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3 Two Cents a Word

Ray E. Boomhower Indiana University Press ePub

AT THE NORTHWEST CORNER OF RUSH STREET AND GRAND Avenue in Chicago, the 217-room Milner Hotel, part of the coast-to-coast empire of 130 units in twenty-six states owned by company founder Earle Milner, offered the tired traveling businessman and tourist basic lodging at a reasonable price – “A Room and a Bath for a Dollar-and-a-Half,” boasted the chain’s motto. It was at the Milner that John Bartlow Martin resided when he returned to Chicago from Indianapolis in the fall of 1938. In addition to the Milner’s inexpensive rates (five dollars a week on a monthly basis), its management paid the cab fare from the railroad station for guests and also provided them free laundry service. “It suited me fine,” said Martin. “I had nothing but one suitcase and a portable typewriter. I had a room with a bed and through the dirty window a view of the fire escape.”1

After escaping from his depressing Indianapolis childhood, Martin was thrilled to be in a vibrant and colorful city and delighted in its “freewheeling, go-getting” spirit. While a high school student, he had wandered with a friend though Indianapolis’s scanty slums, disappointed they were so small, while in Chicago “there were acres and acres of them, all mine.” Martin even enjoyed the noisy traffic on Outer Drive and Western Avenue, the sound of the elevated trains as they “roared by overhead on the wondrous El, reared against the sky,” and the bright lights of Randolph Street’s theater district. “There was nothing like this in Indiana,” he said. As he had while a young student at DePauw University, Martin, suddenly single, behaved foolishly for a time, sleeping most of the day, writing at night, and drinking beer while he worked. He soon discovered, however, that he could not keep up such a lifestyle and make a living, and he fell into a regular routine he followed for years to come, writing from nine in the morning to five in the evening and avoiding alcohol during those hours.2

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Chapter Twenty-One

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

Patience, patience, Teeg kept reminding herself. You have waited seventeen years, you can wait a few days longer. But she grew more and more edgy as the trip to Portland was delayed, first by rainy weather, then by a series of mishaps at Jonah Colony. While testing dirt samples, Indy cut a finger and fell ill with blood poisoning. She had no sooner recovered than Jurgen came down with a fever, broke out in a rash, and spent three days writhing on his sleepcushion while Hinta and two helpers pinned him down. Soon after his fever broke, Arda discovered all the bluegill floating belly-up in the fish-tanks, casualties of some chemical imbalance, and several people had to go out hunting for wild stock to replace them.

And so departure was put off day by day. Phoenix seemed glad of the delay. “Give you time to think it over,” he told her. She thought of little else. Every kilometer of the route was mapped out. She could visualize each range of hills, each river and thicket, right up to Portland. But there she drew a blank. What would the place look like? When she had first arrived in Portland with her mother, the city had been abandoned for three years. Here and there a roof had caved in, weeds and saplings had burst the pavements, fires had devoured a few old neighborhoods of wooden houses. But most of the city was built of metal and plastic, and so had endured, which was why her mother had been sent there. Dismantling a city, her mother used to say, was like plucking a chicken, and then carving the meat off its bones, and then whittling away at the skeleton. There was very little left of Portland at the end. Since the wooden houses were useless, they were spared along with the brick-paved streets. Most of the stone buildings were framed in steel, which meant they had come down, and the towers came down, wires and pipes were dug up from the ground, every appliance that had not been stolen was melted, thousands of abandoned vehicles were shredded, and the city at last was stripped bare.

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39. Review of Spencer’s Essays

Charles S. Peirce Indiana University Press PDF


Review of Spencer’s Essays

8 October 1891

The Nation

Essays, Scientific, Political, and Speculative. By Herbert Spencer. Library Edition, containing seven essays not before republished, and various other additions. 3 vols., 8vo, pp. 478, 466,

516. With an alphabetical index. D. Appleton & Co. 1891.

The theory of ethics which has latterly been taking shape under the hands of Stephen, Spencer, and others, is, from a practical point of view, one of the most important boons that philosophy has ever imparted to the world, since it supplies a worthy motive to conservative morals at a time when all is confused and endangered by the storm of new thought, the disintegration of creeds, and the failure of all evidences of an exalted future life.

The little of new which is contributed to the ethical theory in the present edition of Mr. Spencer’s essays is contained in the essays on the

“Ethics of Kant” and on “Absolute Political Ethics.” It was hardly to be expected that the additions would go to enhance Mr. Spencer’s wellbuilt-up reputation. The popularity of his doctrine has probably passed its meridian. In one of the new essays, he quotes with admiration Huxley’s fine saying, “Science commits suicide when it adopts a creed.”

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5. Listening in the Dark: The Yiddish Folklorists’ Claim of a Russian Genealogy / Gabriella Safran

Gabriella Safran Indiana University Press ePub

The Yiddish Folklorists’ Claim of a Russian Genealogy


The Lodz Yiddish writer Hershele (Hershl Danilevitsh, 1882–1941) explained why he collected Yiddish folksongs by linking himself to a Russian Christian born almost a century earlier, Aleksei Kol’tsov (1809–1842), a cattle merchant’s son celebrated for his poems spoken in the voice of the Russian peasant. “I am a folk poet,” Hershele asserted, “the Jewish Kol’tsov! I write and collect folk songs.”1 Other Yiddish folklorists during Poland’s productive interwar Jewish “folklore mania” years were also inspired by the Russian writers of the early and mid-nineteenth century. Noah Pryłucki (1882–1941), Warsaw’s leading Jewish philologist, editor, and folklore scholar, began to write down Yiddish tales (translating them into Russian as he did so) after having read the Russian peasant tales anthologized by Aleksandr Afanas’ev (1826–1871); in the introduction to his first volume of folk songs, he quoted Nikolai Gogol (1809–1852); and when he urged the Yiddish writer Sholem Asch to develop a version of Yiddish that would be beautiful, authentic, and appropriate for upper-class speakers, he told him to model himself on the Russian Romantic writers Aleksandr Griboedov (1795–1829), Aleksandr Pushkin (1799–1837),2 and Mikhail Lermontov (1814–1841).3

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Medium 9780253211903

29. A Neglected Argument for the Reality of God (1908)

Peirce Edition Project Indiana University Press ePub


MS 841 and P 1166: The Hibbert Journal 7 (October 1908):90–112. [Published in CP 6.452–91. In April 1908, Peirce was invited by his mathematician friend Cassius J. Keyser to contribute an article to the Hibbert Journal. Peirce accepted and spent the next three months diligently writing and rewriting his celebrated paper. The final version was sent in toward the end of June 1908.] This is one of Peirce’s most enigmatic writings. He outlines an “argument” that is forceful in bringing anyone who practices musement to a belief in the reality of God, a belief that is exhibited in changed conduct; but it turns out that this “argument” is not a matter of reasoning at all. It is more like an instinctive response to the very idea of God. In his addendum, Peirce calls this the “Humble Argument.” The Neglected Argument, it seems, is an “argumentation” to demonstrate how the reality of God can be proved from the effectiveness of the Humble Argument. The neglect is on the part of theologians, who have taken surprisingly little interest in why the mere contemplation of the idea of God leads to belief. A key question is why our “instinct” for guessing—Galileo’s il lume naturale—is so successful. In section IV, Peirce gives a good account of the three stages of scientific inquiry, but its application to the preceding argument(s) is left mostly to the reader. Whether this paper is an elaboration of or an offense against pragmaticism is an unsettled question.

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Medium 9780253017529

3 Afghan Literary Organizations in Postrevolutionary Iran

Zuzanna Olszewska Indiana University Press ePub


Hark! Now is not the time for hesitation, tie up your bundle [and go]

Our patience with the foe runs short, tie up your bundle [and go]

If the foot drags, still you must go

Though your end be at the gallows, still you must go

From the depths of the incident [the battlefield] the smell of battle reaches us

See, the yells of manly [heroic] men reach us

Hark! Set your foot in the arena of death and [be prepared to] die

Come! Now is not the time for hesitation, stand up straight and die

[The foe] thinks each of your numerous wounds a scourge

[The foe] thinks the fury of your blood a river

Since the reins of Rakhsh the danger seeker are in your hands

Your defeat is the defeat of this [whole] tribe’s fortress

Hark! The crimson of the dawn sun belongs to us

And the foremost banner of the jihad belongs to us

Tell the enemy that we have no concern for death

“He who is not killed is not of our tribe.”

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Hoosiers outside Indiana

Johnson, Owen V. Indiana University Press ePub

MILES CITY, Mont. . . .

We saw Mr. Denien, who came to South Dakota five years ago from La Porte, Ind., to share the farm with a widowed uncle.

Mr. Denien and his wife and children packed up everything in the old Cadillac and drove out to the land of opportunity. The Cadillac has moved not an inch since they arrived. It is still there in the shed. Some of these days, when Mr. Denien gets up his courage, and enough money to buy a license, it may carry them away again.

I have never seen anybody so bewildered and discouraged as Mr. Denien. Here five years. A good crop the first year, but no money for it. No crop at all the last four years. He has five little children. “We came west all right,” says Mrs. Denien. “But we didn’t come far enough. They say things are good in Idaho.”

Mr. Denien was a janitor in the La Porte Y.M.C.A. for many years. He said he remembered me from the time I lived there on my first newspaper job. I don’t see how he could, but he had no other way of knowing I’d ever been there.

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Appendix C. “A Strange Experience” / A. Almi, Translated by Gabriella Safran

Gabriella Safran Indiana University Press ePub

“A Strange Experience”


A. Almi, Momenten fun a lebn: Zikhroynes, bilder un epizodn (Buenos Aires: Tsentral farband fun poylishe yidn in argentine, 1948), 121–128.

A. Almi (Eliyahu Hayim Sheps, 1892–1963) was a Yiddish writer in multiple genres. As Almi notes at the end of this excerpt, the story of the folklorist’s misadventure in a brothel turned into folklore in its own right. It is often cited in scholarship on the Warsaw Yiddish folklorists. Both Safran and Werberger’s chapters in this volume discuss the episode at length. The original text showcases the folklorist’s use of dialect terms, here the language of the criminal underworld, set off with quotation marks, such as “araynfetsn” for “to stab.”

When I was gathering folklore—folksongs, stories, women’s Yiddish prayers, and, not to ignore the distinction here, material from the world of criminals—first just for myself, later for Noah Pryłucki’s1 folklore collections, I had a tough moment when I was sure I was about to die—as a victim of folklore. . . . It is a strange tale that really smells like a cheap thriller.

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Medium 9780253006813

Chapter 5: Coplas about the Miseries That the Germans Inflicted on Salonika, 1941–1943

Melammed, Renée Levine ePub

75. Mousoulini kiere azer ouna Italia fouerte, komo esta aziendo el Alman.

Akavidate makaron. Kien ko[r]re mouthe presto se kaye.

Ya vites kuaolo te akonteseria en Albania.

I si non era el Alman ke vine a Boulgaria,

Ivas a entrar en Gresia kon kadenas por manias.

Bevamos a la saloud de Benvenida.

1. Es Pesah ay romores ke los almanes estan a la pouerta de Salonique.

Todos aseraron los magazines i vingneron preso en kaza.

Despoues de ouna ora,

Se sentia romper pouertas de magazines de koumida i de bivida.

El dio ke moz vouadre de esta hazenoura.

31. El primer dia ke vingneron, los almanes estavan bien rensegnados.

Mos tomaron los tableaus de valor i de grandes pintadores ke loz pinto.

Reyna impeso a gritar. Eliaou le dicho serala, te van a matar.

Bevamos a la saloud de [E]liao[u] ke se los dio i no rezestio.

13. Loz Alvos son fiereros.

Apenas los almanes vinieron,
les vaziaron el magazin.

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Medium 9780253012265


Jennifer M Bean Indiana University Press ePub

Jennifer M. Bean

THE EXPERIENCE OF watching a good film is often described as moving. This is because narrative texts, at their best, take us elsewhere, hastening a passage or transition from one psychic or physiological space to another, from one thought, term, or concept to another. While scholarship of the past decade has been profoundly successful in demonstrating how imported films generate competing affective and psychological responses from active viewers and cultural agencies in different parts of the globe (a set of debates elaborated in part 3), the formal and material instability of the textual object itself has hardly been voiced as a question. This section models an alternative to standard historiographies of silent era cinema by showing what people in different places did with filmic prints as those objects moved across space and time and were themselves put in motion, transforming from one material or textual state of existence to another.

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Chapter Nine

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

Because Zuni replied to each absurd speculation about her future with vague smiles and crooked answers, the media soon decided she was not the proper stuff of news. Her face vanished from the video, her name from the newsfax. Before long only her colleagues at the Institute and her few friends still wondered what was going on beneath that meticulous bun of white hair.

Even those friends could not pry the secret from her. Zuni had clutched it for so long that her will had sealed over it, like the bark of a tree grown around a nail.

Left in peace at last, Zuni holed up in her apartment to meditate, to gather strength for the journey, whenever it might begin. She had set events in motion, but now they had run their own course. To be ready when the break came, if the break came, that was all she could hope. Only let it be soon, soon.

Meanwhile there were the records to keep. Instead of checking weekly on the movements of the conspirators—the ones who called themselves seekers, such a quaint name—now she checked daily. On her info terminal she would punch the code for Jurgen or Teeg or one of the others, and within moments the Security cyber would inform her of the person’s current work assignment, itinerary, health status, credit balance and the like. Writing with a pen, one of the anachronisms which gave her pleasure, she then noted on file cards whatever seemed like new information. Under Sol’s name, for example, recent cards showed the increasing frequency of his visits to the C-clinic, and then his abrupt refusal to accept any more synthetic organs. Apparently his lung cancer was galloping out of control. He would be urgent to escape. Hinta and Jurgen must also have been feeling urgent, for their cards showed they had spent their credit balance nearly down to zero, mostly for tools. For the first time in several cycles, Arda had skipped the fetal implant. Pressures for escape were building up in several other members of the crew. This discovery was what had prompted Zuni to announce her retirement, to make herself ready.

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12. My Life

Charles S. Peirce Indiana University Press PDF


My Life c. 1890

Houghton Library

An extraordinary thing happened to me at a tender age,—as I now reflect upon it, a truly marvellous thing, though in my youthful heedlessness, I overlooked the wonder of it and just cried at the pickle. This occurred 1839 September 10. At that time I commenced life in the function of a baby belonging to Sarah Hunt (Mills) Peirce and Benjamin Peirce, professor of mathematics in Harvard College, beginning to be famous. We lived in a house in Mason Street. This house belonged to Mr. Hastings, who afterward built an ugly house between Longfellow’s and the Todd’s.

I remember nothing before I could talk. I remember starting out to drive in a carryall and trying to say something about a canarybird; I remember sitting on the nursery floor playing with blocks in an aimless way and getting cramps in my fingers; and I remember an old negro woman who came to do scrubbing. I remember her because she frightened me and I dreamed about her. I remember a gentleman who came to see my mother,—probably William Story, who drew a sketch of her.

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1 Location, “Location”: On the Plausibility of Place Substitution

Jennifer M Bean Indiana University Press ePub

Mark B. Sandberg

HIDDEN BEHIND THE casual use of studio terms such as “location scout” and “shot on location” are histories of film practice that reveal ongoing, productive tensions inherent in the idea of cinematic place. On the one hand, the filmic medium conveys a strong impression of specific location because of the photographic image’s indexical properties, which inspire confidence in the verifiability of an original shooting location. On the other hand, the inherent mobility and portability of the camera and cinema editing’s powers of formal juxtaposition combine to untether the image from any securely specific sense of originary place. One might sum up this contradiction by saying that although we can be confident that we are seeing some place filmed by the camera, the cinematic image itself can never make us completely sure of the actual place; the possibilities for substitution and misidentification are endless. The commoditization and interchangeability of shooting locations are a direct result of this central ambiguity. Add to that the convincing impressions of fictional location made possible by an array of cinematic sleights of hand (animation, miniature models, and increasingly, digital imaging), and one quickly sees the need for an approach to cinematic place that acknowledges the wide variability of the concept.

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Medium 9781857547658

Scheherezade in Vienna: Joseph Roth

Iain Bamforth Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Scheherezade in Vienna

J R’ N

The – war was called a ‘world’ war, wrote Joseph Roth in one of his brilliant journalist forays, ‘not because the entire world had conducted it but because, owing to it, we all lost a world, our world’. The world he was referring to was the Austro-Hungarian

Dual Monarchy, one of the unlikeliest forces ever to hold sway over European politics. It was the Holy Roman Empire reinstated as carnival; a cartographic familiar of stamp-collecting children.

When Joseph Roth was born in  in the small Galician town of Brody, one of the Monarchy’s eastern outposts, it had long been threatening to collapse if given a push.

Austrian policy at the beginning of the twentieth century, as many contemporary visitors noted, was a continual struggle to save face. Such was the logic of its situation in the centre of Europe, and so potentially fissiparous its empire, that it had settled for an easy-going, rather slovenly style of Schlamperei und Schweinerei – a philosophy of putting off decisions and muddling through. Not for nothing was its insignia an ironic, double-headed eagle. The struggle to save face marked many of its institutions and was especially characteristic of the army, which was full of gloriously outfitted aristocrats on little pay and with rusty equipment – until reality finally obtruded on the eastern front in . After the war

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Medium 9780253012463

6 Flying Dutchmen, Wandering Jews: Romantic Opera, Anti-Semitism, and Jewish Mourning in Mrs. Dalloway

Adriana L. Varga Indiana University Press ePub

Emma Sutton

IN APRIL 1921 VIRGINIA WOOLF MADE THE FOLLOWING ENTRY in her diary: “L.[eonard] explained the plan of his new book – a revised version of the Wandering Jew. Very original & solid, it seemed to me; & like a good business man, I pressed him to promise it for the press [ . . . ] a solid big book like L.’s is essential” (D2: 111–12). Woolf’s admiration for the “originality” of Leonard’s “essential” book leaves unspoken the fact that Leonard was not alone in planning a work on the Wandering Jew in the early 1920s; Mrs. Dalloway might equally be described as a “revised version” of this legend. Woolf’s novel is haunted by Richard Wagner’s Romantic opera Der fliegende Holländer (1843), and, as Wagner’s description of his protagonist as “this Ahasuerus of the seas” reminds us, the figure of the Flying Dutchman was frequently equated with the Wandering Jew, his fate read as an allegory of Jewish “redemption” (Prose Works 1: 17).1 It will come as no surprise to scholars of Woolf and music that Woolf’s fiction should be informed by a Wagnerian intertext, although Wagner’s influence on Mrs. Dalloway is far less conspicuous than on The Voyage Out, Jacob’s Room, The Years, or The Waves, for instance. In these texts Woolf’s diegetic allusions to, and the formal influence of, Wagner are extensive and more explicit.2 Mrs. Dalloway has played a relatively small part in analyses of Woolf and music to date;3 its debt to Wagner’s opera is opaque and its references to music relatively few, but Woolf’s commanding knowledge of Wagner’s oeuvre and her lifelong engagement with it in her fiction invite us to consider the discreet parallels between the texts seriously. Wagner’s version of the legend was one Woolf had ample opportunity to hear, and the Woolfs’ record collection later included a recording of excerpts of the opera.4 In the third volume of his autobiography, Leonard made the qualified observation that there was “more, perhaps, to be said for the early Wagner” than Der Ring (BA 50). Mrs. Dalloway’s intertextuality with Wagner’s opera places the novel in a matrix of discourses about music and Jews that includes this specific text representing the archetypal “Jew” “redeemed” by woman’s love, Wagner’s other operatic representations of Jews and Jewishness, and his published essays and private comments on Jews and music. It also inevitably engages other anti- and philo-Semitic discourses about music in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, from fiction and poetry to popular caricature, racial theory, and academic musicology. This essay introduces Woolf’s responses to discourses about Jews and music through a twofold focus. First, it traces the relationship between Mrs. Dalloway and Der fliegende Holländer, exploring the significance of Wagner’s opera to Woolf’s novel. In doing so, it proposes that Woolf’s postwar interest in Wagner’s text crystallized around the figure of the displaced wanderer and the sexual politics of female self-sacrifice that are essential to this Wagnerian model of tragedy. Second, it considers the role and representation of Jewish individuals and religious practice in the novel. It suggests that Mrs. Dalloway’s intertextuality with Wagner’s opera is juxtaposed with its representations of displaced Jews in pre- and postwar England and with the novel’s extensive debts to Jewish mourning practice, shivah.5 As Leena Kore Schröder acknowledges, there “can be no straightforward account” of Woolf’s attitudes toward Jews and Jewishness (298); we have, collectively, been rightly attentive to Woolf’s anti-Semitism and that of her contemporaries, but this attention has arguably discouraged consideration of the possibility that such negative views of Jews coexisted with more sympathetic, informed, and creative responses to Judaism. Without wishing to act as an apologist for Woolf, I hope that this analysis of her knowledge and fictional use of Jewish theology might encourage further consideration of this underexplored subject.

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