The CEA Forum
Winter/Spring 2005: 34.1
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Note to readers: This piece was originally given as an address at the 2002 CEA Conference.
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WORKS OF LOVE OR ENMITY:
DO NOT LET OUR MINOR POETS DISAPPEAR
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I'm sorry that Sandra Gilbert has not been able to be with us this evening as originally scheduled, and I know how disappointed you are and how chagrined in having me here instead. Professor Gilbert came to the wide attention of readers with her article on John Milton's portrayal of Eve in Paradise Lost, published first in PMLA in 1978 and reprinted as a chapter in her and Susan Gubar's important and ground-breaking The Madwoman in the Attic (1979), and so, I, being a Miltonist, enjoy strong connection with the critical world that has emerged from this seminal work. (That I keep returning to Milton this evening you can blame on Professor Gilbert—and, o.k., on me too.) In their studies Gilbert and Gubar, joined others who have provided recognition of women in all spheres of life, and greatly enhanced the field of feminist criticism in literature. We, as teachers of literature, have finally acknowledged that there are and have been many women writers of great achievement and worth, though ignored by the patriarchal society that set up the literary canon that had been—and in some ways still is—taught. Yet even some of the more important women writers who have been “discovered”—like Anna Barbauld or H. D.—have been called and treated like “minor” authors. In an offshoot from this acknowledgment of women authors, there has also been some recognition that there are a number of men writers—“minor” in some people's terminology—who also deserve place in that antiquated literary canon. To keep with my “romantics”/”twentieth-century” women references—Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges or William Lisle Bowles seldom have cracked a Romantics syllabus, and Kenneth Fearing or Horace Gregory are missing from courses in American poetry that I have been aware of. Not only should these four men be acknowledged as poets in their own right, they also had varying kinds of influence on their contemporary worlds of literature and thought.
We have recognized that a focus on women characters in a literary text can totally change our reading of that work; I think, for example, of Irene Dash's examination of William Shakespeare's Othello and the major significance of Desdemona, who had been almost ignored as a pivotal and flesh-and-blood character. But I suppose good is not much of a marketable commodity, while the Iagos of this world are; that's what sells newspapers. We have recognized that women writers are and have been influences upon male writers, creating a most different set of circumstances and values in reading the literary work of the male author. I think—if you'll allow me—of my pointing out the importance of Ann Yearsley, the Milkwoman of Bristol, in preceding William Wordsworth's celebrated language and concept of the common person in such a poem as “Michael.” Indeed, Wordsworth probably read Yearsley's poems (which appeared in 1785) while he was at University (he was 15 in 1785), and we all know that those things we read in our younger, impressionable years stay with us a long time. For just one title of what might have influenced Wordsworth, look at Yearsley's “Clifton Hill. Written in January 1785.” Here are the things that have been praised about “Michael.”
We remember the disapproval of Aphra Behn, who had to be a man because of the subject matter and language in her plays, and the early acceptance of George Eliot because “she writes like a man.” But perhaps we have not followed up on such prejudiced statements as we might: inferred should be that some women's writing may be different from some men's writing (despite the examination of so-called Grammar A and Grammar B), that we thus may have different treatments of identical materials and people and circumstances—differing because women and men, in various ways or degrees, are different—just as, we may add, one man is different from another man, one woman is different from another woman. Yet further, looking at that from a different angle, we may find that women may read a work of literature from a different perspective and, thus, that a whole different spin can be put on a poem. Here I think of Dennis Flynn's examination of the female audience for John Donne's poems, many of which were written for a male coterie with the commonplace jokes about sex and the male's action and reaction and bodily parts during intercourse; as Flynn demonstrates, Ann Donne may have read those poems quite differently, basically poking fun at the male reader (not the author) who thinks he understands a poem like “Farewell to Love.”
Having this opportunity to speak to you thrust upon me, I would like to explore a worry I have about what is happening in our departments of English, in the literature that is taught, and though my references will be to poetic writing, they apply to all genres, and though I may cite more women than men (simply because the so-called “major” writers are usually men) the problem is not one of gender. I worry that many of the more recently discovered and current women and men writers will recede into oblivion again if we continue to ignore literature (replaced by theory, by sociology, by anatomy, by politics—all of which are significant). The teacher of literature encounters many fields, has to encounter many fields to do an acceptable job, but she or he, the teacher of literature, should still keep a spotlight on the literature—that's where this dinosaur differs from some people handling classes today. If we are offering classes in literature, then we should offer classes in literature, and use the politics and the sociology to dig more deeply into that literature. Conversely, of course, the teacher of sociology should offer a course in sociology, even if a novel like The Street by Ann Petry is used, or a poem like William Blake's “London.” After our bringing important but previously neglected women and men writers to the fore, I worry that even some major women writers of the past and some of the men are being ignored—but that is a slightly different matter even though it would have effect on the “lesser” creative artists. What those worries say is that I think we must continue to read and present Jane Austen and George Eliot and Toni Morrison (I cite novelists because, it seems, fewer poets are being taught nowadays), but we should also be looking at Aemilia Lanyer and Katherine Philips and Ann Trapnell if we're in seventeenth-century studies; Charlotte Smith and Mary Washington and Anna Seward if we're engaged in the mystique of romanticism; Anna Hempstead Branch, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Elinor Wylie—Millay dedicated “Fatal Interview” to her, you perhaps know—if we're discussing earlier twentieth-century American poetry. Oh, I know there are time limitations—we can't do everything, but there are various ways of introducing students to a wider group of authors, and there are many more authors that we ourselves can read and write about. But I worry that even the well-known writers like Henry Vaughan or Thomas Gray or Christina Rossetti or Gwendolyn Brooks are disappearing—they're all minor in some people's rating system. Indeed on a recent Milton-L list on the Web (which has been engaged in a number of arguments unrelated to Milton) there was a statement about Vaughan's being a “minor metaphysical,” followed by a rebuttal, followed by the original writer's surrebuttal that, well, he wasn't Donne or George Herbert.
I'd like to offer a few of my favorite women and men poets, mostly contemporary, hoping that some of them will be unfamiliar to you—just as you can cite many whom I am unfamiliar with. (There are various ways to set up courses and to deal with these authors, and I'll say a little something about a few of those ways.) But it is about time that teachers offering courses in contemporary poetry recognize that that does not include T. S. Eliot or Wallace Stevens! I hope that these poets whom I mention will be picked up and read and taught, and that they will not disappear unread and untaught. And I hope that as you plan your syllabi you are not deterred by the general lack of reputation an author may have among your colleagues and that you will not be deterred because you have to include John Keats and especially “The Eve of St. Agnes,” or Robert Frost and specifically “Stopping by a Woods.”
As I just mentioned, Gilbert's article on Eve incited a reexamination of Milton's epic (with many further critical—and cogent—analyses that upset received readings of some “bad” women characters—Dalila in Samson Agonistes by John Ulreich, Radigund by Susanne Woods and Mirabella by Anne Shaver in Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene, for instance. Part of that reexamination has brought us a poem that I trust you will enjoy: Anna Wooten-Hawkins' Satan Speaks of Eve in Seven Voices, After the Fall (1985). The first poem presents Satan as scholar, saying, “After all was said and done, / I believe the way she slithered from the tree / impressed me most.” He continues about Adam,
You can imagine he was angry—
wanting back his shining girl, the narrow hips,
. . . but also wanting the sinking into sin that tasted good,
fire dancing up his loins, her fleshed-out buttocks
brushing against ferns as she stood before him.
And the scholar ends: “Our Adam was an open book, indeed. / But Eve was not an easy text to read.” The playing with Milton's poem should open up comprehension of the innuendoes in that text that generations of readers have missed. As psychiatrist, Satan observes that
At first Eve appeared to be paranoid. Then I understood.
She had stood back so long from what she wanted
she couldn't grasp it.
. . . You must understand that for Eve
I was not, symbolically, Phallus.
Our relationship was purely professional.
She needed me, I needed a client.
The attorney Satan, in the last poem, decides that “Above all things, she wanted to be Woman— / a woman to be reckoned with,” and pleading to get his client off, Satan offers a provocative argument:
What she suffered in that prison of confection!
Paradise for whom? Eve smarted with boredom;
nothing to do all day but weave garlands of daisies,
play in the grass. Nothing to ponder.
Adam was happy; flexed his fancy like a born narcissist,
skipped stones on a pond,
admired his body In the shade.
The quotation in my title comes from the first book of Paradise Lost and is the epigraph for Wooten-Hawkins' full poem (each poem has a separate epigraph from Milton); it points us immediately to the problems that Milton's epic tries to grapple with, that woman and man try to grapple with, that indeed will reappear in some guise in all acts of life. And believe me, employing this incisive and humorous poem in conjunction with teaching Milton's epic to sophomores can really get the class's adrenaline in high gear. Not only do the issues render a more deeply read and understood “required” text, but the philosophical issues themselves relate to so many other studies those students may be or will be pursuing. But Wooten-Hawkins' poem should not be only a stepping stone into discussion of Milton's poem: it can be and should be enjoyed as a meaningful literary text in its own right. It is quite a contrast with Ralph Hodgson's “Eve.”
Or look at a poem entitled “Occupation: Spinster,” which begins:
Lawyer Dickinson's spinsterly daughter
was mad the neighbors said: she
hid inside a snowflake
there being nowhere else to go.
And skipping:
In Amherst Emily lived on
though the world forgot
moving with calm coiled hair through tidy days.
Her face shrank to a locket.
In a final parenthesis the irony overwhelms, and the reader knows that she (and he) like “many Emilies” can die too young “in furnished attics,” with the world outside still going round and round. Olga Cabral's poem from The Darkness in My Pockets furnishes not only entry into the poetry and the well- known picture of Emily with her locket, and the psychological scenarios that have been proffered, but it suggests rereading of Anna Mary Wells' work, or Gilbert and Gubar's chapter in Mad Woman in the Attic, and of William Shurr's speculations about her “marriage” and motherhood. But, of course, the poem is not just about Emily, is it?
You will appreciate reading Cabral, if you have not, poems like “The Visit” whose last stanza is:
My self a heap
of old clothes
left in an empty room.
or “Poem About Death” whose sensibilities answer these questions:
You say this is not a subject for a poem?
That it is not even a poem?
That I should leave death to the professionals?
That poetry should be above "all that"?
I really don't want to lose such a wonderful “minor” poet as Olga Cabral, and students won't either.
To turn to other content, poets, of course, are concerned with things that are important to them—including domestic matters like love, like children, like home—but of course this continues examination of this life and this death, which Dickinson and Cabral both explored. And such literary work defines much that cultural studies today are pursuing, much that is sociological. Anne Bradstreet is a wonderful provider of such expression, but so is her contemporary the almost-unknown John Saffin (even though we deplore his racism). Their poems arise from their lives and spouses and children; they're basically biographical. But one doesn't require the literal experience to present some of these worlds imaginatively. Think of Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose poetry may find a brief resurrection because of the two recent biographies, but how little compassion and real understanding will one find for “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed” and like sonnets in Daniel Mark Epstein's book. He sees this sonnet, the title of his book, as “a summing up of her love life to date, and an occasion to involve the clssic themes of elegy . . . where has the time gone, my life, my lovers?” I see his whole book as a reverse example of what Jill Eichhorn mentioned yesterday, the fears of female authors who hide biographical facts so that such facts cannot be used negatively against their work. On the contrary, Millay's life was not hidden, and so we have emphasis on her sexual proclivities. How forgotten for him and for Nancy Milford will remain “Lament,” totally ignored probably because it isn't “biographical” and doesn't fit the picture each is painting:
Listen, children:
Your father is dead.
. . . Anne, eat your breakfast
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.
(Incidentally, there has been a recent musical setting of Millay's “Memorial to D. C.”—that is, Dorothy Coleman—by Katie Soper for soprano and piano; it has been recorded with Soper at the piano and Victoria Di Carlo, soprano.)
But sometimes these more domestic matters and family are not treated so personally, seem not to arise from that which is experiential. One such poem is Anne & Alpheus 1842-1882 by Joe Survant, a poem that is an epic of the founding of frontier and establishment of family, as well as a story of love, an epic that consists of three parts with twenty-four, twenty-three, and seventeen individual poems respectively. Each poem is a monologue, each is dated but each also looks forward and back, each presents a slice of life that all may experience. The voices are distinct, beginning with Anne's on August 9, 1842, trying to aid her sick daughter Catherine: “My God, I almost lost her yesterday.” The second poem is Alph's on the same day, worried that she has cholera, from which Lucas Dillon died last week and who “shouted glory” for he “was ready to go.” “I know I should b strengthened,” Alph says, “but I fear death / for me and mine.” And we end with Anne reflecting on September 7, 1882, after Alpheus's death a few months before,
Perhaps those who die
do not drop out of the world.
They remain.
The world takes them,
and they are changed.
Survant has produced a modern epic, one not tied down to prescriptions of time and place and expected subject matter, just as Louis Zukofsky did in 1978 with A , as Edward Dorn did in 1968 with Gunslinger, as William Carlos Williams did in 1951 with Paterson. (Incidentally American Poetry Review of January-February 2002 prints a supplement of poems from Gunslinger; Dorn died in 1999.) But it was Milton who most notably broke the mold—and got scolded for doing so: wrong subject matter, wrong meter, wrong length, too much narrative voice, no hero. (I always find it impossible to avoid Milton—he gets in everywhere, it seems.) But another poem, a brief epic, which I would urge upon everyone, is Gwendolyn Brooks's In the Mecca, an epic of life in a ghetto, of rape—that of little Pepita—of frustration and despair and drugs and poverty: wrong subject matter, wrong meter, wrong length, too much narrative voice, no hero—only a slain little girl. Of course, it should be obvious that what I am concerned with and plumping for is attention to poetic genre and poetic form and revision of the outmoded definitions—and outmoded standards of evaluation. “Major” authors will help (like Milton or Whitman or Frost), but so will the “minor” ones and we shouldn't just let them disappear. There should be room in an English curriculum for attention to the aesthetics of literature, to the generic and the anti-generic, and sometimes it seems that the “minor” author may be a better yardstick of what is happening culturally than the “major” one. William Shippen's “Faction Displayed” and “Moderation Displayed” may tell us more directly about the ethos of the early eighteenth century than Alexander Pope's attempts to resist the tide of government, religion, and literature that was rolling in. And Shippen is a very minor poet!
The previous two poems by Wooton-Hawkins and Cabral follow the meter of what I suppose we still call free verse, that is, poetry where the unit is the line, not a poetic foot. [1] Just as the epics noted above broke the mold (even though Zukofsky keeps twenty-four separate poems to equate the standard Homeric twenty-four books), so such short story collections as James Joyce's Dubliners and Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio, are really novels. However, other standard poetic forms have also been reworked, though they stay within many limits of a definable genre. And somewhere in our students' literary life should be some attention to these building materials of literary expression. Jacques Derrida's discussion of “The Law of Genre” in Glyph a number of years ago hit out at prescriptive writing and tried to argue that each example is a genre unto itself, “a text demarcates itself.” The point is significant, but he fails to understand that genre does not prescribe duplications, but rather falls in a family of texts with likenesses indicating the familial, though each “offspring” is a demarcation of itself, has a personality all its own. It's the incompetent author who simply follows prescription. What Derrida really was getting at, it seems to me, is the bad criticism that demands prescription and is blind to imagination, what used to be called “invention.” I mentioned a sonnet of Millay's above, and there seems to be a common practice among recent poets not to undertake form, but some do, and sometimes the result follows or is pretty close to what some of the prescriptions have been and sometimes there are, instead, “inventions.” A fairly recent issue of American Poetry Review (March-April 2002) prints seven linked sonnets by Edward Hirsch, called “The Hades Sonnets,” the first of which is entitled, “Self-Portrait as Persephone.” The sonnets are presented in four triplets and a couplet, that is, fourteen lines, in iambic pentameter but without rhyme: in a kind of blank verse. The last in the series, entitled “Voyage,” ends with the poetic voice in “the punishment- /field,”
where I vowed to remember the ghostly
and baleful blue undersongs of Hades
and return with them to the waking world.
This last couplet makes clear the significance for the author of the last line of the first poem: “Death itself, a schooling for the soul.” Persephone, you'll remember, ate pomegranate seeds, which Hirsch refers to in that first poem, and this causes her to stay below earth with her husband Hades for part of the year, thus symbolizing winter. The poet, like Shelley, knows that spring will not be far behind, but that those “baleful blue undersongs” will alter him and his writing for “the waking world.”
Thirty years ago Madeline Mason published Sonnets in a New Form which offeed the same triplet and couplet arrangement, but with rhyme (abc abc cbd bad da); George Meredith in Modern Love gave us sixteen-line sonnets rendering a full, sort of novelistic story in verse; and we can go on with many other experimental—or are they perhaps defiant—instances. Still you should have guessed where I'm going with this: look at Milton's later sonnets and you see a breaking down of subject matter from the norm of his time and of octave and sestet as the volta shifts, but even more important is Eve's last words in Paradise Lost —importantly the last words said by a character in the poem. It is a perfect blank verse sonnet, reestablishing the promise of the protevangelium and the end of the world when God will be All in All. It is a perfect ending for this poem as a paean to God and to His Providence of the woman as the avenue to salvation.
Paying attention to such contemporary poets as Hirsch will disabuse the pretension that form in poetry doesn't matter to current writers. It should put an emphasis on the tone or feeling that certain genres evoke (or else play with, as e. e. cummings does in “Next to of course God America I,” a sonnet in thirteen lines of speech and a separated line of narrative comment). Hirsch's form—the formal sonnet but eschewing quatrain and rhyme—is the poem's “message” as the poetic voice is reborn into memory, and as it can see more clearly when light (or spring) comes because of the darkness (or winter of fallowness) that it has experienced in Hell. And we might thus remember Cabral's title, “The Darkness in My Pockets.” If one gets into other such seemingly prescriptive and difficult forms as the villanelle, and if a class reads Dylan Thomas's “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” with which one will discuss the villanelle, one can turn to “Obsessions” by Denis Levertov, a villanelle that disguises itself but that takes on meaning once one recognizes that it is a villanelle and once one knows the origin of that form. She is getting back to a human being's engaging in dance or a similar happy situation as the only recourse to conquering the ills of life, and the repetitions and their variations in the structure of that villanelle italicize that message.
In the Renaissance and even into the eighteenth century, women writers were accepted as translators or as letter writers; they also could while away their time with poetic trivia, the critics allowed. Mary Sidney Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke, was praised for her translations from the French—Robert Garnier and Philippe de Mornay—and accepted as a translator of the psalms. What her contemporaries thought she was doing was rendering some pretty readings of the sacred poems; what she was doing was experimenting with literary forms and achievements as her Psalm C shows: it is a perfect sonnet. Men, of course, should not waste their time translating; that should be left to the women, as William Godwin seems to be saying in his comment upon John Phillips, Milton's nephew, who translated from Greek, Latin, Italian, French, German, Dutch, and Spanish, including Cervantes' Don Quixote. (Yes, the Godwin I refer to is the author of Caleb Williams, the husband of Mary Wollstonecraft, the father of Mary Shelley.) To Godwin, Phillips is only “a bookseller's drudge,” since he has not performed “a great literary labour for the pure love of the occupation.” Well, I hope that you will look at such drudgery as Armand Schwerner's “bacchae sonnets,” translated from the Tibetan language (1977)—they maintain the octave-sestet arrangement but without rhyme and not always in pentameter—or Chana Bloch's “A Dress of Fire” (1978), which poems are translated from the Hebrew of Dahlia Ravikovitch. Here you will find a poem in fourteen lines, called “Delight,” not presented as a sonnet but in three three-line stanzas and a five-line stanza picking up and completing those rhyme. But then one realizes that it has been influenced by the villanelle, that it is a villanelle, with lines repeated in the same way and position that prescription for that poetic form demands. The “delight beyond delight” is “the Sabbath day”—the answer for the believer to the world's despair.
Women poets have been subjected to these kinds of prejudice, we are all painfully aware. Horace Walpole's comment on Yearsley's poems would be laughable if it wasn't so typical: “Her expressions are more exalted than poetic; and discover taste, as you say, rather than discover flights of fancy, and wild ideas, as one would expect. . . I should advise her quitting blank verse, which wants the highest colouring to distinguish it from prose; whereas her taste, and probably good sense, might give sufficient beauty to her rhyme . . . Her not being learned, is another reason against her writing in blank verse.” And in one area of learning, we all know that men belong in scientific and mathematical study, but not women—right? (When I taught in a women's college, a major problem I ran into was parents who tried their darnedest to get their daughters out of microbiology and calculus and into home ec!) I'd like to end my ramblings by (I think) introducing you to two poets who didn't know that they should keep their hands off such manly subjects—two “minor” poets that I hope you'll come to read and teach and will not let disappear into oblivion. Ree Dragonette's collection, titled by the first poem in it, presents a “Parable of the Fixed Stars.” She used to recite this and other works with the wonderful jazz saxophonist Eric Dolphy. Here are such “unpoetic” language and images as “biding / undermagnetic,” “exact at fixed stars, your crossing,” “chromosomes,” “green-mauve chrysolite air,” “the eighth ring of sun / on the island called Scorpius”; or in another poem, “Beyond Rest Phase: Two Replaceable Atoms,” we find “Lilt of quirk-stars,” “the numinous mitral silvering curt / throb.” But these are really love poems, of graphic:
Under your saturn smile, you find me.
Guesser in shears, you take me
beyond realms, lead, alkahest.
Beyond rest phase: our pale diastole.
All that was once valid—two replaceable atoms.
But I particularly want to call your attention to a poem of Judith Baumel in The Weight of Numbers (1987), for it deals with an artistic principle that goes back to the Greeks. When you look at a J. M. W. Turner seascape, your eyes will probably be directed to look at a specific spot on the canvas, a focus around which everything else on the canvas revolves and from which everything else takes on meaning. This is known as the golden section and it appears in a position roughly .618 from one side of the canvas and .382 from the other. It is an aesthetic principle used also in literature—for example in Vergil's Aeneid and in—of course!—Milton's Paradise Lost . The golden section of that poem, the focus of the poem, the action in the poem that makes the whole thing be, is the cration of Eve as recounted by Adam to Raphael in Book VIII. In this 10,550-line poem it appears .618 from the beginning and .382 from the end. These ratios of the golden section, which of course equal unity, are derived from a Fibonacci series, where the first number and the second added yield the third, and the second and the third yield the fourth, and the third and the fourth yield the fifth, and so on. Once you get into the thousands—which is quite soon—and you divide the sum into the larger of the numbers, you get .618, into the smaller of the numbers, you get .382.
Baumel's poem is “Fibonacci” and you really have to look at it also, because on one side of the page are the lines equating .618 of the whole, and on the facing page the lines equating .382. It talks of coming “to the last decimal point of pi”; it advises, “Learn the particular strength / of the fibonacci series” and “those golden numbers.” It ends:
A formula to build
your house on,
the proportion most pleasing
to the human eye.
The exact golden section is the space between the last line of the first section, which is “the nature of this relationship” and the first of the second section, “Learn the particular strength.” The poet is arguing an aesthetic principle which she demonstrates with her poem, yet this too is a love poem for her husband, of whom she says, “Tonight . . . your hands are colder than mine.”
The quotation in my title and the epigraph for “Satan Speaks to Eve” is said by the narrator of Paradise Lost (I, 431), who, talking of God's created spirits, tells us that they, “in what shape they choose / dilated or condens't, bright or obscure, / Can execute thir aerie purposes.” Their works may involve “love” or “enmity”—those works that aid the worthy, those that battle “despicable foes.” And so the teacher of literature who can “dilate” or “condense” that literary course, who can work with the “bright” literary text or the “obscure,” who can advance the worthy thoughts and people of that literary text or battle the deleterious exposed within it. The “major” author will help, but so will the “minor” one, and perhaps being such the “minor” one will have more effect. I hope my worry is needless and we shall persist in bringing to our public some of these “minor” women and men writers, writers who challenge subject matter and philosophy, politics and religions, prejudices of sex and race and ethnicity, and compositional demands. Of us in kinship with those spirits that Milton cites should be said:
And uncompounded Is thir Essence pure,
Not ti'd or manacl'd with joynt or limb.
[1] See also Chris Beyers, A History of Free Verse (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 2001).
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Professor of English, Emeritus, at the University of Kentucky, John T. Shawcross is a former President of the College English Association and recipient of its Life Membership Award. He is author of various articles and books, including Rethinking Milton Studies: Time Present and Time Past (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2005), and "Kinesthetics of Music and Words: Poems on John Coltrane," The CEA Critic 65 (2003): 1-9.
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