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This article examines James Baldwin’s late text The Evidence of Things Not Seen (1985) as one of his substantial attempts at “forging a new language,” which he tentatively mentions in his late essays and interviews. As an unpopular and difficult text in Baldwin’s oeuvre, Evidence carries the imprint of a new economy of time, casting the past into the present, and a new economy of space, navigating across other geographies in appraising the serial killings of children in one of Atlanta’s poorest Black neighborhoods. This article suggests that a new economy of time emerges earlier in No Name in the Street (1972), as a result of Baldwin’s self-imposed exile in Europe. The article then analyzes his spatiotemporal logic in the specifics of Evidence with reference to a Black middle class, urbanization, the ghetto, gentrification, and other colonized spaces.
the communities within which they reside ( Turchik et al. , 2016 : 143). This would require shifting away from the language that exclusively focuses on casting men as perpetrators and women as victims of violence ( Turchik et al. , 2016 : 137). For example, one of the mechanisms for receiving clients within humanitarian settings includes having the literature about CRSV on display. The language used in these areas for receiving victims
first time in modern history, the major global power – I am of course referring to the US – doesn’t have a project for the world. It is evident that the US has always defended its own interests, but it always imagined or at least presented its interests – I’m not casting a value judgement here – as linked to a project for the world. Following the Second World War, it was the Americans who assumed primary responsibility for the creation of the international system, starting with Roosevelt. Some international institutions were accessible to all
. Solidarity provides a sound moral framework to bridge reason and emotion. It also addresses the flaws of témoignage, which has fostered a humanitarian-centric vision of change and a de-politicised humanity, foregrounding the physical needs of human beings, and casting social, economic, emotional and spiritual needs as matters outside the humanitarian realm. The humanitarian enterprise is still widely seen as a patronising undertaking, mirroring deep
straightforward statement of social protest on the part of its makers, which is partly due to the casting of Diana Dors, a notorious and flamboyant British film personality of the 1950s, in the role of Mary Hilton. Hailed as the only sex symbol Britain has produced since Lady Godiva, Diana Dors was a precocious teenager who had made her first film appearance at the age of 15 as a spiv’s mistress in The Shop at
which leaves them with nowhere else to go. On the other hand, in both form and theme the film is consciously melodramatic, casting Helen Allistair as the villain of the piece whose abuse and exploitation are eventually appropriately punished. As a consequence the film clearly and honestly depicts contemporary abuses, but seems unsure whether to blame respectable social prejudice, more simplistic
, either on script, casting, cutting, music or on anything else. The result, whether the film succeeds or not, whether one likes the film or not, at least it’s something I can defend as being mine. It is all of one piece.’ As a film-struck teenager, I saw The Servant when it was first released and can recall being utterly bowled over by it. At that time, infected by a fashionable disdain towards British
with people with HIV/AIDS, the Queen Mum for her alleged reputation as a fan of a party and a tipple. For Sally Potter, however, Crisp’s persona squared neatly with the role of Elizabeth I. In an interview with Penny Florence, she discussed her casting decisions: [W] ith Quentin, there are so many ways in which he’s right for the part
either ‘Serbophobia’ or ‘Greater Serbia’. This chapter reviews two of the most important persecution myths emerging from the Second World War. Revising the history of the Ustaša-run death-camp at Jasenovac was a useful means of casting Serbs as the victims of a ‘Holocaust’ by Croats. On the Croatian side, the massacre at Bleiburg (Austria) by Communist forces (or Serb-led Communists, as the case might be) in 1945 was also likened to the Holocaust. In both cases, the other side was accused of committing genocide, using either the mask of Nazi or Communist domination to
This chapter traces the development of the colonial kangaroo hunt as a transnational narrative genre. John Hunter’s First Fleet journal (1793) presented the generic conventions that came to define the colonial kangaroo hunt narrative: casting the kangaroo as fitting quarry and giving an exciting account of the chase and the kill. The chapter goes on to map the subsequent transnationalisation of the kangaroo as scientific details and live specimens were shipped back to Europe. Zoological gardens and acclimatisation societies in Europe contributed to the development of the kangaroo hunt as a recognised recreational activity outside Australia. The kangaroo hunt was absorbed into a global narrative to do with travel and adventure, which also informed readers about species biodiversity in the Global South. These themes were explored in novels by Sarah Bowdich Lee and Emilia Marryat Norris, which are analysed alongside narratives and artworks by Europeans who visited Australia to take part in kangaroo hunts. The chapter concludes that –whether encountered when exploring, wandering, bivouacking, settling, or hunting professionally – the kangaroo hunt is represented as an essential experience both in colonial Australia and abroad, one that unfolds in the contexts of imperialism and empire, military occupation, exploration and settlement, developments in the natural sciences, and transnational narratives of adventure.