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I became bolder, even angry. He was an old man if he ever lived at all. Who are you? I'm called a lot of things. There's not a stone or leaf or life that men won't put a name to. It gives them a nice safe box to collect things in. They get in the habit of collecting things and end up surprised at the weight they're carrying. A dream they thought might fit someday, something bright and sweet like a woman, picked up for her shine and somehow never left or at least never forgotten. Or an ambition! There's a fine item in any man's bag. A great, glowing ambition. They never fade, never wear even when you've outgrown them.

Always there to look at and remember and play might-have-been. A while ago in real time you saw the eagles. And you wished, Arthur. And ambition was a word I didn't know. But I had seen the eagles and for a moment thrilled with a wish so vast and secret I couldn't breathe it even to Kay or Bedivere. He laid his hands on my shoulders. I had to obey. The late sun was in my Merlin and a Sword 7 eyes and the ringing in my ears grown to a roaring again, a hundred thousand voices from unseen throats. Avef "See! Down the valley rode a golden-haired king on a great war-horse. Beside him the dragon standard swayed in the grasp of another man maddeningly familiar as the king himself, and behind them surged the shining hundreds.

Not Vortigern, that king, but a young man whose gilded breastplate caught the sun and hurled it back at the sky while the valley and hills and my poor head rocked with the name they hailed. My aching eyes bulged. See the horses, each a hand higher than cavalry's ever known.

See the men, how they ride. Such men ride for love, not Roman pay. Have you cursed me? Blessed with the power to make this be. Cursed with an eye to see too far. You still don't know me? Or that man who carries die standard? But he's old, he's" "And that other on the king's right hand? He was part of those tomorrows. Such men come when kings dream them. But now the gold still glitters, the men have not grown lean with age nor know of bitterness or regret. The standard is new and proud. Hail to the king! I cried to Jesu and all our household gods to help me, and they brought me kind darkness through which the cheers still echoed.

Ave, Imperator, and Merlin's voice whispered: Did you hear the name? See me again where we met before, at Cnoch-nan-ainneal. I tried to open my eyes. At Beltane, remember? I was ten years old, run foul of a boucca and gone mad. Though you never catch me, how can I escape you? At May Eve on the hill, remember? The Faerie woman, the one you loved. Bedivere and Kay found me on the ledge, staring out over the valley where the dust was settling after Vortigem's passage.

They were hot from running, puzzled and cross with me. My eyes focused better now. Come to fright your dreams? They'd seen only Vortigem's guard, not more than fifty all counted. Kay pulled at me. We'll catch it if we're not there when they come. My head wasn't clear yet, though the ringing was gone. I spoke no more of what happened, but now and again 1 looked sideways at Bedivere.

No mistake: people grow and change, but the set of the eyes remains. He was die man grown who carried the dragon beside the king, but who was that strange other who rode with a doom on his shoulders? I knew him, would know him, and the name was on the tip of my tongue. As we hurried on, I realized numbly in my ten-year-old head that the Merlm-boucca had indeed cursed me to see too much and too far.

Many years later I knew what he meant. Why do men strain at the curtain that hides tomorrow? Why do seers grow rich pretending to pull it aside for a blurred, distorted view? It is hardly a blessing. Our villa lay a day's ride up the Severn valley from where the river widens into the sea channel. This has always been the land Merlin and a Sword 9 of our tribe, the Dobunni, and our cousins, the Silures.

For a hundred years before I was born, we Pendragon wore the Roman toga fastened over our left arm and the enameled gold armlet of tribal chieftainship on our right. By the year of my birth, father called himself Roman more out of habit than fact. It had been fifty years since Constantine went into Gaul with the last of the combat legions, leaving only the thinly spread auxiliaries from which we tried to build an army again. Suddenly we were defenseless, a prosperous people used to four centuries of unbroken peace and order. When the Romans left, we crowned a new emperor in the imperial name and others in quick succession as the separate tribes dissented from one another and rose up to slay die leader they themselves might have hailed a year before.

And the wolves waited outside our walls and grinned and watched: the Irish across one sea, the Saxons across another, the Picts in the north. Their envoys came and saw the lush lowlands poorly defended and went home to sharpen their swords. Out of the confusion of tribes came a Council of Magistrates, sub-kings with their own people's interests at heart. They raised one of their own to the purple, a Stlure called Vortigem, and he stopped the warring for a time. In some ways, it's marvelous to be old. You have years of hindsight to play with.

Grandfathers sit by the fire rumbling sagely of what should have been done at a certain time and place to prevent a certain thing. Trust in this or pray to that god, life has a way of bringing the right man sufficient to the time, though the time may not know it. So with Vortigeminglorious, ignoble street squabbler, the petty bargainer in the marketplace, the cold, suspicious face of a losing gambler, the peasant shrewdness, the small man's need for endless self-explanation, the veneer of courtesy and court rhetoric quickly dropped for street vulgarity among cronies or in moments of stress.

Not a hero, not a man to remember. But I say he came to power against the wall and ruled with his back to it, until that day 1 saw him in our house. He inherited the empty shell of Roman form and power, half-trained, ill-equipped legions that would not fight outside their own province.

He inherited the threat of invasion from three sides, and when these threats became real, he faced them with timorous chieftains not yet imperiled enough to rise above self-interest, an empty treasury and letters of refused help from a Rome that could no longer repel the barbarians at its own gate. What would you have done? You could guard against all three, but how long before one or all charged? The bargainer in Vortigern threw a bone to the worst of the dogs and set it loose on the others. He invited the Saxons as mercenaries, fed them and gave them a kennel.

But the dogs grew too numerous for the kennel, always more of them, always greedier, demanding where they used to ask. Soon the whole east of Britain was theirs and the treasury empty again. Then people said to old Vortigern that he was a compromised, humiliated fool and it was time for new blood on the throne. And they turned to Ambrosius Aurelianus, commander of Vortigern's armies. Thus this one day at Uther's villa, the high men of the west gathered to hail a new emperor while the grubby street peddler slipped away to oblivion.

In the glow of hope, few will recall the lesser man who bought the new heroes time, carved out with pitiful, broken tools. I say this so that you might understand that battered, bartered old manVitalinus, called Vortigern, Emperor of Britain. He had the soul of a tax collector. I would not put such at the head of a mounted charge, but to bargain on wile and an empty purse, I would send Vortigern before Lancelot, Bards, when you shape a song to heroes, drop in a verse for Vortigern and let it begin: "Each man in his time. You couldn't defend it for an hour, but never since, not even in Camelot, have I so loved a place.

The plan was the usual Roman square with the villa itself built around three sides, the fourth closed with a low, white-washed wall that formed a wide courtyard. The baths and kitchens ranged down one side, with the slave quarters opposite; family chambers joined them to make the base of the square, and the whole stretched out room by room at ground level to catch as much sun as possible. Stables, smithy and auxiliary kitchens and quarters were outside the wall. Floors were mosaicked, well wanned in winter by hot air blown from ample stoke holes. The imperial engineers built it to last forever.

I remember nothing earlier than this house, no other mother but Flavia. We raced into the courtyard bare minutes ahead of Vortigern's Merlin and a Sword 11 party. Flavia was standing on the portico, small and plump, dressed to receive royalty and definitely impatient. Bedivere left us to go home; Ray and 1 slowed apprehensively as we approached our mother.

Before we could speak, Flavia beckoned the house slaves, Scipio and Auius. Aulus, lay out clean tunics, teil the women to feed them in their room tonight. He herded us through all three baths for a quick dip, oiled and scraped us efficiently, then toweled and trotted us back across the courtyard. Already the emperor's guard milled about, rattling down from mounts, grooms leading the animals to the stables. The officers were of high rank, few lower than tribune. We had only a quick, wide-eyed glimpse of them before Aulus had us under his fussy wing for dressing and combing and Flavia's special orders.

We weren't to go near the triclinium while our parents were dining with Ambrosius and the emperor. We would be brought in later to pay our respects and say good night. This would be a polite signal that dinner was over. The business and protocol of the accession were then to be discussed. The dinner dragged on. We stretched out our own meal, played some knucklebones on the floor, bored and vaguely excited at the same time. I listened to the faint voices, distinguishing between them. The quiet, cadenced reason: Uther. The fluttering laugh like a startled bird, mother.

There was another heard less often, clipped and precise. The fourth spoke often and long, monotonous as the beating of a hammer, rising above the others or boring through them, a voice like a toothache. He peered close at me. Does your head still hurt? The moment arrived. Flavia came for us, ushered us solemnly down the hall with whispered warnings: "Arthur, don't slouch.

Kay, keep your finger out of your nose. Salute as your father taught you and answer clearly. It will just be a minute. Even as we approached, that dogged voice droned on. Father and the gray, compact man who must be Ambrosius still reclined on their couches, but the emperor paced about the room, fat, rumpled, sparse hair uncombed.

He 12 Firelord looked sweaty and disagreeable even though our slaves had pampered him through the baths only three hours before. Flavia said you could tell a Roman of equestrian rank by the cleanliness of the napkin spread over the end of his dining couch to catch the sauce drippings. Father's had a dab here and there, the like for Ambrosius who was used to a rough table in camp.

Mother's napkin barely needed washing, but the martyred linen crumpled over Vortigern's couch might have been used to wipe down a horse. Land or turnips, I guess. Haven't been any new mintings for a hundred years and most of what there was is buried. One whiff of danger and thoseprinces buried it deep as they could. Fat lot of good, most of them got their, throats cut anyway. Well, they deserve it. Anywhere you go, you could be walking on a fortune, and not enough silver above ground to paint a button.

Why aren't we protected? Where in Christ's name do you think it's coming from? Where are your audit rolls, your tax schedules? You're the Council of Magistrates, I tell them, the assembled princes of Britain, and you don't even know where your money is. They're so used to dodging taxes, they think it's a right. They squeeze it out of the tenants. I tell you I've got no use for monks, but the buggers are right in screaming about the way the bloody landowners lay the taxes on their tenants and then can't find five anas to support the army they whine for.

Oh, one magnanimous feilow told me he'd let go two stableboys and his peacock keeper. Really tightening his belt. I flicked away a tear. You're damned right I did. Because your noble peers, Uther, or their fathers at least, couldn't agree with each other long enough to pay the troops.

Because your father, Ambrosiusbless his memory, he was a good soldier, enemy or nobut he wouldn't move his troops out of Efauracum when I needed them in the south. The Picts" "The Picts came by sea. And I used sea raiders to stop them. It was bargain or deluge, fight one enemy or two. So I bargained. Down Vitalinus, up Ambrosius. Well, I told them. I was right. I'll write my recollections one day and remember every mother's one of those bastards.

I told them: mend a broken sword with sealing wax, don't be surprised it breaks in half again. My father cleared his throat. He stared blearily at us. Of course. We saluted jerkily. And baby Caius. He's our Kay. You're a husky one, Arthur. What does your father have planned for you? I think Ambrosius could find a place for the son of Uther Pendragon. Not for years did I understand that scrutiny.

Cavalry's an afterthought. Socially it's scum, no place for a man of birth. Not a good Briton in the lot. Iberians, Goths, Persians, Thracians, and they all smell like sick camels. Ride half naked, most of them, and a good thing. We couldn't afford clothes. I wouldn't send anyone to the cavalry except my first wife. Well then, young Kay, where's your heart set? Vortigern returned it gravely. That may be a good thing some day as it is. Don't trust the Council. Force is what you need, a force that moves fast when they're told.

Men loyal to you alone. He extended his hand in a fatherly blessing. Do you know what the late emperor plans to do after tomorrow? I think I will ride west until I hear the sea breaking on some quiet beach with no one around except oysters. Then I'll sit and watch the sun go down. It always does, you know, and I want something simple to rely on for once in my life. That should keep me busy for years. Good night, Flavia. To me he seemed a tittle drunk and shabby next to the dignity of my father and the taut manliness of Ambrosius Aurelianus.

Stealth Raiders: A Few Daring Men in 1918

The next day he went through the ceremony of accession, spoke too long, passed the sword to Ambrosius, shambled away to obscurity, and the world forgot him. But that night, as I floated closer to the soft edge of sleep, I remembered his words: "Gather a force loyal to you alone.

A force able to move fast when. And my pillow whispered to my ear: "Ave Anorius-, Imperator. Mad as life and as true. The moon rode its arc toward morning and I dreamed no more. Merlin and a Sword 15 Even for impatient boys, the years have a way of passing. Ambrosius proved an energetic ruler. He wrangled with the tribes constantly for money, pouring what he squeezed out of them into the army.

We lost no more land to the Saxons, but we gained none back. On Uther's death, our home went to Kay along with the magistehum of the Dobunni. I had no cause for jealousy, being old enough to understand it by then. Kay was Uther's lawful son while 1 was begotten in the wrong bed. Beyond that, the Dobunni wanted a Pendragon loyal to them before the emperor, one who would rule from home.

They saw very little of me but the hind end of my horse. I was off at the first opportunity with an appointment to Ambrosius' military staff and a modest patrimony to supplement my positively humble pay as an officer-elect. At my side rode Bedivere, my aide, grown tall and hard as myself. He got his red hair from his mother, who was of the Belgae, and from his father the self-convinced stubbornness and loyalty that marked him all his life.

Not that he always agreed with me; more often he didn't and I'd have to argue. But once Bedivere saw a thing was common sense, he would ride into hell for it. There was one infallible trinity to his world: God, Arthur and Bedivere. My right arm would desert me before he did. We learned the army. We ate and quartered with the officers out of minimal courtesy, carried dispatches and ran errands. Everyone outranked us, though most of the centurions were only auxiliaries who grudged as little time as possible to their duties before hurrying home.

Many of them were incompetent; they mocked my seriousness. There are two senses you shouldn't look for in youth: proportion and humor. Bedivere and I raged privately over the laxness of what passed for an army. I grew increasingly vocal, even arrogant, as time passed. When a promotion to centurion came down from Ambrosius himself, even Bedivere noted the swelling under my helmet. It must have been infinitely galling for a veteran tribune or legate to hear a boy in new harness glibly dismiss four hundred years of a fighting force.

The imperial staff had decided to blunder along without me. But 1 had eyes. The day of the legion was past. The forces that threatened Britain would never stand still for pitched battle. They hit our coasts in lightning raids, sailed deep inland in shallow-draft keels, struck: and got away.

The legions, even if they could be coaxed from home, were not mobile enough to cope with such tactics. But gradually, patiently, Ambrosius was remolding our remnant army. A new generation was growing up with little memory of Rome, contemptuous of its now ineffectual name, determined to preserve for themselves what country remained. Men like Geraint of Dyfneint in Cornwall, where his father Caradoc held some minor sway. The Dumnonii had little contact with Roman custom. This was evident in. Geraint, who could not wear military gear with any consistency.

At first sight he looked like a brigand interrupted halfway through the robbery of an officer: sky-blue cloak over a homespun yellow tunic and loose trousers tied at the ankle. To this was added a battered breastplate, cingutum and baldric from which hung a sword longer by a foot than my own.

Geraint's errand to us was simple and urgent. He was one of Ambrosius' new breed, given army status to form a squadron of horse from his own tribesmen that might eventually be built into a cohort. The men had their own land to look after, had not been paid and didn't trust Romans anyway, and couldn't be kept together at Neth Dun More without silver. Nonplussed by this sunburst apparition, our legate Trajanus passed Geraint along to a tribune with instructions to find an idle centurion, issue the necessary silver, let them escort this what's-his-name home and report on training progress.

The cavalry-mad Ambrosius might be interested. We would not even have a complement of men, but Bedivere and 1 were used to being homeless now and rather liked it. I waited for his salute. When it didn't come, there was nothing for me to do but sit down and look military. Don't like to leave home that much.

I've three months' service and have been told to provide my own gear and mounts, so I found what was available, and that's not much, and here I'm come on the simplest mission to your tribune, and he said to come straight to you, sir, and here I am. My aide, Bedivere ap Gryffyn. Bedivere, tell the kitchen we'll dine here tonight, the three of us.

Geraint folded down onto the stool with a weary exhalation.

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Mother of Jesus, I'll never learn it all. A first beard by the look of it. I made him a year or two younger than me. He appraised my uniform; this was my first official visit from a subordinate officer, and I gave thanks to the god of vanities that my tunic was fresh from washing and the phalerae of my breastplate was shined.

Geraint took it in with a sigh before turning to business. It means foreigners. Foreigners in our own country, look you. That's how Mother of God sure they are it will all be theirs someday. I've seen them come, I've seen what they leave behind. And here's myself with only a few good men to guard poor Neth and unpaid at that, sowith one coil and another to make life hard, and since I'll never remember the ranks and titlesdo you suppose I might. He was a king's son, voluble, serious, passionate, his acquaintance with table manners as vague as his notion of military courtesy. The food was slung rapidly in the approximate direction of his mouth, bones and scraps more or less toward his plate.

But he had ideas and opinions akin to mine. We believed in the future of cavalry and wanned to each other through the bond of arrogant youth. We would overhaul the army, bring the cavalry to the fore. We would change the world and even dazzle it, given the chance. The wine went round and round between us. We agreed with Geraint's basic complaint: he wanted his cavalry attached to no legion, free to move on their own.

As he spoke of this, pounding the table for emphasis, I heard again the ghost of shrewd old Vortigern, saw behind my eyes the fleeting glimpse of the golden king coming out of the west. A force to move swiftly when they must. We shouted at each other, proposing, counterproposing, opinions breaking across one another like waves in a crosscurrent, but we knew one truth for sure.

The Saxon would meet his match one day when Britain could field a force to match their swift-raiding keels. When you command for the king, when you become Count of Britain, put Geraint at the head of your horseah dear, yes, let me do it, and I'll give you deeds to sing about! Brother Coel. Just thinking, dreaming, an old man's privilege. Those were the good times, so young, so long ago. They did come to sing about him, you know.

Oh, yes. And he never did learn to salute. We three were so unimportant the quartermaster stowed us on a merchant vessel bound out of the Severn for Irish ports. The master took half an hour to put us ashore at the mouth of the Lyn. From there it was an easy two days to Neth Dun More, keeping the sea in view all the way. I'd never seen the country of the far Dumnonii: wild, stark cliffs clawed out by the restless sea, occasional monks' cells Merlin and a Sword 19 perched like lone gulls on bare promontories. Geraint's stronghold was a monastery far in decline when he commandeered it for service.

As we rode, he talked of his squadron, his family and his hopes. They were too far from Caerleon to expect timely help in the event of a sea raid, hence this clumsy start of a home force. His father, Caradoc, signed himself King of Dyfneint though the emperor insisted on referring to him as magistrate. Things were changing a crumb at a time. Even Kay was called prince by our own people now.

Geraint chattered on, a simple man displaying his accomplishments without false modesty, but I noticed his eyes were never long off the sea: all his life the Saxon had come from there. He learned of us, too. Unfortunately, the wrong things first. It led to a misunderstanding that might have become ugly. Bedivere and I were soldiers of some service by this time, shuttling from camp to camp as couriers, barracks-rowdy, familiar with every army brothel between Bath and Eburacum, They were few now, but how often had we awakened groaning with full heads and empty purses next to two beasts whose names we couldn't remember.

And laughed and gotten up to ride all day, knowing we would feel fit as ever by noon. You have to be very young for that. Young enough to stand it, green enough to call it pleasure. I grew up among men, without a sister. Woman's honor was something vaguely connected with Flavia. All others were fair game. Sometimes in wine or a. Then she was gone, and the woman would see the drunken puzzlement in my eyes and laugh: "You're stone mad, Artos.

My soul was never my own. The girl and all of them were part of the tomorrows Merlin put in my head. Bedivere and 1 knew few such shadows in our morning sun. We sang more than we thought. No sweeter voice than Bediyere's was raised in the west of Britain, nor was my own so bad, a little deeper, though not as pure. We tossed the songs between us like Merlin's juggling balls, army songs that jingled like saddle gear and shortened the miles. You wouldn't trot them out before a well-bom woman, but we hardly expected Geraint to take offense.

Our favorite ditty was "Good-bye to the Ninth," about a 20 Firelord pliant lass who loved the whole outbound legion and undertook to say a bedridden farewell to the lot of them from legate to the last stone-slinger, with a verse for each. We'd worked our way down to the centurions when Geraint suddenly pulled his horse aside and trotted a few paces to the cliff edge.

When we joined him, he was red and rigid, staring out to sea. I thought he'd spied longships. You would sing such a song about her if you could. My father said it would be tike this. The army comes with its orders and money and whores, and will it not dirty us as it has all else? No one said a word about your sister. He drew the longsword. I was angry. No man likes to be called a pig for his mere laughter, but Geraint was a simple cut. Honor was a fragile thing to him. From somewhere inside, I dragged up the beginnings of humility and perhaps a little wisdom.

We apologize.

The Story of England: The End of the Saxon Kingdom | History Today

Well enough. It's just that. But you have schooled us. Let's ride on. Bedivere gave him a sour appraisal. Philip, Roman emp. See Apollo. Phocians, the, Pho'cis, Picts, the, , , Pilgrimage of Grace, Pindus Mountains, Piracy among the Greeks, Pirates, defeated by Pompey, , Pitt, William, the Elder, ; the Younger, Plague, the, in era of Justinian, ; in London, Plassey, battle of, Plato, , Plautus, Plevna, Pliny the Elder, ; the Younger, his correspondence with Trajan, , See Hades.

Poland, first partition of, ; second, ; third, , ; revolution in , , Pontifex Maximus, Pontiffs, college of, at Rome, Pontus, , n. Pope, Gregory VII. See Papacy. Gregory I. Popish Plot, Pompey, C. Neius, the Great, in Spain, ; defeats gladiators, , ; defeats pirates, , ; conducts the Mithridatic War, ; conquers Syria, ; his triumph, ; enters triumvirate, ; rivalry with Csesar, —; his death, Portugal, acquired by Philip II.

Poseidon po-si'don , Pragmatic sanction, Pretender, the Old, ; the Young, Pride's Purge, Printing in China, Proscriptions, under the second triumvirate, Protectorate, the English, , Protestation, the Great, See Reformation. Protestants, origin of name, Province, first Roman, Prussia, duchy of, , ; rise of, — Psalms, authorship of, 64, n. Public lands in Italy, , Punic War, first, —; second, —; third, — Puritan literature, Puritanism, its extreme severity, Puritans, origin of, Pyramid kings, Pyramids, the, 31, 32; battle of the, Que-bec, heights of, Ra, Races of mankind, 2; table of, 7.

Railroads, , Real presence. Reformation, beginnings of the, under Luther, —; progress of, checked, —; general results, , ; in England, —; in France, — Reform Bill of , —; of , , ; of , Reign of Terror, — See Italian Renaissance. Restitution, edict of, Restoration of the Stuarts, — Revenue, settlement of the, in reign of William III. Revival, age of, characteristics of the, Revival of learning, —; in England, , Revolution, American, ; influence of, upon France, ; English, —; of , in England, , , ; French — , —; German, of , ; of , , ; Hungarian, of , ; Italian, of , ; of , ; of , ; Polish, of —, , Rhodes, 88, 89, , n.

Richard I. Ridley, Rights, bill of, Rig-Veda, the, 9. Roderic, k. Roland, Madame, Roland, paladin, Rollo, Scandinavian chief, Roman citizenship extended to the Italian allies, ; extended to the provincials, Roman emperors, table of, Roman Empire, establishment of, ; extent of, under Augustus, , ; public sale of, ; divided into prefectures by Constantine the Great, ; final division of, ; in the East, , ; fall of, in the West, Roman Law, , ; revival of, in Middle Ages, Romance languages, formation of, Romance nations, Romans, religion of, —; sacred games of, ; social life among, —; education, ; the public amusements, ; the drama among, Romulus Augustus, last Roman emp.

Roses, Wars of the, , ; union of the, Rosetta Stone, Roundheads, origin of name, Royal touch, superstition of, , Rump Parliament, Runnymede, Russia, invasion of, by Darius I. Russo-Turkish War of —, ; of —, — Sadowa, battle of, , Sages, the Seven, Antony, Augustine, Bartholomew, massacre of, , Benedict, Boniface bo'ne'fass' , Francis, Jerome, John, knights of. See Hospitallers. Patrick, Petersburg, founding of, Samaria, 48, Samaritans, origin of, Samnite War, first, ; second, ; third, Samson, Samuel, judge of Israel, Saracens, conquests of, —; preserve Greek science, See Arabs , and Mohammed.

See Esarhaddon II. See Asshurbanipal. Sassanian monarchy, , n. Saul, k. See Anglo-Saxons. Invade Britain, ; subjugated by Charlemagne, Conversion of, Scholasticism, , Schoolmen, chief of the, Scipio, P. Cornelius Africanus , , Scipio, Publius Cornelius, , Scone, stone of, Scots, the, Scriptures, translated into the Gothic language, Sedgemoor, battle of, , n. Self-denying ordinance, in English civil war, Semitic peoples, 4.

See Hastings. Separatists, Sepoy Mutiny, , Serfs, ; under feudal system, ; emancipation of, in Russia, Servile Wars in Sicily, , , n. Servius Tullius, wall of, ; constitution of, See Rameses II. Set, Seven Weeks' War, Seven Years' War, , Seville sev'il , Seymour, Jane, Seymour, Lord Henry, Shakespeare, William, , n. See Sargon I. Sheba, q. Shepherd kings, the. See Hyksos. Ship-money, Sicily, island of, ; made a Roman province, ; made part of kingdom of Italy, , Sidney, Sir Philip, , n.

Sidon, Sinon, Skeptics, the, , Slavery, among the Greeks, 98, , ; among the Romans, , , Slavonians, See Gomates. Smith, Sir Sidney, Social life among the Romans, — Social War in Italy, , Solomon, k. Solon, laws and reforms of, — Sophia, electress of Hanover, Spain, conquest of, by Saracens, ; union of Castile and Aragon, ; conquest of Granada, ; the Inquisition in, ; Spanish colonization in the New World, ; ascendency of, under Charles V. Spanish Succession, war of the, , , Sparta, early history of, —; opposes the Athenian democracy, Spartan supremacy, , Spartans, the.

Spenser, Edmund, , n. Sphinx, great Egyptian, Spires, second diet of, Stamford Bridge, battle of, Star Chamber, the, , n.

A General History for Colleges and High Schools (Myers)/Index

Steamship, ocean, navigation, Stoics, the, , Stuart, house of. Stuart, Henry Lord Darnley , Stuart, Mary, , Suez Canal, , Sulla, fights under Marius in Africa, ; secures command of Mithridatic expedition, ; brings war to a close, , ; proscriptions of, , Supremacy, act of, , Supreme Being, worship of, set up by Robespierre, Swift, Jonathan, Swiss Guards, massacre of the, Syracuse, in, , Tabor, Mount, battle of, , n.

Tancred, , Tao, Tarquins, the, Rome under, ; expulsion from Rome, Te'ge-a, Telegraph, , Tell, William, Templars, order of the, origin, , n. Ten Thousand Greeks, the, expedition of, Ten Tribes, the, captivity of, Test Act, Tetzel, , Teutonic knights, order of, origin, Teutons, the, their character, , ; kingdoms established by, —; conversion of, —; fusion with the Latins, —; legislation of, ; ordeals among, , Theatre, the, among the Greeks, , Theatre of Dionysus, at Athens, Theban supremacy, — Thebes, in Egypt, 20; royal tombs at, Thebes, in Greece, 87; destroyed by Alexander, , Thespis, Thirty-nine articles, Thirty tyrants, Thirty Years' War, — Thrace, made part of the Persian Empire, 80; kingdom of, Tibenne Republic, established, ; abolished, Tigris, valley of the, Tilst, treaty of, Tobacco, introduced into England, Before pressed into political service, it was applied to the half-civilized natives of certain districts in Ireland.

Tory, origin of T. Tostig, Tournament, Tours toor , battle of, Tower of London, Towns, growth of, ; relations of, to the feudal lords, Trajan, Roman emp. Transmigration of souls, among the Brahmans, 10, 11; among the Egyptians, 30, Tribunes, Roman, , ; military tribunes, Triple Alliance, the, Trojan War, the, 94— Trouveurs, See Ilios.

Truceless War, the, True Cross, the, , Tudor, house of, England under, —; names of Tudor sovereigns, , n. Tuileries, palace of the, Tunis, , n. Turanian peoples, 2, 3. Turks, embrace Mohammedanism, ; the Seljuks, ; Ottoman T. See Russo-Turkish Wars. Tyburn, See Set. Tyrants, Greek, , no. Tyre, captured by Nebuchadnezzar, 59; history of, 70, 71; siege of, by Alexander, See Czar.

Related titles

Ulm Ger. See Odysseus. Uniformity, acts to secure, ; act of, , Union, Customs, Universities, in the Middle Ages, Valerian, Roman emp. Valmy, battle of, Orleans, house of, , n. Vandals, establish kingdom in North Africa, ; sack Rome, ; conversion of, Vendidad, the, Venice, takes part in the fourth crusade, ; general sketch of its history, , ; becomes part of the kingdom of Italy, Victor Emmanuel I. Victor Hugo, Vienna, congress of, , ; reorganization of Germany by, ; of Italy, Vineland, Virgil, Virginia, origin of name, Visigoths, the, , ; establish kingdom in Gaul and Spain, , Volscians, the, See Ghibellines.

See Vaudois. Waldo, Peter, , n. Wales, conquest of, Walsingham, Sir Francis, Walter the Penniless, Warsaw, grand duchy of, Waterloo, , See Guelphs. Wentworth, Thomas, , Wesley, John, , n. Western Empire Teutonic. See Charlemagne and the Holy Roman Empire. Whigs, origin of W.

Whitby, council of, Wilfred, William I. William III. See Orange, William of. Witan, the, Woden, Wolfe, Major-General, Wolseley, Lord, in Egypt, Wolsey, Cardinal, , Woman, social position of, among the Greeks, , Worms, diet of, , York, d. York, house of, , n. Zealand, , Zoroastrianism, 83, Public domain Public domain false false.

Categories : Pages with illegible text PD-old Hidden category: Subpages. Since Ireland is an island, it is therefore prone to external threats from all sides, approaching over the choppy waves, poised to undermine all that is Irish. This is one of the ways in which Yeats depicts Globalization. This Storm cannot be England and this change was not owing to the The Grove.

Unlike his younger colleague, J. Reviving myth in the minds of the Irish became the weapon by which, he thought, the Irish would be able to stand in the face of this storm because myth was their common heritage. II The Countess Cathleen introduces two demons in the guise of Eastern merchants who trade, rather than in land or produce, in human souls. The peasants are starving due to famine sweeping the land. Yeats, thus, is urging the people of Ireland not to sell their souls, thereby losing their cultural identity for the material trappings of modern civilization, a natural consequence of Globalization.

The character of Mary in The Countess Cathleen functions as the defender of Irish cultural identity when she resists temptation, and despite her efforts to convince her husband and son that no good can come of this trade with the strangers, she goes unheard and a number of peasants seal the deal with the merchants.

We now meet the Countess Cathleen, who represents the Irish elite, and by putting the solution into her hands, Yeats clearly indicates that any resistance of Globalization could only be fruitful if it were led by the Irish leadership of the country. The home and family are the cornerstone of traditional Irish life, and the focus on them here is no less than a call to preserve the Irish cultural identity. There is no immediate visual effect on the peasants that part with their souls, for they only lose them The Grove.

Rawashdeh when death comes to them naturally. Thus, we see that the demons albeit given the job of buying up souls for their Master, have no supernatural power in bringing about deaths of their clients. Again, Yeats employs supernatural characters who are rather impotent in their effect on the other characters and on the plot as well.

The unfriendly supernatural takes the shape of a female child who comes to the Bruin family home from the forest, deemed in Irish culture to be the dwelling- place of evil. However, like the two merchants in The Countess Cathleen , the child asks for a price in return for the new life she promises Mary. In reality, as the youth of Ireland are lured by the prospect of a better life offered by outsiders, the country loses its vitality, its ability to perpetuate its culture.

Seeing these supernatural creatures coming The Grove. Her death at that moment is supposed to be understood by the audience as an effect of the supernatural, that in order to be able to accompany the child she has to abandon her mortal body. But even with this supportive interpretation, the action of the supernatural does not mount to the expectations of the audience.

The child herself does not show, on the stage, any supernatural power or action that can be linked to the death of Mary. Thus, what she hears can easily be confuted as mere creation of her imagination. In Deirdre , Yeats makes the musicians his mouthpiece. They warn against the catastrophe, the destruction of the youth embodied in Deirdre and Noise at the hands of an evil power, embodied in Conchubar, the High King and his guards Globalization. In so doing, according to the musicians, they essentially give their lives away.

Rawashdeh power over. They are outsiders and their mission is to kill Naoise the youth of Ireland, the future of Ireland so that Conchubar can have Deirdre Ireland. The murder of Naoise, the young lover of Deirdre, leads to the destruction of Deirdre herself, who symbolizes here the free new Ireland Yeats had always longed for. None of the events of her life seem to have link with the supernatural. Yeats employs Fergus, the mediator between the King and Naoise, to cast an abnormal nature on her. Her discomfort is a feeling that any ordinary woman might feel if she were to meet the man she had once betrayed by eloping with another.

Yeats also tries to present Deirdre as a woman who can foresee things by interpreting natural phenomena. But her reading of nature does not live up to the expectations of the audience, for viewing the clouds as a bad omen does not reveal any supernatural attributes. Fergus easily refutes what she says as hallucination caused by the psychological problems brought about by the stories she has heard from the traveling minstrels.

Their mention may increase the ominous mood to some slight degree, but on a practical level, nothing is contributed on the stage. Yeats seems to have been determined to refer to Irish mythical characters whenever possible, whether their involvement had any bearing on the work in hand or not is immaterial. When she descends the chariot and enters the palace, she is fully aware that she is walking to her own demise, the fate she has already bewailed before the people of Mycenae.

Nevertheless, the hope of renewal and improvement is to be found in the prospect that the water of the well, said to be imbued with magical powers, may bubble up at any time. He can be seen as the defender of Ireland, patiently waiting by the well, faithful and constant in his faith that better things are to come. Contrastingly, the young Cuchulain, symbolizing the youth of Ireland, is easily lured away from the well.

He has come, like the Old The Grove. Rawashdeh Man, desiring to drink from the waters which will supposedly render him immortal. However, he misses his opportunity to drink when he chases the woman of the Sidhe, the unfriendly supernatural element of this drama. We may see the occasions when the water bubbles up as windows of opportunities for real progress in Ireland, but the Woman diverts the attention of those who wait. The Old Man is always overcome by sleep, whereas Cuchulain, being bolder and more vigorous, chooses to chase away the woman.

There is a feeling of threat from the Woman of the Sidhe Globalization but there is also an element of attraction in her for Cuchulain, who represents the youth of Ireland here. It is a play with great potential for supernatural action on the stage. The water of the well, as Cuchulain reveals, grants immortality to the one who drinks from it. It is not ordinary water; it transfers the natural into the domains of the supernatural, at least in one aspect— immortality.

But the power of this water is never brought into action because no mortal so far has been able to partake of it. This attribute of the water is never given the opportunity to appear, The Grove. Moreover, the dancers supposedly belong to the Sidhe, the underworld of faeries in Gaelic mythology.

The power of those creatures is brought into question when Cuchulain is not put to sudden sleep by the Woman of the Sidhe as the water bubbles up like the Old Man, just as the power of the Shape-Changers in The Green Helmet is put into question when king Conall says that he has killed hundreds of them even though they are referred to as so powerful supernatural creatures. None of these things happen to Cuchulain in this play per se.

Obviously, in so doing, Yeats has complicated things and asked for too much from his audience. On another lever, The Woman of the Sidhe, even though, referred to as a supernatural being, is reduced to an alluring object; her job is to lure people away from the well or lull them to sleep by her dance. She does not display any substantial supernatural action since her dance is not powerful enough to put Cuchulain to sleep. He relied on this assertion when he used Irish mythology as his vehicle for drawing the people of Ireland together to withstand the threat of Globalization.

Undoubtedly, Yeats was fascinated with ancient drama, for not only did he rewrite some of the Greek plays, but also adopted the Greek pattern of tragedy. In other words, his supernatural seems dysfunctional void of any supernatural manifestations or, at its best, limited to a momentary supernatural action.

His insistence on myth was, actually, more a question of imposing his taste on the Irish audiences rather than presenting these audiences with the material they liked and were interested in. The poverty-stricken people would certainly be more interested in plays that address their cause, their need for food and medication, than in myth and legends. For instance, a health report of shows that the number of those who died in Dublin because of health problems caused by poverty exceeded by far the number of those who died The Grove.

Rawashdeh because of violence Singleton On the literary level, Irish drama has found its way to other countries and captured the attention of non-Irish audiences and critics after abolishing the tiring inheritance of myth and national identity. The Poetry of W. New Jersey: Humanities Press, Brown, Terence. The Life of W. Yeats: A Critical Biography.

Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Inc. Cazdyn, Eric. Literary Reference Center. Clark, David R. Richard J. Connell, Liam. Deitz, Paula. Doggett, Rob. Ellman, Richard. Yeats: The Man and the Masks. Penguin Books: Published by the Penguin Group, Fricker, Karen and Brian Singleton. Flannery, James W. NewYork: Maclean-Hunter, Henn, T. Howard, Ben. Levine, Herbert J. Studies in Modern Literature.

Lonergan, Patrick. Maxwell, D. A Critical History of Modern Irish drama Cambridge: Cambridge UP, Rawashdeh Nathan, Leonard. New York: Colombia UP, Phelan, Mark. Richards, Shaun. Singleton, Brian. Smith, Stan. London: Macmillan, Standage, Tom. Taylor, Estella R. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, Taylor, Richard. Yeats Studies Series. Trotter, Mary. Modern Irish Theatre. Cambridge: Polity Press, Wallace, Clare.

Yeats, W. New York: The Macmillan Company, New York: Macmillan, SA A Fragmentation and collage not only subvert any expectation of total coherence or of a consistent lyrical subject, but also question the possibility of transmitting personal experience through language and distrust the authenticity of autobiographical representation.

Keywords: fragmentation, collage, experimental writing, lyrical subject, Hejinian. Instead My Life is a mutating product centered around the way life and practices of representing subjectivity change from moment to moment. Permanent constructedness. However, there is some overlap or temporal reversibility, references to later points in the life sometimes popping up before or beside references The Grove. Texto y vida se entrelazan y se construyen al mismo tiempo. It is a life lived within and of language that becomes the subject for My Life.

Utiliza los recuerdos de esa The Grove. Any photographer will tell you the same. Rather than extend her narrative from a single end, she has opened her text from within. Yet that was only a coincidence. The penny disk, the rarer dollar disk. Her hair is the color of a brass bedstead. We were The Grove. The old dirt road, broken into clods and gullies, or clods and ruts, over which I was walking under some noisy trees, had been reversed in the dark. And so I was returning.

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For such words present residences on a brown ground. A pause, a rose, something on paper. When I was a child, the mailman, Tommy, let us walk his route with him until we reached the busy streets, and then he sent us home, dragging the dog. Por otra parte, el efecto del collage en My Life despoja al texto de su profundidad. A kind of burbling in the waters of inspiration. Because of their recurrence, what had originally seemed merely details of atmosphere became, in time, thematic.

En este sentido, las palabras de la propia autora resultan sumamente esclarecedoras: The person is the described describer of what it knows by virtue of experience … The idea of the person enters poetics where art and reality, or intentionality and circumstance, meet. It is on the neurotic boundary between art and reality, between construction and experience, that the person or my person in writing exists. Bernstein, Charles.

Bruce Andrews y Charles Bernstein. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, Clark, Hillary. Copeland, Roger. Dissanayake, Ellen. What is Art For? Seattle: University of Washington Press, Dworkin, Craig Douglas. Edmond, Jacob. Hejinian, Lyn.

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My Life. Bob Perelman. Carbondale: Southern Illinois U P, Hinton, Laura y Cynthia Hogue. Laura Hinton y Laura Hogue. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, Lazer, Hank. Volume Two. Evanston, Ill. Marsh, Nicky. Olsen, Redell. Perloff, Marjorie. Writing Poetry in the Age of the Media. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, The uncanny, it argues, renders the everyday itself exotic because the foreign is embedded within the everyday, unlike the traditional exotic.

This spectral cosmopolitanism is not really an intellectual project but one of randomness and chance encounters. Keywords: David Mitchell, exoticism, uncanny, transnationalism, cosmopolitanism. Este cosmopolitanismo espectral no es en realidad un proyecto intelectual, sino uno de contingencia y de encuentros fortuitos. Would that constitute some kind of pan-orientalism, a globalized orientalism?

Exoticism results from the intrusion of the distant, the foreign in terms of space, culture and time into the present and the everyday. The exotic was at once fantasy and the historical response to otherness and difference Thus the exotic is primarily about the foreign, difference and the distant as these impinge upon a culture.

If we take the culture as the Self, the exotic is its Other. With globalization, the distant Other is no more distant. Beamed into drawing rooms, downloadable onto hand-held devices and consumed at eateries, the distant and different are commonplace. The exotic is consumed and encountered every day. Mitchell, however, refuses to simply situate the exotic at the peripheries of the known world as the traditional exotic always is.

Instead, the exotic constantly impinges upon, and intersects with, the everyday. The exotic manifests as the uncanny for, as we shall see, the uncanny is about the foreign as well. It The Grove. Nayar is when Mitchell proceeds to make the uncanny a cultural uncanny, in what approximates to the politics of the uncanny, that the text becomes something else altogether. Eventually the two combine to produce a spectral cosmopolitanism that is a posthuman vision about a new heuristic — of the interconnectedness of life and a sense of companion species.

This makes the uncanny a neighbor of the fantastic Tatar. Death, mourning and spectrality are precisely what make up the tale. What we can therefore suggest, immediately, is that the uncanny is a space of uncertain perceptions, of feelings Freud in fact opened his The Grove. It is a space of suspected secrets, of the familiar within the strange, of strained perceptions, of resemblances and doublings.

The foreign as uncanny could be dreamworlds or alternate realities, or even a cultural Other. This theme of lives being scripted by unknown people is something I shall return to later. The ghostly, the dream, the supernatural are not external, but central to the everyday. The uncanny resides at the heart of the everyday — the premise on which Ghostwritten works, but a theme visible in other texts as well. Eiji of course lives in two worlds — the concrete, real one, and his own fantasies and alternate worlds.

Two points need to be made here. Second, the alternate reality that Eiji occupies also changes in each of the eight parts of the novel part nine is blank, suggesting it is unwritten. But the uncanny is not just a ghosting or doubling: it is the persistence of dreams as foreign within the heart of the real. I propose that the uncanny is the recognition that the foreign, the alternate and alterity, occupy at least one corner of existence. I want to advance the argument that the perception of alternate realities, ghosts, doublings —the uncanny, in short— renders the self exotic to itself.

Software, alternate realities, dreams and video games become constitutive of the self. Indeed the self seems to be programmed by something other than it-self. Christopher Johnson has pointed to developments in engineering and techno-science that give us a technological uncanny. Feelings —affect— are manipulated by programs and codes. Or, stories. The world, whether real or generated by a computer program, or the immersive environment of a story, impinges on to the self, the self incorporates the world. The non-corpa, which occurs as a disembodied voice in one chapter of Ghostwritten and then a voice on the radio as well as an omniscient eye in the sky, is the ur-uncanny, if one wants to conceptualize it.

This is precisely what Mitchell explores. The cultural uncanny that generates the exotic in Mitchell is these ghostly presences intersecting with the everyday life of people. Berthold Schoene correctly points out that Mitchell imagine[s] globality by depicting worldwide human living in multifaceted, delicately entwined, serialized snapshots of the human condition, marked by global connectivity and virtual proximity as much as psychogeographical detachment and xenophobic segregation.

Nayar within other frames of reference. This implies a recontextualization in a wholly new context. In the age of globalization, the Other culture is not distanced or framed as singular. Mitchell does not posit pockets of Otherness, rather he shows how Otherness intersects with the global producing a new aesthetic. The exotic, in this reading, is the imagining of multiplicities all aligned along a continuum in a fetishizing of difference. That is, cosmopolitan thinking in Mitchell acknowledges and recognizes difference — a hallmark of the exotic — but does something more.

People Caspar and his Australian girlfriend Sherry meeting on trains, the fortuitous rescue of Marco by Mowleen from a certain road accident , a random military operation, and conspiracies bring people together. The transnational exotic is the process of random, nearly metaphysical, uncanny meetings through which Otherness enters the worlds of the characters. We are struck by the randomness of meetings, chance encounters and cultural negotiations in Ghostwritten. This transnational cosmopolitanism does not try to frame difference either. The exotic, as Christa Knellwolf has argued, is primarily about contexts: where is the object being observed located and from which vantage point is it being viewed?

This means, simply, that the different, the Other, is adjacent to the viewing point, even if this proximity is accidental. In other words, what I am proposing is that in the transnational exotic, the different is not out there, or unique: the difference is proximate with us. The uncanny is the presence of the Other in proximity producing a spectral cosmopolitanism. The transnational exotic is the accidental cosmopolitan, or more accurately, a spectral cosmopolitanism.

What connects them to each other? Not sheer caprice. Yet obviously most of them happen independently, without the actors being aware of each other or what the others are up to. The arbitrariness of their inclusion and juxtaposition … shows that the linkage between them is imagined.

There is no intellectual project here, neither for the characters nor for us. True, it is cosmopolitan in the sense there is no hierarchic organization or ranking of cultures in Mitchell. But suggesting that differences meet by accident rather than through agential effort is to show cosmopolitanism as a result of chaos rather than consciousness a defect somewhat remedied in The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

There is no attempt at a cosmopolitan outlook or attitude. The transnational exotic is this mosaic where cultures meet and separate, meet and separate, in an endless proliferation of uncanny accidental encounters. The contact zones are ephemeral. Thus, when Marco saves Mowleen from being hit by a cab, there is the ephemerality of an encounter, loaded with angst and sentiment, but nothing more. Mowleen proceeds to Ireland and her family, to be eventually taken away, under duress, by the American military to aid in their missile program, and Marco goes his way.

This is a theatrical strategy, where people run into each other, mysterious encounters bring people face-to-face with the cultural The Grove. Exoticism is the surprising conjunction of random elements, but does not approximate to a conscious, political cosmopolitanism.

Another interpretation of this play of exoticism is possible. Exoticism emerges, as commentators have noted, around times of cultural anxieties Gallini. By producing narratives where worlds, rather than stay apart, collide and intersect while preserving their differences, Mitchell generates an exoticism of chiasmatic encounters.

He does not propose assimilation, rather he suggests a mutuality of several streams running alongside each other, intersecting at points, and then diverging again. Mitchell does not suggest an assimilative apparatus of globalizing cultures which Huggan sees as generating the postcolonial exotic, Rather he sees exoticism as the inevitable product of the supernatural, metaphysical cultural economy.

What we do not see in Mitchell is the spectacle of differences retained in their pristine uniqueness. What we see is a spectacularization of intersecting differences, an exoticism of rhizomatic connections. Unlike the routine exoticism of the global north, there is no emphasis on marginality.

Spectral The Grove. Nayar cosmopolitanism is the strange, ghostly and inexplicable connections that constitute everyday life in a spectral globality or is it a globalization of the spectral? Spectral cosmopolitanism does not always entail a knowledge of the other. The uncanny is itself about a crisis of perception, an epistemological uncertainty, as every single commentator on the uncanny has pointed out.

It is in these uncertain, unstable uncanny encounters with the Other that the spectral cosmopolitanism emerges. It is between nature and culture, governed by laws we do not understand the uncanny is adjacent to the fantastic. Our lives ghostwritten by somebody else, somebody we might never meet, gives us a cosmopolitanism that is at once felt but not knowable.

Thus to behold a species is to respond with respect, to acknowledge that this Other is a part of us. This in no way negates the Other, neither does it assimilate the other. We become cultural and individual companion species, adjacent to, constitutive of the Others. This itself becomes a response to globalization. The world evolves in a symbiogenesis, in unexpected, uncanny ways because of these random, metaphysical connections.

Minnesota University Press in has launched a new series, Posthumanities. Rather than simply reproducing established forms and methods of disciplinary knowledge, posthumanists confront how changes in society and culture require that scholars rethink what they do—theoretically, methodologically, and ethically. In human and social geography in the age of globalization and electronic linkages we see a similar trend, as posthumanism speaks of the interconnectedness of human-non-human linkages. In Ghostwritten several tragedies, for example, are connected: the Aum sect killer, Neal, the old woman in Mongolia, her niece in Hong Kong.

Cavendish is also the guy who publishes the writings of Serendipity, the cult leader. The subway gas attack is engineered by this cult. Mitchell thus proposes an exoticism of connections, not of separations. In a sense, therefore, Mitchell is offering a new form of globalism, where fate and tragedy link all of us. Nayar cosmopolitanism is the cultural arm of this globalization.

Exoticism works with fragmentation and dismemberment, where fragments of a culture, or particular objects, are synecdochic of a culture as a whole Fosdick That Mitchell chooses to show this via the metaphysical-supernatural is a different matter. Perhaps the uncanny is a descriptor of all contemporary lives, as companion species, in the world of spectral cosmopolitanism. London: Verso, Barringer, Tim and Tom Flynn, eds. London and New York: Routledge, Butler, Judith. Pheng, Cheah. Fosdick, Charles. Freud, Sigmund.

Collected Papers. Joan Riviere. Gallini, Clara. Iain Chambers and L. London: Routledge, Giblett, Rodney James. Postmodern Wetlands: Culture, History, Ecology. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, Hagen, Benjamin D. When Species Meet. Minnesota and London: U of Minneapolis P, Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. Huggan, Graham. The Postcolonial Exotic: Marketing the Margins. Iyer, Pico. London: Bloomsbury, Johnson, Christopher. Knellwolf, Christa. Mitchell, David. London: Hodder and Stoughton, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

Nayar, Pramod K. March Postcolonialism: A Guide for the Perplexed. London and New York: Continuum, Panelli, Ruth. Punter, David. Rousseau, G. S and Roy Porter. Manchester: Manchester UP, Royle, Nicholas. The Uncanny. Schoene, Berthold. Smith, Alan Lloyd. Tatar, Maria M. Tomlinson, John. Globalization and Culture. Chicago: U of Chicago P, Nayar Varela, F. Francisco, J. Evan Thompson and Eleonor Rosch. Cambridge: MIT, Weber, Samuel. El paisaje resulta ser un tropo apropiado para examinar distintos estratos The Grove. Yet for the faithful reader of her poetry, coming across terms associated with land is commonplace: territory, journey, land, place, ground, map, or cartography sound familiar soon.

Long in the past remains the criticism made to her poetry based on the idea that certain topics should never inhabit the high place of poetry. This goal is accomplished through her employment of domestic and suburban images. Yeats and other contemporary male poets, yet the lack of an aesthetic place where to stand as a woman and a poet. Due to the absence of female models within the received heritage, Boland quenched her thirst for aesthetic guides in other traditions and turned to Sappho, Anna Akhmatova, Adrienne Rich, Elizabeth Bishop and Sylvia Plath as literary guides which helped her in her distinct blending of public and private spheres.

However, Boland did not claim ownership of foremothers in the Irish literary tradition. Against Love Poetry exhibits the multifold nature of human relationships spanning from romantic love to lasting spiritual friendship. The overall tone of the collection is that of celebration: the volume is devoted to her husband Kevin Casey. Boland understands that the female scientist is also a poet because of her ability to re-create reality with another language, an alternative code.

The Irish poet successfully portrays lovers, husbands and wives throughout the lifetime of their marriages. I have loved you deeply from that moment to this. I have loved other things as well. Why do I put these words side by side? Because I am a woman. Because marriage is not freedom. Therefore, every word here is written 9 The title coincides only with the American edition of the volume, published by W.