terminology of forensic and legal procedurals. Overlaid on these appeal factors is the capacity of crime fiction to feed a taste for justice: to engage, vicariously at least, in the establishment of a more stable society. Of course, there are those who turn to the genre for a temporary distraction, an occasional guilty pleasure. There are those who stumble across the genre by accident or deliberately seek it out. There are also those, like Auden, who are addicted to crime fiction. So there are corpses for the conservative and dead bodies for the bloodthirsty. There is, indeed, a murder victim, and a murder story, to suit every reader’s taste. References Auden, W.H. “The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on The Detective Story, By an Addict.” Harper’s Magazine May (1948): 406–12. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.harpers.org/archive/1948/05/0033206›. Carter Snead, O. “Memory and Punishment.” Vanderbilt Law Review 64.4 (2011): 1195–264. Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1976/1977. Chandler, Raymond. The Big Sleep. London: Penguin, 1939/1970. ––. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Christie, Agatha. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. London: HarperCollins, 1920/2007. Cole, Cathy. Private Dicks and Feisty Chicks: An Interrogation of Crime Fiction. Fremantle: Curtin UP, 2004. Derrida, Jacques. “The Law of Genre.” Glyph 7 (1980): 202–32. Franks, Rachel. “May I Suggest Murder?: An Overview of Crime Fiction for Readers’ Advisory Services Staff.” Australian Library Journal 60.2 (2011): 133–43. ––. “Motive for Murder: Reading Crime Fiction.” The Australian Library and Information Association Biennial Conference. Sydney: Jul. 2012. ––. “Punishment by the Book: Delivering and Evading Punishment in Crime Fiction.” Inter-Disciplinary.Net 3rd Global Conference on Punishment. Oxford: Sep. 2013. Freeman, R.A. “The Art of the Detective Story.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924/1947. 7–17. Galgut, E. “Poetic Faith and Prosaic Concerns: A Defense of Suspension of Disbelief.” South African Journal of Philosophy 21.3 (2002): 190–99. Garland, David. Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1993. Hemingway, Ernest. A Farewell to Arms. London: Random House, 1929/2004. ––. in R. Chandler. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Hitchens, P. A Brief History of Crime: The Decline of Order, Justice and Liberty in England. London: Atlantic Books, 2003. James, P.D. Talking About Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Death, Detection, Diversity, 2nd ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2010. Knox, Ronald A. “Club Rules: The 10 Commandments for Detective Novelists, 1928.” Ronald Knox Society of North America. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.ronaldknoxsociety.com/detective.html›. Malmgren, C.D. “Anatomy of Murder: Mystery, Detective and Crime Fiction.” Journal of Popular Culture Spring (1997): 115–21. Maloney, Shane. The Murray Whelan Trilogy: Stiff, The Brush-Off and Nice Try. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1994/2008. Marsh, Ngaio in J. Drayton. Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime. Auckland: Harper Collins, 2008. Orwell, George. Nineteen Eighty-Four. London: Penguin Books, 1949/1989. Roland, Susan. From Agatha Christie to Ruth Rendell: British Women Writers in Detective and Crime Fiction. London: Palgrave, 2001. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge: Polity, 2005. Sayers, Dorothy L. “The Omnibus of Crime.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 71–109. Scaggs, John. Crime Fiction: The New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge, 2005. Sisterson, C. “Battle for the Marsh: Awards 2013.” Black Mask: Pulps, Noir and News of Same. 1 Jan. 2014 http://www.blackmask.com/category/awards-2013/ Sutherland, John. in A. Flood. “Could Miles Franklin turn the Booker Prize to Crime?” The Guardian. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/25/miles-franklin-booker-prize-crime›. Van Dine, S.S. “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 189-93. Wilson, Edmund. “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1944/1947. 390–97. Wyatt, N. “Redefining RA: A RA Big Think.” Library Journal Online. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://lj.libraryjournal.com/2007/07/ljarchives/lj-series-redefining-ra-an-ra-big-think›. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 2006.

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Intellectual property. It's a strange term, indicating from its structure that the questionable notion of property has been appended to something that, in a tangible sense, doesn't even exist. Difficult to grasp, like water, or air, yet at the same time so desirable to own... In Anglo-American law, property is defined, as the eighteenth-century jurist Sir William Blackstone put it, as "that sole and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the universe" (Terry & Guigni 207). For most physical things, the 'right' of exclusion seems simple enough to understand, and to control. Yet even there, when the boundaries blur, especially over space and time, the results of such 'rights' become less and less manageable, as indicated by the classic 'tragedy of the commons' (Hardin). And once we move outside of the physical realm, and into the world of ideas, or of feelings or the spirit, the notion of an exclusive 'right' of ownership steadily makes less and less sense. It's an issue that's come to the fore with the rise of the Open Source movement, creating software that can be freely shared and used by anyone. There are many arguments about exactly is meant by 'free', though there's often an emphasis on freedom of ideas rather than price: "think of 'free' as in 'free speech', not as in 'free beer'" is how one group describes it (Free Software Foundation). Unlike proprietary software such as Microsoft Windows, the source-code from which the programs are compiled is available is available for anyone to view, amend, extend. As yet, few programmers are paid to do so; certainly no-one is excluded from doing so. The results from this apparently anarchic and altruistic model would be startling for anyone coming from a conventional economics background: for example, Sourceforge, the main Open Source repository, currently hosts almost 60,000 projects, with almost ten times that number of active contributors (Sourceforge). Some of these projects are huge: for example, the Linux kernel is well over a million lines of code, whilst the Gnome user-interface is already almost twice that size. Open Source programs such as the 'LAMP' quadrivirate of the GNU/Linux operating-system, Apache web-server, MySQL database and PHP, Perl or Python scripting languages provide most of the software infrastructure for the Internet (Linux, Apache, MySQL, PHP, Perl, Python). And the Internet returns the favour, by providing a space in which collaboration can happen quickly and for the most part transparently, without much regard for status or location. Yet central though the Internet may be to this new wave of shared 'public good', the core innovations of Open Source are more social than technological. Of these, probably the most important are a specific kind of collaboration, and an unusual twist on copyright law. Eric Raymond's classic essay 'The Cathedral and the Bazaar' is one of the best descriptions of the social processes behind Open Source (Raymond). "Every good work of software starts by scratching a developer's personal itch", says Raymond: see a need, tackle it, share the initial results, ask for help. Larry Wall, the initiator of Perl, "wanted to create something that was so useful that it would be taken up by many people" (Moody 133), and consciously promoted it in much the same way as a missionary (Moody 131). Open access to communications and a culture of shared learning provides the space to "release early, release often" and invite collaboration. Some projects, such as Apache and PHP, are run as a kind of distributed collective, but many are somewhat hierarchical, with a well-known lead-figure at the centre: Linus Torvalds for Linux, Larry Wall for Perl, Guido van Rossum for Python, Miguel de Icaza for Gnome. Yet the style rarely seems hierarchical in practice: the lead-figure's role is that of coordinator and final arbiter of quality, far removed from the militaristic 'command and control' so common in business environments. What makes it work is that anyone can join in, identify a bug, submit a patch, volunteer to design some desirable function or feature, and gain personal satisfaction and social respect for doing so. Programmers’ motivations vary enormously, of course: some share their work as a kind of libertarian statement, whilst others are more driven by a sense of obligation to others in the software-development community, or in the wider world. Yet for many, perhaps most, it's the personal satisfaction that's most important: as Linus Torvalds comments, "most of the good programmers do [Open Source] programming not because they expect to get paid or get adulation by the public, but because it is fun to program" (Torvalds & Ghosh). In that sense it more closely resembles a kind of art-form rather than a conventional business proposition. Realistically, many of the smaller Open Source projects are little more than student exercises, with limited real-world usefulness. But for larger, more relevant projects this borderless, inclusive collaboration usually results in code of very high quality and reliability – "given enough eyeballs, all bugs are shallow" is another of Raymond's aphorisms – in stark contrast to the notorious security holes and general fragility of proprietary products from Redmond and elsewhere. And it leverages different people's skills to create an extraordinary degree of 'win/win', as Linus Torvalds points out: "imagine ten people putting in one hour each every day on the project. They put in one hour of work, but because they share the end results they get nine hours of 'other peoples work' for free. It sounds unfair: get nine hours of work for doing one hour. But it obviously is not" (Torvalds & Ghosh). It's this kind of return-on-investment that's making many businesses more than willing to embrace the 'insanity' of paying programmers to give away their time on Open Source projects (Pavlicek). The hard part, for many businesses, is that it demands a very different approach to business relationships. "Forget business as usual", writes Russell Pavlicek; "forget about demanding your own way; forget fluffy, empty management speeches; forget about fudging facts; forget about marketing that alienates the community; forget about pushing hype rather than real value; forget about taking more than you give" (Pavlicek 131-7). When everything is open, and everyone is in effect a volunteer, none of those time-dishonoured tactics works well. But the real catch is the legal framework under which Open Source is developed and distributed. Conventionally, placing work in the public domain – the intellectual-property equivalent of the commons – means that anyone can apply even the minutest of changes and then declare it exclusively as their own. Walt Disney famously did exactly this with many classics, such as the Grimms' fairy-tales or Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book. The Free Software Foundation's 'GNU Public License' – used for most Open Source software – avoids this by copyrighting the work, permitting freedom to view, amend and extend the code for any purpose, but requiring that any new version permit the same freedoms (GNU/FSF). This inclusive approach – nicknamed 'copyleft' in contrast to conventional copyright – turns the usual exclusive model of intellectual property on its head. Its viral, self-propagating nature uses the law to challenge the law of property: everything it touches is – in principle – freed from exclusive private ownership. Larry Lessig and the Creative Commons legal team have extended this somewhat further, with machine-readable licenses that permit a finer granularity of choice in defining what uses of a work – a musical performance, a book or a Weblog, for example – are open or withheld (Creative Commons). But the central theme is that copyleft, together with the open nature of the Internet, "moves everything that touches it toward the public domain" (Norlin). Which is not a happy thought for those whose business models depend on exclusion and control of access to intellectual property – such as Hollywood, the media and the biotechnology industry – nor, for that matter, for those who'd prefer to keep their secrets secret (AWOLBush). Part of the problem, for such people, is a mistaken notion of what the Internet really is. It's not a pipe or a medium, like cable TV; it's more like a space or a place, a 'world of ends' (Searls & Weinberger). Not so much infrastructure, to be bought and sold, but necessarily shared, it's more 'innerstructure', a kind of artificial force of nature: "like the Earth's fertile surface, it derives much of its fertility from the life it supports" (Searls). Its key characteristics, argues Doc Searls, are that "No-one owns it; Everyone can use it; Anyone can improve it". And these characteristics of the Internet ultimately arise not from the hardware – routers, cables, servers and the like – or even the software, but ultimately from an agreement – the Internet Protocol – and an idea – that network connections can and should be self-routing, beyond direct control. Yet perhaps the most important idea that arises from this is that one of the most basic foundation-stones of Western society – the model of property as an exclusive 'right', a "sole and despotic dominion" – simply doesn't work. This is especially true for supposed 'intellectual property', such as copyrights, trade-marks, patents, genome sequences, scientific theories: after all, from where do those ideas and patterns ultimately arise? Who owns that? In legal terms, there's no definable root for a trail of provenance, no means to identify all involved intermediaries, and hence no ultimate anchor for any kind of property claim. Many other types of intellectual property, such as domain-names, phrases, words, radio-frequencies, colours, sounds - the word 'Yes', the phrase 'The Real Thing', Ferrari red, the sound of a Harley-Davidson – can only be described as arbitrary expropriations from the public domain. In many senses, then, the whole legal edifice of intellectual property is little more than "all smoke and mirrors", held together by lawyers' bluff – hardly a stable foundation for the much-vaunted 'information economy'! Whilst it's not quite true that "nobody owns it", in practice the only viable ownership for any kind of intellectual property would seem to be that of a declaration of responsibility, of stewardship – such as a project-leader's responsibility for an Open Source project – rather than an arbitrary and ultimately indefensible assertion of exclusive 'right'. So a simple question about intellectual property – is it copyright or copyleft? should source-code be proprietary or 'free'? – goes deeper and deeper into the 'innerstructure' of society itself. Miguel Icaza describes this well: "as the years pass and you're working in this framework, you start to reevaluate in many areas your relationships with your friends and your family. The same ideas about free software and sharing and caring about other people start to permeate other aspects of your life" (Moody 323). Perhaps it's time to look more carefully to look more carefully not just at intellectual property, but at the 'rights' and responsibilities associated with all kinds of property, to reach a more equitable and sustainable means to manage the tangible and intangible resources of this world we share. Works Cited Blackstone, Sir William. "Commentaries on the Laws of England." Book 2, 1765, 2, quoted in Andrew Terry and Des Guigni, Business, Society and the Law. Marrickville, Australia: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1994. Hardin, Garrett. "The Tragedy of the Commons." Science 162 (1968): 1243-8. 10 Mar. 2003 <http://www.constitution.org/cmt/tragcomm.htm>. “The Free Software Definition.” Free Software Foundation. 10 Mar. 2003 <http://www.fsf.org/philosophy/free-sw.php>. Sourceforge. 9 Mar. 2003 <http://sourceforge.net/>. Linux. 9 Mar. 2003 <http://www.linux.org/>. GNOME. 9 Mar. 2003 <http://www.gnome.org/>. Apache. The Apache Software Foundation. 9 Mar. 2003 <http://www.apache.org/>. 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Links http://creativecommons.org/ http://cyberlaw.stanford.edu/lessig http://sourceforge.net/ http://tuxedo.org/~esr/writings/cathedral-bazaar/ http://worldofends.com/ http://www.apache.org/ http://www.awolbush.com/ http://www.constitution.org/cmt/tragcomm.htm http://www.firstmonday.dk/issues/issue3_3/torvalds/index.html http://www.fsf.org/licenses/licenses.html\lTOCWhatIsCopyleft http://www.fsf.org/philosophy/free-sw.html http://www.gnome.org/ http://www.linux.org/ http://www.linuxjournal.com/article.php?sid=6033 http://www.linuxjournal.com/article.php?sid=6074 http://www.mysql.com/ http://www.openresources.com/documents/cathedral-bazaar http://www.perl.org/ http://www.php.net/ http://www.python.org/ http://www.unchartedshores.com/blogger/archive/2003_02_23_archive3.html\l90388497 Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Graves, Tom. "Something Happened on the Way to the ©" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0304/03-somethinghappened.php>. APA Style Graves, T. (2003, Apr 23). Something Happened on the Way to the ©. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0304/03-somethinghappened.php>