Bad Poetry Research Articles

English-Canadian Literary Anthologies: An Enumerative Bibliography by Robert Lecker

ESC 26, 2000 W hen McClelland stepped down as president in 1982, Mar­ garet Laurence (he was so proud of her achievement in The Diviners) cheered him with the reminder of his own achieve­ ments: Please do not ever underestimate what you have done in your years as a publisher, Jack. Damn near singlehandedly, you transformed the Canadian publishing scene from one of mediocrity and dullness to one of enormous interest and vi­ tality. Had it not been for M & S, I wonder if a whole lot of people such as myself, Mordecai, A1 Purdy, Farley, Pierre, Peggy Atwood, and on and on and on would have found the wide audience of readers that we have. I doubt it. (282) Amen to that! GEORGE L. PARKER / Royal Military College Robert Lecker. English-Canadian Literary Anthologies: An Enumerative Bibliography. Teeswater, ON: Reference Press, 1997. 209. $35.00 paper. O f the making of anthologies in Canada, there is, it would seem, no end. Robert Lecker’s bibliography is remarkable not least for its length, which suggests that the literary anthology is a major cultural form, not a minor one as we may have thought. His brief introduction is dominated by notions of Canada as a kind of textual construction: “Different anthologists working in the same era often construct Canada in very different ways.” “In an­ thologies of Canadian literature, canonical anxieties inform the representation of nation and necessarily affect the ways in which a reader understands the meaning of ‘country’ as a textually constructed idea” (vii). About these statements I have anxieties o f my own, one of which concerns the assumption that we can “construct” a Canadian nation out of English-Canadian culture alone. Lecker goes on to argue that a “history of Canadian lit­ erature organized in relation to anthology formation would be a record of successive attempts to negotiate between the need for a stable and cohesive vision of literary tradition and the desire 362 REVIEWS to destabilize such cohesion in the pursuit of literary forms and genres that challenge the values of literary inheritance” (viii). We may recognize T. S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent” in the background of this apparently post-modern for­ mulation. Unexpectedly, however, and perhaps unintentionally, this volume seems to imply that the whole notion of an EnglishCanadian literary canon, and possibly of English-Canadian cul­ ture itself, may be approaching a crisis. The bibliography itself is, like Caesar’s Gaul, divided into three parts: an alphabetical listing by editor (or title, where no editor can be determined), a listing by title, and a chronological listing. Finally, there is a “References Consulted.” The first of these has the complete information for each entry, and the other two must be used with reference to it. Most people will use this volume as a reference work, as indeed it was intended to be used, but there are some unexpected little pleasures to be gained in browsing through it, not the least of which is the occasional ti­ tle that demands attention by its very oddity: Worst Canadian Stories, for example, or The Second Charnel House Anthology of Bad Poetry (there is no corresponding first anthology); Not Unsaid, which promises a model, if not a stereotype, of Cana­ dian modesty and self-effacement; and When We Lie Together: Poems from Quebec and Poems by G. V. Downes, which, at the very least, may prompt reflections on two solitudes. Offering less pleasure are some mistakes, and in some cases it is hard to tell whether they are mistakes of transcription or whether they appeared in the original. Is the Lorrie Andersen who collaborated with Irene Aubrey and Louise McDiarmid in the editing of Storyteller’s Encore in 1984 (4) the same person as the Lori Anderson who collaborated with the same people on Storytellers’ Rendezvous in 1979 (2), and are those apostrophes in the right places? Is Arashido Press located in Rosetown (75) or Rosedale (85)? Did Eva Zaremba really edit Priviledge of Sex (86)? I am reasonably sure that Fred Manson and Fred Mason, who are listed on the same page as editors of different issues of Northern Ontario Anthology, are the same person (49), and...

A Love Affair with American Literature

prerequisites and gave me background information for seeing historical and critical analysis of the novels. I was sure that I could pass on my love of literature to my students so that they, too, would want to become English majors in college. We started the year with Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I remember one student telling me that the best part of the book was the poetry that Emmeline Grangerford wrote. I tried to explain to her that we weren't supposed to like it. Twain included it as a parody of bad poetry. Another student told me that he thought the Cliffs Notes made more sense than the book. Someone else pointed out that it was a waste of time reading any of it because I told them everything they needed to know each day in class. These comments came from students, who accepted what I said about the book, completed assignments, and accurately fed back the information on quizzes and tests. Close to Halloween, after spending about seven weeks on Huck Finn, we started Edgar Allan Poe and Washington Irving. I lectured to students on the characteristics of the romantic period and gothic style, how Irving was making a political statement in Rip Van Winkle, and I even played them a record of Basil Rathbone reading The Tell Tale Heart and The Raven. I turned the lights off for effect and sat down to listen. In spite of Basil Rathbone's dramatic interpretations, I felt myself nodding off. Walking around the classroom to wake myself up, I refused to admit that I, like my students, was bored and blamed my drowsiness on my late nights of writing lecture notes and grading papers. For six years I assigned students classic literature to read, wrote study questions, gave reading comprehension quizzes, assigned essay topics, and led class discussions to help my students love literature as I did. Rarely did students tell me they liked what we read, nor did they become engaged in discussions beyond answering the questions I asked. I was frustrated with their lack of interest and my growing sense of irrelevance. After all, what was the point of studying literature unless students had an interest in what they were reading beyond getting a good grade? During the eight years I spent at home with my two children, three events changed my views of teaching: My Thursday afternoon book club helped me experience quality contemporary literature and the joys of sharing with and learning from other readers; my involvement at my children's preschool helped me discover student-centered, active learn-

The Work of Poetry (review)

Reviewed by: The Work of Poetry Walter E. Broman The Work of Poetry, by John Hollander; xii & 368 pp. New York: Columbia University Press, 1997, $29.95. A recent article on political matters ends with the remark, “it is time for thinking, not poetry,” which strikes the familiar chord of the marginal status of poetry in American culture. Professor Hollander in this book attempts to counter this and other stupid clichés as “more truth than poetry” by showing that the work of poetry includes thought and truth and much more, and that it is vital to human life. Emerson’s pragmatism is a vital thread in the various essays that constitute this book: “. . . poetry always has to struggle to shake off the mold of institutionalization that threatens to cover and poison it” (p. 4). Poetry is the one truly free inquiry; it invites “imaginative and moral inquiry; raising questions about aspects of nature that never appeared to be there until they were strangely pointed out” (p. 7). It employs all the potential powers of language: “. . . it presents emblems to be read, and it presents the general enigma of emblems—of making sense of what we know we are amidst” (p. 57). It is involved in Emerson’s endlessly unfinished quest for truth. A reader thus begins this book with high anticipation only to founder on prose so clotted and brambly as to be almost unreadable. Even a patient and careful reader can scarcely negotiate this bewildering cascade of phrases, thorny syntax and parade of indigestible paragraphs. The reader works through dizzying shifts from Vaughan to Ashbery to W.C. Fields. This is prose where the sheer pressure of a huge amount of knowledge constantly derails the train of thought. The reader struggles to construe almost every phrase and to find some intelligible binding drift. Well, at least with such abundant knowledge Professor Hollander would not be enrolled among the English professors that Gore Vidal classifies as “silly-billies.” After rereading his poetry, one is forced to conclude that he is a much finer poet than a writer of prose. Besides hyperventilating erudition, another cause of this discursive disaster is that Professor Hollander is anxious to show in professional detail the [End Page 246] difference between genuine poetry and mere verse or what he calls “clunk.” He deplores the institutionalization of bad poetry in workshops and elsewhere. What he sees as a widespread lack of skill in the craft of poetry disposes him to delve into the minutia of prosody. After quoting from what seems a fairly simple poem, he remarks, “This poem, then, syllabic in scheme, is accentual-syllabic in instance, prominently rhymed aabccddcc, with the strophes linked by the b rhyme—and weakly enjambed” (p. 260). This is typical of what we find in his discussions of various poets. I was chagrined to discover myself reacting much as my students did whenever I ventured on prosody: wilting limbs, slack jaws, and glassy eyes. May Swenson turns up as a delightful rediscovery, but her Scandinavian directness of diction was whipped into a complicated froth. He can’t resist putting Geoffrey Hill’s “lines under microscopic poetic scrutiny” (p. 302). We appreciate that poetry does its work by employing a vast variety of the means inherent in language; semantic and emotional juice can even be derived from the small oddities of Swenson’s indentations. However, his arcane comments on the minute aspects of poetry tend to desiccate his claims as to the “uncanny rhetorical power” (p. 289) of Swenson’s “massive panoply.” The discussions too often do not connect with what is marvelous in reading Whitman or Frost or Rossetti. Professor Hollander sternly eliminates the didactic as the “work” of genuine poetry. “But if we do in fact need both poetry and rhetoric, we should not confuse their functions. Poems do not urge, or propound programs of deportment. . .” (p. 44). This is a proposition that I supposed was widely accepted by most literate persons—well, except for such as my elderly aunt who thinks of poetry as contributing to the perfectibility of man, and considers Polonius to be the best thing in Hamlet. In this book it is made clear...

Ulysses and the Temptation of Idleness: Thinking about Politics through Poetry

Editorials in rhyme may make bad poetry, but the poetic still talks to the political in challenging ways. This paper takes a Victorian classic, Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses , and explores its portrait of a tired and idle political leader, desperate for distraction. Tennyson's intentions are ambiguous, his message about aged leaders and power open to interpretation. His apparent warning about narcissists and power are provocative, but the poem might be valued more for its rhetoric than for its political import.

“Very bad poetry, Captain”: Shakespeare in Star Trek

“Very bad poetry, Captain”: Shakespeare in <i>Star Trek</i>

Come Back to Me My Language: Poetry and the West Indies by J. Edward Chamberlin

REVIEWS J. Edward Chamberlin, Come Back to Me My Language: Poetry and the West Indies (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1993). ix, 325. $19.99. Postcolonial criticism is bedeviled by the question of aesthetics. What de­ fines postcolonial literature is, by definition, where it is from. Aesthetic judgments are mistrusted because they are imported. The interest of post­ colonial literature lies not in the qualities it might share with other literatures but in the qualities that make it different. The postcolonial critic thus relin­ quishes the authority to make evaluative or normative judgments, yet lays claim to a great authority, one that allows the critic to stand outside and analyze the text in terms of ideology. J. Edward Chamberlin’s long-awaited book, a celebration of contempo­ rary West Indian poetry in English, is a return to poetics that places the poets above the critics. It is because the poetry of Walcott, Brathwaite, and Goodison has proven itself a world treasure that it can redeem a West In­ dian national identity, and, conversely, it is because West Indian poets have succeeded in forging a national identity that their poetry is a world treasure. Chamberlin compares the current outpouring of poetry in the West Indies to the Renaissance, when Europeans “both discovered and invented themselves as people for whom certain values and traditions were precious” (272). Like Northrop Frye, echoes of whose style occur throughout, Chamberlin shows great deference before the poets, who are superior souls with access to spiritual wells from which they nourish their community and all of us. Much recent criticism that calls itself postcolonial prescribes what authors should or should not do. Chamberlin believes that poets do what they have to do. The critic does not judge poetry; poetry judges him. This careful respect is combined with a magisterial address to readers: readers must read properly. This study might almost be subtitled “Anatomy of West Indian Litera­ ture.” Like Frye’s book, it is an introduction— Chamberlin does not offer sustained close readings, and he addresses readers who might not know that Anthony Trollope wrote novels and that Malcolm X was a black leader — but it is an introduction that can inspire all readers by the sweep of its scope and by its vision of poetry as a single enterprise in which all poets are engaged. West Indian poetry defines a space rather than a history. Although 95 a major emphasis of the book is on how West Indian poetry bears witness to a heritage of slavery, Chamberlin’s concern is not primarily historical. The poetry is not discussed in terms of precursors and competing schools, and there is little discussion of how the communal consciousness might have been expressed before the contemporary outpouring of poetry, whether orally or in music. The sources of West Indian poetry lie not in the past but in the depths of the human spirit. West Indian poetry is a totality rather than a field. Bad poetry is excluded as an oxymoron. And V.S. Naipul is exorcised because he is not engaged in the common project (indeed, the common project defines itself as an answer to his despairing statement that nothing was ever created in the West Indies). At the same time, Chamberlin draws on the Bible, English Renaissance and Romantic poetry, the American Renaissance, and contemporary verse from Canada, Northern Ireland, and northern England for his comparisons. West Indian poetry is thus situated in a world (or a sea) of literature; the tensions faced by West Indian poets are the tensions faced by all poets everywhere. Chamberlin’s tour of the crossroads of West Indian poetry is divided into chapters, but these are not defined by subject matter, are very wide-ranging, and all circle around the same central issues, like Odysseus ever-returning. West Indian poetry is nourished by the tensions raised by a series of di­ chotomies that are at once artificial, inescapable, and useful. These di­ chotomies include artifice and nature (the natural in poetry, of course, al­ ways a result of artifice); the familiar and the strange (but familiar to whom and strange to whom? asks Chamberlin); form and content; engagement and detachment; humour and heroism; particulars and...

An Ocean of Possibilities: From Lokadharmī to Nāṭyadharmī in a Kathakaḷi Santānagōpālam

The above paraphrase of a highly reflexive story about kathakali1 and its relationship to its audiences was told to me recently during an extended research trip to Kerala, India, by V. R. Prabodhachandran Nayar, a life-long appreciator of kathakali and Professor of Linguistics at University of Kerala. Sitting on veranda of his wife's family home on a quiet back alleyway in Thiruvananthapuram, capital city of Kerala, he spoke as we were at work translating Santanagopalam,2 a kathakali play text (attakatha, i.e. enacted story) by Mandavapalli Ittiraricha Menon (1 747-94). 3 To be sure, I had selected Santanagopalam for translation for all wrong literary reasons. As Prabodhachandran Nayar, linguist and appreciator of good Sanskrit and Malayalam poetry, explained, Santanagopalam simply isn't great poetry. There's too much repetition, and vocabulary is meager. In fact, Santanagopalam is such bad poetry that Prabodhachandran Nayar had never bothered to read a printed version of text before I convinced him to read it with me. As a text on page, Santanagopalam simply cannot compare to poetic richness and beauty of four formative kathakali texts (Baka Vadham, Kirmfra Vadham, Kalyana Saugandhikam, and Kalakeya Vadham) by Raja of Kottayam (c. 1645-17 16) or much heralded four-part version of Nala-Damayanti story by Unnayi Variyar (? 1675-717 16). Variyar's Naia Caritam in particular has been singled out as the

The Dangers of Gullible Reading: Narrative as Seduction in García Márquez' Love in the Time of Cholera

Gabriel García Márquez's Love in the Time of Cholera has frequently been read largely as a beautiful love story involving the lifelong fascination of Florentino Ariza with Fermina Daza and the eventual consummation of that fascination. Meanwhile, the text gains much of its energy from an opposition between the poetic romanticism of Ariza and the practical (though somewhat sinister) scientific thinking of Dr. Juvenal Urbino, Fermina's longtime husband. However, this opposition is not nearly as simple as it might appear, Ariza and Urbino being just as susceptible to the narrative of scientific progress as Ariza is to bad poetry, and Ariza being just as blind to the negative effects of his actions as is Urbino. Numerous elements of the text also militate against reading the book as a simple love story, though the text is clearly constructed to invite such readings. Love in the Time of Cholera invites, then undermines a number of reading strategies, thereby demonstrating the seductiveness of narrative in general and warning against gullibility in the reading of texts or of the world.

History, Differential Equations, and the Problem of Narration

The talk of engineers and the talk of historians connects in the way that metaphors connect with stories. Though both make use of both (because we cannot live otherwise in the world), engineers specialize in metaphors and historians in stories. In the abstract it is a matter of definitions. Take the essence of the metaphor to be comparison and the essence of the story to be time. (And let the definitions ride; they break down soon enough if they are wrong.) A comparison can be put as a law, such as that apples and the moon fall to earth or that imperial hubris usually gets punished. The moon is like an apple; Athens in the Peloponnesian War was like a proud man. A history, on the other hand, can be stated as a sequence of connected events. The moon was here on January 1, and therefore will be just so on April 2, eclipsing the sun; Athens overreached to Sicily in the sixteenth summer, and therefore only a few returned out of many. The engineer and historian do not deal in mere comparison or mere time, no more than poets or novelists do. Aimless comparison is bad poetry and bad engineering; one damned thing after another is bad fiction and bad history. The point is pointedness, which will vary with the purpose in mind. (The point, incidentally, need not be simple or realistic or of any other kind especially approved by the nineteenth century.) Comparing a pendulum to the wavering of the beloved's affection may have a point in a certain poem, but to have a point as engineering the pendulum needs to be compared with, say, an ideal falling body constrained by an ideal shaft. A bare chronology likewise makes no history, unless pointed by the context and the questions. The dated sequence of winning numbers on the Iowa lottery from 1987 to 1990 is a chronology, but can be read as history only in the imaginings of an numerologist. Metaphor and story, then, are two ways of arguing. Place pure metaphor at one end, containing no element of story, timeless as I have said. I shall compare thee to any old summer's day, not to the remarkable events of 21-28, 1595. At the other end place a mere listing of the events in order: May 23, midday, rough winds; at sunset, gold complexion dimmed. The two ends are linked by a theme. That is the first point here. A list of events in World War I or in the market for hogs is not much of a story; maybe it is not a story at all, a sheer chronicle. But when thematized -by God favors big battalions, for instance-the story can be told persuasively. Letting in a trace

The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck: Knowing the Mediocre and Teaching the Good

That mediocre poetry is poetry's worst friend becomes plainer to me each time I teach a class in verse literature. Friend because mediocrity remains for many the first door into art. For each reader attracted by Donne or Dickinson, the ears of fifty are turned by Tell me not in mournful numbers or boy stood on the burning deck. Worst for two reasons: readers may let their growth in poetry stop at boy stood on the burning deck; readers may, if not lured beyond, confuse the qualities of mediocre poetry for the qualities of great poetry and let a just but unarticulated dissatisfaction color further relationship with the art. Practically all the common objections to poetry-that it is sentimental, that it is wafty or effeminate, that it is irrelevant to the concerns of the contemporary world-are really objections to half poetry, to bad poetry, to poetry poorly taught or ignorantly read, to the mediocre. The only objection registered rightfully against the genuine as much as the mediocre is that it is difficult.

The 'Desert Places' in Edward Thomas's Poetry

This is a characteristic mood – some would say the characteristic mood of Edward Thomas's poetry. It varies in intensity of expression, ranging from a diffused brooding sadness to a sharp articulation of despair; the restless discontent of these lines comes somewhere between the two. Whether or not it is his principal poetic concern, it is certainly a major concern; any admirer of Thomas who thinks that his poetic work amounts to a more valuable achievement than a preoccupation with such a mood and subject-matter would normally permit must try to explain why. It will not do to say that the best poems are those that have no connection with this area of feeling, for this is not so. Nor will an invocation of Coleridge's name protect Thomas from the charge of expressing a limited range and an unfruitful kind of feeling. There is only one 'Dejection Ode.' It would be better to recall Coleridge's remark, founded on bitter experience, that 'When a Man is unhappy, he writes damned bad Poetry.' In this connection it is pertinent to note that in most instances Thomas's is a remembered or recreated depression.

Time of Day in Early Expressionist Poetry

GEORG Trakl, Georg Heym, and Ernst Stadler are generally grouped together as the early German Expressionists. Each was born within a four-year period, 1883–87, and each died in the two-year period, 1912–14. The three poets produced a great deal of bad poetry before breaking through to both originality and modernity for a few short years before early deaths. Their poetry provided some of the models for the immense following wave of Expressionist lyric and at the same time represents the greatest and most lasting achievement of that movement. They shared many techniques, such as the new kinds of metaphor (described by Schneider)1 or the new kind of lyrical sentence-line (Zeilenstil described by Heselhaus).2

The Scandinavian Immigrant Writer in America

by DOROTHY BURTON SKARDAL 2 The Scandinavian Immigrant Writer in America We can call these works and poems provincial or emigrant literature, but then we give the child a wrong name. For they are not that: they are American literature in the Norwegian language. - OLE E. R0LVAAG To novels the of general Norwegian American immigrant public, life O. seem E. an R0lvaag's isolated novels of Norwegian immigrant life seem an isolated phenomenon, a flash of genius without forerunner or fellowship . Persons of Scandinavian background may have heard the names of a handful of other immigrant authors: Waldemar Ager, Johannes B. Wist, Simon Johnson among the Norwegians ; Adam Dan, Carl Hansen, Kristián 0stergaard among the Danes; Vilhelm Berger, Ernst Skarstedt, Johan Person, Anna Olsson among the Swedes. Yet few readers in any of the three national groups are aware of even the leading figures in the others, and no one has attempted so much as an outline of the broad field of Scandinavian- American creative writing. There are many hundreds of volumes and pamphlets of short stories and novels, poems and plays, reminiscences, autobiographies , essays, travel sketches, and historical accounts gathering dust in the collections of Luther College at Decorah, Iowa, St. Olaf College at Northfield, Augustana College at Rock Island, Illinois, and Grand View College at Des Moines, Iowa, and in various state historical society libraries throughout the Middle West. The achievement of O. E. R0lvaag 14 THE IMMIGRANT WRITER stands not alone but as the climax of a literary tradition that began in the 1870's and is not yet dead.1 Certainly the definitive appraisal of these writings must wait until a number of specialized studies have clarified their content and worth; but meanwhile there are intriguing questions about how and why such a large, rich, and varied literature could develop among a transplanted people, written for a public severely limited both in number and in cultural interests , and coming to full flower after its language had begun to die out. The following introduction to this body of material, including here reference only to poetry and fiction, will attempt to define the immigrant publishing markets and reading public, the types of authors, and the motives and special problems attendant on creating a distinctive branch of American literature expressed largely in a foreign tongue. Undoubtedly the early development of foreign-language newspapers provided the first stimulus for immigrant authors. The first-known Scandinavian-language newspaper in the United States, Skandinavia, founded in New York City in 1847, appealed to Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians not only by printing news from all three native countries but also by using both Dano-Norwegian and Swedish. At least one poem published at this early date was written by Christian Hansen, the Danish editor, himself.2 The rapidly multiplying newspapers that were published for all groups continued to reprint poetry and, later, tales and serialized novels, by authors in the old country, as well as verse and prose writings by their own staffs; but before long they were also accepting contributions from readers. Letters to the editor often appeared in news columns; 1 This article is adapted from one chapter of a doctoral dissertation to be submitted at Radcliffe College. For the quotation from R0lvaag, see his Omkring fsedrearven, 60 (Northfield, 1922). 2 Danish and Norwegian, in written form, were then practically identical. For a discussion of Skandinavia , see Theodore C. Biegen, Norwegian Migration to America: The American Transition , 287, 288 (Northfield, 1940); A. N. Rygg, Norwegians in New York , 10 (Brooklyn, [1941?]); "The Danish-American Press/' in Enok Mortensen and Johannes Knudsen, The Danish- American Immigrant j 35-37 ( Des Moines, Iowa, 1950 ) . The Library of Congress has a partial file of Skandinavia. 15 Dorothy Burton Skârdal but what became the particular plague of the Norwegian or Swedish newspaper was the persistent stream of amateur verse sent in by subscribers. Most of this was very bad poetry indeed, and some of the most amusing accounts of immigrant journalistic life describe the moral struggle of editors torn between their outraged artistic judgment and their fear of insulting contributors if they neglected to print their efforts. But by no means all the...

Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me

Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me

The Latin Translations of Spenser's "Shepheardes Calender"

Previous articleNext article No AccessThe Latin Translations of Spenser's "Shepheardes Calender"Leicester BradnerLeicester Bradner Search for more articles by this author PDFPDF PLUS Add to favoritesDownload CitationTrack CitationsPermissionsReprints Share onFacebookTwitterLinkedInRedditEmail SectionsMoreDetailsFiguresReferencesCited by Modern Philology Volume 33, Number 1Aug., 1935 Article DOIhttps://doi.org/10.1086/388169 Views: 2Total views on this site Citations: 3Citations are reported from Crossref PDF download Crossref reports the following articles citing this article:Jessica C. Beckman Time, Reading, and the Material Text: Revising Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender, Spenser Studies 33 (Jan 2019): 161–185.https://doi.org/10.1086/699648Helen Cooper Spenser’s Pastoral Places, Spenser Studies 31-32 (Jan 2018): 459–477.https://doi.org/10.1086/694438Matthew Harrison The Rude Poet Presents Himself: Breton, Spenser, and Bad Poetry, Spenser Studies 29 (Dec 2017): 239–262.https://doi.org/10.7756/spst.029.011.239-262