Author: jhiblog

You Should Learn Descriptive Bibliography

By editor Erin Schreiner

This summer, I spent a week at Rare Book School at the University of Virginia doing something new and I loved it. I was a newcomer to a group of Lab Instructors guiding students through a weeklong intensive course, the Introduction to the Principles of Descriptive Bibliography, otherwise known as Des Bib boot camp.  Through the course of the week, students spend a solid six-to-eight hours each day in lectures, curated museums of printing, typography, and paper, and in something of a trial by fire: homework and “lab” sessions. In the last two students go to battle with books, writing collational formulas and statements of signing and pagination that describe, in a language codified by Fredson Bowers, the book’s structure. In the lab periods, students sit down with an instructor to see if the descriptions they wrote actually represent the book at hand.

It’s this last bit that’s the trickiest part of learning to write coherent, accurate, and concise bibliographical descriptions, because in order to describe a book you’ve got to understand why it looks the way it does now, how and when it got to be that way, and the questions to ask and the sources to consult to figure all that stuff out. Determining book format – folio? quarto? octavo? duodecimo? 32mo or 24mo? – requires not just an understanding of what those words mean, but also a substantial knowledge of historical printing, papermaking, and binding techniques. In other words, competent bibliographical description depends upon competent bibliographical analysis, and students learn to do both in this course at Rare Book School. It’s a lot to teach, but students catch on fast and many have a lot of fun with it.

Most students in this course fall into three categories: rare book curators, library catalogers, and booksellers. Academics, typically historians of English literature, have also been a fixture in the course and in years past their numbers have grown, particularly thanks to Rare Book School’s Mellon Fellowship Program. Curators and booksellers must know how to read and write descriptions because their reputations, their livelihood, and the collections they help to build depend on it. The value of a book depends upon whether or not it is complete, and the place it holds within that text’s publication history. The edition, issue, or state of a specific copy of a text impacts its monetary and scholarly value, and parties on both ends of the transaction must carefully examine the book at hand in order to know precisely what is on offer. Catalogers, too, must learn to read and write descriptions so that they can accurately represent the book in their institution’s collection to the reading public consulting its catalog.

51ru7s8cail-_sx334_bo1204203200_For curators, catalogers, and booksellers, the need to read and write detailed, Bowers-style bibliographical descriptions brings them to Charlottesville for the week. And this, in part, explains why fewer academics (even academics who work in bibliographically oriented areas of study like the history of books and reading) typically take the course: reading and writing Bowers-style formulas is not an essential skill for their scholarship. But after a week of living and breathing the Rare Book School curriculum – which relies heavily on Bowers’ Principles of Bibliographical Description and Philip Gaskell’s A New Introduction to Bibliography – I want to urge academics to consider how learning the basics of descriptive bibliography can benefit your work as scholars and teachers.

At Rare Book School, students learn to write collations for what’s known as the ideal copy of the text, which Bowers defines as “a book which is complete in all its leaves as it ultimately left the printer’s shop in perfect condition and in the complete state that he considered to represent the final and most perfect state of it.” (Principles, 13) Perhaps the stickiest wicket in all of bibliography, ideal copy addresses what G. Thomas Tanselle describes as “a central truth that affects everything a bibliographer does… the fact that books are not meant to be unique items and are normally printed in runs of what purport [my emphasis] to be duplicates.”

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Studying a forme of type on the bed of a Vandercook Press at Rare Book School.

But bookmakers and book buyers have many marvellous ways of interfering with the consistent reproduction and distribution of a text. In the print shop proofreaders stop the press to correct errors they’ve discovered during production, pieces of type break or fall out of place, and pressworkers lose focus and sheets are mislaid on the press. In the bindery, gatherings might be bound out of order, sheets from one book can be bound into another, or all together left out by accident. Readers, of course, do all kinds of things to their books – they tear leaves out and add leaves in, bind one book with a text to which it is completely unrelated as far as publication is concerned, and leave inked notes about the text or anything else in the margins and on blank pages. Analytical bibliography is the practice of discovering and diagnosing these kinds of issues; descriptive bibliography is the practice of synthesizing analytical observations and recording them accurately from copy to copy and across an edition.

 

When thinking like a descriptive bibliographer, one must consider such changes with respect to their impact on ideal copy, and with every book in hand one asks, “what do other copies look like and how many can I get my hands on?” This develops an essential scholarly habit of mind, specifically one in which the concept of ideal copy as it relates to a specific edition drives the very close examination and analysis of that text in multiple copies. By comparing a book in multiple copies and making sense of what one finds, the scholar bibliographer establishes a well researched and materially based context for their research. Understood in these terms, intellectual historians and historians of books and reading in particular can turn to analytical and descriptive bibliography to uncover the material context that defines a historical reader’s experience of a text on the micro- and macro- levels. This is particularly true when one’s use of descriptive bibliography incorporates the theoretical and practical approaches of scholars like Don McKenzie. His “Printers of the Mind” and Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts cleared a new path for the discipline by articulating some of the pitfalls of the method when used exclusively, without the kinds of archival and secondary sources that book historians rely upon to establish historical context for their reading of a text. A printer’s relationship with an author or bookseller, for example, might impact the printed text, and that relationship might be revealed in the author’s letters or booksellers ledgers. A careful analysis of bibliographical clues will aim to uncover such details, and an accurate bibliographical description will record those facts alongside a description of the printed traces of those contextual details with precision.

Close readers will have noticed that I’ve often used the word accurate in reference to description. An accurate description might seem like obvious necessity for the scholar bibliographer, but it is not often easily achieved. As a teacher of descriptive bibliography, I aim to provide students with the tools they need to make well reasoned decisions about what they know they can say about a book at hand, and how to communicate conjecture. At the copy specific level, this type of description is a useful tool for scholars as they study a text in multiple copies because it is helpful to have a tool handy for consistent notetaking about the books you see in far-flung libraries. But more broadly, it’s also a useful tool for teaching students how to build a strong argument (or recognize a weak one) using material and textual evidence, which in part depends upon one’s ability to recognize what one does not or cannot know.

When I talk to my students about writing collational formulas, I tell them that they are writing a condensed argument about the way this book is, and they can explain how that happened in longer form areas of their descriptions. In our lab sessions, we bounce from book to collation and back to book to see how the two match-up, studying the evidence and understanding what it can lead us to conclude – or not – about that object. And while we look to Bowers for guidance on how to write all this stuff out clearly and concisely, learning descriptive bibliography is not an exercise in slavish adherence to the rules of a system of notation devised by a scholar of Elizabethan drama, nor is it an applicable only to books of the handpress period. Learning descriptive bibliography is about learning to look at as many instantiations of a text as possible, and knowing how to identify, synthesize, and interpret the material evidence presented in each copy.

Those of you who have followed my writing for JHI Blog will know that I’m not particularly interested in handpress era books. I started collecting Whole Earth Catalogs some years ago because I found The Last Updated Whole Earth Catalog in a bookshop and read the “How to Make a Whole Earth Catalog” section as a guide to the bibliographical analysis of 20th century counter-culture books. I applied what I learned there to all kinds of twentieth-century printed matter I encounter in my personal and professional life. Without a background in descriptive bibliography, I wouldn’t have read it that way, or started seeing so much in a set of books that I was naturally curious about. Studying bibliography taught me to see more and more clearly, and I’m not the only one. There might be a whole new set of questions under your nose, just waiting for your to learn how to see them. As we tell our students in Des Bib, start reading Gaskell and see what you’ve been missing.

What We’re Reading: Week of 18th September

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

Eric

Emile Chabal, “Les anglo-saxons” (Aeon).

Colin Dayan, “That Old Feeling” (Avidly)

Jared Sexton, interview by Daniel Colucciello Barber, “On Black Negativity” (Society + Space)

David Sessions, “The Radical Hopes of the Russian Revolution” (New Republic)

 

Basma

Vijay Prashad, “Third World Quarterly row: Why some western intellectuals are trying to debrutalise colonialism” (Scroll.in)

 

Derek

Brigit Katz, “Lost Languages Discovered in One of the World’s Oldest Continuously Run Libraries” (Smithsonian)

Nathan J. Robinson, “A Quick Reminder of Why Colonialism Was Bad” (Current Affairs)

Emma Green, “When Mormons Aspired to be a ‘White and Delightsome’ People” (The Atlantic)

 

Erin

A couple of podcasts: “‘Free Speech Week’ Puts Berkeley Back in the Cross-Hairs” (On the Media)

Cynthia

Because Game of Thrones is over, for the time being, and you need to get your medieval fix some other way, or because you read all about plant-based healthcare in the last issue of Goop and you’re keen to try your own remedies, or because you just need to know how to use badgers (yes, badgers) to make medicine:

Alison Hudson, “An Illustrated Old English Herbal” (British Library Medieval Manuscripts Blog)

Claire Voon, “Peruse 1,000-Year-Old Medical Remedies” (Hyperallergic)

And then follow this link to see the herbal itself: Cotton MS Vitellius C III

Now that you’ve looked at the oldest (and only) surviving illustrated Old English herbal (according to Alison Hudson, a curator at the BL), maybe you’d like to look at a bestselling cookbook from the nineteenth century. Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery was first published in 1845 and remained in print through 1914. It is, in many ways, a descendent of the BL’s Old English herbal.

Barry Estabrook, “The Other Side of the Valley” (Gastronomica)

Erica Goode, “In Mexico, Weavers Embrace Natural Alternatives to Toxic Dyes” (NY Times)

 

Sarah

Duncan Bell, “On Uses of Intellectual History: Past and Present in the critique of liberalism,” (The Disorder of Things)

Pankaj Mishra, “What Is Great About Ourselves,” (LRB)

James Padilioni, “Bringing Archives of Life and Death into the Classroom,” (Black Perspectives)

And on the Third World Quarterly debate:

Vijay Prashad, “Third World Quarterly row: Why some western intellectuals are trying to debrutalise colonialism,” (Scroll.in)

Nathan J. Robinson, “A Quick Reminder Of Why Colonialism Was Bad,” (Current Affairs)

 

Spencer

​Daniel Witkin, “Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carlos Fuentes and their Mexican-Jewish Western” (Forward)​

Dimitra Fimi, “Fantasy Worlds,” (TLS)

​Will Collins, “The Secret History of Dune” (LARB)​

​Liu Xiabo, “Lou Xiaobo’s Last Text” (NYRB)​

Tom Holland, “Paleoart” (New Statesman)​

What was life like as a female singer 3400 years ago?

By guest contributor Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann

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A singer and a musician on the royal standard of Ur.

In the mid-14th century BCE, a group of young female singers contracted an unknown disease. A corpus of letters from Nippur, a religious and administrative center in the Middle Babylonian kingdom (modern-day Iraq), tells us about the medical condition of these young females, who learned to become singers sharing the same quarters (cf. BE 17, 31, 32, 33, 47, N 969, and PBS 1/2, 71, 72, 82).

The letters about these girls’ medical conditions were exchanged between the physician Šumu-libši (and his colleague Bēlu-muballiṭ) and the governor of Nippur, Enlil-kidinnī. Šumu-libši provides the governor with meticulous reports of the girls’ symptoms, as well as his attempts to cure them. The symptoms include an inflammation of the chest, fever, perspiration and coughing. The girls are treated with poultices on the chest. Thus it is likely that Šumu-libši was an asû, a physician, and not an exorcist. An asû would have concentrated on the natural causes of symptoms, applying drugs and using the scalpel when dealing with the physical side of the disease, while an exorcist would have also spoken incantations (Geller, 2001: 27-33, 43-48, 56-61). So far the focus of research has unfortunately only been on the sender and recipient of these letters, but not on the female patients, due to the lack of information and their passive role in the narrative. This article aims to shift the perspective.

Unfortunately, we really do not know much more about these girls. We do not even know their names. They are all called “the daughter of NN” with the exception of a woman named Eṭirtu, who may have been in a higher position, such as that of a supervisor or a teacher.

The girls were most likely trained to become singers in a palace or a temple complex (Sallaberger, Vulliet, 2005: 634). Every report by Šumu-libši begins with the greeting: “Your servant Šumu-libši: I may die as my lord’s substitute. The male and female musicians, Eṭirtu and the house of my lord are well.” The governor, who is inquiring after the girls’ health, was not only responsible for the provincial administration of Nippur, but also for its temples, as he also held the position of the highest priest in the city (Petschow, 1983: 143-155; Sassmannshausen, 2001: 16-21). Additionally, he owned large estates, so we cannot exclude the possibility that he would employ singers for his private entertainment there. Since the kingdom had a patrimonial structure, and the concept of “privacy” separate from an official’s public role did not exist until later, “the house of my lord” could apply not only to the various official households under Enlil-kidinnī’s command, but also to his own estates.

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Musicians and singers in Girsu. Louvre Museum, Paris. Photo by Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann.

In general, musicians, both male and female, had a high status at the royal courts of the Old Babylonian period. This is consistent with the fact that the governor, who held the most important office of the Middle Babylonian kingdom, made inquiries about the young singers’ health. Despite the fact that the girls are rather passive in the letters, they can apparently give orders to the healing specialists, as is reported in the letter BE 17, 47, ll. 4-5: “they bandaged her with a poultice as (she) requested” (Sibbing Plantholt, 2014: 180).

During the Middle Babylonian period, Elamite and Subarean singers can be found at the royal court in Dūr-Kurigalzu (Ambos, 2008: 502). Foreign singers were exchanged as precious diplomatic gifts. Young female musicians often ended up in the royal harems (Ziegler, 2006: 247, 349). Nonetheless, in Mesopotamia—and especially in the “international” Middle Babylonian period—the ethnicity of a person cannot automatically be deduced from the language of their name. That being said, the majority of the names of the fathers of “our” girls appear to be Babylonian, one father bearing a supposedly Hurrian name (Hölscher, 1996: 85).

We can find out more about Šumu-libši’s patients by comparing their situation with that of other female singers in Mesopotamia. This unfortunate case of an epidemic infecting apprentice musicians is reminiscent of another disease among female singers at a royal court, some 400 years earlier (Ziegler, 1999: 28-29). The archive of this royal court, that of king Zimri-Lim (1775-1762 BC) in the city state of Mari (modern-day Syria), documents a large number of female musicians present (Ziegler, 1999: 69-82; Ziegler, 2006: 245). Many of the female musicians at court were actually concubines. We know this because some of them received oil after successfully giving birth, and since they were “unmarried”, we can conclude that they got pregnant by the king as members of his harem. One of Zimri-Lim’s favourite wives actually supervised a number of female musicians, who must have been very young, since according to the oil accounts they only received small allotments. We can see in the accounts of oil for their toilette and for the lighting of the palace quarters that there existed a strict hierarchy among these women (Ziegler, 1999: 22-24, 29-30; Ziegler, 2006: 346). According to their rank, the women received larger or smaller rations. The female singers were among the lower classes of the harem, being supervised by a governess (Lafont, 2001:135-136). In the Middle Babylonian letters, Eṭirtu might have been such a governess.

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A model of the royal palace of Mari. The women’s quarters are in the lower right corner. Louvre Museum, Paris. Photo by Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann.

Contrary to our imagination of an oriental harem, it is attested that these women could move beyond the scope of their quarters (Lafont, 2001: 136; Ziegler, 1999: 15-20). In the younger Middle Assyrian harem edicts, however, which were issued in Assyria during the Middle Babylonian period, the freedom of the women at court was much more limited, rendering them completely dependent on the king and palace officials (Roth, 1997: 196-209). If we assume that the Middle Babylonian patients were singers at court, then—according to the contemporary Middle Assyrian harem edicts—they were kept under strict surveillance by palace officials.

In both cases we see that the apprentices apparently shared the same quarters and had close daily contact with one another. This might have not only lead to the spread of a contagious disease, but also to conflicts: quarrels between women at court were addressed in the Assyrian edicts (Roth, 1997: 201-202). While “our” Middle Babylonian singers’ lives were valuable enough to their employer to receive medical care, the king of Mari ordered his queen in two letters to isolate sick women from the rest of the harem (Lafont, 2001. 138-139). In one of these letters (ARM X, 129), Zimri-Lim writes that a sick woman had infected other women in the palace. Therefore he orders his queen: “[G]ive strict orders that no one is to drink from the cup from which she drinks, or sit on the seat where she sits, or lie on the bed where she lies, so that she does not infect many women by her contact alone” (Lafont, 2001: 138). In the second letter (MARI III, 144), Zimri-Lim orders his queen to let the isolated woman die (illnesses were believed to be a divine punishment, cf. the arnu principle in Neumann, 2006:36): “So let this woman die, she alone, and that will cause the illness to abate” (Lafont, 2001: 138-139).

Where were Zimri-Lim’s concubines from? Apparently the king had his pick among the women whom he had brought back as booty from campaigns to the north. In the Middle Babylonian letter, however, nothing implicates that “our” girls were booty—not even the fathers’ names. It is also possible that the girls’ families wanted them to become singers, because it was a prestigious position at court or in a temple.

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Heads of votive figures of priestesses or ladies of the court at Mari. Louvre Museum. Photo by Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann

How did the young women in Mari become singers? Since they were not only used for entertainment and/or the cult, but also functioned as concubines, physical attributes were the main criteria, rather than artistic or musical talents. Thus the king orders his queen to pick the prettiest ones (ARM X, 126): “Choose some thirty of them […] who are perfect and flawless, from their toenails to the hair of their head.” Only afterwards does the king want them to learn how to sing. Once the concubines were picked, they should also keep their weight according to the king’s orders: “Give [also] instructions concerning their food, so that their appearance may not be displeasing” (Lafont, 2001: 138). Such appearance-related pressure presumably applied to “our” girls as well. Even if they worked in temple premises at Nippur and not in a royal harem, the religious cult would have required an immaculate body due to purity regulations.

The Middle Babylonian (14th century BCE) letters themselves do not offer much information about “our” young female patients. This is consistent with the patriarchal nature of Mesopotamian society, resulting in the textual evidence mostly being written from the male perspective, reporting about women referring to their looks, their fertility and use as workforce (Note, though, that women had some legal rights, i.e. appearing at court and as contracting partners, and especially in the Middle Babylonian period as single heads of their families, cf. Paulus, 2014: 240-245). Research, focusing on the available information, has consequently followed this perspective. However, drawing parallels to the conditions of female singers at court 400 years earlier offers us a plausible glimpse into the possible living conditions of “our” female patients.

Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann is a D.Phil. candidate in Assyriology at the University of Oxford, writing her thesis about the Middle Babylonian/Kassite period administration. She completed her undergraduate and graduate studies in Egyptology, Assyriology and Religious Studies in Münster, Germany.

What We’re Reading: Week of 4th September

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

Cynthia

Hanneke Grootenboer, “Sublime Still Life: On Adriaen Coorte, Elias van den Broeck, and the Je ne sais quoi of Painting” (J. of Historians of Netherlandish Art)

Richard Saul Wurman and Henry Wilcots, “Louis Kahn in Dacca (originally published in Domus 548 / July 1975)” (Domus)

Alexandra Schwartz, “500 Words: Helen Frankenthaler”  (Artforum)

Daniel Duane, “Goodbye, Yosemite. Hello, What?” (NYT)

Derek

Elizabeth Kolbert, “Who Owns the Internet” (The New Yorker)

USFSP Unearths Treasure Trove of Florida’s Distant Past With New Project” (University of South Florida, St. Petersburg)

Susan Straight, “The American Experience in 737 Novels” (Story Maps)

Clint Smith, “Affirmative Action as Reparations” (New Republic)

 

Disha

Arabelle Sicardi, “The Bonds of Power Are Diffuse: An Interview with Jenny Zhang” (Hazlitt)

Karla Cornejo Villavicencio, “Not At That Price: On The Future of DACA” (n+1)

Francisco Herrera, “Theorizing Race in America: An Interview with Juliet Hooker” (African American Intellectual History Society)

 

Sarah

Chris Bryant, “How the aristocracy preserved their power,” (Guardian)

Ramon Glazov, “The Maid of Orleans, sacred and profane,” (overland)

Hua Hsu, “A Writing Workshop for Workers, and a Long Poem About Taking Orders,” (New Yorker)

Branko Marcetic, “Fighting the Klan in Reagan’s America,” (Jacobin)

Michael Wood, “The French are not men,” (LRB)

 

Spencer

Stuart Kelly, “Pratchett, Kafka, Virgil: Difficult final demands” (TLS)

​Reed McConnell, “Orphan Utopia” (Cabinet)​
​Annette Gordon-Reed, “Our Trouble With Sex” (NYRB)​

What We’re Reading: Week of 28th August

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

 

Derek

Josephine Livingstone, “The British Museum Was Built on Coral, Butterflies, and Slavery” (The New Republic)

Jeannie Riess, “Removal” (Oxford American)

Stephen Pimpare, “Where do we learn that poverty is shameful and dangerous? At the movies” (Washington Post)

Ron Rosenbaum, “Deeper than Deep: David Reich’s genetics lab reveals our prehistoric past“ (Lapham’s Quarterly)

Meg Schoerke, “More than Just”: A Partial View of Robert Lowell” (The Hudson Review)

 

Cynthia

Gabrielle Schwartz, “Hélio Oiticica’s playful approach to protest” (Apollo)

Brian Droitcour, “Critical Eye: Venice: Off Beat” (Art in America)

Andrea Scott, “Etore Sottsass” (4Columns)

Louise Steinman, “Slight Exaggeration: An Interview with Adam Zagajewski” (LARB)

 

Spencer

Jeffrey Kastner and Sina Najafi, “Historical Amnesias: An Interview with Paul Connerton” (Cabinet)

Blake Smith, “The Alt-Right Apocalypse” (Marginalia Review of Books)

Margaret Drabble, “Strawberry Hill forever” (TLS)

Josephine Livingstone, “The British Museum Was Built on Coral, Butterflies, and Slavery” (New Republic)

 

Eric

Susanna Berger, “The Art of Philosophy” (PDR).

Sophie Guérard de Latour, “Changer la sociologie, refaire de la politique” (Vie des idées).

Tim Lacy, “History Conferences: What Are They Good For?” (USIH).

Brink Lindsey, “The End of the Working Class” (American Interest).

What We’re Reading: Week of 21st August

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

Sarah:

Neal Ascherson, “A Swap for Zanzibar,” (LRB)

Michael P. Jeffries, “How Chester B. Himes Became the Rage in Harlem, and Beyond,” (NYT)

Roundtable, parts 1 & 2 from the USIH, edited by Michael Landis:

Frank Towers, “Roundtable: Reflections on David Potter’s The Impending Crisis, part 1,” (USIH)

Kerry Leigh Merritt, “Roundtable: Reflections on David Potter’s The Impending Crisis, part 2,” (USIH)

 

Cynthia:

Nancy Princenthal, “David Wojnarowicz” (Art in America)

Arthur Lubow, The Renaissance of Marisa Merz, Carol Rama, and Carla Accardi: Three Italian Women Artists Having a Moment” (W Magazine)

Kara Nandin, “Review: ‘Carol Rama: Antibodies’ at the New Museum” (The Bottom Line: The Drawing Center’s blog)

Richard Martin, “Painting for Pleasure: An Interview with Carolee Schneeman” (Apollo)

Joachim Kalka, “Madame Bovary’s Wedding Cake” (The Paris Review)

 

Spencer

Dimitra Fimi, “Alan Garner’s The Owl Service at fifty” (TLS)

Giovanni Vimercate, “Soviet Pseudoscience” (LARB)

Philip Hoare, “Peter Adey’s wonderfully digressive book explores the science and history of levitation” (New Statesman)

David Dabydeen, “David Olusoga’s look at a forgotten history shows there’s always been black in the Union Jack” (New Statesman)

 

Eric:

Merve Emre, “Two Paths for the Personal Essay” (Boston Review)

Nathan Heller, “Is There Any Point to Protesting?” (New Yorker)

Hilary Mantel, “2017 Reith Lectures.” (BBC audio).

 

Yitzchak

Ian Frazier, “The Pleasures of New York by Car” (New Yorker)

Kelefa Sanneh, “Mayweather versus McGregor: Who’s worse?” (New Yorker)

John Banville, “Ending at the Beginning(NYRB)

April Bernard, “Eloise: The Feral Star(NYRB)

The state, and revolution, Part II: View from a Public Square Closed to the Public

By guest contributor Dr. Dina Gusejnova

This is the third and final installment of “The state, and revolution,” following the introduction and “Part I: The Revolution Reshuffled.”

The new age needed only the hide of the revolution—and this was being flayed off people who were still alive. Those who then slipped into it spoke the language of the Revolution and mimicked its gestures, but their brains, lungs, livers and eyes were utterly different.

—Vasily Grossman, Life and Fate (1960), trans. Robert Chandler (2006)

Scholarly interpretations of modern revolutions used to revolve around the idea of the state as the main structure for understanding them—mostly in national, sometimes in comparative, perspective. Since the last decade of the Cold War, however, many of the revolutions, which used to be known as English, French, American, Chinese, Irish, Russian, or Cuban, have been gradually placed in a different kind of order: like Grossman’s words, they began to enter into dialogue with other post-revolutionary legacies, aligned on an imperial meridian, put on a global scale, or, on the contrary, shrunk to the space of a single house. While some of the national labels have disappeared behind inverted commas, the very idea of ‘revolution’ has recently been replaced by a new interest in civil wars and the ‘roads not taken’. Peace itself is increasingly seen as a postwar pretext for new disputes over sovereignty, and the hybrid realities of paramilitary violence are being examined in terms of their effects on mass migration. This kind of revisionism is no longer just a reaction to the supposed end of history, but arguably, the beginning of a new response to the issues we are all facing in the present.

In contrast to this academic trend, most public responses to the latest centenaries are still wrapped in national flags, or at least, in national kinds of silences. In March 2016, I was briefly in Dublin, just before the centenary of the Easter Rising. A minimal common narrative of events appeared to have emerged, as the city was preparing for a large crowd, many of them from abroad.

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A stack of books on 1916, Dublin Airport (photo by Dina Gusejnova)

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Poster announcing the parade (photo by Dina Gusejnova)

Some public history projects even revived the language of revolution to establish a connection between the events of Easter 1916, modern Irish sovereignty, and other world events. In Parnell Square, a uniformed “Patrick Pearse” read aloud the 1916 Proclamation every day at midday.

In 1916, one of the buildings in Parnell Square, the Ambassador Theatre, had served as the backdrop to a famous photo marking the defeat of the Rising by the British, who posed with an inverted Irish flag, which they had captured from the Citizen Army. In 2016, an exhibition by Sinn Féin used the building to show some original objects from the revolution, and a reconstruction of Kilmainham Gaol,  where the sixteen men of the Rising had been executed.

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The Ambassador Theatre at Parnell Square (photo by Dina Gusejnova)

Visitors were encouraged to take selfies and portraits while listening to recordings of their last words, and it was particularly striking to see a mother doing a photo-shoot of her children in front of the sandbags.

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Photo by Dina Gusejnova

What a contrast to Russia where, in April 2017, nobody was reading the April Theses aloud, neither in St. Petersburg nor in Moscow. Granted, Moscow’s Red Square was certainly not as central to the revolution as Petrograd’s Palace Square had been, but it was, still, an important site of revolutionary action in November and December of 1917. Since the Bolsheviks had transferred the capital here, channeling the older, Muscovite center of Russian power, it remained the symbol of Soviet and now post-Soviet claims to global influence. Yet the one set of events that epitomizes this universal aspiration does not suit current plans. Instead, as always at the end of April, preparations were in full swing for the celebrations of an anniversary that the government felt more comfortable with: the Victory of 1945. In April 2017, the public square was therefore routinely closed to the public.

One of the visitors to the Square that month was Richard Bourke, professor of the history of political thought and co-director of the Centre for the Study of the History of Political Thought at Queen Mary University of London. He had travelled to Moscow to attend a conference at the Higher School of Economics. Bourke’s recent intellectual biography of Edmund Burke places Burke’s responses to the revolutions of his age in an imperial, transatlantic, and party political context, disentangling Burke from his later image as a rhetorician of reaction. With Ian McBride, Bourke has recently also co-edited the Princeton History of Modern Ireland, and, with Quentin Skinner, Popular Sovereignty in Historical Perspective. I could not miss this occasion, therefore, to ask a few questions about the contrasting revolutionary legacies in Ireland and Russia, as they engage with the burden of anniversaries of 1916 and 1917.

Standing by the walls of the Kremlin, near a plaque marking the place where the eighteenth-century author Alexander Radishchev had been held prisoner before being deported to Siberia, offered a compelling setting for the discussion. The view of one-way traffic beneath the Kremlin towers, and a reference to W.B. Yeats, concludes these reflections on the politics and ethics of commemorations.

Video by Kseniya Babushkina

 

“Well, that is disappointing. This is my first visit, but when I arrive, it transpires that the Square is closed to the public.

Revolution as a foundation for political legitimacy—prudentially, that has to be discarded in Russia, surely; I can’t imagine the current government wanting to embrace it. Secondly, and equally challenging, there is the communist legacy itself: the attitude to capitalism and private property. Since attitudes to the original ideology have been so utterly transformed, what is there for the establishment today to take ownership of? 

For its part, Ireland is full of commemorations. So, in this case, historians tend to greet such festivities as an irresistible opportunity to publicize their views, and to generate putatively deep, manifestly more penetrating analyses than politicians can muster… whereas I think that risks ending up with a confusion of roles.

Before the Good Friday Agreement—before, that is, the current settlement of the Irish problem—commemoration had the power to rock the state. It was, in other words, a very serious thing. So, the peaceable passing of 2016 in Ireland is, from a political point of view, entirely gratifying.

The political utility of 1917—one can’t see that quite so readily at all. Hence, presumably, the reluctance to celebrate.

I see commemorations as essentially pieces of political theatre. I don’t regard directing them as the business of the historian. Presumably, in the Russian case now, a shared narrative is far more difficult to achieve by comparison with Ireland. There is a will to disavow the revolutionary legacy without that having ever been overtly articulated. On the other hand, in the recent Irish case, the Southern Irish state’s commitment to abjuring certain versions of the 1916 legacy during the thirty years of the Troubles [1968–1998] had already passed, and consequently the need for revolutionary disavowal had (as it were) already been “worked through” the polity by 2016.

With Ireland, you have to remember, in 1966—and that was just two years before the ‘reinauguration’ of the Troubles in 1968—and then over the next thirty years, the Southern state had to disown much of the legacy of 1916 for the next three decades. So, with the end of the Troubles, as a result, a certain distance between the Southern Irish state and the history of its own militancy was possible. Also, generally speaking, a mood of collaboration around a possible shared narrative emerged. There was a commitment all round to manufacturing—because these are essentially manufactured stories—to manufacturing a liberal, cosmopolitan vision: excavating the diverse roles of peoples in 1916; children in 1916; women in 1916—so a diversified picture, by comparison with the original “16 Dead Men” narrative. It was a sort of attempt to bring all parties on board: the British state could have a role, because they’d accepted all that now; Irish republicans could have a role; we could pretend that Northern Irish Protestants might have a role; we could pretend that we can fully acknowledge that the First World War at the time was a far bigger event in Irish history than 1916 had been—certainly, considerably larger numbers died. In effect, there was a mood of opening up to these diverse possibilities. Actually, it was quite a constrained vision, to be honest. But nonetheless, the self-congratulatory story was that tremendous “openness” was prospering, then and now. Having said that—having just put it critically—I was there in Ireland at the time for the centenary celebrations, and in truth I don’t think it was at all badly done. There was no inappropriate pomp: I went with my children, and it was perfectly inoffensive to be there. I am no purist: states habitually resort to such rites of passage, and it’s just a matter of coming up with productive versions of the fanfare—a conducive version of it.

There is one poem, just a single poem, which has had as large an influence on the interpretation of the events of 1916 on subsequent historiography as any other document or text—and that is, of course, W. B. Yeats’ poem of that title: ‘Easter 1916’. Many, many historical studies of the period invoke its version of what transpired. The final stanza poses a rhetorical question: Was it needless death after all? So, the poem has a provocative question at its very heart. And, in a way, that has the effect of casting doubt on the whole enterprise: it seems it was needless death, a vain exercise! That’s another way of asking: Was this whole undertaking without any positive justification? But then there’s a gear change in the poem, which amounts to proclaiming that, given the fact that a ‘terrible beauty’ has indeed been born, the national poet has no choice but to lay claim to the legacy of this martyrdom, and that’s what the author proceeds to do in the poem.

I am currently working on a book, which is on the relationship between the philosophy of history, on the one hand—that is to say, fundamental views about what drives the historical process, and its direction of travel—and, on the other hand, the effect of one’s philosophical commitment to a given vision of the kind upon one’s investment in particular historical narratives. So, basically, I am concerned with conceptions of progress, specifically the notion that history is progressing—a perspective that emerged in the eighteenth century as a basic, almost a priori assumption about historical development. I am interested in the connection between that assumption and the impulse to read events themselves as progressive or retrogressive. That amounts, in turn, to an interest in the very idea of being “on the right side of history” in the familiar sense—of deeming oneself to be making the right moral choices because these choices coincide with the overarching directionality of history. It is fascinating to reflect on how this mode of thinking about our world first emerged, and now frames our approach to the past and the future.

Despite the long shadow cast by the philosophy of history, practicing historians ought to think more multi-perspectivally about the past, and therefore in less partisan and party-driven ways. I think that’s an honorable vocation for historians, though it’s not always the one they choose.”

Dina Gusejnova is Lecturer in Modern History at the University of Sheffield. She is the author of European Elites and Ideas of Empire, 1917-57 (Cambridge University Press, 2016) and the editor of Cosmopolitanism in Conflict: Imperial Encounters from the Seven Years’ War to the Cold War (Palgrave Macmillan, forthcoming later in 2017).

What We’re Reading: Week of 14th August

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

Sarah:

Steve Kolowich, “What is a black professor in America allowed to say?” (Guardian)

Elaine Showalter, “The Austenista,” (New Republic)

Marina Warner, “Back from the Underworld,” (LRB)

Aaron Winter & Aurelien Mondon, “Normalized Hate,” (Jacobin)

Robert Wood, “On Australian poetry now: a response to David Campbell,” (overland)

 

Derek:

Adrienne Lafrance  and Vann R. Newkirk II, “The Lost History of an American Coup d’Etat” (The Atlantic)

Gerald Shea, “Teaching Them to Speak: On Juan Pablo Bonet and the History of Oralism” (The Paris Review)

Jack Christian and Warren Christian “The Monuments Must Go: An open letter from the great-great-grandsons of Stonewall Jackson” (Slate)

 

Eric:

Beverly Gage, “An Intellectual Historian Argues His Case Against Identity Politics” (New York Times) – on Mark Lilla, from whom see “The Liberal Crackup” (Wall Street Journal).

John Lanchester, “You Are the Product” (LRB).

Ellen J. Stockstill, “Rescuing England: The Rhetoric of Imperialism and the Salvation Army” (PDR).

 

Basma:

Omnia El Shakry, “Psychoanalysis and Islam” (Princeton University Press).

Gil Anidjar, “Everything Burns: Derrida’s Holocaust” (LARB).

Lara Deeb and Jessica Winegar, “Middle East Politics in US Academia: The Case of Anthropology” (CSSAAME)

 

Spencer

Larry Wolff, “Wagner on Trial” (NYRB)

James M. McPherson, “Southern Comfort” (NYRB)

Alev Scott, “Getting Close to Judgement Day” (TLS)

The state, and revolution: A site-specific view of centenaries. Part I: The revolution reshuffled: Statelessness and civil war in the museum

By guest contributor Dr. Dina Gusejnova

The introduction to “The state, and revolution” can be found here.

Museums and libraries are the kinds of places that promise to transport you to any other time or place. But some people experience their structure as a constraint on their imagination. One reaction to their static and state-centered character might be to give up on the structure of museums altogether and resort to watching films instead. It is not surprising that this medium was most successful in marking the first decade after the October Revolution—celebrating it as a leaderless movement, without an obvious protagonist and certainly no national teleology. In fact, most of today’s museums have embedded films in their displays. Yet if you want to resist path-dependent constraints in interpreting revolutions, films are hardly a solution: they are the products of fixed scripts, of a specially built set, narrative music, and so on. (October was first performed to the sound of the Marseillaise, before new tunes could be composed).

Is a museum of the revolution necessarily an oxymoron? As a type of space, most museums have the advantage of being physical sites. In such places, visitors can recognize what they thought of as ownership of the present as a mere tenancy, which places them not only in a subordinate relationship to the landlord, but also in an imaginary relationship to the previous tenants, who may even have left things behind. From then on, it is up to them how many degrees of separation they establish between themselves and this past.

The Russian Revolution exhibition at the British Library—its interior designed in the style of a grand opera set — is one example of this kind of possibility. The Communist Manifesto is placed at the entrance as a relic of one of the Library’s most famous users, yet it is as feeble a guide to the Russian Revolution as Rousseau had been to the French. If anything, the curators emphasise, the Manifesto discouraged the Communists of its time from transporting ideas of revolution to unsuitable locations like Russia. Like the gimmicky poster of a Bolshevik, it functions merely as a hook, because what you find instead of a party line is an aspect of the revolution as the product of a social process of intellectual contagion. Connoisseurs of magical realism will appreciate this opportunity to trace how the revolution as an idea “became” an event in and through the library itself. What sorts of studies in the library collections led Lenin, who, between 1902 and 1911 identified himself to the library as Jacob Richter, supposedly a German subject of the Russian empire, to call for a revolution in Russia six years later under the more ubiquitous pseudonym of Lenin? For Marx, contemplation itself had been a kind of action, since he preferred a Victorian library to the barricades of Paris. But where did Marx’s theories of how to “change the world” connect to the Bolshevik practices of terror and violence? The exhibition hints at the unlikely friendship between the Victorian library curator Richard Garnett, Dostoyevsky’s first English translator, Constance Garnett (his daughter-in-law), and the exiled Popular Will activist Sergei Stepnyak. Without connections like this, would Lenin have found sufficient reading material on “the land question”?

Finally, how did readers decide where to change the world? Ideas did not just migrate from book to book in a Republic of Letters, nor were they confined to their author’s “home” states. In a postwar world governed by new frontiers, visas, and immigration detention centres, it was the librarians who mattered. In the twentieth century, you are more likely to find a folio edition of counter-revolutionary thoughts than a revolutionary manifesto, but the exiled socialists made sure that ephemeral pamphlets also got collected. Lenin’s wife, Nadezhda Krupskaya, had been a librarian in St Petersburg before the 1905 revolution, working together with Nikolai Roubakine, who is introduced in this exhibition only as a social statistician of the late Russian empire. As an exiled revolutionary of 1905, Roubakine had started a new library in Switzerland, which also supplied Lenin with reading material during this time of his exile.

Instead of a state withering away, the visitor is confronted with the notion of a civil war that is only “Russian”  in inverted commas. The protracted statelessness of the “white émigré” exiles in the West coexisted alongside a Bolshevik-run Soviet apparatus in the East, which was eventually signed out of existence in a Byelorussian forest with the Belavezha agreement of 1991, as Katie McElvaney reminds us in her timeline. At the end of the magic, there is also the reality of censorship. Apparently, in 1922, a British library consultant concluded that some materials calling for revolution beyond Russia were not “desirable to be released to readers.” We may not know if the Library caused this or any other revolution, but we can certainly see that it had tried not to cause it.

To get away from issues of representation to the memory of revolutionary action, however, I had to travel further, to Finland, where, in March 2017, Tampere University had organized a conference called “Reform and Revolution in Europe, 1917-1919.” Like many attendees, I was struck by the range of new insights into the Revolution that Russia’s former periphery offers, through the transnational perspective of the First World War in the work of Richard Bessel, and the concept of civil war as contextualized by Bill Kissane. Formerly an underdeveloped outpost of the Russian Empire, Finland had risen to the status of an autonomous Grand Duchy by the time of the Revolution. As such, it was the first post-imperial polity to gain sovereignty from the Russian empire, by Lenin’s decree—and to keep it, for the most part.

In the summer of 1917, Lenin was in Tampere as he worked on The State and Revolution. Eleven years before that, he had his first fateful encounter with Stalin here. The site of their encounter, a former Workers Hall, is the space for a newly redesigned Lenin Museum, which first opened here in 1946, under the close watch of Soviet authorities—one of the more visible effects of what is now called “Finlandization.” Its new curators have resorted to a combination between history and humor to tell the story:

Reproduced with kind permission from the Lenin Museum, https://museot.fi/en.php

The rest of the Lenin Museum has little to do with Lenin, and more to do with the history of Finnish democracy and the vicissitudes of European integration, after decades of civil war, partial Soviet occupation, and collaboration with National Socialism, before the gradual emergence of a Finnish brand of Social Democracy.

Seeing the city itself, surrounded by its stunning landscape, also offers other opportunities to reflect on how ideas might relate to the places in which they are formulated. How could this ethereally calming landscape inspire someone to work on a book called The State and Revolution? Could Lenin have instead become a twentieth-century Lake Poet?

9 Tampere Lake 1

Photo by Dina Gusejnova

10 Tampere Lake 2

Photo by Dina Gusejnova

11 Tampere Lake 3

Photo by Dina Gusejnova

As I walked through a working-class neighborhood of today’s Tampere, I noticed that its outer lake was still frozen, so I borrowed some skates to have a final look at the skyline: two days, two seasons. Lenin, of course, had missed the Finnish ice-skating season, with the revolution gaining speed in Petrograd just as the ice had begun to thicken. I thought about the remarkable contrast between the long-term outcomes of the revolution for Finland and for Ukraine—another imperial province, but with a much shorter history of post-imperial sovereignty, and an incomparably higher death toll in the twentieth century. This is a complex issue for historians, and one which, perhaps, will always call for the assistance of a writer like Vassily Grossman.

In the Labor Museum, a three-year long exhibition (2014–17) marks the cultural memory of the revolution of 1917 from the perspective of the Finnish Civil War of 1918, which the exhibition laconically identifies to its visitors as “a short, but traumatic and sorrowful period.” This exhibition is a unique, if slightly quixotic, place. The visitor will look in vain for any kind of partisanship here, with the Reds or the Whites, the Russians or the Finns, workers, peasants, or bystanders. What they see is a memorial to civil violence, a focus on human experience. It is challenging to try to capture a war inside the walls of a museum, but Tampere has clearly learned from commemorative practice in France and other countries, with their focus on reconciliation. The site of the museum belongs to one of the largest cotton weaving halls in the Nordic countries, Finlayson & Compagnie, a focus of socialist mobilization in 1917. The last Finnish factories were closed in 1995, but the company continues selling its products in Europe. Founded by the Scottish industrialist James Finlayson, it is also a reminder that a civil war always has not just local and imperial, but also trans-imperial dimensions. At the museum, I met social historian Richard Bessel, a first-time visitor to the city, and social theorist Rebecca Boden, who has recently moved there.

Rebecca Boden is a professor of critical management. She is interested in the effects of regimes of accounting and management on sites of knowledge creation, and the relationship between individuals and the state. She recently joined the University of Tampere as the Director of Research of the New Social Research Centre. Professor Boden also attended the conference “Reform and Revolution in Europe, 1917-1919,” held at the University of Tampere in March 2017.

I’ve never lived in this part of the world, and as a British person, I know very little about it. So what strikes me is how little people brought up and educated in Britain know about Central and Eastern Europe. I’ve felt ashamed about some of the questions I’ve had to ask about the Finnish Civil War, in terms of understanding this part of the world. And I suspect, during my upbringing, it was during the Cold War and the Iron Curtain, so Central and Eastern Europe as very much an unknown quantity to people in the West.

What’s interesting to me is, in Britain, you’ve got a reversal of trends in history. There is greater and greater interest in British history, especially British imperial history, and that becomes dangerously xenophobic, and insular, and parochial. And I think the thing for Finland is—and I can say this as an outsider, they never would, because they are quite humble, quiet, understated sort of people generally—Finland has so many interesting things about it, it is such an interesting geopolitical space, it achieved so much so well, that I am urging people to get to know the Finnish story quite urgently.

A lot of the quiet places—very far from anywhere, on the periphery, small population, very thinly spread—they have to move themselves to make themselves heard.  All the isomorphic tendencies, policies and practices and cultures tend to move in the other direction. And it would be quite good to have the quiet places listened to. But part of it is, the quiet places have to find their voice. And that’s partly what I am doing, helping Finland to find their voice and engage with the outside world in a really proactive kind of way.

Richard Bessel is professor of twentieth-century history at the University of York. He works on the social and political history of modern Germany, the aftermath of the two World Wars, and the history of policing, and is currently co-editing, with Dorothee Wierling, Inside World War One? The First World War and its Witnesses (Oxford University Press, 2018). In March 2017, he travelled to Finland to attend the conference on “Reform and Revolution in Europe, 1917-1919,” at which he delivered a keynote lecture.

I’ve never been to Finland, and it’s just a really interesting place to come to. And I thought it would be an interesting intellectual challenge to try to think about revolution and its relationship to the First World War, if not globally, certainly focusing more on Eastern Europe rather than on Western Europe.

I am finding Tampere very interesting, and … this is my first time in Finland! To be in a city which, as we see here, had such a fundamentally different history, with violence right in the middle of it. The differences, I just hadn’t thought about the differences to that extent. What in many ways looks and feels similar to Sweden, but then you scratch the surface, and you realize it’s not. And that surprised me, I hadn’t really quite expected that.

As I get older, it becomes more important both to me and also to colleagues: we talk about our families a lot. When I was younger, I wouldn’t do that professionally. When I was younger, we wrote history in the third person, and now we use the first person.

I’ve just been working through a book, an edited collection on ego-documents of the First World War, with a colleague of mine, which is also very much about the East and the South.

There is one question that I always wanted to get it on an exam, but nobody would allow me to do it. And the question is: when did the twentieth century begin?

Dina Gusejnova is Lecturer in Modern History at the University of Sheffield. She is the author of European Elites and Ideas of Empire, 1917-57 (Cambridge University Press, 2016) and the editor of Cosmopolitanism in Conflict: Imperial Encounters from the Seven Years’ War to the Cold War (Palgrave Macmillan, forthcoming later in 2017).

What We’re Reading: Week of 7th August

Here are a few interesting articles and pieces we found around the web this week. If you come across something that other intellectual historians might enjoy, please let us know in the comments section.

 

Disha:

Rudrapriya Rathore, “India’s Imagined Worlds” (Hazlitt)

Natalie Diaz, “A Native American Poet Excavates the Language of Occupation” (The New York Times)

Lauren Michele Jackson, “We Need To Talk About Digital Blackface in Reaction GIFs” (Teen Vogue)

Cyrus Schayegh, “Switch Cities, Decolonization, and Globalization: Singapore, Beirut, Dakar” (Medium)

 

Eric:

Cord Aschenbrenner, “Albert Speer – Hitlers Architekt” (Neue Züricher Zeitung)

Elizabeth Bruenig, “Notes on Locke (against this critic)” (ESB).  

Anthony Madrid, “H.D. Notebook, Part 2” (The Paris Review).

Matthew J. Smith, “Overpowered: Control and Contingence in Haiti” (LARR).

 

Derek:

“How The Kellogg Brothers Revolutionized Breakfast“ (Fresh Air, podcast)

Daniel Dreisbach, “Reading the Bible with the Founding Fathers” (New Books Network, Podcast)

Dan Chiasson, “Susan Howe’s Patchwork Poems” (The New Yorker)

 

Cynthia

Larissa Pham, “Agnes Martin Finds the Light that Gets Lost” (The Paris Review)

On passion, professionalization, and the disciplinary and economic structures that scaffold the production of art and knowledge: Molly Nesbit with Jarrett Earnest, “Close Encounters: A Conversation” (The Brooklyn Rail)

Susan Sidlauskas, “On Graduate Education: A Primer (with Memoir) For the Art History Graduate Student” (Rutgers Art Review)

Sharon Louden, “3 Examples of Proactive Artists Creating New Opportunities” (Creative Capital Blog)

Miya Tokumitsu, “Completely Unprofessional” (Frieze)

In Memoriam, Judith Jones: Julia Moskin, “An Editing Life, A Book of Her Own” (The New York Times)

 

Basma

Steven Salaita, “A Few Thoughts on Leaving Academe” (Jadaliyya)

Alex Mayassi, “Of Money and Morals” (Aeon)

Gayatri Spivak, “On Teaching Reading” (ICLS Columbia, lecture abstract)

Suzy Hansen, “James Baldwin’s Istanbul” (Public Books)

John Hutnyk, “Marx in Algeria 1882” (Trinketization)

 

Spencer

Marina Warner, “Back from the Underworld” (LRB)

Ian Sansom, “Jane Austen, on the money” (TLS)

Ariel Sophia Bardi, “The Soft Nationalism of Amma, India’s Hugging Saint” (LARB)

Lewis Lapham, “Petrified Forest” (Lapham’s Quarterly)

Ron Charles, “Stop dissing romance novels already” (Washington Post)