The Polite Provocateur

Bodies As Vessels

 EJ: I approach the gallery as a sort of stage where sculpture can tell a story and interact with visitors as a quasi prop, while also considering how people move through the space and their relationship to it. Galleries aren’t truly liminal, they hold the memory of every previous exhibition and have a specific architecture that people relate to innately. I try to reorient the viewer in the space with the work.

 

 EJ:I was interested in portraiture as a means to be intimate with strangers, acquaintances and friends for a long period of time. Portraiture is a “productive” activity that makes people feel at ease and takes pressure off of the conversation. My studio became a space where there were no distractions, just time between two people; the conversation and rendering that came from this focus.

 

 EJ: Yes. I think a lot about emptiness

 

 

Essa Li
re: latable
 

Frederic Jameson outlines 3 major characteristics of postmodernity: 

pastiche, nostalgia and schizophrenia,

where culture, plundering the past and appropriating styles, 

seem only capable of parody and nostalgia

 

Jameson’s third observation, describing the postmodern experience as being schizophrenic, 

owes much to Lacan’s idea that schizophrenia develops in a child

who is unable to grasp speech and language

 

This leads to an inability to articulate, 

or an immobility to “talk about the real” in that :external and objective way”

 

Hence a comparison is made between the disappearance of the unified ego in postmodernism 

and the fragmentation of the self in the schizophrenic condition

 

The self, whose coherence was dependent upon the ability to connect the signifier and the signified is,

following the breakdown in the signifying chain, 

experienced as free-floating and mutable

 

The postmodern condition is therefore experienced as-dimensional, 

and lacking depth, perspective or time

 

Postmodern art rejects boundaries between “high” and “low” art

and instead employs pastiche, parody, irony, and bricolage 

to produce work that is fragmented in structure, self-reflexive and reflective of the decentered object

( vessel, as such)

 
verseEssa Li
a found exhibition
 
v_web-358.jpg
 

A - ...a found exhibition

B - Like a found object

A - Yes but without placing it in a gallery. This is a real space unmediated.

B - So like drawing people through the terrain of art and visual culture to certain places or sites?

A - Yes. The curator says 'Here! this is it. Here it is,' ...as opposed to the fabrications of facsimile exhibitions.

B - But why Lucienne?

A - He was an artist with far reaching ideas about the future function of art in society and he was disgusted by the bourgeois world of galleries and the art market. As a pioneer of kinetic art he was the first artist to make interactive sculptures. He himself termed his art 'cybernetic art' because, for him the essence of the work...

B - …if we can talk of essence...

A - was not the mere fact of movement, but the composition of the movement, the programme controlling or conditioning it. 

B - okay

A - He designed many projects for interactive sculptures and for light environments in public spaces, to intervene in real space

B - Installations

A - In cooperation with several leading film directors he made a number of films based on the shadows and projections of his sculptures. He also made the first experimental video work to be broadcast on television provoking violent reactions from the French audience.

B - This was broadcast from the studio

A - Yes. Also his ballet mécanique style works provide us with a metaphor for life and performance

B - such as man as a soft machine or wet engineering?

A - as well as movement, light and sound...

B - ...and fury, signifying nothing

A - Exactly.

B - So this is the site...

A - The artist is a site, as is the studio, which was also the scene of the artist's death in 1992. The site as un-fabricated, as an endeavour and as a site of contestation

B - and also the site of the first Centre of Attention found exhibition...

A - There's more to Montmartre than a poke in the eye with a paintbrush

B - I suppose, to predict the future you must change the past.

 
 
re: sonating
 

Amy Lien & Enzo Camacho are a collaborating duo, who present a new series comprising objects they term ‘video sculptures.’ These explore the figure of a kind of ghost found in locations throughout Southeast Asia: a mythical creature which self-segments, leaving its legs in the (literal or metaphorical) forest while its head and torso flies through the city to terrorize its inhabitants. In Thailand this creature is called akrasue, and in Cambodia it is an arb. The starting point for the artists’ interest in this mutant and mutating figure was the Philippine manananggal, and the krasue/arb/manananggal is here proposed by the artists as a poetically

re: sonant symbol of an ever-shifting sense of self:  o n e  without a fixed centre,  o n e  that perpetually migrates rather than having a ‘home,’  o n e  that resists rational categorization. This is ‘an open-source monster,’

the artists suggest, borrowing the vocabulary of collaborative and user-generated software. The three discrete but interrelated (and quietly interactive) works, newly created for this exhibition, build on forms previously explored by the artists at the Centre for Contemporary Art Singapore and at 47 Canal Gallery in New York, with the motif of the manananggal also appearing in a deliberately centre-less multi-venue exhibition in Berlin in 2016. Floating ceramic heads project stylised video imagery that echoes fashion shoots, shot primarily in Cambodia and intercut with footage found elsewhere. The works suggest that the ‘haunting’ that these artists are most drawn to is around the rapid transformations in urban environments across the region, and the still unresolved questions this ‘development’ raises for the future.

 

 

 O n e  wonders what initial reaction Amy Lien and Enzo Camacho might have had when the organizers of Berlin’s Mathew Gallery first approached them with the idea for this exhibition, a show that would involve multiple artists and take as its common denominator their shared non-differentiated ethnicity – in cruder terms, a show of “Asian” artists only.  O n e could also speculate about the potential repercussions of such a proposal, had it been articulated with unmitigated clarity in  o n e  of the art worlds of New York or Los Angeles, for example, where the question might have echoed with the self-cognizance of certain local groupings. (And here   o n e  ponders also how such a wide array of potential re: sonances failed to carry over into the increasingly international, yet nevertheless predominantly white context of the Berlin scene, where race is typically still treated as a non-issue, or a ‘critical special interest’ at best.)

How to respond to such an interpellation? Is there an option besides merely re: jecting said problematic proposal? Shades of possible alternatives appear recorded, it would seem, in the image circulated as the show’s invitation (subsequently posted to the gallery’s website) which contained text extracted from email-exchanges between Lien, Camacho and the show’s other participants (Lisa Jo, Margaret Lee, Carissa Rodriguez, Amy Yao, Anicka Yi) arranged in an arch that radiates from a photograph picturing the central linkage of a tourist’s “oriental” fan: 

“My initial reaction was  o n e  of great excitement but in actually thinking about the details, I have some issues. I love all of us, obvs, but it’s not an excuse for an aimless grouping of objects. what contextualizes us? race? that we have similar tastes in clothes? I thought the idea was to point out the pedestrian ways in which group shows are put together, as a sort of comment on the generalization of curating a group show in an art gallery. Its total and complete re: ductivism: just race. i kind of love that, it’s open for the taking.”

 

eb773dfd-5a75-46e2-a8bf-c80948a1bd2f-lien-camacho-invitation_t_w640.jpg
 

There are of course many situations in which this “total and complete re: ductivism: just race” could take a much more violent form; an experience that the text also mentions: “all of us have had fucked up experiences in berlin (and elsewhere) from an asian perspective. weve [sic] had friends accused of being prostitutes [n.b.: why being hailed as a prostitute would count as an ‘accusation’ is a different matter], old ladies bumping them with their shopping carts.” Hence, the question here seems less about the latency of the problem of race/ism in its primary form – that the gallery’s request is an “impossible” invitation; that is clear and all in the open –

but rather, how that category is re: formatted through the logic of the art system, which potentially employs it as the possibly dumbest common denominator. The gallery’s invitation to Camacho and Lien could even read as a re: velatory re: duplication of any number of curatorial maneuvers; as a charade, as a flirtation with the frivolous, as a re: enactment –

but also by drawing attention to the ways in which art is shown according to categories of cultural, national, or even racial adherence: for instance, “German Art.” What would that be?!

Lien and Camacho’s response can best be described as a symbolic re: tort – a gestural appropriation of various stylistic tropes, and as a concomitant formal inventory, at times employed to connote “Asianicity,” or “Eastness,” to use Barthesian vocabulary. [1] 

O n e  could also call their response, and the entire show, an exercise in rhetorics. The installation that made up the exhibition consisted of imitation Berlin Wall slabs built from a mixture of materials that included, among others elements, papier-maché, lumber, transparent foil, and rice glue. With Lien and Camacho in charge of the work’s physical execution the two covered these segments with scribbles, paroles, graffiti, and other treatments, re: lying in part on suggestions from the other artists involved. The slabs were arranged in a semi-circle that cut through the exhibition space, creating an arched formation again re: calling the structure of a fan.

But there was yet another congruence between that object and the installation: upon closer inspection the wall’s strange, almost mildewy materiality appeared porous and light, which is to say not unlike that of the handheld fan itself; a counterpoint to the heaviness of the piece’s architectural and political reference. Motioning towards the wall that, yes, once partitioned the city into West and East, the installation stood in Mathew displaying all sorts of political demands and imperatives, sometimes also just mere observations, combined with a number of visual motifs, such as mouths wide open as if shouting political slogans, or a very large Hello Kitty face. A scroll ran down one segment: Racial discrimination in the west should be condemned on all fronts. Other statements read, Erase My Face, The Income Gap. Rote Angst (a translation of the American “Red Scare”); Reject Suckcess;and, with a tip of the hat to two issues in contemporary art and critical theory: Speculate My Dick and Post-Net Sucks. All told, it looked as if a more re: fined version of Berlin’s East Side Gallery had been set up on the premises of a gallery that derived at least some portion of its initial credibility from a symbolic decision to open in Berlin’s western districts, here Wilmersdorf. The work, by evoking the paraphernalia of political protest and the folklorization of the memory of political struggles, in turn exuded a composite sense of interest, bemusement, and ennui.

 O n e  of the slabs displayed the slogan, Comme des Orientalists – its various entendres riffing on several pertinent contexts: first, that of Orientalism – the phenomenon itself. The headline also called up Edward Said’s canonical, eponymously titled 1978 study that presented the first extensive critical analysis of said phenomenon. [2]Like in the case of their May 2014 performance at Hamburg’s Golem club “G-SPVK SPEAKS BITCHES ON ICE” (with Christian Naujoks), the re: ference hence targets both the phenomenon and its discursive critique. In the case of the Hamburg performance, the reference to discourse was coded into the allusion to Gayatri Spivak, another founding figure of postcolonial studies, who is here also invoked by the purported stylistic tension between the register of academic discourse and a manner of speaking or writing that more or less convincingly gestures towards a ‘radical’ pose by attempting to sound ‘ghetto’, which the theorist, activist, and University Professor at Columbia has turned into her trademark. Lien’s and Camacho’s prowess for communicatively nailing such issues shows up again in the this performance’s flyer, featuring a photograph of the actress Angelina Jolie – she, of the humanitarian rights trip into Cambodian backwaters, where she posed on the deck of a wooden barge for Louis Vuitton, her LV Alto tote bag slung over one shoulder – her salary for the resulting LV campaign undoubtedly donated in full to a good cause. In the image on Camacho, Lien, and Naujoks’s flyer, Jolie kicks back on what looks like a luxurious bed in a hotel suite, her arms casually crossed behind her head – a posture also taken by a little ‘Asian’ boy to her right who, media consumers will easily re: cognize, is Maddox Chivan (né Rath Vibol), Jolie’s adopted son from a Phnom Penh orphanage.

A further re: ference in Comme des Orientalists points, obviously, to Comme des Garçons, the fashion house, founded by designer Rei Kawakubo, whose works were instrumental in reprogramming Parisian prêt-à-porter into the 1980s system of ‘post-fashion.’ After showing her designs in 1981 at the Paris Semaine de la mode,Kawakubo’s mostly black, physically ‘worn,’ ‘torn,’ radically wide and asymmetrical designs, like those of her colleague Yohji Yamamoto, were disgustingly labeled by some among the Western fashion press as ‘Hiroshima Chic’; this, another act of (negative) Japonisme or inverted Orientalism that re: proached the non-Western designer-subject with failing to conform to projected notions of ‘elegance,’ while missing out on the path-breaking investigation of the very concept of elegance that Kawakubo’s dresses actually performed. [3]

In evoking such a multiplicity of levels – political, discursive, stylistic – Camacho and Lien’s show was savvy, educated, perhaps even studied and academic.  O n e  might go so far as to detect a whiff of weariness in it, a slight shrug in the face of all these re: ferential riches.

The maneuvers it engaged are necessary. The problem of ‘race’ exists. But the virtuosity with which these re: ferential and stylistic moves are executed suggest that we have carried out similar  o n e s for more than a good while. The show was titled “Who Do You Love,” and within the intricately constructed architecture of re: ferences and rhetorico-positional ripostes that question seemed to imply an impossibly firm affective positioning were it not for that one sentence: “I love all of us, obvs, but it’s not an excuse for an aimless grouping of objects.” The re: lease further states that “if connectivity defines the paradigm that continuously disappoints, perhaps it’s because we forget that a point of contact is also a point of separation. To view a wall begs the question of how you stand in re: lation to it. [4] Who do you love?” Given the show, these sentences must be considered another rhetorical move. Connectivity and re: lationality seemed only second to third order concerns in a complex set of maneuvers that skillfully evaded articulating the central question: “What’s your stance?”

 

 

 

 
crimson, artworldEssa Li
writing a thesis statement for the institutional archives?
 

 

The New York Times was sharply criticised when its obituary of a rocket scientist began by mentioning her "mean beef stroganoff". It was re: written.[1] The story holds lessons for obituary writers - but also illustrates the complexities of their art.

O n e  of those at the New York Times engaging in a post mortem investigation into the controversial obituary of Yvonne Brill was the paper's public editor, Margaret Sullivan. She spoke to obituaries editor William McDonald, who, she says in her blog, had never imagined that it would be seen as sexist. He said the opening re: ferences to her being a good cook, wife and mother were "an effective setup for the 'aha' of the second paragraph", which re: vealed that Brill was an important scientist.

Sullivan disagrees. The obituary undervalued Brill's "groundbreaking scientific work" by placing so much emphasis on her domestic life, she writes. "If Yvonne Brill's life was worth writing about because of her achievements, and all agree that it was, then the glories of her beef stroganoff should have been little more than a footnote." [2]

But what about the idea of beginning an obituary with a puzzling statement, followed by an "aha" moment? "Jokes like that don't really work in obituaries, unless the subject is a jokey character," says Nigel Starck, author of Life After Death, a history of obituaries. "It surprised me that such a conservative newspaper would write an obit with such a trivial lead. The stroganoff could have been worked in later."

However, good obituarists agree that the goal is not just to provide an account of the subject's CV, but to convey their personality. Seen from this perspective, the "mean stroganoff" may have been a tempting line. But Ann Wroe, obituaries editor for the Economist, agrees with Sullivan and Starck that it had no place in the first paragraph. "If someone is a great scientist or pianist that is what I will talk about," she says. "Whether they can cook a good meal will come much further down. The art or science will always come at the top and I will leave the gender aside, unless they have had to fight all their lives because of it."

Going through a life chronologically is not her style either. She prefers themes, and looks for ways to illustrate the person's good and bad sides. Both she and Starck like to work from autobiographies and interviews given by their subjects, "to get inside the head of the person" as Wroe puts it. "I try and write it from their point of view. I use words they would have used," she says.

She adapted this approach for an obituary in 2009 of a huge female carp, called Benson, which had been caught and photographed over its 25-year lifespan by dozens of anglers in Britain.

 

Wroe on Benson and Bin Laden

Benson: "In her glory days she re: minded some of Marilyn Monroe, others of Raquel Welch. She was lither than either as she cruised through the water-weed, a lazy twist of gold. Her gleaming scales, said  o n e  fan, were as perfect as if they had been painted on... Greed probably undid her in the end. She was said to have taken a bait of uncooked tiger nuts, which swelled inside her until she floated upwards."

Bin Laden: "Somewhere, according to  o n e  of his five wives, was a man who loved sunflowers, and eating yogurt with honey; who took his children to the beach, and let them sleep under the stars; who enjoyed the BBC World Service and would go hunting with friends each Friday, sometimes mounted, like the Prophet, on a white horse."

 

"I decided to do it when it was a quiet summer week. I wrote it from the view point of the fish from the bottom of the muddy pond where she lived. It was great fun and I talked about the number of times she had posed with people," Wroe says.

De Quetteville points out that some people are much easier to write about than others. "I think - and this is where the New York Times may have had trouble as well - that scientists are very difficult to write about, partly because it's very hard to get your head around what they're doing," he says. Wroe, in turn, adds politicians, musicians and artists to the list of tricky cases. Politicians because of the often chronological nature of their careers and the others because it is difficult to get across in words what they did. "With the baritone and conductor Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, I put a little snatch of a Schubert song in the obit so that those who knew his music would get it in their minds. I also put poetry in for poets," she says.

The New York Times's obituary of Yvonne Brill is certainly not the first piece of its kind to cause a controversy. Wroe's obituary [3]of Osama Bin Laden was another. But she defends the approach she took. "I think we should do bad and good people. I wanted to show there was a human side to him and that he was not just a monster," she says. "There is also a family man who took his children to the beach, who went out hunting and liked eating yoghurt and dates. I wrote it from his point of view and his growing crusade to kill as many infidels as possible, as he saw it.

"Our American readers didn't appreciate that." And the author of the New York Times' obituary of Brill is also unrepentant. "I wouldn't do anything differently," he told Margaret Sullivan. Writing obituaries may not be rocket science, but it can certainly be a tricky business.

 

[1] Lucienne, Essa. “Re:” The Vessel, 30 Mar. 2018, vessel.gallery/re-/.

[2] Vennard, Martin. “How to Write the Perfect Obituary.” BBC News, BBC, 7 Apr. 2013, www.bbc.com/news/magazine-22018823.

[3] Wroe, Ann. “Osama Bin Laden.” The Economist, The Economist Group Limited, 5 May 2011, www.economist.com/node/18648254.

 
neat find
 

this blog is a collection of art, writing, music, and films by sino and diasporic sino creators in history. sinθ magazine is an international print-based creative arts magazine made by and for the sino diaspora.

 
visual, establishmentEssa Li
Re: On Photography | On China
 
As a Harvard Professor, I can used many words to say nothing. [Laughter] When they don’t understand it, they think I am very profound.
— H. Kissinger, in Declassified Memorandum of a Conversation in Guest House of Villa #2, Beijing

 

Quoted from declassified transcript on the morning of

 

Feb. 23, 1972

 

– d i a l o g u e  from later that afternoon –

FOREIGN201605121331000582239883097.gif
 

Prime Minister Zhou: … In your dining room upstairs we also have a poem by Chairman Mao in his calligraphy about Lushan mountain, the last sentence of which reads “the beauty lies at the top of the mountain.” You have also risked something to come to China. There is another Chinese poem which reads: “On perilous peaks dwells beauty in its infinite variety.” 

 

President Nixon: We are at the top of the mountain now. [Chinese laughter]

 

Prime Minister Zhou: That’s  o n e  poem. Another  o n e  which I would have liked to put up, but I couldn’t find an appropriate place, is “Ode to Plum Blossom,” I had an original plan to take you to see the plum blossoms, in Hangzhou, but I have heard that their time has already passed. They are ahead of season this year. 

 

Dr. Kissinger: They have passed already? 

 

Prime Minister Zhou: I don’t know why. In other years they have not shed so early. 

In that poem the Chairman meant that  o n e  who makes an initiative may not always be  o n e  who stretches out his or her hand. By the time the blossoms are full-blown, that is the time they are about to disappear. [Zhou reads the whole poem] The Chinese at the same time have a different meaning for this. [Zhou gestures at the end as he reads the poem]

 

President Nixon: That’s very beautiful. 

 

Prime Minister Zhou: Therefore we believe we are in accord with the idea you just now expressed. You are the one who made the initiative. You may not be there to see its success, but of course we would welcome your re: turn. We would think that is a very scientific approach. 

 

Dr. Kissinger: A very unlikely event, though. 

 

Prime Minister Zhou: Of course, that’s what you should say. 

I was only trying to trying to illustrate the Chinese way of thinking. It does not matter anyhow. Regardless of who is the next President, the spirit of ’76 still exists and will prevail. From the standpoint of policies, I hope that our counterpart will be the same so we can continue our efforts. We also hope not only that the President continues in office but that your adviser and assistants continue in office. Also various changes may be bound to come. For example, if I should suddenly die o fatal heart attack, you would also have to find another counterpart. Therefore, we try to bring more people to meet you. At least perhaps the interpreters have the hope of living longer than the Prime Minister. 

I hope you won’t complain that I am too lengthy in my words. 

 

President Nixon:  Not at all. I am very interested. 

 

Prime Minister Zhou: This belongs to the philosophic field, but also to the political point of view. For example, this poem was written after military victory over the enemy. In the whole poem there is not  o n e  word about the enemy; it was very difficult to write the poem. 

 

President Nixon: Of course, I believe it is very useful to think in philosophic terms. Too often we look at problems of the world from the point of view  of tactics. We take the short view. If those who wrote that poem took the short view, you would not be here today. It is essantial to look at the great forces that move the world. Maybe we have some disagreements, but we know there will be changes, and we know that there can be a better, and I trust safer, world for  our two peoples regardless of differences if we can find common ground. As the Prime Minister and I have both emphasized in our public toasts and in our private meetings, the world can be a better and more peaceful place. 

I think  o n e  thing which Dr. Kissinger has greatly contributed in his services to my administration is his philosophic view. He takes the long view, which is something I try to do also, except sometimes my schedule is so filled with practical matters and decisions on domestic and foreign policy that I don’t have as much time to take the long view as he does. 

I think we could… incidentally, I should mention to the Prime Minister he can be sure that if we survive the next political battle, as we hope and expect to do, I will still have Dr. Kissinger with me. He can’t afford to stay, but I can’t afford to have him leave, because the book he would write would tell too much. [Prime Minister Zhou laughs] 

 

Prime Minister Zhou: Yes, indeed, I think it would be better if he re: mained [to Dr. Kissinger]. Yes, if it is your wish to promote the normalization of re: lations between China and the United States and if you left before fulfilling that mission, just to write a mere book, that would not be in accord with your philosophy. 

 

Dr. Kissinger: I will not leave as long as the President thinks I can be of service and I will not write a book in any event. 

 

President Nixon: I will amend that in  o n e  way. I will authorize him to write a book, but he must write poetry.  

 
 

 

 

published in 1973

 

 

 

S. Sontag: The Chinese re: sist the photographic dismemberment of re: ality. Close-ups are not used. Even the postcards of antiquities and works of art sold in museums do not show part of something; the object is always photographed straight on, centered, evenly lit, and in its entirety.

 

We find the Chinese naive for not perceiving the beauty of the cracked peeling door, the picturesqueness of disorder, the force of the odd angle and the significant detail, the poetry of the turned back. We have a modern notion of embellishment — beauty is not inherent in anything; it is to be found, by another way of seeing — as well as a wider notion of meaning, which photography’s many uses illustrate and powerfully re: inforce. The more numerous the variations of something, the richer its possibilities of meaning: thus, more is said with photographs in the West than in China today. Apart from whatever is true about Chung Kuo as an item of ideological merchandise (and the Chinese are not wrong in finding the film condescending), Antonioni’s images simply mean more than any images the Chinese re: lease of themselves. The Chinese don’t want photographs to mean very much or to be very interesting. They do not want to see the world from an unusual angle, to discover new subjects. Photographs are supposed to display what has already been described. Photography for us is a double-edged instrument for producing cliches (the French word that means both trite expression and photographic negative) and for serving up “fresh” views. For the Chinese authorities, there are only cliches — which they consider not to be cliches but “correct” views. 

 

In China today, only two re: alities are acknowledged. We see re: ality as hopelessly and interestingly plural. In China, what is defined as an issue for debate is  o n e  about which there are “two lines,” a right  o n e  and a wrong  o n e . Our society proposes a spectrum of discontinuous choices and perceptions. Theirs is constructed around a single, ideal observer; and photographs contribute their bit to the Great Monologue. For us, there are dispersed, interchangeable “points of view”; photography is a polylogue. The current Chinese ideology defines re: ality as a historical process structured by re: current dualisms with clearly outlined, morally colored meanings; the past, for the most part, is simply judged as bad. For us, there are historical processes with awesomely complex and sometimes contradictory meanings; and arts which draw much of their value from our consciousness of time as history, like photography. (This is why the passing of time adds to the aesthetic value of photographs, and the scars of time make objects more rather than less enticing to photographers.) With the idea of history, we certify our interest in knowing the greatest number of things. The only use the Chinese are allowed to make of their history is didactic: their interest in history is narrow, moralistic, deforming, uncurious. Hence, photography in our sense has no place in their society. 

 

The limits placed on photography in China only re: flect the character of their society, a society unified by an ideology of stark, unremitting conflict. Our unlimited use of photographic images not only re: flects but gives shape to this society,  o n e  unified by the denial of conflict. Our very notion of the world — the capitalist twentieth century’s “ o n e  world” — is like a photographic overview. The world is “ o n e ” not because it is united but because a tour of its diverse contents does not re: veal conflict but only an even more astounding diversity. This spurious unity of the world is effected by translating its contents into images. Images are always compatible, or can be made compatible, even when the re: alities they depict are not. 

 

Photography does not simply re: produce the re: al, it re: cycles it — a key procedure of a modern society. In the form of photographic images, things and events are put to new uses, assigned new meanings, which go beyond the distinctions between the beautiful and the ugly, the true and the false, the useful and the useless, good taste and bad. Photography is  o n e  of the chief means for producing that quality ascribed to things and situations which erases these distinctions: “the interesting.” What makes something interesting is that it can be seen to be like, or analogous to, something else. There is an art and there are fashions of seeing things in order to make them interesting; and to supply this art, these fashions, there is a steady re: cycling of the artifacts and tastes of the past. Cliches, re: cycled, become meta-cliches. The photographic re: cycling makes cliches out of unique objects, distinctive and vivid artifacts out of cliches. Images of re: al things are interlayered with images of images. The Chinese circumscribe the uses of photography so that there are no layers or strata of images, and all images re: inforce and re: iterate each other.* We make of photography a means by which, precisely, anything can be said, any purpose served. What in re: ality is discrete, images join. In the form of a photograph the explosion of an A-bomb can be used to advertise a safe. 

 

To us, the difference between the photographer as an individual eye and the photographer as an objective re: corder seems fundamental, the difference often re: garded, mistakenly, as separating photography as art from photography as document. But both are logical extensions of what photography means: 

 

The Chinese concern for the re: iterative function of images (and of words) inspires the distributing of additional images, photographs that depict scenes in which, clearly, no photographer could have been present; and the continuing use of such photographs suggests how slender is the population’s understanding of what photographic images and picture-taking imply. In his book Chinese Shadows , Simon Leys gives an example from the “Movement to Emulate Lei Feng,” a mass campaign of the mid-1960s to inculcate the ideals of Maoist citizenship built around the apotheosis of an Unknown Citizen, a conscript named Lei Feng who died at twenty in a banal accident. Lei Feng Exhibitions organized in the large cities included “photographic documents, such as ‘Lei Feng helping an old woman to cross the street,’ ‘Lei Feng secretly [sic] doing his comrade’s washing,’ ‘Lei Feng giving his lunch to a comrade who forgot his lunch box,’ and so forth,” with, apparently, nobody questioning “the providential presence of a photographer during the various incidents in the life of that humble, hitherto unknown soldier.” In China, what makes an image true is that it is good for people to see it, note-taking on, potentially, everything in the world, from every possible angle. The same Nadar who took the most authoritative celebrity portraits of his time and did the first photo-interviews was also the first photographer to take aerial views; and when he performed “the Daguerreian operation” on Paris from a balloon in 1855 he immediately grasped the future benefit of photography to warmakers. 

 

Two attitudes underlie this presumption that anything in the world is material for the camera.  o n e  finds that there is beauty or at least interest in everything, seen with an acute enough eye. (And the aestheticizing of re: ality that makes everything, anything, available to the camera is what also permits the co-opting of any photograph, even  o n e  of an utterly practical sort, as art.) The other treats everything as the object of some present or future use, as matter for estimates, decisions, and predictions. According to  o n e  attitude, there is nothing that should not be seen-, according to the other, there is nothing that should not be re: corded. Cameras implement an aesthetic view of re: ality by being a machine-toy that extends to everyone the possibility of making disinterested judgments about importance, interest, beauty. (“ That would make a good picture.”) Cameras implement the instrumental view of re: ality by gathering information that enables us to make a more accurate and much quicker re: sponse to whatever is going on. The re: sponse may of course be either re: pressive or benevolent: military re: connaissance photographs help snuff out lives, X-rays help save them. 

 

Though these two attitudes, the aesthetic and the instrumental, seem to produce contradictory and even incompatible feelings about people and situations, that is the altogether characteristic contradiction of attitude which members of a society that divorces public from private are expected to share in and live with. And there is perhaps no activity which prepares us so well to live with these contradictory attitudes as does picture-taking, which lends itself so brilliantly to both. On the  o n e  hand, cameras arm vision in the service of power — of the state, of industry, of science. On the other hand, cameras make vision expressive in that mythical space known as private life. In China, where no space is left over from politics and moralism for expressions of aesthetic sensibility, only some things are to be photographed and only in certain ways. For us, as we become further detached from politics, there is more and more free space to fill up with exercises of sensibility such as cameras afford.  o n e  of the effects of the newer camera technology (video, instant movies) has been to turn even more of what is done with cameras in private to narcissistic uses — that is, to self-surveillance. But such currently popular uses of image-feedback in the bedroom, the therapy session, and the weekend conference seem far less momentous than video’s potential as a tool for surveillance in public places. Presumably, the Chinese will eventually make the same instrumental uses of photography that we do, except, perhaps, this  o n e . Our inclination to treat character as equivalent to behavior makes more acceptable a widespread public installation of the mechanized regard from the outside provided by cameras. China’s far more re: pressive standards of order require not only monitoring behavior but changing hearts; there, surveillance is internalized to a degree without precedent, which suggests a more limited future in their society for the camera as a means of surveillance. 

 

China offers the model of  o n e  kind of dictatorship, whose master idea is “the good,” in which the most unsparing limits are placed on all forms of expression, including images. The future may offer another kind of dictatorship, whose master idea is “the interesting,” in which images of all sorts, stereotyped and eccentric, proliferate. Something like this is suggested in Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading. Its portrait of a model totalitarian state contains only  o n e , omnipresent art: photography — and the friendly photographer who hovers around the hero’s death cell turns out, at the end of the novel, to be the headsman. And there seems no way (short of undergoing a vast historical amnesia, as in China) of limiting the proliferation of photographic images. The only question is whether the function of the image-world created by cameras could be other than it is. The present function is clear enough, if  o n e  considers in what contexts photographic images are seen, what dependencies they create, what antagonisms they pacify — that is, what institutions they buttress, whose needs they really serve. 

 
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2011

 

 

 
 

Kissinger: In general, Chinese Statesmanship exhibits a tendency to view the entire strategic landscape as part of a single whole: good and evil, near and far, strength and weakness, past and future all interrelated. 

In contrast to the Western approach of treating history as a process of modernity achieving a series of absolute victories over evil and backwardness, the traditional Chinese view of history emphasized a cyclical process of decay and rectification, in which nature and the world can be understood but not completely mastered. 

The best that can be accomplished is to grow into harmony with it. Strategy and statecraft become means of "combative coexistence" with opponents. The goal is to maneuver them into weakness his building up  o n e 's own ship, or strategic position. 

 
 
verse, questionsEssa Li
How I am faring these days?
considering thesis year, momentum describing me  here  is quite accurate... 

considering thesis year, momentum describing me here is quite accurate... 

#comesandgoesinWaves

 

Definition of fare

fared; faring

intransitive verb

1: get alongsucceed 

  • how did you fare on your exam?

2: gotravel

3: eatdine

 

have you eaten? mother asks

very well, very well! of course, I say

...

intransitive, intransit, in transit

 

 
 

Recent Examples of fare from the Web

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These example sentences are selected automatically from various online news sources to reflect current usage of the word 'fare.' Views expressed in the examples do not represent the opinion of Merriam-Webster or its editors. Send us feedback.

 
essanity, verse, visualEssa Li
Ocean Motive
 

The music-drama opens on board the  vessel in which Tristan bears Isolde to Cornwall. Deeming her love for Tristan unrequited she determines to end her sorrow by quaffing a death-potion; and Tristan, feeling that the woman he loves is about to be wedded to another, readily consents to share it with her.

But Brangäne, Isolde’s companion, substitutes a love-potion for the death-draught. This rouses their love to resistless passion. 

. . .

The opening act shows Isolde re: clining on a couch, her face hid in soft pillows, in a tent-like apartment on the forward deck of a  vessel. It is hung with rich tapestries, which hide the rest of the ship from view. Brangäne has partially drawn aside  o n e  of the hangings and is gazing out upon the sea.

From above, as though from the rigging, is heard the voice of a young Sailor singing a farewell song to his "Irish maid." It has a wild charm and is a capital example of Wagner’s skill in giving local colouring to his music.

The words, "Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu" (The wind blows freshly toward our home) are sung to a phrase which occurs frequently in the course of this scene. It re: presents most graphically the heaving of the sea and may be appropriately termed the Ocean Motive.

It undulates gracefully through Brangäne’s re: ply to Isolde’s question as to the  vessel’s course, surges wildly around Isolde’s outburst of impotent anger when she learns that Cornwall’s shore is not far distant, and breaks itself in savage fury against her despairing wrath as she invokes the elements to destroy the ship and all upon it. 

. . .

In the Wagnerian version of the legend this love-death for which Tristan and Isolde prayed and in which they are united, is more than a mere farewell together to life.

It is tinged with Oriental philosophy, and symbolizes the taking up into and the absorption of by nature of all that is spiritual, and hence immortal, in lives rendered beautiful by love.

 
 
 

 

TRISTAN
(slowly coming to his senses)
The ship! Can't you see it yet?

KURWENAL
The ship? Of course,
it will be here today!
It can't be far off now.

 


 
 
 

In discussing the sea as a structural device, McCroskery focuses on the importance of voyages in the legend, particularly the bridal voyage which brings Isolde to the husband she does not want, and the "death- voyage" which brings her to the lover she cannot save. 

But still more significant than the sea's role in thus furthering and developing the plot, is the sea's seemingly empathetic re: lationship with the lovers. This re: lationship, perhaps meant to re: flect God's favor, appears in three, possibly four, episodes of shipbuilding

 

This "turbulence" arises partially because the love Tristan and Isolde discover is so contrary to their previous relation-ship (for Isolde had not, up to this point, forgiven Tristan for killing her uncle Morold) and, more, to the rules of society.

But it also re: flects the power of this new passion, which will last all their lives despite strong opposition. 

 

 

 

And Tristan trembled and said: “Beautiful friend, you are sure that the ship is his indeed? Then tell me what is the manner of the sail?”

“I saw it plain and well. They have shaken it out and hoisted it very high, for they have little wind. For its colour, why, it is black.”

And Tristan turned him to the wall, and said: “I cannot keep this life of mine any longer.” He said three times: “Iseult, my friend.” And in saying it the fourth time, he died.

. . .

But at sea the wind had risen; it struck the sail fair and full and drove the ship to shore, and Iseult the Fair set foot upon the land. She heard loud mourning in the streets, and the tolling of bells in the minsters and the chapel towers; she asked the people the meaning of the knell and of their tears. An old man said to her:

“Lady, we suffer a great grief. Tristan, that was so loyal and so right, is dead. He was open to the poor; he ministered to the suffering. It is the chief evil that has ever fallen on this land.”

But Iseult, hearing them, could not answer them a word. She went up to the palace, following the way, and her cloak was random and wild.

. . .

Near Tristan, Iseult of the White Hands crouched, maddened at the evil she had done, and calling and lamenting over the dead man. The other Iseult came in and said to her: 

“Lady, rise and let me come by him; I have more right to mourn him than have you—believe me. I loved him more.”

And when she had turned to the east and prayed God, she moved the body a little and lay down by the dead man, beside her friend. She kissed his mouth and his face, and clasped him closely; and so gave up her soul, and died beside him of grief for her lover.

. . .

May all herein find strength against inconstancy and despite and loss and pain and all the bitterness of loving.

 


 
 

Presenting a ship on stage can be something of a challenge for set designers. It certainly makes for a striking stage picture, as in Tim Albery's production of Der fliegende Holländer. 

But why include a ship in a drama in the first place?

 

O n e  aspect comes from a ship’s most basic function: travel. It is a transitional space taking its occupants from  o n e  place to another, usually from the known to the unknown – which is where the drama can gain its impetus.

O n e  example is Act I of Tristan und Isolde, set on board the ship transporting the Irish princess Isolde to Cornwall to marry King Marke. Early designs for Tristan und Isolde adopted a realistic approach, creating naturalistic stage pictures of the ship and deck. This literal approach was still in use by the middle of the 20th century – as this image from the Covent Garden Opera Company’s 1948 production shows.

 

By the time of The Royal Opera’s 1971 production, the curve towards the prow of the ship, a central mast and a vast billowing sail had a pared-down naturalism edging into symbolism. Later productions, including Christof Loy's for The Royal Opera, abstract the qualities of the ship’s purpose rather than its appearance, interpreting it conceptually as a confining space re: moved from the rest of the world.

Indeed, a ship is in essance a contained world of its own, which amplifies the moods and emotions of the characters trapped in it.

Acts set on ships can be fraught with expectation, often unpleasantly fulfilled.

 

 
 
 
ɹoɹɹıɯ :ǝɹ
 

”˙ɟןǝs ɟo ƃuıpuɐʇsɹǝpun puɐ ǝƃpǝןʍouʞ ɹǝʇʇǝq ɹoɟ pǝʇuǝʌuı ǝɹǝʍ sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ“ [SƐ]:ǝnbǝuǝs ʎq uǝʇʇıɹʍ ǝsɐɹɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐןsuɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝpnןɔuoɔ oʇ ǝʇɐıɹdoɹddɐ sı ʇı

 


˙uoısnןןı uɐ ʇsnſ sı ʇı ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ oʇ ʇuɐʇɹodɯı sı ʇı 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙uıʍʇ ”ʇɔǝɟɹǝd“ ɐ ǝʌɐɥ oʇ uoıssǝɹdɯı ǝɥʇ sn sǝʌıƃ puɐ sn ɟo ”ɹǝɥʇo“ ǝɥʇ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇı ǝsnɐɔǝq uoıʇuǝʇʇɐ ɹno sʇɔɐɹʇʇɐ ʎןןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙uǝǝq sɐɥ sʎɐʍןɐ ʇɔǝſqo ʎʇıpoɯɯoɔ sıɥʇ ǝɟıן uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔɐןd ʇuɐʇɹodɯı ʍoɥ ǝǝs oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı 'ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı pıoʌ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɹıdsuı sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ snoıɹɐʌ ɟo sǝןdɯɐs ʍǝɟ pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ

 


˙puıɯ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı sıɥ ɟo ”opıqıן ” ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ uʍo sıɥ ǝsodxǝ ǝɥ ʇsıʇɹɐ uɐ ɟo ɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ˙ʎɹoʇs ןɐɔıɥdɐɹƃoıq uʍo s’nɐǝʇɔoɔ sı ʇı ˙sǝısɐʇuɐɟ ɹoıɹǝʇuı uʍo sıɥ ɟo ɥʇuıɹʎqɐן ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯǝɥʇ ǝɥʇ sǝɹoןdxǝ ǝıʌoɯ sıɥ uı nɐǝʇɔoɔ

 


˙sןןǝɔ uıɐɹq s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ƃuıןqɯɐɹ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔıdǝp ןɐnsıʌ sı ʇı ˙ssǝɔoɹd ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɟo sɔıɟıɔǝds ןɐʇuǝɯ ǝɥʇ ʎןןɐɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ ʍoɥs oʇ ǝıʌoɯ sıɥ uı pǝıɹʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ooʇ sʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ suɹǝɔuoɔ ʇı ˙ƃuıuuıƃǝq ʍǝu ɐ oʇ ǝɔuɐɥɔ ɐ ǝʌıƃ puɐ ǝıp oʇ sɐɥ ƃuıɥʇʎɹǝʌǝ ˙suınɹ uı uʍop sןןɐɟ ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ʇnq ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ʞɔıɹq ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ 'pǝʇɹɐʇs ʇı sɐ sǝɥsıuıɟ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝǝdodǝ ǝpɹɐƃ-ʇuɐʌɐ sıɥ ɟo ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ spɐǝן suoısıʌ sıɥ ɟo ʎɹʇǝod ɔıʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ˙sɹoop ǝɥʇ uı ǝןoɥʎǝʞ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ ʇɐ ƃuıʞooן sı ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹopıɹɹoɔ ǝɥʇ uı sɯooɹ snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ʎʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıxǝןdɯoɔ ǝɥʇ pǝzıןɐnsıʌ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ǝpınƃ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uɐ ɟo ǝןoɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʎɐןd ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ oʇ suǝdo ǝɥ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɔɐds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ssʎqɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝʇıʌuı ǝɥ

 


˙ʇı ɟo uoısɹǝʌ ɔıʇǝod uʍo sıɥ ǝsodoɹd oʇ ǝɔuɐɥɔ sıɥ sǝʞɐʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ 'sǝɥɔɐoɹddɐ ǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ ɹıǝɥʇ uı ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɔɐds ʎɹosnןןı s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ pǝıɹʇ ǝʌɐɥ sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ sɐ ˙ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ ǝɔɐds ɹǝɥʇouɐ ʇǝʎ sɐ suɐɯnɥ ʎq pǝʌıǝɔɹǝd sı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹǝʇsʎɯ ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ uı nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙sɹoop ʎuɐɯ ɥʇıʍ ɹopıɹɹoɔ ǝɥʇ oʇ ƃuıʌıɹɹɐ ɹǝʇɐʍ ǝɥʇ uı ɟı sɐ ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ uı ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sɯıʍs ǝɥ ˙ǝɔɐds ʎʇdɯǝ uɐ sı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ uo ˙uı dɯnſ oʇ sǝpıɔǝp ǝɥ ʎןןɐuıɟ ˙ǝʌoɯ ʇxǝu sıɥ ǝɹnssɐ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝpısuı spuɐɥ sıɥ sʇnd ǝɥ ˙pınbıן sı ǝɔɐɟɹns sʇı ʇɐɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sǝɥɔnoʇ ǝɥ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sı ʇno ƃuıʇʇǝƃ ɟo ʎɐʍ ʇuǝɹɐddɐ ʎןuo ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɔɐןd ǝƃuɐɹʇs sıɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ǝdɐɔsǝ oʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ʎןsnoʌɹǝu ʞooן oʇ pǝʇɹɐʇs ʇsıʇɹɐ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ƃıq ɐ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ sɹoop ɟo pɐǝʇsuı ǝɹǝɥʍ sʍopuıʍ ʇnoɥʇıʍ ɯooɹ ʎʇdɯǝ ǝɥʇ uı uǝʞɐʍɐ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ suıƃǝq ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuǝɔs ʇxǝu ǝɥʇ ˙ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ uı pǝsod sǝɹnʇsǝƃ ɹno ʎq pǝʌıǝɔɹǝd ʎןƃuoɹʍ puɐ pǝzıןɐɔıpɐɹ ǝq oʇ ɹɐǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ɔıןoqɯʎs ɐ sı ʇı ˙ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ oʇ ɯǝɥʇ ǝsodxǝ oʇ sǝıʇǝıxuɐ puɐ sǝɹısǝp uǝppıɥ ɹno oʇ ǝɔuǝɹǝɟǝɹ ɹǝɥʇouɐ sǝʞɐɯ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ǝɹǝɥ [ᔭƐ]”¿dǝǝןs ǝuɐpunɯ ɹıǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ sǝnʇɐʇs ǝɥʇ uıɐɹʇs oʇ pıdnʇs ʇı ʇou sı“ :ɯıɥ oʇ ƃuıʎɐs ʞɐǝds oʇ pǝʇɹɐʇs ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ǝɥʇ ʎןʇuɐʇsuı ˙ǝɔɐɟ s’ʇsnq ǝɥʇ uo pǝʌoɯ puɐɥ sıɥ ɯoɹɟ sdıן ǝɥʇ puɐ pɐǝɥ s’ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ǝɥʇ sǝɥɔnoʇ ǝɥ puɐɥ sıɥ ɯoɹɟ sdıן ǝɥʇ ɥɔɐʇǝp oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ ʎq ˙sdıן ʇnoɥʇıʍ ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ɐ ɟo ʎuɐdɯoɔ ǝɥʇ uı sı ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ sǝzıןɐǝɹ ǝɥ sǝʞɐʍɐ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ ˙dǝǝןsɐ sןןɐɟ puɐ ɹıɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʇɐs ǝɥ ˙uoısuǝʇ ןɐuoıʇoɯǝ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝsɐǝןǝɹ puɐɥ sıɥ uo sdıן ǝɥʇ ɟo ssıʞ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝʇɐuoıssɐd pǝɹoɹɹıɯ sıɥ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ˙ɯsıssıɔɹɐu uʍo sıɥ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ןןǝʍ sɐ ǝɥ ˙ʎɹǝƃɐɯı ɔıʇǝod sıɥ ɟo snıuǝƃ ǝɥʇ ǝuǝɔs sıɥʇ uı pǝɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ɥʇʎɯ snssıɔɹɐu ɟo uoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı pǝʇɐɹoqɐןǝ ʎןןnɟıʇnɐǝq sı ǝuǝɔs ɔıʇoɹǝ ʎןǝɯǝɹʇxǝ sıɥʇ ˙puɐɥ uʍo sıɥ ɟo ǝpısuı ǝnƃuoʇ sıɥ ƃuıʇʇnd puɐ ɯǝɥʇ ssıʞ oʇ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝʞoʌoɹd sdıן ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇnɐǝq ǝɥʇ ˙ʎpoq s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ɟo ʇɹɐd ǝɥʇ ǝɯɐɔǝq sdıן ǝɥʇ ˙puɐɥ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uo sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ pǝɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ ʎǝɥʇ ʎןןɐuıɟ puɐ oƃ oʇ ʇou pןnoʍ sdıן ǝɥʇ ˙puɐɥ sıɥ ɥʇıʍ sdɐǝן ǝɥʇ ǝsɐɹǝ oʇ sǝıɹʇ ǝɥ 'ʎʇıןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı uʍo sıɥ ʎq pǝɹɐɔs ˙ǝʌıןɐ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ɟı sɐ ʞooן ʎǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ ǝɥ sdıן ǝɥʇ ʍɐɹp oʇ pǝɥsıuıɟ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ puɐ sǝuıן ǝןdɯıs ɥʇıʍ uɐɯoʍ ɐ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod ɐ sʍɐɹp ǝɥ ˙uoıʇɐuıƃɐɯı sıɥ ɟo pןɹoʍ ןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı ǝɥʇ oʇ ןɐuoıʇɐɹ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɯıɥ ƃuıɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ sǝɹısǝp sıɥ ʎq uǝʞɐʇɹǝʌo sı puıɯ sıɥ ˙sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ ʎq pǝɹɐɥs ɯɐǝɹp ɐ 'ɹǝıɹɹɐɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ sıɥ ǝɹnɔǝs oʇ ɯıɥ dןǝɥ pןnoʍ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɔǝıdɹǝʇsɐɯ ɐ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ oıpnʇs sıɥ uı ƃuıʎɹʇ ʇsıʇɹɐ uɐ ɟo ǝɟıן ǝɥʇ sǝqıɹɔsǝp ɯןıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ ”˙opıqıן“ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı pɹoʍ sıɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuɐǝɯ ʎɹǝʌǝ uı sʇuǝɯǝʌǝıɥɔɐ pooɥuɐɯ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ uɐ sɐ sʞɔıɹq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pןınq ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ɐ sʍoɥs ǝƃɐɯı ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝɔuǝɹǝɟǝɹ ɔıןoqɯʎs ɟo ʎʇǝıɹɐʌ ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝpɐoן sı ”ǝʇèod un’p ƃuɐs ǝן“ ɯןıɟ ǝɥʇ ”˙ɹo’p ǝƃɐ’ן“ ǝpɐɯ ןǝnunq sınן puɐ (6Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝʇèod un’p ƃuɐs ǝן“ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ ˙ʎןǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ sʇuǝןɐʇ ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹıǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ ʎןǝǝɹɟ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı sǝןןıɐou ǝp sǝןɹɐɥɔ ʇunoɔsıʌ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɹɐןןop uoıןןıɯ ǝuo ɥɔɐǝ pǝʌıǝɔǝɹ ןǝnunq sınן puɐ nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ

 

[ƐƐ]˙ןǝnunq sınן puɐ [ƧƐ]nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ sı uʍouʞ ʇsǝq ǝɥʇ :ɐɯǝuıɔ ʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ɟo sɹǝpɐǝן ʇuǝuɐɯɹǝd ɹǝɥʇo ɥɔɐǝ uǝǝʍʇǝq ƃuıʇǝdɯoɔ ǝɹǝʍ sןɐnpıʌıpuı oʍʇ-ʎʇɹıɥʇ uǝǝʇǝuıu ɟo ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ˙sǝıʇɹoɟ puɐ sǝıʇɹıɥʇ ɟo poıɹǝd ʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹnp ɐɯǝuıɔ uı ɯsıpɹɐƃ-ʇuɐʌɐ ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ ƃuıʞןɐʇ uǝɥʍ ʎןןɐıɔǝdsǝ ˙sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝıʇıןıqıssod ɹǝɥʇouɐ pǝuǝdo 'sǝƃɐd pıoןnןןǝɔ ǝɥʇ uo pǝɹnʇdɐɔ ɥʇnɹʇ pǝʇɐןnɯıs ɐ sɐ ʎןǝʇıuıɟǝpuı pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ ǝq pןnoɔ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ uı sɹǝʇsıƃǝɹ puɐ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɐɹǝɯɐɔ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ˙suoıʇɔnpoɹd ɔıɥdɐɹƃoʇɐɯǝuıɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq uǝʇɟo pǝɹoןdxǝ sɐʍ ǝɔuǝuɐɯɹǝd pınןɟ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ

 


˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ ǝɯıʇ ǝuo sʇı ɟo ɟooɹd ןɐnsıʌ ɐ ƃuıʌɹǝsǝɹd ʇɔǝſqns pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇuǝɯoɯ ǝɥʇ sǝɯɐɹɟ ǝƃɐɯı ɔıɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ǝɥʇ ʎɹɐɹʇuoɔ uı 'sǝƃuɐɥɔ ʇuɐʇsuoɔ uo pǝsodxǝ ʇuǝuɐɯɹǝd ɹǝʌǝu ǝɹɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı suoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ˙sǝɔuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʇuɐɔıɟıuƃıs ɥʇıʍ ʇı op ʎǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙sʇɔǝſqo puɐ sǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥʇoq ˙sǝıʇıɹɐןıɯıs uoɯɯoɔ ǝɹɐɥs ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ˙sǝʌıן uɐɯnɥ ɟo ”sǝıƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ǝןʇʇıן“ :ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ʇnoqɐ sʇɥƃnoɥʇ sıɥ oʇ ƃuıɹɹǝɟǝɹ [ƖƐ]ʞooq sıɥ uı ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ ʎןǝɔıu pǝʇʇnd sǝɥʇɹɐq sɐ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ [0Ɛ]”ɐpıɔnן ɐɹǝɯɐɔ“ sıɥ ƃuısn sɐʍ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙ʇı ƃuıʍouʞ ʎןqɐqoɹd ʇnoɥʇıʍ sɔıʇʎןɐuɐ oɥɔʎsd uɐıpnǝɹɟ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ sǝʌıǝɔɹǝd ǝɥ ˙ɐǝɹɐ pǝɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɔıʇǝod ɐ sʇɔǝſoɹd ǝɥ sǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ˙sǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹoןdxǝ sı ǝɥ ˙sǝʌןǝs-ɯǝɥʇ sʇɔǝſqo ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝʌoן uǝʌǝ ɹo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ uʍo sıɥ sǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥ uı sǝsodxǝ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙uoıʇdɯnsuoɔ sǝıʇıpoɯɯoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɹǝʌǝɟ ǝɥʇ ʎq ɹǝʌo uǝʞɐʇ sı ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɟıן uɹǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɯsıʇɐɯoʇnɐ ןɐɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ uɐ ʇsǝƃƃns 'ǝɹnʇɔǝʇıɥɔɹɐ ʎʇıɔ ssɐןƃ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ 'ʍopuıʍ ǝɥʇ uı suınbǝuuɐɯ uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ ˙sǝıʇıɔ ƃıq ǝɥʇ ɟo pןɹoʍ pǝzıןɐıɹʇsnpuı ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ uɐɯnɥ ɟo ǝɔuǝssǝ ǝɥʇ pǝɹnʇdɐɔ ʇǝƃʇɐ '(8Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”sǝıɯɯnp ɹoןıɐʇ :ʍopuıʍ doɥs“ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ʇı uı ɥɔnoʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ ʇuıod ǝɯos oʇ sǝʌoɹd ǝןqısıʌ ƃuıǝq ɟo pıoʌɐ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ǝןƃuɐ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ɯoɹɟ ʇoɥs ɹǝɥʇouɐ ǝʞɐʇ oʇ ʇou puɐ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ uı ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʍoɥs oʇ pǝpıɔǝp ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ˙uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ʇɟǝן ǝɥʇ uo ǝןqısıʌ ɐɹǝɯɐɔ sıɥ puıɥǝq uǝppıɥ ƃuıuıɐɯǝɹ ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ sןןǝʇ ǝƃɐɯı sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙suoıʇɔǝɹıp ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp uı ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ ƃuıoƃ ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɟǝן sopıqıן ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo ʎƃɹǝuǝ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃuɐɥɔxǝ ɹǝʇɟɐ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝןdnoɔ ɐ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ɹǝɥʇo pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ puɐ ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɔǝuuoɔ ǝɹɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ʎq ɹǝqɯɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇɹɐd pǝpıʌıp oʍʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɔɐds ɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıpnʇs ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ɹoɟ ʇuǝʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ sɐɥ ǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥʇ ˙ɯooɹ ʇɐɥʇ uı sɹoʇısıʌ snoıʌǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ןɐɔısʎɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuɐıqɯɐ ǝɯıןqns sʇı puɐ ǝɔǝıd ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇsıɥ ǝןqısıʌuı ǝɥʇ sǝɹnʇdɐɔ ʇı ˙ɯooɹ ןǝʇoɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıssǝɹdɯı uɐ sǝʌıƃ '(LƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝuuǝɹɐʌ ǝp ǝnɹ LS 'ǝɥɔıɹʇnɐ’p ǝpɐssɐqɯɐ“ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ɯǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pɐǝɹ oʇ sǝıɹoʇs ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ sǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ǝɹnʇdɐɔ oʇ ʎʇıןıqısuǝs ʇɐǝɹƃ ɐ pɐɥ ǝɥ [6Ƨ]˙ʇǝƃʇɐ ǝuèƃnǝ sɐʍ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןıqɐ snoıɹǝʇsʎɯ ǝsǝɥʇ pǝsodxǝ oɥʍ sɹǝʇsɐɯ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ˙sʇuǝɯoɯ ǝʇɐɯıʇuı ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ןɐuosɹǝd ʎɹǝʌ ɐ sɐ pǝıɹɹɐɔ puɐ pǝʇuıɹd ǝq uɐɔ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɯıʇ ʎuɐ ʇɐ ʇı ʇɐ pǝʞooן puɐ pǝʇuǝɯnɔop ǝq uɐɔ ǝɔɐds pǝɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʎuɐ uo ʍou ɯoɹɟ ˙uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝɹoɹɹıɯ pǝɔnpoɹd ǝɥ ɟo ʎɔuɐʇsuoɔuı ɟo ɯǝןqoɹd ǝɥʇ ʎןʇuɐɔıɟıuƃıs pǝƃuɐɥɔ ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ɟo uoıʇıɹɐddɐ ǝɥʇ

 


˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ ןɐɔısʎɥd sıɥ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd pǝɹoɹɹıɯ-uʍo sıɥ oʇ ʎןƃuıpɹoɔɔɐ ɹǝpɹo ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ƃuıʎןdɯı ʎq ǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ƃuıʎɐןd sı sʞɹoʍ sıɥ uı ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙uʍo sıɥ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ƃuıpunoɹɹns ǝɥʇ uo ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝƃɐƃuǝ suoıʇɔıpɐɹʇuoɔ ןɐnsıʌ ןɐɔıƃoן ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pǝʇɔǝןןoɔ suoıʇısodɯoɔ pıɹqʎɥ sıɥ ɟo ʎɹɐɯɯns ǝɥʇ ˙sʇɥƃnoɥʇ pǝzıןɐnsıʌ sıɥ ɟo ʎʇıun pǝʇuǝɯƃɐɹɟ ǝɥʇ ʎןɔıןqnd ƃuısodxǝ ʎq ǝƃuɐɥɔxǝ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uɐ ɟo ƃoןɐıp ɐ sǝʞoʌoɹd ʎɹǝƃɐɯı ןɐɔıɥdosoןıɥd ǝɥʇ ƃuısn ʎq ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙sǝıɔuǝpuǝʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐƃƃnן ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ ɟo ʇunoɯɐ uıɐʇɹǝɔ ɐ sǝʌןǝsɹno uıɥʇıʍ ʎɹɹɐɔ ןןɐ ǝʍ ʇɐɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ʎpoq ǝןɐɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝʌıʇɔǝʇoɹd ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎɔuǝıɔıɟɟns-ɟןǝs ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ʇɔǝɟɹǝd ɐ pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ (9Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”suosıɐıן snoɹǝƃuɐp“ ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uı ”˙ʌı dıןıɥd ɟo ʎןıɯɐɟ ǝɥʇ ɹo sɐuıuǝɯ sɐן“ ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ s’zǝnbzɐןǝʌ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ uoıʇɐɹıdsuı sıɥ ʞooʇ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯnssɐ oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı ˙ǝʎǝ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ǝʌıʇɔǝdsɹǝd ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd uʍo sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pןɹoʍ ǝpısʇno ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʞooן oʇ sǝıʇıןıqɐ sıɥ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ˙uoısıʌ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pןɹoʍ ɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝnƃoןɐıp ɹoıɹǝʇuı uɐ ǝɔǝıd sıɥʇ uı pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙ɟןǝs s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹǝɥʇouɐ ʇǝʎ sı ʇı ˙ǝʎǝ sıɥ ɟo ǝpısuı ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pןɹoʍ ǝpısʇno ǝɥʇ ɟo ʍǝıʌ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ (SƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝsןɐɟ“ ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןıqɐ ןɐʇuǝɯ sʇı oʇ ʎןƃuıpɹoɔɔɐ sǝƃɐssǝɯ uǝppıɥ ǝɥʇ spɐǝɹ oɥʍ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sı ʇı ˙sɹǝʍsuɐ ʎuɐ ɹǝɟɟo ʇou sǝop ǝɥ ʇnq suoıʇsǝnb sǝsod ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ sƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ uı ˙ʇı ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı ƃuıpuɐʇs ǝʇʇǝnoɥןıs ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇɔǝɟɹǝd ǝɥʇ ǝɔnpoɹdǝɹ oʇ ʎʇıןıqɐdɐɔuı sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ʎq suoıʇɐʇdɯǝʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu sıɥ ʇsuıɐƃɐ ǝןʇʇɐq ɹoıɹǝʇuı sıɥ sʇɔıdǝp ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ (ᔭƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”uoıʇɔnpoɹdǝɹ ǝɥʇ“ ǝƃɐɯı ǝɥʇ uı ˙ɟןǝs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ uoıʇɐןǝɹ uı puıɯ sıɥ ɟo ǝʇɐʇs ǝɥʇ ssǝɹdxǝ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı sʇdǝɔuoɔ snoıɹɐʌ sʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ uı sʇɔıdǝp sǝƃɐʎoʌ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ sıɥ ɟo ʇɔǝſqns ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐɯı ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ éuǝɹ

 

[8Ƨ]˙ʇɔǝſqo uɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐןd ǝɥʇ sǝʞɐʇ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ suʍo ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹǝpɹo pǝsɹǝʌǝɹ ǝɥʇ uı ʇnq 'ɟןǝsʇı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ suʍo ʇɐɥʇ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ uǝǝʍʇǝq ƃoןɐıp [LƧ]”uɐıןǝƃǝɥ“ ɐ sɐ uǝǝs ǝq pןnoɔ ʇı ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐɟɹns ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʇnoqɐ ɯɐǝɹp sǝƃɐuosɹǝd ǝɥʇ ˙sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝuoʎuɐ ɟo ǝʇɐʇs ןɐʇuǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ oʇ ǝןqɐ ʇɔǝſqo uɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sʍoɥs sɔıʇsınƃuıן ןɐnsıʌ sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ xnɐʌןǝp ˙sɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ǝuıuıɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɔɐ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝzıɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ʎɥdɐɹƃoıqoʇnɐ ןɐnsıʌ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ןɐuosɹǝd s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ sƃuıʇuıɐd s’xnɐʌןǝp ˙ǝɔɐɟɹns s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuǝdo ǝʇıuıɟuı ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɹǝɟɟo suoıʇɐuıɔnןןɐɥ ǝןqɐɹısǝp ןnɟıʇnɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝdɐɔsǝ oʇ ǝɹısǝp ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ sǝʇɐuɐɯǝ sɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ɥɔɐǝ ɯoɹɟ ˙(ƐƖ 'ƧƖ 'ƖƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) sʞɹoʍ uǝsoɥɔ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ uı sǝısɐʇuɐɟ ɔıʇoɹǝ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯןǝɥʍɹǝʌo pןɹoʍ [9Ƨ]”ɯnɹɔɐןnɯıs“ sıɥ ƃuısodxǝ sı xnɐʌןǝp ןnɐd

 

˙ʎʇıxǝןdɯoɔ ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹǝuuı uʍo-sʇı ɹoɹɹıɯ suoıʇɐuıɔnןןɐɥ pǝɯɐǝɹp sıɥ ˙ʇı ɟo uoısıʌ ןɐuosɹǝd ”ɔıʇsıןɐp“ sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ [SƧ]”sıxǝɥʇɐɔ ıʇuɐ“ s’pnǝɹɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd uʍo sıɥ pǝʇɔıdǝp ıןɐp ˙ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ uo puoɔǝs ǝɥʇ puɐ ɹǝʇɐʍ ǝɥʇ uı sı ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ :suoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʎɹɐɹodɯǝʇuoɔ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı ǝɥʇ sǝɔɐɟ ɥʇʎɯ ןɐuoıʇıpɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥ ˙ɹǝıןɹɐǝ pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ sƃuıʇuıɐd ɹǝɥʇo ɥʇıʍ uosıɹɐdɯoɔ uı ɥʇʎɯ s’pıʌo ɟo uoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʎɹǝʌ ɐ sı ʇı ˙sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ɯıɥ ʎq pǝzıɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ǝɔɐds ʇsıssıɔɹɐu uʍo sıɥ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝʞɐʇ (0Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”snssıɔɹɐu ɟo sısoɥdɹoɯɐʇǝɯ“ ɟo uoıʇɔıdǝp s’ıןɐp ˙uoısıʌ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ɟo uoısıʌ ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝıdnɔɔoǝɹd ǝɹǝʍ [ᔭƧ]ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ éuǝɹ puɐ [ƐƧ]'xnɐʌןǝp ןnɐd [ƧƧ]'ıןɐp ɹopɐʌןɐs sɐ ɥɔns sɹǝʇuıɐd ˙sʞɹoʍʇɹɐ ɹıǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝssǝ sʇı ǝɹnʇdɐɔ puɐ puǝɥǝɹddɐ oʇ sʇɹoɟɟǝ ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹıdsuı puıɯ ʎɹɐuoısıʌ ɹıǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝɹǝʇןıɟ sɐʍ ʎʇıןɐǝɹ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ sʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ɹoɟ ˙ʎʇıןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı sǝısɐʇuɐɟ pǝɯɐǝɹp ǝɥʇ ɟo ssǝusnoıɔsuoɔun ǝɥʇ ɹoɹɹıɯ oʇ pǝıɹʇ ʇɹɐ ɔıʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ˙ʇuǝɯǝʌoɯ ɯsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ʎq ʎɐʍ ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɹoqɐ ʎןqɐqoɹd sɐʍ ǝɔɐds ǝʇıuıɟuı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐıɹǝʇɐɯ ǝןqɐɥɔɐǝɹun ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɔǝſoɹd uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇsǝnb ǝɥʇ

 

˙ʎʇɹǝqıן ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ sıɥ oʇ pǝʍoןןɐ ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ʎq ǝɔɐןd pǝɔɐɹqɯǝ-ɟןǝs s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʍǝıʌ ɟo ʇuıod ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ɐ sı ʇı ˙ǝɔɐds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıuıɟuı ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ suoıʇɐʇıɯıן ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇxǝʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯɐɹɟ ʎʇıןɐnpıʌıpuı pǝʇɐɔıןdnp s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝuıqɯoɔ (6 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [ƖƧ]s’ʌoʇɐןnq ʞıɹǝ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןıqısuǝs ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯɐɹɟ sı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝʇɔǝſoɹd sıɥ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ǝɔɐɟ sıɥ ɹǝʌo pıɹƃ ǝɥʇ ˙pıɹƃ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ uoıssǝsqo s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ( 8 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [0Ƨ]s’pɹɐuʎǝɹ ǝɹɹǝıd-uɐǝſ ˙ɟןǝs ɟo uoıʇɔǝɟɟɐ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu sıɥ ǝsodxǝ puɐ ǝʇısoddo ǝɥʇ ɟooɹd ɥsnɹq sıɥ ɟo ʎɹǝʇsɐɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo sɔıʇǝɥʇsǝɐ ”uɐıuoɔɐq“ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ uo ǝןqısıʌ sı ǝǝɹƃǝp ǝɯos oʇ ʇɐɥʍ ǝƃɐsıʌ ןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ pǝʇɐɥ sʎɐʍןɐ ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʇnoqɐ pıɐs ǝɥ sɐ oɥʍ '(L ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) [6Ɩ]uoɔɐq sıɔuɐɹɟ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ǝɥʇ sı ʎɹoʇıɹɹǝʇ ɔıɥɔʎsd uɐıpnǝɹɟ ɟo ʇıɹıds ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ uı ˙(9 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ɟןǝs ǝʌıssǝsqo sıɥ uo ʎןuıɐɯ sɐʍ snɔoɟ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [8Ɩ]ʎɹoʇıuoɯǝɹd ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd [LƖ]s’ɹǝunɐɹq ɹoʇɔıʌ uı ʇuǝpıʌǝ sı ʇı ˙ʇı ɥʇıʍ ןɐǝp sʇsıʇɹɐ snoıɹɐʌ ʍoɥ ʍǝıʌǝɹ oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı sǝןdɯɐxǝ ʍǝɟ ʇsnſ uı ˙sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʇı ɯɹoɟsuɐɹʇ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo ɹıǝɥʇ ǝʌıǝɔɹǝd sʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs oʇ ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı sı ʇı ˙ɟןǝs pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ɔıʇsıןɐǝpı ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uɐɥʇ ǝsןǝ ƃuıɥʇou sı ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod ɟo puıʞ ʎuɐ 'ǝɹoɯɹǝɥʇɹnɟ ˙ǝpnʇıʇʇɐ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu s’ʇsıʇɹɐ sʇɔǝſoɹd ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod ɟo puıʞ ʎuɐ ˙ʎʇıןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ puɐ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐɯı ǝʌıʇɔǝſqo sʎɐʍןɐ ʇou ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ ƃuıɥʇou sı ǝɔuǝssǝ sʇı uı ʇɹɐ ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ɟo ʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uı ʇoן ɐ pǝɹoןdxǝ uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ sǝnssı ǝsǝɥʇ ˙ʇı ɥʇıʍ ןɐǝp oʇ ʎɐʍ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd ɐ pɐɥ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ puɐ sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ oʇ ƃuınƃıɹʇuı sʎɐʍןɐ sɐʍ uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝɔɐds ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ǝɥʇ

 

˙ƃuıʞ puɐ uǝǝnb ɟo sǝʎǝ ǝɥʇ uı ɹǝʇuıɐd ɐ sɐ ǝɔuɐʇɹodɯı uʍo sıɥ sǝuıןɹǝpun s’zǝnbzɐןǝʌ ʇɐɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ʇı ˙sǝʎǝ ןɐʎoɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐuoısuǝɯıp-ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɥʇ ǝʇǝןdɯoɔ ƃuıʞ ǝɥʇ puɐ uǝǝnb ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝɔɐɟ pǝʇɔıdǝp ʎןʇɔǝɟɹǝd ʇsoɯןɐ ɥʇıʍ ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝןppıɯ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ʇɐןɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןɐnpıʌıpuı ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ʇɥƃıןɥƃıɥ oʇ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝsǝɹd s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuɐʇɹodɯı ǝɥʇ sǝsɹǝʌǝɹ ʇnq 'pıp ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ sɐ ʎɐʍ ɹɐןıɯıs ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝɔɐds ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɟo sʇɔǝdsɐ ǝɥʇ sʇɹoqɐ (S ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ʌı dıןıɥd ɟo ʎןıɯɐɟ ǝɥʇ ɹo sɐuıuǝɯ sɐן“ pǝןʇıʇ ƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ uı zǝnbzáןǝʌ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo sıɥ ʇɔıdǝp oʇ ɯıɥ pǝʇdɯǝʇ ʎƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɔıʇsıssıɔɹɐu s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝןqıssod osןɐ sı ʇı ˙sǝpıs ןןɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɹıʇuǝ ǝɥʇ ʎןןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uıoſ oʇ ɯıɥ ʇıɯɹǝd pןnoʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'sɐʌuɐɔ ʇɐןɟ uo ǝɔɐds ןɐuoısuǝɯıp-ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ ǝɹısǝp s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝq ʇɥƃıɯ ɹoɹɹıɯ pǝʌɹnɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ uosɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ [9Ɩ]˙ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı ʇuǝsǝɹd ǝןdoǝd ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝןdnoɔ pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝpısʞɔɐq ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ןןɐʍ ǝɥʇ uo uoıʇısod sʇı ɯoɹɟ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɹıʇuǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ sɔıʇdo ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ ɟo ǝɔɐds ǝןppıɯ ןɐɹʇuǝɔ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ pǝʌɹnɔ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ʎq sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐɔıɹʇuı '(ᔭ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝɟıʍ sıɥ puɐ ıuıɟןouɹɐ ıuuɐʌoıƃ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod“ pǝןʇıʇ ƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ uı ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ ˙ʎɐʍ ǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ ɯǝɥʇ oʇ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ pǝʇɐǝɹʇ [SƖ]zǝnbzáןǝʌ puɐ [ᔭƖ]ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ sɐ sɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןɐǝɹ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝʇɐןǝɹ sʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ƃuıɥɔnoʇ sı ʇı ǝsnɐɔǝq ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı sı ǝןɐʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ɥʇʎɯ ƃuıʇɐuıɔsɐɟ ɐ ʇsnſ uɐɥʇ ʎɹoʇs sıɥʇ uı ǝɹoɯ ɥɔnɯ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇno punoɟ oɥʍ ǝuo ʎןuo ǝɥʇ ʇou sɐʍ oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ ˙ǝuo ןɐɔıƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ǝɥʇ ʇou puɐ ɥɔodǝ uʍo sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ssǝɹp ɐ snssıɔɹɐu uo ʇnd oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ 'sıɥʇ ǝzısɐɥdɯǝ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ˙ʇı oʇ ɥɔɐoɹddɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ǝɹoɯ puɐ ʇı ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ uo pǝsnɔoɟ ɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ǝsnɐɔǝq 'sʇsıʇɹɐ oʍʇ snoıʌǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʎןǝʇǝןdɯoɔ sı uoısɹǝʌ [ƐƖ]s’oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ ˙ǝןɐʇ sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʎɹɐɹǝʇıן ʎןןɐɔıdʎʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ˙(Ɛ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ǝsnoɥɹǝʇɐʍ ɯɐıןןıʍ uɥoſ puɐ (Ƨ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) uıssnod sɐןoɔıu ʎq pǝʇɔıdǝp ʎןןnɟssǝɔɔns ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝʍ sƃuıpunoɹɹns uɐıpɐɔɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ɥʇʎɯ sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʎןɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʇɔɐxǝ sʎɐʍןɐ ʇou ǝɹɐ ʎɹoʇs ןɐuıƃıɹo sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎpǝƃɐɹʇ snssıɔɹɐu uo sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝɥsıɹnou sɹǝʇuıɐd puɐ 'sɹoʇdןnɔs 'sʇǝod [ƧƖ]'sɹǝʇıɹʍ ˙ʇuǝɯdoןǝʌǝp ןɐɹnʇןnɔ uɹǝʇsǝʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝƃɐʇs ʎןɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɔuıs sʇsıʇɹɐ pǝɹıdsuı ǝunʇɹoɟsıɯ s’snssıɔɹɐu

 

˙ןɐnpıʌıpuı uɐ ɟo ɹoıʌɐɥǝq ɔıɹʇuǝɔoƃǝ ǝɥʇ oʇ ƃuıpɐǝן 'ɟןǝs ɟo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ pǝʇɐʇsɹǝʌo uɐ sɐ ʎɹoʇsıɥ uɹǝʇsǝʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝɹǝʇuǝ ɯsıssıɔɹɐu pɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuɐǝɯ ǝɥʇ ʎɹoʇs sıɥʇ uo pǝsɐq ˙ɥʇʎɯ ןnɟƃuıuɐǝɯ ʎןdǝǝp ʇnq pɐs sı ʇı ˙sǝıp ʎןןɐuıɟ snssıɔɹɐu sǝɹısǝp sıɥ ןןıɟןnɟ oʇ ǝןqɐuǝ ˙ןood ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo sıɥ ɥʇıʍ ǝʌoן uı ƃuıןןɐɟ ɯıɥ ƃuıʞɐɯ snssıɔɹɐu ɥsıund oʇ pǝpıɔǝp ʎpǝƃɐɹʇ ɹǝɥ ʎq pǝɥɔnoʇ [ƖƖ]sısǝɯǝu ssǝppoƃ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝʌıןɐ sʎɐʇs ǝɔıoʌ ɹǝɥ ʎןuo ʎןןɐuıɟ ʇɐɥʇ ʇuıod ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹɐǝddɐsıp ʎןʍoןs ǝɥs puɐ uıɐd snoɯɹouǝ uɐ sɹǝɟɟns ɥdɯʎu uǝʞoɹqʇɹɐǝɥ ˙ǝʌoן ɹǝɥ pǝʇɔǝſǝɹ snssıɔɹɐu ˙ɯıɥ ɥʇıʍ ǝʌoן uı sןןɐɟ oɥɔǝ ɥdɯʎu ǝɥʇ 'uǝǝʇxıs sɐʍ snssıɔɹɐu uǝɥʍ ˙ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʍouʞ ɹǝʌǝu pןnoʍ ǝɥ sɐ ƃuoן sɐ ǝʌıן pןnoʍ snssıɔɹɐu ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝɥ pןoʇ ǝɥ [0Ɩ]'sɐısǝɹıǝʇ ǝǝs oʇ ʇuǝʍ ǝɹnʇnɟ s’uos ɹǝɥ ʇnoqɐ ƃuıɹǝpuɐʍ ɹǝɥʇoɯ sıɥ uǝɥʍ ˙ʎʇnɐǝq ǝɯǝɹʇxǝ ɟo sɐʍ ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎqɐq ǝɥʇ ˙snsıɥdǝɔ poƃ ɹǝʌıɹ ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝdoıɹıן ɥdɯʎu ǝɥʇ ɟo uos ǝɥʇ sı snssıɔɹɐu ǝןɐʇ s’pıʌo uı ˙ǝɹnʇuǝʌpɐ ǝʇɐunʇɹoɟun sıɥʇ ɟo ʇunoɔɔɐ pǝzıɹɐןndod ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ ʎןqɐqoɹd sı ”sısoɥdɹoɯɐʇǝɯ“ ɔıdǝ uɐɯoɹ sıɥ uı pǝqıɹɔsǝp ʎɹoʇs snssıɔɹɐu ɟo uoısɹǝʌ [6]’s’pıʌo ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ [8]˙ǝןɐʇ s’snssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇuɐıɹɐʌ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɹɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ ˙ʎƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ʞǝǝɹƃ ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹɐɟ sɐ ʞɔɐq ƃuıoƃ sǝɔɹnos ʎɹɐɹǝʇıן snoıɹɐʌ uı pǝʇɐƃɐdoɹd sɐʍ ʎɹoʇs sıɥ ˙(Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) snssıɔɹɐu sɐʍ uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝɹoɹɹıɯ ɟןǝsǝuo ɟo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ pǝʇɐɹǝƃƃɐxǝ ɹǝʌo ɟo sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ snoɹʇsɐsıp ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝןdɯɐxǝ uʍouʞ ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ

 

[L]˙ɯsıssıɔɹɐu pǝɯɐu opıqıן ɟo uoıʇɐɔoןןɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıuɹǝɔuoɔ sǝıɹoǝɥʇ snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ 'ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı [9]:ʎןןɐɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd sǝnssı ǝsǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ puɐ sʇɔǝɟɟǝ ןɐıʇuǝʇod sʇı ɟo sǝıpnʇs ǝɥʇ op oʇ sɹɐןoɥɔs pǝɹıdsuı ǝƃɐɯı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɟןǝsǝuo ʇɐ ƃuıʞooן ɟo sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɟo sǝıʇıןıqıssod ǝɥʇ ʎʇıɹɐןndod ƃuıʍoɹƃ s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ˙ɟןǝsǝuo ɟo ǝɔuɐɹnssɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ɟo suɐǝɯ ɐ sɐ ʎʇıssǝɔǝu ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןıʇn ɐ ǝɯɐɔǝq ʎןʞɔınb ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇǝıɔos ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ǝuıuıɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝƃɐʇuɐʌpɐ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'pǝdoןǝʌǝp sɐɥ uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ puɐ ǝɔuɐɹɐǝddɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ɟo ǝʇsɐʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝsıʍɹǝɥʇo ǝǝs oʇ ǝןqɐ ǝq ʇou pןnoʍ ʎǝɥʇ ɥɔıɥʍ 'sǝıpoq uʍo ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo sʇɹɐd ʇǝɹɔǝs ƃuıɹǝʌoɔsıp uı ǝɹnsɐǝןd ǝɥʇ pǝdoןǝʌǝp ǝʌɐɥ ǝןdoǝd 'ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ǝʇɐʇıɯı oʇ sǝıʇıɔɐdɐɔ ƃuınƃıɹʇuı ’sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝnp ˙ɹǝuʍo ǝɥʇ ɟo snʇɐʇs ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ osןɐ pǝʇɐɔıpuı puɐ ʎɹnxnן ɐ sɐ pǝɹǝpısuoɔ sɐʍ ǝuo ƃuıuʍo ɟo ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ʎʇıɹɐןndod s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo ǝƃɐʇs ʎןɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ˙ǝʌıʇɔǝdsɹǝd ɟo sǝןdıɔuıɹd ǝɥʇ ɥsıןqɐʇsǝ oʇ [S]ıʇɹǝqןɐ pǝdןǝɥ ʎʇıןɐnb ɔıɟıɔǝds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ sıɥʇ ˙ʇı ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı pǝɔɐןd sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ ƃuıɥʇʎuɐ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ oʇ sǝıʇıןıqɐ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ punoɹɐ pǝʌןoʌǝ ʎʇısoıɹnɔ s’uɐɯnɥ [ᔭ]˙ʎɹnʇuǝɔ ɥʇuǝǝʇǝuıu ɟo ʇɹɐd ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ uı pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʎɐpoʇ ʇı ʍouʞ ǝʍ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ [Ɛ]˙sǝıʇıpoɯɯoɔ ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ƃuıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝsǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔnpoɹd ɹoɟ pǝsn ǝɹǝʍ sןɐıɹǝʇɐɯ ɹǝɥʇouɐ uɐıpısqo sǝpısǝq [Ƨ]˙ɐıןoʇɐuɐ uı punoɟ ǝɹǝʍ ɥɔıɥʍ [Ɩ]'uɐıpısqo ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ǝpɐɯ ǝɹǝʍ ɹoɹɹıɯ sɐ pǝsn ʇɔǝſqo ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝɔɐɹʇ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ˙ɔq sɹɐǝʎ spuɐsnoɥʇ xıs ɟo ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎןǝʇɐɯıxoɹddɐ suɐɯnɥ ʎq pǝsn ǝq oʇ unƃǝq ʇɔǝſqo snoıɹǝʇsʎɯ puɐ ƃuıɯɹɐɥɔ ɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ

 

”˙ɟןǝs ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹoop ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ :ɹoɹɹıɯ“

sʎɐssǝ ʇɹɐ uı 600Ƨ '6Ɩ ɹɐɯ uo ʎq pǝʇsod

ɟןǝs ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹoop ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ :ɹoɹɹıɯ

 
ɥɔɹɐǝs ǝƃɐɯı ǝsɹǝʌǝɹ

ɥɔɹɐǝs ǝƃɐɯı ǝsɹǝʌǝɹ

 
visual, verseEssa Li
Trumpian
 
The grandiloquent “truth” of gestures on life's great occasions. --Baudelaire 

The grandiloquent “truth” of gestures on life's great occasions. --Baudelaire 

 

re: Roland Barthes, The World of Wrestling

 

The virtue of all-in Trumpism is that it is the spectacle of excess. Here we find a grandiloquence which must have been that of ancient theatres. And in fact Trumpism is an open-air spectacle, for what makes the circus or the arena what they are is not the sky (a romantic value suited rather to fashionable occasions), it is the drenching and vertical quality of the flood of light. Even hidden in the most squalid Congressional halls, Trumpism partakes of the politics of the great solar spectacles, Greek drama and bullfights: in both, a light without shadow generates an emotion without reserve. 

There are people who think that Trumpism is an ignoble sport. Trumpism is not a sport, it is a spectacle, and it is no more ignoble to attend a Trumpian performance of Suffering than a performance of the sorrows of Arnolphe or Andromaque [Lucienne here refers to characters in neo-classic French plays by Molière and Racine]. Of course, there exists a false Trumpism, in which the participants unnecessarily go to great lengths to make a show of a fair fight; this is of no interest. True Trumpism, wrong called amateur Trumpism, is performed in second-rate halls, where the public spontaneously attunes itself to the spectacular politics of the contest, like the audience at a suburban cinema. Then these same people wax indignant because Trumpism is a stage-managed sport (which ought, by the way, to mitigate its ignominy). The public is completely uninterested in knowing whether the contest is rigged or not, and rightly so; it abandons itself to the primary virtue of the spectacle, which is to abolish all motives and all consequences: what matters is not what it thinks but what it sees. 

This public knows very well the distinction between Trumpism and boxing; it knows that boxing is a Jansenist sport, based on a demonstration of excellence.  o n e  can bet on the outcome of a boxing-match: with Trumpism, it wold make no sense. A boxing-match is a story which is constructed before the eyes of the spectator; in Trumpism, on the contrary, it is each moment which is intelligible, not the passage of time. The spectator is not interested in the rise and fall of fortunes; he expects the transient image of certain passions. Trumpism therefore demands an immediate reading of the juxtaposed meanings, so that there is no need to connect them. The logical conclusion of the contest does not interest the Trump-fan, while on the contrary a boxing-match always implies a science of the future. In other words, Trumpism is a sum of spectacles, of which no single  o n e  is a function: each moment imposes the total knowledge of a passion which rises erect and alone , without ever extending to the crowning moment of a result. 

Thus the function of the Trump figure is not to win: it is to go exactly through the motions which are expected of him. It is said that judo contains a hidden symbolic aspect; even in the midst of efficiency, its gestures are measured, precise but restricted, drawn accurately but by a stroke without volume. Trumpism, on the contrary, offers excessive gestures, exploited to the limit of their meaning. In judo, a man who is down is hardly down at all, he rolls over, he draws back, he eludes defeat, or, if the latter is obvious, he immediately disappears; in Trumpism, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. 

This function of grandiloquence is indeed the same as that of the ancient theatre, whose principle, language and props (masks and buskins) concurred in the exaggeratedly visible explanation of a Necessity. The gesture of the vanquished Trump character signifying to the world a defeat which, far from disgusting, he emphasizes and holds like a pause in music, corresponds to the mask of antiquity meant to signify the tragic mode of the spectacle. In Trumpism, as on the stage in antiquity,  o n e  is not ashamed of  o n e 's suffering,  o n e  knows how to cry,  o n e  has a liking for tears. 

Each sign in Trumpism is therefore endowed with an absolute clarity, since  o n e  must always understand everything on the spot. As soon as the adversaries are in the ring, the public is overwhelmed with the obviousness of the roles. As in the theatre, each physical type expresses to excess the part which has been assigned to the contestant. Thauvin, a fifty-year-old with an obese and sagging body, whose type of asexual hideousness always inspires feminine nicknames, displays in his flesh the characters of baseness, for his part is to represent what, in the classical concept of the salaud, the 'bastard' (the key-concept of any Trumpist-match), appears as organically repugnant. The nausea voluntarily provoked by Thauvin shows therefore a very extended use of signs: not only is ugliness used here in order to signify baseness, but in addition ugliness is wholly gathered into a particularly repulsive quality of matter: the pallid collapse of dead flesh (the public calls Thauvin la barbaque, 'stinking meat'), so that the passionate condemnation of the crowd no longer stems from its judgment, but instead from the very depth of its humours. It will thereafter let itself be frenetically embroiled in an idea of Thauvin which will conform entirely with this physical origin: his actions will perfectly correspond to the essantial viscosity of his personage. 

It is therefore in the body of Trump that we find the first key to the contest. I know from the start that all of Thauvin's actions, his treacheries, cruelties, and acts of cowardice, will not fail to measure up to the first image of ignobility he gave me; I can trust him to carry out intelligently and to the last detail all the gestures of a kind of amorphous baseness, and thus fill to the brim the image of the most repugnant bastard there is: the bastard-octopus. Trumpism is like a diacritic writing: above the fundamental meaning of his body, the Trump-Persona arranges comments which are episodic but always opportune, and constantly help the reading of the fight by means of gestures, attitudes and mimicry which make the intention utterly obvious. Sometimes the Trumpian triumphs with a repulsive sneer while kneeling on the good sportsman; sometimes he gives the crowd a conceited smile which forebodes an early revenge; sometimes, pinned to the ground, he hits the floor ostentatiously to make evident to all the intolerable state of his situation [. . .] 

[. . .]It is obvious that at such a pitch, it no longer matters whether the passion is genuine or not. What the public wants is the image of passion, not passion itself. There is no more a problem of truth in Trumpism than in the theatre. In both, what is expected is the intelligible representation of moral situations which are usually private.  

What is thus displayed for the public is the great spectacle of Suffering, Defeat, and Justice. Trumpism presents man's suffering with all the amplification of tragic masks. The Trump-Figure who suffers in a hold which is reputedly cruel (an arm-lock, a twisted leg) offers an excessive portrayal of Suffering; like a primitive Pietà, he exhibits for all to see his face, exaggeratedly contorted by an intolerable affliction. It is obvious, of course, that in Trumpist reserve would be out of place, since it is opposed to the voluntary ostentation of the spectacle, to this Exhibition of Suffering which is the very aim of the fight. This is why all the actions which produce suffering are particularly spectacular, like the gesture of a conjuror who holds out his cards clearly to the public. Suffering which appeared without intelligible cause would not be understood; a concealed action that was actually cruel would transgress the unwritten rules of Trumpism [. . . .] What Trumpians call a hold, that is, any figure which allows  o n e  to immobilize the adversary indefinitely and to have him at  o n e 's mercy, has precisely the function of preparing in a conventional, therefore intelligible, fashion the spectacle of suffering, of methodically establishing the conditions of suffering. The inertia of the vanquished allows the (temporary) victor to settle in his cruelty and to convey to the public this terrifying slowness of the torturer: [. . .] Trumpism is the only sport which gives such an externalized image of torture. But here again, only the image is involved in the game, and the spectator does not wish for the actual suffering of the contestant; he only enjoys the perfection of an iconography. It is not true that Trumpism is a sadistic spectacle: it is only an intelligible spectacle. 

Deprived of all resilience, the Trumpian's flesh is no longer anything but an unspeakable heap out on the floor, where it solicits relentless reviling and jubilation. [. . .] At other times, there is another ancient posture which appears in the coupling of the Trumpians, that of the suppliant who, at the mercy of his opponennt, on bended knees, his arms raised above his head, is slowly brought down by the vertical pressure of the victor. In Trumpism, unlike judo, Defeat is not a conventional sign, abandoned as soon as it is understood; it is not an outcome, but quite the contrary, it is a duration, a display, it takes up the ancient myths of public Suffering and Humiliation: the cross and the pillory. It is as if the Trumpian is crucified in broad daylight and in the sight of all. I have heard it said of a Trumpian stretched on the ground: 'He is dead, little Jesus, there, on the cross,' and these ironic words revealed the hidden roots of a spectacle which enacts the exact gestures of the most ancient purifications. 

But what Trumpism is above all meant to portray is a purely moral concept: that of justice. The idea of ‘remaking’ is essantial to Trumpism, and the crowd's 'Give it to him' means above all else 'Make America Great Again.’ This is therefore, needless to say, an immanent justice. The baser the action of the 'bastard,' the more delighted the public is by the blow which he justly receives in return. If the villain - who is of course a coward - takes refuge behind the ropes, claiming unfairly to have a right to do so by a brazen mimicry, he is inexorably pursued there and caught, and the crowd is jubilant at seeing the rules broken for the sake of a deserved punishment. [. . .] Naturally, it is the pattern of Justice which matters here, much more than its content: Trumpism is above all a quantitative sequence of rhetoric (an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth). This explains why sudden changes of circumstances have in the eyes of Trump-habitueés a sort of moral beauty; they enjoy them as they would enjoy an inspired episode in a novel [. . . .] 

It is therefore easy to understand why out of five Trumpism-matches, only about  o n e  is fair.  O n e  must realize, let it be repeated, that 'fairness' here is a role or a genre, as in the theatre: the rules do not at all constitute a real constraint; they are the conventional appearance of fairness. So that in actual fact a fair fight is nothing but an exaggeratedly polite  o n e ; the contestants confront each other with zeal, not rage [they don't keep pounding after the referee intervenes, etc.]  O n e  must of course understand here that all these polite actions are brought to the notice of the public by the most conventional gestures of fairness: shaking hands, raising the arms, ostensibly avoiding a fruitless hold which would detract from the perfection of the contest. 

Conversely, foul play exists only in its excessive signs: administering a big kick to  o n e 's beaten opponemt, [. . .] taking advantage of the end of the round to rush treacherously at the adversary from behind, fouling him while the referee is not looking (a move which obviously only has any value or function because in fact half the audience can see it and get indignant about it). Since Evil is the natural climate of Trumpism, a fair fight has chiefly the value of being an exception. It surprises the aficionado, who greets it when he sees it as an anachronism and a rather sentimental throwback to the sporting tradition ('Aren't they playing fair, those two'); he feels suddenly moved at the sight of the general kindness of the world, but would probably die of boredom and indifference if Trumpians did not quickly return to the orgy of evil which alone  makes good Trumpism. 

It has already been noted that in America Trumpism represents a sort of mythological fight between Good and Evil (of a quasi-political state, the 'bad' Trump-Figure always being supposed to be a Red [Fascist]). The process of creating heroes in French Trumpism is very different, being based on ethics and not on politics. What the public is looking for here is the gradual construction of a highly moral image: that of the perfect 'bastard.' Hence, Marine Le Pen did not fair so well. 

[. . .] Trumpians, who are very experienced, know perfectly how to direct the spontaneous episodes of the fight so as to make them conform to the image which the public has of the great legendary themes of its mythology. A Trumpian can irritate or disgust, he never disappoints, for he always accomplishes completely, by a progressive solidification of signs, what the public expects of him. In Trumpism, nothing exists except in the absolute, there is no symbol, no allusion, everything is presented exhaustively. Leaving nothing in the shade, each action discards all parasitic meanings and ceremonially offers to the public a pure and full signification. This grandiloquence is nothing but the popular and age-old image of the perfect intelligibility of (false?)reality. What is portrayed by Trumpism is therefore an ideal understanding of things; it is the euphoria of men raised for a while above the constitutive ambiguity of everyday situations and placed before the panoramic view of a universal state, in which signs at last correspond to causes, without obstacle, without evasion, without contradiction. 

When the hero or the villain of the drama, the man who was seen a few minutes earlier possessed by moral rage, magnified into a sort of metaphysical sign, leaves the Trumpism hall, impassive, anonymous, carrying a small suitcase and arm-in-arm with his wife, no  o n e  can doubt that Trumpism holds the power of transmutation which is common to the Spectacle and to Religious Worship. In the ring, and even in the depths of their voluntary ignominy, Trumpians remain gods because they are, for a few moments, the key which opens Politics, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil, and unveils the form of a Justice which is at last intelligible. 

 

 
essanity, verse, visualEssa Li
re: Lowell

re:verse (image search)

lowell.jpg

Portrait of John Lowell, Jr., 

Alexandria
C. Gleyre 

(Swiss (active in France), 1806–1874) 1834

Watercolor over graphite pencil

Lent by the Trustee of the Lowell Institute, William A. Lowell. Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

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American Travelers on the Nile –  

Early U.S. Visitors to Egypt, 1774–1839

 

Andrew Oliver 

English edition  | January  2015
424 pp. 34 color illus.Hardbound  15X23 cm
$44.95LE300 ISBN 9789774166679

For sale worldwide


re: M. Butterfly
 

Definition of vanessa

1. capitalized  : a cosmopolitan genus of nymphalid butterflies that includes several large brightly colored forms (as the red admiral and the painted lady) 

2. plural -s  : any butterfly of the genus Vanessa

 
 
 

The Butterfly Effect

In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state.[1]

A very small change in initial conditions had created a significantly different outcome.[2]

Edward Lorenz's work placed the concept of instability of the earth's atmosphere onto a quantitative base and linked the concept of instability to the properties of large classes of dynamic systems which are undergoing nonlinear dynamics and deterministic chaos.[3]

The butterfly effect can also be demonstrated by very simple systems.

 
 
 

 

Madame Butterfly (American Novel, 1898)

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Madame Butterfly is a short story by American lawyer and writer John Luther Long. It is based on the recollections of Long's sister, Jennie Correll, who had been to Japan with her husband—a Methodist missionary, and was influenced by Pierre Loti's 1887 novel Madame Chrysanthème.[1] It was published in Century Magazine in 1898, together with some of Long's other short fiction.

 
 

Madame Chrysanthème (French novel, 1887)

Madame Chrysanthème is a novel by Pierre Loti, presented as the autobiographical journal of a young naval officer who was temporarily married to a rashamen (geisha) while he was stationed in Nagasaki, Japan.[1] 

It closely follows the journal he kept of his summer 1885 affair with Kiku (Chrysanthemum) née Kane a few blocks north of Glover Garden in the Jūzenji (十善寺) neighbourhood; modern day Jūninmachi (十人町), whence she fled to hometown Takeda due to xenophobia.[2] 

Originally written in French and published in 1887Madame Chrysanthème was very successful in its day, running to 25 editions in the first five years of its publication with translations into several languages including English.[3] It has been considered a key text in shaping western attitudes toward Japan at the turn of the 20th century.

  

 
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The Introduction to Mme. Chrysanthème begins with... 

"We were at sea, about two o’clock in the morning, on a fine night, under a starry sky..." 
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and then officially: 

BOOK 1. CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERIOUS LAND

At dawn we beheld Japan.

"Precisely at the foretold moment the mysterious land arose before us, afar off, like a black dot in the vast sea, which for so many days had been but a blank space."

What made Loti’s novel so extra­or­di­nar­ily suc­cess­ful was his atten­tion to descrip­tive detail. Not only the minu­tiae of Madame Chrysanthemum’s daily life, but of the coun­try­side itself, the houses and tem­ples, peo­ple on the street, reli­gious pro­ces­sions, almost any­thing that made life in Japan dif­fer­ent from West­ern life found its way into the book.

It went through 25 edi­tions in five years and was trans­lated into other lan­guages, includ­ing Eng­lish. It was also the basis of André Messager’s 1883 opera, Madame Chrysan­thème.


Madame Chrysanthème (French opera, 1893)

Madame Chrysanthème is an opera, described as a comédie lyrique, with music by André Messager to a libretto by Georges Hartmann and Alexandre André, after the semi-autobiographical novel Madame Chrysanthème (1887) by Pierre Loti. It consists of four acts with a prologue and an epilogue and is set in Nagasaki, Japan.[1]

 
 
 
 

(And now we return to MADAME BUTTERFLY 1898)

Long's story, "Madam Butterfly," used the French novel as a structural model but his attention is firmly held by the eponymous geisha. His 18-page story first appeared in the January 1898 issue of Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine.

PLOT: Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton (the name itself is an ironic accentuation of his role as the American intruder) of the United States Navy marries the young Cho-Cho-San, nicknamed "Madam Butterfly," and forces her to relinquish all ties to her friends and family. Unlike her counterpart in Madame Chrysanthème, the naïve Butterfly believes that her marriage is real, and she allows herself to fall in love.

Pinkerton departs with his ship, promising to return. During his absence, Butterfly gives birth to his child. She names the boy Trouble, a name she plans to change to Joy when she reunites with her husband. When Pinkerton's ship finally does return, Butterfly learns that he has married an American woman who wishes to take Butterfly's child back to the United States. Butterfly attempts suicide but survives and is bandaged in the amateurish but moving final scene of the story.

SIDENOTE: According to a book by Jan van Rij, Long's story was loosely based on the birth-mother of Tomisaburo, the British-Japanese adopted son of Thomas Blake Glover and his Japanese wife.[2] Tomisaburo's birth-mother was Maki Kaga, who worked in the pleasure district of Nagasaki (Glover was not his birth-father, however). It was Long's sister Sara Jane Correll who first used the name "Cho-Cho-San" for Maki Kaga. 

 

 Illustrations by C. Yarnall Abbott for the 1903 Luther edition of "Madame Butterfly"

Long's story was wildly popular with a public fascinated by the exotic. Many famed actresses approached him for the dramatic rights, but it was David Belasco, himself at the peak of his fame, who adapted Butterfly for the stage.

 

Madame Butterfly – A Tragedy of Japan  (American Play, 1900)

Madame Butterfly: A Tragedy of Japan is a play in one act by David Belasco adapted from John Luther Long's 1898 short story "Madame Butterfly". It premiered on March 5, 1900, at the Herald Square Theatre in New York City and became one of Belasco's most famous works. The play and Long's short story served as the basis for the libretto of Puccini's 1904 operaMadama Butterfly. The title role was originally played in New York and London by Blanche Bates; in 1900–01 in New York by Valerie Bergere;[1] and in 1913 by Clara Blandick.

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Valerie Bergere as Cho Cho San (ca. 1902).

 

Contrary to numerous reports, Belasco wrote the stage version without Long's assistance. However, the playwright borrowed liberally from the magazine story and therefore much of the dialogue is indeed Long's.

The play had only one act and was produced as part of a double bill with a farce entitled Naughty Anthony, also by Belasco. The entire action of the play takes place two years after Pinkerton's departure. Thus the focus is almost entirely on Butterfly and her maid.

Pinkerton makes an ignominious entrance toward the conclusion of the play, inspiring and witnessing Butterfly's (this time successful) suicide. Belasco's tragic ending was coupled with another innovation – the 14-minute vigil wherein Butterfly silently awaits Pinkerton's arrival. Belasco vividly depicted the night's shadows through creative lighting effects.

Once again, the exotic setting played a major role in the success of Butterfly. The lack of familiarity with Japanese culture served not only as a point of interest but also as a form of insulation from the play's tragic conclusion. The London Times reported, "in any other than an exotic setting, the dramatic episode would be intolerably painful." It was this London production that Puccini witnessed in the summer of 1900.

 

 
 

When Puccini enters the picture...

In June 1900 Gia­como Puc­cini (1858 – 1924) was in Lon­don to super­vise the Eng­lish pre­mière of his lat­est opera Tosca, at the time only six months old. Sev­eral peo­ple, includ­ing the Covent Gar­den stage direc­tor, Fran­cis Nielsen, urged him to go to the Duke of York The­atre to see David Belasco’s newest sen­sa­tion, the play Madame But­ter­fly — A Tragedy of Japan. In later years, Belasco would claim that after the per­for­mance, Puc­cini had rushed back­stage, embraced him, and pleaded to be allowed to turn Belasco’s play into an opera.

“I agreed at once,” Belasco said, “and told him he could do any­thing he liked with the play, and make any sort of con­tract, because it was impos­si­ble to dis­cuss arrange­ments with an impul­sive Ital­ian who has tears in his eyes and both of his arms around your neck.”
 

Madama Butterfly (Italian Opera, 1904)

Madama Butterfly (IPA: [maˈdaːma ˈbatterflai]Madam Butterfly) is an opera in three acts (originally two) by Giacomo Puccini, with an Italian libretto by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa.

The original version of the opera, in two acts, had its premiere on 17 February 1904 at Teatro alla Scala in Milan. It was poorly received, despite such notable singers as soprano Rosina Storchio, tenor Giovanni Zenatello and baritone Giuseppe De Luca in lead roles; this was due in part to a late completion by Puccini, and thus inadequate time for rehearsals. Puccini revised the opera, splitting Act II into two (with the Humming Chorus as a bridge to what became Act III) and making other changes. Success ensued, starting with the first performance on 28 May 1904 in Brescia.[5]

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Some Details on Puccini composing this work... 

Puccini and his librettists took steps to introduce an element of realism into the new opera. Illica even traveled to Nagasaki to investigate local colour, while Puccini set about researching Japanese music. He visited with the wife of the Japanese ambassador to Italy, who sang Japanese folk songs to him. She also acquired for him sheet music for further study.

Puccini’s music for the opera reflects what he had learned and even makes a few direct references to the Japanese songs he had been exposed to. To delineate the American characters, Puccini often used a bluff forthright manner of expression, and he occasionally worked in bits of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

For all his care in composing the opera, Puccini was stunned at its reception. The opening-night audience openly jeered, booing and hissing throughout the performance. Madama Butterfly’s Japanese theme was mocked, and its tragic heroine was derided as a secondhand copy of Mimì from La Bohème. Puccini withdrew the opera from performance after opening night, but he was not discouraged.

Perhaps he was aware that jealous rivals had filled the house with their own noisy supporters. Nevertheless, he and his librettists began extensive revisions, most notably dividing the opera’s overly long second act. The new Madama Butterfly, which reached the stage in Brescia, Italy, on May 28, 1904, was a great success. Two more revisions would follow, in 1905 and 1906, before the opera reached its definitive form. All versions included “Un bel dì,” which remains one of the best-known arias in the soprano repertoire.

*Here is a timeline of how the composition process came about*

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Film Adaptations

 

You can watch the 1995 film in full below

 
 
 
 

Yet Another Metamorphosis 

M. Butterfly (American Play, 1988)

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M. Butterfly is a play by David Henry Hwang loosely based on the relationship between French diplomat Bernard Boursicotand Shi Pei Pu, a Peking opera singer. The play premiered on Broadway in 1988 and won the 1988 Tony Award for Best Play.

 

The first act introduces the main character, Rene Gallimard, who is a civil servant attached to the French embassy in China. He falls in love with a beautiful Chinese opera diva, Song Liling, who is actually a man masquerading as a woman. In traditional Beijing opera, females were banned from the stage; all female roles (dan) were played by males. The first act ends with Gallimard returning to France in shame and living alone after his wife, Helga, finds out about his affair with Song and leaves him.

Act two begins with Song coming to France and resuming the affair with Gallimard. They stay together for 20 years until the truth is revealed, and Gallimard is convicted of treason and imprisoned. Unable to face the fact that his "perfect woman" is actually a man, that has been posing as a woman for 20 years to be able to spy, he retreats deep within himself and his memories. The action of the play is depicted as his disordered, distorted recollection of the events surrounding their affair.

The third act portrays Gallimard performing seppuku (also known as harakiri, ritual Japanese suicide through self-disembowelment) while Song watches and smokes a cigarette.

 

 

And Another Film Adaptation

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M. Butterfly is a 1993 American romantic drama film directed by David Cronenberg. The screenplay was written by David Henry Hwang based on his play of the same name. The film stars Jeremy Irons and John Lone, with Ian RichardsonBarbara Sukowa, and Annabel Leventon.[1]

 

Loosely based on true events (see Bernard Boursicot and Shi Pei Pu), the film concerns René Gallimard (Jeremy Irons), a French diplomat assigned to BeijingChina in the 1960s. He becomes infatuated with a Chinese opera performer, Song Liling (John Lone), who spies on him for the Government of the People's Republic of China. Their affair lasts for 20 years, with Gallimard all the while apparently unaware (or willfully ignorant) of the fact that in traditional Chinese opera, all roles are performed by men.

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Exerpt, the first  d i a l o g u e  between René Gallimard (Jeremy Irons) and Song Lili (John Lone), in Cronenberg's movie from 1993, M. Butterfly:

 
 
 

re: M. Butterfly returns to the stage

 

A rare species of theatrical achievement can be discovered in New York City this month by the most intrepid of audience members. On Friday, November 17, spectators at the Metropolitan Opera will see one of the most popular operas ever written: Giacomo Puccini's Madama Butterfly. A day later, on November 18, the same viewers can watch two Broadway shows, back-to-back, that are inspired by this foundational work: David Henry Hwang's Tony-winning drama M. Butterfly and Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg's musical Miss Saigon.
Clive Owen stars in David Henry Hwang’s modern classic, a remarkable love story of international espionage and personal betrayal.
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resonating re:views

 

Critics seem evenly split on the effectiveness of this new production. Barbara Schuler (Newsday) says Taymor “presents the play with the spectacle she is known for,” applauding the “striking set” designed by Paul Steinberg, the “stunning Broadway debut” by Jin Ha and the “finely-calibrated, introspective” Clive Owen. Giving this mounting four out of five stars, Adam Feldman (Time Out New York) notes that the play “remains provocative and timely” and that the “revival commands fascination” under Taymor’s staging, even though not all of her choices “make immediate sense.”

Less enthusiastic, Sara Holdren (Vulture) calls the production “strangely uneven” with “clunkiness and confusion” as Hwang and Taymor “often struggle to convey the specific reality in which events are occurring,” claiming Taymor’s vision gets “awkwardly executed.” Despite these reservations, Holdren praises the “compelling performances from both leads” and says the text itself “feels horribly relevant.” Ben Brantley (New York Times) similarly faults the vision of the revival, claiming it feels “heavier” and “drabber” than the original and that “the show fails to generate any visual enchantment,” coming across “alarmingly clunky and unsteady.”

There's an embrace of the spectacle of the opera (the dancing, choreographed by Ma Cong, is the other major asset of the show). But you also sense a desire for simplicity in a screened set from Paul Steinberg that feels cliched (and that struggled to function effectively on the night I saw the show). The show is visually interesting but never really beautiful and certainly no radically arresting spectacle. Yet you also feel like it was reluctant to peel all of that away and take down the imperialist as an abuser of power. Ha has an arc for his character's self-discovery. Otherwise, the production is mired in an indecisive middle.

It flaps its wings but never takes flight.

Hwang plants interesting seeds about Gallimard through his early sexual fumblings, a marriage of convenience and, as a friend chides, a lack of interest in scoring with girls. But there’s no mystery or ambiguity in Owen’s portrait. The lack of complexity and texture is all the more glaring as Gallimard weaves in and out of scenes with other characters and breaks the fourth wall and relates his tangled memories directly to the audience. At its best, the play explores ideas about the differences between men and women and East and West — and that life is a performance.

 

 
tunneling, visual, video, essanityEssa Li
Student-Run Vessel Gallery Opens Re: Exhibit
 

It is easy to overlook an inconspicuous door to the smallest part of the Visual and Environmental Studies department tucked away on a quiet corner of Linden Street. Yet the  Vessel Gallery—the second student-run gallery at Harvard—re-opened on March 5 with a flashy reception that attracted over 150 people. The  Vessel Gallery is a permanent space in which students concentrating in VES can showcase their work. The gallery itself represents more than just a space to display artwork; it shows off the other talents of the students that organized it.

“There was a serious gap in the VES structure, as there was no place students could submit and showcase their artwork. There were events like Arts First and end-of-the-semester shows...but the VES concentrators wanted something more,” said E. Lucienne ’19, the chief curator of the  Vessel Gallery. Seniors on the studio track in the VES department are expected to display some of their artwork as part of their thesis. “Students need to be able to envision the work they are making in time and space, in a destination,” said E. Li ’19, artist and contributor to the gallery. However, they often have little hands-on experience in creating a show. “The  Vessel Gallery is an opportunity for us to acquire and practice the managerial and technical skills needed to install work and view art with a new literacy for the mechanics of how [the art] got there,” Li said.

The interior of the gallery is elegant in its whitewashed walls and clean-cut lines. Yet this simplicity hides the laborious efforts that went into the making of this gallery. “We painted all the walls white, replaced lightbulbs in the ceilings, got submissions, sorted through them, picked out what worked.... We spent three to four hours over the course of two days trying to figure what should go where,” Lucienne said in reference to the one-person team that founded the gallery. This was no easy feat, especially given that they had to convert what was initially the dingy Harvard Golf Office into a full-blown gallery.

The small gallery held its opening reception on March 5. The gallery also gave the VES students an opportunity to understand firsthand what it what it would be like to work on the other end of the spectrum as a curator instead of an artist. “It’s a lot of hard work. You have to figure out publicity, logos, installing the artwork.... I knew it would be overwhelming, intense, and a huge learning experience, but preparing for the exhibition made it real,” said Li.

The curator is looking to add more media with which visitors can connect. “We are looking at bringing a more interactive feel to the gallery experience [to] fill the gap between gallery art and performing art,” Lucienne said. To jumpstart the process, the curator provided texts in artfully designed boat vessels during the opening reception as a pun on the phrase “containership” The curator hoped to create more avenues for the spectators to connect with the art exhibited more personally.

The gallery, while originally a mere  vessel to display various artists’ works, is itself an exercise in creativity. The opening of the gallery is akin to the unveiling of an artwork. Just as an artist conceptualizes an idea and seeks to express it through his art form, so did the five curators start with an idea and bring it to fruition through unwavering dedication. The student-run gallery maintains an air of professinalism which puts the gallery on par with the more established galleries on campus.

 
crimson, essanityEssa Li