Showing papers in "Modern Language Quarterly in 2000"

The Slaughterhouse of Literature

Abstract: Let me begin with a few titles: Arabian Tales, Aylmers, Annaline, Alicia de Lacey, Albigenses, Augustus and Adelina, Albert, Adventures of a Guinea, Abbess of Valiera, Ariel, Almacks, Adventures of Seven Shillings, Abbess, Arlington, Adelaide, Aretas, Abdallah the Moor, Anne Grey, Andrew the Savoyard, Agatha, Agnes de Monsfoldt, Anastasius, Anzoletto Ladoski, Arabian Nights, Adventures of a French Sarjeant, Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew, A Commissioner, Avondale Priory, Abduction, Accusing Spirit, Arward the Red Chieftain, Agnes de Courcy, An Old Friend, Annals of the Parish, Alice Grey, Astrologer, An Old Family Legend, Anna, Banditt’s Bride, Bridal of Donnamore, Borderers, Beggar Girl . . . It was the first page of an 1845 catalog: Columbell’s circulating library, in Derby: a small collection, of the kind that wanted only successful books. But today, only a couple of titles still ring familiar. The others, nothing. Gone. The history of the world is the slaughterhouse of the world, reads a famous Hegelian aphorism; and of literature. The majority of books disappear forever—and “majority” actually misses the point: if we set today’s canon of nineteenth-century British novels at two hundred titles (which is a very high figure), they would still be only about 0.5 percent of all published novels. And the other 99.5 percent? This is the question behind this article, and behind the larger idea of literary history that is now taking shape in the work of several critics—most recently Sylvie Thorel-Cailleteau, Katie Trumpener, and Margaret Cohen. The difference is that, for me, the aim is not so much a change in the canon—the discovery of precursors to the canon or alternatives to it, to be restored to a

A History of the Modern Fact: Problems of Knowledge in the Sciences of Wealth and Society (review)

Abstract: Readers of Mary Poovey’s work are well acquainted with her highly sophisticated arguments about late-eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century literature in which a Foucauldian form of intellectual history merges with literary analysis. In A History of the Modern Fact Poovey stretches her chronological range back to sixteenth-century double-entry bookkeeping and finishes in the middle of the nineteenth century with a fascinating study of Herschel’s and Mill’s philosophies of science. The premise of her argument requires a potentially vast span of reference to different “knowledge-producKroll ❙ Review 551

Form and Contentment

Abstract: polemic: [Gr. war] A. adj. of or pertaining to controversy; controversial; disputatious B. sb. 1. A controversial argument or discussion; argumentation against some opinion, doctrine, etc.; aggressive controversy; in pl. the practice of this, especially as a method of conducting theological controversy; opposed to irenics. 1638 Drumm. of Hawth. Irene Wks. (1711) 172 Unhappy we, amidst our many and diverse contentions, furious polemicks, endless variances, . . . debates and quarrels! —Oxford English Dictionary

Formalism and Time

Abstract: The most prominent generic features of the novel have received remarkably little systematic attention in our criticism. “A lengthy fictional prose narrative”: that is the definition of the novel I learned in high school, and I am still mulling over each one of its terms. In Nobody’s Story I tried explicating as well as historicizing fictional, and I have recently been pondering lengthy, the most thoroughly neglected word in the definition. Length has generally been treated by theorists of narrative under the headings of time, temporality, and duration, and a cursory survey of these analyses reveals numerous ways of rendering sequence simultaneous. For example, Mieke Bal, in considering the relation between the time of an element of a fabula and the time of its narration, argues that we should examine only the relative patterning: “The attention paid to the various elements gives us a picture of the vision on the fabula which is being communicated to the reader.”1 Since the relation of parts to each other is the relevant question, the length of the novel ceases to count; the internal pattern of The Last Chronicle of Barsetshire may be set down as concisely as that of The Turn of the Screw. Nothing in this sort of temporal analysis would help us develop a concept of length. Bal’s procedure is typical of narratologists, whose fondness for graphs and charts is notorious. One, for example, graphs the rhythm of long stretches of narrative time; another pictures successive ideological choices as the corners of a single box; yet another compresses the infinite variety of agents and acts that might be encountered over

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Reinterpreting Formalism and the Country House Poem

Abstract: In the current critical climate, many scholars are far more comfortable detailing their sexual histories in print than confessing to an interest in literary form. Indeed, in such circles the study of form is regarded as the irascible father who, unlike the obediently cheerful guests in the country house poems I will examine shortly, shows up uninvited at dinner parties at his children’s newly and proudly built poststructuralist house. After insisting that they replace Gehry’s dramatic entranceway of diagonal strips of sharp glass with some of those nice Corinthian columns, he attempts to dominate the dinner conversation with his unenlightening but unmistakably Enlightened pronouncements on Truth and Beauty despite—and, more to the point, because of—everyone else’s desire to talk about those subjects once unmentionable at dinner parties: sex, religion, and of course, above all, politics. Even more striking than the virulence formalism often evokes are the inconsistency and even illogicality that that subject engenders in any number of otherwise acute academics. Ralph Cohen has flagged the irony of poststructuralist critics who dismiss genre nonetheless writing on it; similarly, as John Guillory observes, many Marxist critics assume the incompatibility of aesthetics with their enterprise despite considerable evidence to the contrary in the writings of Marx and

Formalism and History: Binarism and the Anglophone Couplet

Abstract: Negotiating Plato is probably still the single highest intellectual hurdle for any attempt to study form in historicist terms. But there are other difficulties as well, some of them just as stubborn if not so ancient and venerable. And they are harder to discover and name, for they arise out of more recent critical controversies and methodological directions that are not yet fully played out, and they act more like shadows and ghosts than challenges. The legacy of the generationold—but deep and lingering—revulsion against formalism means, for example, that the teaching of elemental prosodic skills has almost disappeared from the curriculum, leaving students with less knowledge than they need (and now want) to address basic formal questions in an informed and practiced way. Closely related is the tendency, still prevalent despite the theoretical and historical sophistication of recent versions of formalism, to regard formal work as somehow reactionary and politically or ideologically suspect. The simplest manifestation of this tendency is relatively benign: ignoring or dismissing any kind of formal analysis as irrelevant to contextual, historical, or cultural issues. More insidious is the habitual assumption that formal strategies do have implications but that what they mean is always rigid, cumbersome, and bad—that form determines content and deters, discourages, or even prevents thinking beyond its repressive governing limits.1 Because, according to this view,

Everybody Hates Kant: Blakean Formalism and the Symmetries of Laura Moriarty

Abstract: E verybody Hates Kant would do pretty good service as a title under which to organize diverse literary-critical controversies of the last few decades. At issue are canonical practices and doctrines that since Romanticism have regularly been associated with Kant, Kantianism, and, especially, the Kantian aesthetic. When insurgent critique— whether focusing on art, criticism, or theory—has approached nineteenthand twentieth-century texts and contexts, “Kantian aesthetics” has been mapped onto, been seen to generate, or simply been made coterminous with that baleful phenomenon, formalism. In more explicitly political terminology, the phenomenon has also been well known as bourgeois formalism, a term whose presumed internal redundancy has been mobilized to stress formalism’s ostensible allegiance. Beginning in the 1970s, versions of this last usage have been powerfully adumbrated as the now familiar “critique of aesthetic [or Romantic, or modernist] ideology,” a critique whose vocabulary and syntax stem from Marxism, although the critique also appears in a cluster of methodologies increasingly classified as post-Marxist. Schematically, the critique goes something like this: At a foundational moment for modern-bourgeois, desocialized “representationalist” ideologies of aesthetics, ethics, and politics, Kant’s third Critique and the art contemporaneous with it establish an

The Foreign Offices of British Fiction

Abstract: This essay sets itself two interlocked tasks, at cross-purposes only if we settle for business as usual. It attempts, first, to resuscitate the formalist mandate in the study of prose fiction and, second, to test it out on one of those burgeoning subfields of cultural criticism, colonial and postcolonial literary studies, where such formalism, to judge from current practice, seems far from urgent when not downright suspect. This second effort is less perverse than corrective. The formalist imperative is to read, to read what is written as a form (and formation) of meaning, both authorially designed and culturally inferred.1 The nationalist and imperialist bias of classic narrative is now widely assumed, but what shape might be assumed in turn by the local linguistic forms of this bias? How might a recommitted formalism demonstrate not only form’s configuring access to the cultural terms of literary production but its now strategic, now unconscious reprocessing of such idées reçues? Seen in this way, formalism is an account of what makes things work, or what makes out of language a work. For those interested in the cultural labor performed by literature, what could be more useful even now? Toward this redirected task of interpretation, a bridge needs to be built—and more two-way transit encouraged—between an intertextual semiotics of absent causes and a structuralist Marxism of underlying historical determinants. To name names, as they never do each other’s: between Michael Riffaterre and Fredric Jameson, our

Jazz, Realism, and the Modernist Lyric: The Poetry of Langston Hughes

Abstract: In 1940 Richard Wright, praising Langston Hughes’s contribution to the development of modern American literature, observed that Hughes’s “realistic position” had become the “dominant outlook of all those Negro writers who have something to say.”1 Nineteen years later James Baldwin faulted Hughes for failing to follow through consistently on the artistic premises laid out in his early verse. The problem with his unsuccessful poems, Baldwin said, was that they “take refuge, finally, in a fake simplicity in order to avoid the very difficult simplicity of experience.” In succumbing to the idiomatic demands of a sociological perspective— the pressure, that is, to “hold the experience outside him”—they did not fulfill an essential criterion of Baldwin’s realism, namely, the evocation of a point of view that stands “within the experience and outside it at the same time.” To argue his point, Baldwin cited the last line of a jazz poem by Hughes called “Dream Boogie,” which first appeared as part of Montage of a Dream Deferred in 1951. “Hughes,” said Baldwin, “knows the bitter truth behind these hieroglyphics, what they are designed to protect, what they are designed to convey. But he has not forced them into the realm of art where their meaning would become clear and overwhelming. ‘Hey, pop! / Re-bop! / Mop!’ conveys much more on Lenox Avenue than it does in this book, which is not the way it ought to be.”2

"Among Unequals What Society": Paradise Lost and the Forms of Intimacy

Abstract: Explaining the One and the many never did run smooth. In poetics as in metaphysics, representations of plurality proceeding from, participating in, or returning to a unifying Principle often place us between competing forces—a unified, absolute, ineffable Source and a fecund, various creation—that require trajectories of understanding more oblique than those of ascending ladders and spiritual circuits.1 Paradise Lost broods over this relation thematically and thematizes it formally. If for some readers the epic achieves a rare harmony, affirming “change, variety, movement, the mark of vitality and joy” through “an all-embracing order which proceeds from God,” for others the prospect of an “illimitable universe” within a “perfection of form” only restates the problem whenever we try to specify that perfection.2 The problem is reflected in equivocations about form itself, which promises an ascent from multiplicity to archetype while serving, for Milton and others, as the ground of individuation, “the source of all

Aesthetic Imperialism: Literature and the Conquest of India

Abstract: In splendour London now eclipses Rome . . . and in similar respects, Calcutta rivals the head of empire. But in no respect can she appear so eminently so, as in her publications. . . . If in Europe, the number of publications gives the ground to ratiocinate the learning and refinement of particular cities, we may place Calcutta in rank above Vienna, Copenhagen, Petersburg, Madrid, Venice, Turin, Naples or even Rome.—William Dune, The World (Calcutta), October 1791

Twentieth-Century Scholarship and the Eighteenth-Century Canon

Abstract: The “canon” and its conception, care, and feeding have concerned students of eighteenth-century literature for at least the last decade. Such concerns have spawned books, articles, conferences, journal issues, forums, dissertations, heat and, sometimes, light. Where did “the canon” come from? When did it begin? Who made it? What were the criteria for inclusion? Were there competing canons? Was it or were they variously political? Biased? Male, female, right, wrong, all of the above, or whatever? If the answers are neither consistent nor universally compelling they nonetheless respond to valuable questions. Two substantial books are among the recent contributions to this effort, each laudably conceived with the common denominator in its title: Jonathan Brody Kramnick’s Making the English Canon: Print-Capitalism and the Cultural Past, 1700–1770 and Trevor Ross’s Making of the English Literary Canon: From the Middle Ages to the Late Eighteenth Century. I discuss each book, move to some implications for contemporary scholarship, and conclude with some of my own views regarding the eighteenth-century canon. Along the way, I suggest how the ignored works of Alexander Thomson can help us to understand that canon.

Books in Space and Time: Bibliomania and Early Modern Histories of Learning and "Literature" in France

Abstract: Early modern histories of learning and belles-lettres took authors, works, and (sometimes) editions as their objects. By contrast, bibliomaniacs craved objects that were far more particular: individual copies of books (or else specific manuscripts). My aim is to investigate the relationship between these two apparently disparate forms of early modern interest in the book production of the past: bibliomania and, on the other hand, histories of learning and belles-lettres. Bibliomania began to be identified as a phenomenon in France in the second half of the seventeenth century. It spectacularly inflated the prices of livres rares et curieux on the Paris market throughout the eighteenth century, especially from about 1720, by which time it had also become prominent in England and the Low Countries.1 Isaac Dis-

Hating and Loving Aesthetic Formalism: Some Reasons

Abstract: The present essay starts from deeply felt concerns and deals with matters that are of the highest importance not only for the profession of humane studies but for human self-understanding in general. It tries to draw the reader’s attention to gaping rifts in the studium generale, to define oppositions, and—in a way that may be less than usual—to take sides and vindicate one set of propositions against the other. This “judgmental” kind of argument has been imposed on me by the very state of affairs in the surrounding intellectual world: the open displeasure with and condemnation of aesthetic form, of the beautiful, seem to me frequent and categorical and deserve a forthright answer. A similarly clear-cut response should be given to widely expressed prejudices and severities. The discussion can start from a few specific questions: Why is René Girard the enemy of literary critics (even before he loudly declares himself to be)?1 Why is an innocent and peaceful scholar like the late René Wellek nowadays the object of such widespread adversariness (as he was in the last years of his life)? Why is a movement like “New Criticism” (as serene, quiet, and centrist as one could imagine) perceived as a dangerous foe by so many critical

Broaching a Cultural Logic of Modernity

Abstract: Grand narratives” are now out and “local knowledge,” in. All to the good; but if we’ve lost the Eden where the world’s narrative rivers converge, can our cultural history—our literary history—do more than record labors and deaths within a diaspora? Here is a different proposal that lies between grand narrative and local chronicle: that cultural change takes place around a self-reflexive narrative that typically embodies an agenda, an immanent logic, a research program, or a set of problems and rules. Such a narrative, produced by a logic, gives reasons and fixes the criteria that any option for change must meet. Except in times of current crisis—times when war, plague, dearth, and death ride high—cultural change largely results from how situated humans choose amid contingency. The choices needn’t, of course, be conscious, for it’s in coping with a lifeworld, coordinating actions, and realizing interests that human agents produce them. Since world and interests rarely change wholesale, the logic ensures a sequence of motivated structural transformations. These are monitored. Contingency and human limits mean that if the motives produce the desired results, they rarely produce only those; and what they do produce infiltrates the lifeworld with which we then must continue to cope in accord with our logic. Let me try to make a prima facie showing for this narrative proposal. I’ll focus on the term “Modernity” as a practice-based label. No term so clearly assumes ongoing change: nothing can be modern without change. Yet as a term of art, “Modernity” has splintered into a caucus of mobile meanings. Most writers now, I think, treat Modernity as an entity, for “a substantive makes us look for a thing that corresponds

Ancients and Moderns in Mrs. Dalloway

Abstract: When Virginia Woolf titled the second essay in her 1925 Common Reader “On Not Knowing Greek,” she was being ironic. The irony should be especially apparent to us, if only because Woolf knew Greek well by today’s standards: reading a couple of hours each morning, she could finish a play of Sophocles in a week. As the essay’s occasional lines of untranslated Greek indicate, Woolf had and expected her common reader to have some acquaintance with the language. She tempts us to read “On Not Knowing Greek” as an authorial confession, or as the remarks of an author speaking for a general readership, to make her opening point more forceful: “For it is vain and foolish to talk of knowing Greek.”1 Her title ultimately applies not to her, not to the general reader, but to the reader in general: nobody really knows Greek, and our ideas about Greek literature are inevitably somewhat fictional. In other words, our modern views of the ancients may say more about us than about them. If the irony of “On Not Knowing Greek” is lost on us, it may be because our views of Woolf say more about us than we acknowledge. As recently as 1996 a prominent critic could comment on some remarks of Woolf by reminding the reader, “She does not know Greek, has never been to a university, may not walk on Trinity’s lawn, or enter the Wren Library.”2 The staccato rhythm of this list suggests that Woolf did not know Greek in the same unambiguous way that she did not study at a

Shakespeare's Guilt Trip in Henry V

Abstract: To know the author,” cries a father over his mysteriously murdered son in The Spanish Tragedy, “were some ease of grief.”1 Hieronimo’s plaint might speak today for a scholarship often eluded by the decentered authors of early modern plays, collaborative texts that “began as productions in the theatre, where their writers were not known, and many of them first appeared in print without ascription of authorship (or anonymity); they are thus ‘pre-anonymous’—that is, ‘anonymous’ only in a sense that existed before the word itself emerged with the author to describe their condition.”2 To understand authorial identification as a form of interpretive satisfaction or “ease” is to conceive an existence through the perception of a lack: “The author’s emergence is marked by the notice of its absence” (362). By equating author with murderer, however, Hieronimo does more than indicate a nascent desire for authorship and an attendant frustra-

Paradoxical Relations: Bakhtin and Modernism

Abstract: The speaking subjects of high, proclamatory genres—of priests, prophets, preachers, judges, leaders, patriarchal fathers, and so forth—have departed this life. They have all been replaced by the writer, simply the writer, who has fallen heir to their styles. He either stylizes them (i.e., assumes the guise of a prophet, a preacher, and so forth) or parodies them (to one degree or another). He must develop his own style, the style of the writer. . . . Literature has been completely secularized. The novel, deprived of style and setting, is essentially not a genre; it must imitate (rehearse) some extraartistic genre: the everyday story, letters, diaries, and so forth.—M. M. Bakhtin, “From Notes Made in 1970–71”

Love and Politics in Wyndham Lewis's Snooty Baronet

Abstract: We tend to think of Wyndham Lewis as an artist preoccupied with art and sociopolitical reality at the expense of love or friendship. Whether in the novel Tarr (1918) or in his many interwar polemics concerning art, politics, and society, Lewis appears to typify the antihumanist brand of modernism that reduces love to sex in order to condemn it as a mistaken diversion of creative energies into life instead of art.1 Yet if we take seriously the dilemma Lewis articulates in a 6 April 1932 letter to his friend and staunch defender Roy Campbell on the subject of the novel Snooty Baronet (1932), a very different Lewis appears.2 Here the supposedly antihumanist novelist regrets killing off

Kant's Miltonic Test of Talent: The Presence of "When I Consider" in the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals

Abstract: In this essay I propose that Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals is extensively related to Milton’s sonnet on his talent and blindness, “When I Consider.” I am aware that my proposal of a significant relation between Kant’s thought in the Groundwork and a passage of seventeenth-century English verse may seem not only incredible or trivial but, much more offending, necessarily (in Kant’s terms) heteronomous to the autonomy that is the condition of the categorical imperative. I will try to suggest, however, that Kant’s relation to Milton’s performance provides Kant’s access to autonomy in the exercise of his “special talent” [besonderes Talent] for exemplarity, that is, for his particular “teaching” [Belehrung] of exemplarity in the categorical imperative (4:388–9).1 Kant’s teaching in and of autonomy thus represents

A Restoration Suetonius: A New Marvell Text?

Abstract: In 1672 there was published in London a new, anonymous translation of Suetonius’s History of the Twelve Caesars. The publisher was John Starkey, in whose bookshop were also advertised for sale at this time John Milton’s Paradise Regained (and Samson Agonistes), Accedence of Grammar, and Tetrachordon. Starkey would reissue the History in 1677, showing that there was a considerable market for such a work. His own career suggests that these items on his list were not entirely coincidental but instead early instances of a program of publishing the political thought of the Whigs and the views of religious Dissenters. Starkey, himself a Dissenter, was a member of the Green Ribbon Club, the most infamous (from a Tory perspective) of the political clubs of London that formed around Buckingham in 1675. In 1683, having participated at some level in the Rye House Plot against Charles II, he would flee to Amsterdam to avoid the consequences of having, in particular, reprinted Nathaniel Bacon’s antimonarchical Historical Discourse, not to return until after the Williamite Revolution.1 Suetonius had, of course, been translated before, in 1606 by Philemon Holland, and would be retranslated, “by several hands,” in a 1688 volume, reissued in 1698. In the later seventeenth century this classical text acquired much the same recycled value as did Tacitus toward the end of Elizabeth’s reign and Lucan just before and during the civil wars of the 1640s. With or without benefit of translation, Suetonius

Continental Drift: From National Characters to Virtual Subjects (review)

Abstract: Emily Apter’s Continental Drift contributes to the ongoing conversation about the future of French studies,1 whose center she shifts from the metropolis to the colonies. Against Derrida’s semiautobiographical remembrance of the sanctity of French in colonies thus made monolingual, she places what Sartre and Malraux, writing of Fanon and Picasso, named thénonité and yadtou, respectively.2 The first term refers to the colonial echo of the West’s ethnocentric prostration before the Parthenon as pure origin (Parthenon—thénonité); the second, to the reverberating sound of the universalist primitivist refrain indicating that “Negro art” represents everyone’s past: il y a de tout thus becomes yadtou. Both terms reveal accented speech. Derrida writes of his own shameful struggle to “purify” his French of, or perhaps to “white out” from it, the trace of a colonial accent, which confirms the power of Parisian academic French. Apter refers to this struggle for linguistic purity as a colonial affect that is the “psychic preservation of foreignness” (16). In contrast, the cosmopolitan Sartre and Malraux valorize differences of accent. But they do so at the expense of understanding the conflicted relationship to language that constitutes the colonial psyche. Apter’s use of thénonité and yadtou is not aimed (as Sartre’s, and to some extent Malraux’s, writings were) at introducing a colonial or postcolonial people to complacent Western readers, although she does find it necessary to summarize texts for her French studies audience, which may not have happened upon the material. Taking the psychological consequences of colonialism very seriously, Apter implores us to read the affect in the colonial echo. It is, she suggests, a way of accessing content and character of implied subject positions and thus of destabilizing an otherwise narcissis692 MLQ ❙ December 2000

Time-Fetishes: The Secret History of Eternal Recurrence (review)

Abstract: In Primal Scenes: Literature, Philosophy, Psychoanalysis (1986) Ned Lukacher drew a parallel between Freud’s concept of the traumatic primal scene and Heidegger’s account of Western metaphysics as a forgetting of Being. Moreover, Lukacher noticed that if one thought these very different primal scenes in relation to one another, one would immediately encounter the question of temporality that is fundamental to each. In Freud, of course, time is constitutive of trauma, since trauma works retroactively through time. But can the same be said of time in Heidegger? Time-Fetishes: The Secret History of Eternal Recurrence reconfirms that it can. Of course, those who abhor psychoanalytic readings of philosophy will probably take little interest in Lukacher’s project. But Lukacher has made a strong case for the idea that Western tradition is haunted by a trauma eternally acted out instead of worked through. Time-Fetishes further argues that the symptom of this acting out is the construction of a temporal fetish (or simulacrum) in the place where the trauma has been reencountered in the history of philosophy, literature, and the arts. 554 MLQ ❙ September 2000

The Work of Writing: Literature and Social Change in Britain, 1700-1830 (review)

Abstract: “History,” in the words of Michel de Certeau, “endlessly finds the present in its object and the past in its practice,” and therefore, as we know from the many recent accounts of the work of historicization, the writer of history should specify two places: the “present that is the place of practice” and the “past that is its object.” Fredric Jameson speaks similarly of the need to follow “the path of the object and the path of the subject, the historical origins of the things themselves and that more intangible historicity of the concepts and categories by which we attempt to understand those things.”1 The literary historicisms that have obeyed the Jamesonian injunction—“Always historicize!”—have been remarkably self-conscious, even self-confessional, as in prefaces and afterwords in which the self or subjectivity otherwise held in scare quotes returns full force in the voice and vivid situation of the historical critic. The Work of Writing, Clifford Siskin’s sequel to his important 1988 book, The Historicity of Romantic Discourse, is one of the most self-reflexive of all the new histories. Its references to late twentieth-century culture (bungee jumping, numerous Hollywood films) and anecdotes from the peculiar culture of academic literary business (conferences of the Modern Language Association, the North American Society for the Study of Romanticism, the American Society of Eighteenth-Century Studies) pepper the argument. Siskin’s critical motivation now is the proliferation of new technologies, including film and the Internet, that are disrupting the norms of print cul-