Scholars and others are protesting a forthcoming journal, Porn Studies, from Routledge. "While we agree that pornography and porn culture demand and deserve more critical attention, as a group of academics, activists, anti-violence experts, health professionals, and educators, we are deeply concerned about the journal’s intention and focus and about its editorial board, which is uniformly pro-porn," says a petition signed by hundreds. "Routledge is in a position of authority, and framing the editorial 'experts' on porn as pro-porn under the auspices of neutrality (which is what the journal title does) further fosters the normalization of porn and misrepresents the academic, political and ideological debates about the issue."
Times Higher Education asked editors of the journal about their reaction to the criticism, and the editors responded that they had been "especially pleased to have so many messages from academics welcoming the journal" and "delighted that we have been able to include the foremost scholars in this area on our board, and we are continuing to invite others so that we have a really good spread of academics across disciplines."
Standing in line at the drugstore a couple of weeks ago, I spied on the magazine rack nearby this month’s issue of National Geographic – conspicuous as one of the few titles without a celebrity on the cover. Instead it showed a photograph of an infant beneath a headline saying "This Baby Will Live to Be 120."
The editors must have expected disbelief, because there was a footnote to the headline insisting that the claim was not hype: "New science could lead to very long lives." When was the last time you saw a footnote in a popular periodical, on the cover, no less? It seemed worth a look, particularly after the septuagenarian in front of me had opened complex, in-depth negotiations with the pharmacist.
The headline, one learns from a comment on the table of contents, alludes to a traditional Jewish birthday wish or blessing: "May you live to be 120." This was the age that Moses was said to have reached when he died. The same figure appears -- not so coincidentally perhaps – at an important moment in the book of Genesis. Before sending the Flood, Jehovah announces that man’s lifespan will henceforth peak at 120 years. (I take it there was a grandfather clause for Noah. When the waters recede, he lives another 350 years.)
The cap on longevity, like the deluge itself, is ultimately mankind’s own fault, given our tendency to impose too much on the Almighty’s patience and good humor. He declares in about so many words that there is a limit to how much He must endure from any single one of us. Various translations make the point more or less forcefully, but that’s the gist of it. Even 120 years proved too generous an offer – one quietly retracted later, it seems. Hence the Psalmist’s lament:
“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”
Nursing homes are full of people who passed the fourscore marker a while ago. If you visit such places very often, as I have lately, “May you live to be 120” probably sounds more like a curse than a blessing. Not even a funeral obliges more awareness of mortal frailty. There is more to life than staving off death. The prospect of being stranded somewhere in between for 30 or 40 years is enough to make an atheist believe in hell.
Meanwhile, in science…. The medical and biological research surveyed in that NatGeoarticle promises to do more than drag out the flesh’s “labor and sorrow” a lot longer. The baby on the magazine cover will live his or her allotted span of six score decades with an alert mind, in a reasonably healthy body. Our genetic inheritance plays a huge but not absolutely determinate role in how long we live. In the wake of the mapping of genome, it could be possible to tinker with the mechanisms that accelerate or delay the aging process. It may not be the elixir of youth, but close enough.
Besides treating the same research in greater depth, Ted Anton’s The Longevity Seekers: Science, Business, and the Fountain of Youth (University of Chicago Press) emphasizes how profound a change longevity research has already wrought. It means no longer taking for granted the status of aging as an inescapable, biologically hardwired, and fundamentally irreversible process of general decline. Challenging the stereotypes and prejudices about the elderly has been a difficult process, but longevity engineering would transform the whole terrain of what aging itself entails.
Anton, a professor of English at DePaul University, tells the story in two grand phases. The first bears some resemblance to James Watson’s memoir The Double Helix, which recounts the twists and turns of laboratory research in the struggle to determine the structure of DNA – work for which he and Francis Crick received a Nobel Prize in medicine in 1962. Watson’s book is particularly memorable for revealing science as an enterprise in which personalities and ambitions clash as much as theories ever do. (And with far more rancor as Watson himself demonstrated in the book’s vicious and petty treatment of Rosalind Franklin, a crystallographer whose contribution he downplayed as much as possible.)
A practitioner of long-form journalism rather than a longevity researcher, Anton writes about conflicts in the field with some detachment, even while remaining aware that the discoveries may change life in ways we can’t yet picture. The initial phase of the research he describes consisted largely of experiments with yeast cells and microscopic worms conducted in the 1990s. Both are short-lived, meaning that the impact of biochemical adjustments to their genetic “thermostats” for longevity would register quickly.
During the second phase of Anton’s narrative, lab research involved more complex organisms. But that that was not the most important development. The public began hearing news flashes that scientists had discovered that the key to a longer life was, say, restricted caloric intake, or a chemical called resveratrol found in red wine. Findings presented in scientific journals were reported on morning news programs, or endorsed on Oprah, within days or even hours of publication. Hypotheses became hype overnight.
This generated enthusiasm (more for drinking red wine than restricting calories, if memory serves) as well as additional confidence that biotechnological breakthroughs were on the way. Everybody in longevity research, or almost everybody, started a company and ran around looking for venture capital. Models, evidence, and ideas turned proprietary information -- with the hurry to get one’s findings into professional journals looking more and more like the rush to issue a press release.
So far, no pharmaceutical has arrived on the market to boost our lifespans as dramatically as the worm and yeast cells in the laboratory worms. “The dustbin of medical breakthroughs,” Anton reminds us, “bears the label ‘It Worked in Mice.’ ” On the other hand, the research has been a boon to the cosmetics industry.
As it is, we’re nowhere near ready to deal with the cumulative effect of all the life-extending medical developments from the past few decades. The number of centenarians in the world “is expected to increase tenfold between 2010 and 2050,” the author notes, “and the number of older poor, the majority of them women,” is predicted “to go from 342 million today to 1.2 billion by that same year.”
But progress is ruthless about doing things on its own terms. Biotech is still in its infancy, and its future course -- much less its side effects -- is beyond imagining. The baby on the magazine cover might well live to see the first centenarian win an Olympic medal. I wish that prospect were more cheering than it is.
Around 50 serial killers are active in the United States at any given time, according to the retired Federal Bureau of Investigation agent John Douglas, who wrote some of the standard monographs on violent crime, as well as any number of true-crime paperbacks. The figure sounds remarkably low, given serial killers’ ubiquitous and nearly mythological status in the American imagination over the past couple of decades. As a movie reviewer once pointed out, they must be the most overrepresented demographic in contemporary popular culture.
You could probably find 50 of them right this minute, just by turning on the TV. The fictionalized serial killer is now a stereotype, albeit one constructed mainly of idiosyncrasies. He practices bizarre private rituals full of psychosexual significance (murder itself being one of the rituals) and is known to the public by a pseudonym, as was his symbolic ancestor Jack the Ripper. His motives are oblique at best. On the one hand, he is in the grip of obsessions and compulsions; on the other, the killings often embody a degree of creativity, however mis-channeled or diseased. He is a kind of deranged artist or malignant demigod, turning inner chaos into violent order.
In real life, of course, there have been plenty of sloppy, impulsive, and totally unimaginative serial killers, but they, evidently, are not nearly so entertaining. When one shows up on screen at all, it is likely to be in a rural setting, where generations of inbreeding has erased all impulse control, with the victims ending up barbecued, or their skin and bones turned into clothing and household decoration.
In either version, we have an almost archetypal symbol of evil, more or less plausibly rendered in human form, with no supernatural explanation necessary or implied. At the same time, we should be wary of interpreting as too deeply meaningful the prevalence of a stock character who, most of the time, exists simply as a convenient device for setting the detective in motion -- or giving the horror-movie viewers someone to dread, perhaps while rooting for him at the same time.
Every so often, the archetype short-circuits and the plot device goes haywire, and you get something like “The Following,” a recent series on the Fox network. In it, Kevin Bacon plays a retired FBI agent whose mission is to fight a cult of aspiring serial killers led by a literature professor who is obsessed with gothic romanticism, or possibly it’s romantic Gothicism. The professor is “brilliant and charismatic, but psychotic,” as the Internet Movie Data Base helpfully explains, which in this context means he has a British accent. He sends his minions out to perform sundry Edgar Allan Poe-inspired atrocities. He also does some serial killing himself, as his schedule permits.
I see that the IMDB page for “The Following” states that there are now 300 serial killers active according to the FBI. Either the bureau was overlooking five-sixths of them until recently or the professor is a very good teacher.
An interpreter of compulsive homicide rather than instructor in it, Lisa Downing treats the contemporary fascination with serial killing as one element of a complex process of marking and policing social norms of sexuality and identity. The biographical note on the cover of The Subject of Murder: Gender, Exceptionality, and the Modern Killer (University of Chicago Press) indicates that Downing is a professor of French discourses of sexuality at the University of Birmingham, in the United Kingdom.
From that description, the profiler will surmise that Downing keeps theoretical company with Michel Foucault, and indeed, his conceptual fingerprints are all over the book. In her title, the word subject does not mean topic (per ordinary usage) or even the general philosophical sense of subjectivity as consciousness and agency. Rather, it has Foucault’s particular nuance of being “subject[ed] to someone else by control and dependence, and tied to his own identity by a conscience or self-knowledge.” In this sense, the “subject of murder” refers not (just) to the individual committing the act, but to all the institutions and interpretive frameworks that come together in identifying and defining the murder: law, psychiatry, penology, and ideas about male and female behavior with regard to sex and violence.
Downing’s first section consists of three chapters on cases from the 19th century, beginning with that of Pierre-François Lacenaire, a poet, criminal, and boulevardier executed for murder in 1836, and continuing with Marie Lafarge, a Frenchwoman convicted of ending an unhappy marriage in 1840 by feeding her husband rat poison. The third chapter, leaping across both decades and the Channel, takes up the case of Jack the Ripper – hardly the first instance of what the sexologist Richard von Krafft-Ebing would label Lustmörd (“lust murder”), but the one that would prove iconic. Each became a national and even international sensation, thanks in part to the writings of the killers, but also because other authors were inspired to comment on their cases.
The three main chapters in the second section, covering the 20th century, involve figures now routinely classified as serial killers (a category also retroactively applicable to the Ripper). The most notorious of them is Myra Hindley – at the time of her death a few years ago still one of the most hated women in England – who helped Ian Brady rape and murder a number of children and buried their bodies on the moors outside Manchester. The story of Dennis Nilsen, the British necrophile and serial killer, resembles that of Jeffrey Dahmer, although Nilsen was more prolific.
Downing’s treatment of Aileen Wuornos, a homeless prostitute who shot several clients, challenges the idea that she was a serial killer, given that the murders can be understood as revenge for the violence she endured from men, rather than as the work of a psychopath. A final chapter considers children who kill, and includes perhaps the most sinister photograph in the book: a surveillance camera image from a shopping mall showing two boys, about 10 years old, leading away a toddler who they then beat to death with rocks.
What we have here, to put it one way, is a variety of homicidal acts with very little in common, with few parallels even among the murders themselves, apart from a degree of celebrity (Lacenaire and Lafarge had their defenders) or public outrage. At another level, however, each murderous career is defined not just by the means and motives for killing, but by a surrounding matrix of attitudes about self-control and gender difference.
The whole “serial killer as artist” mythology that I mentioned at the start of this column is a case in point – a late flowering of the idea emerging in the 1830s: “Lacenaire wished his poetry, his crimes, and his own highly stylized self to be received by the world as the avid Romantic critic receives the artwork: appreciated or subject to disapproval only as beautiful objects, according to purely aesthetic criteria.”
Brady, the Moors murderer, rationalized his behavior in similar terms, fortified with passages from the Marquis de Sade and Nietzsche. Medical and criminological speculation over the decades made room for this sort of “subject of murder” by treating the behavior as the product of some kind of excess – an overcharged libido, perhaps, or a grandiose ego. But no such interpretation was ever offered for Hindley’s participation in the murders. I’m not sure how you would quantify visceral loathing, but as much of it as Brady inspired, Hindley provoked more of it.
“Female murderers are special,” according to Downing, “because they are seen to lack something that is perceived as essential to femininity….” A default or normative definition of the human equates it with the male (don’t blame the feminists for this interpretation, angry readers, but direct your ire to Aristotle). Hence “femaleness equates to something other to, and less than, maleness, but with culturally ascribed saving virtues such as a capacity for nurturing and an affinity with an ethics of care.”
Hindley not only used children's trust in her to lure them to her death, but showed no remorse during the trial; while Brady's crimes and demeanor were cold, hers were taken to be even more inhuman. Doubly so, in fact. But identifying and purging the monstrous, however strong the drive to do so may be, never brings the story to an end. There’s always another monster being born, or sitting in the audience.
Véronique Kiermer, executive editor of the Nature Publishing Group, says that there is more "sloppiness" than in the past in journal submissions, Times Higher Education reported. Kiermer made the remark in a speech at the World Conference on Research Integrity. Among the problems she said she is seeing more of are: missing control tests, poor use of images, flaws in experimental design and reporting, and problems with the use of statistics.
Several major publishers will experiment with offering free course materials to Coursera users enrolled in the Silicon Valley-based company's massive open online courses. The partnership, which involves Cengage Learning, Macmillan Higher Education, Oxford University Press, SAGE, and Wiley will deliver material using Chegg, a company that offers an e-book platform. According to Coursera, while professors teaching MOOCs on its platform have been able to assign free high-quality content, they will now be able to work with publishers to "provide an even wider variety of carefully curated teaching and learning materials at no cost to the student." Coursera has, however, generated some revenue from the Amazon.com affiliates program wherein users buy books suggested by professors.
OpenStax College, the year-old Rice University startup that produces free online textbooks, will more than double the number of fields in which it has titles by 2015, the university announced today. A grant from the Laura and John Arnold Foundation will allow OpenStax College to add to its current offerings in physics and sociology, and its two new biology books and an introductory anatomy text coming out this fall. The new titles will be in precalculus, chemistry, economics, U.S. history, psychology and statistics, Rice said, toward its goal of producing high-quality open-source books in the 25 most-enrolled college courses. OpenStax says its existing two texts have been downloaded more than 70,000 times so far.
Students at the state of Washington's 34 community and technical colleges will save hundreds of thousands of dollars a year because of low-cost textbooks produced by the state's Open Course Library, the college system said this week. The library, which received funding from the state legislature and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, spent $1.8 million to develop low-cost course material, including textbooks of no more than $30, for 81 common courses. The effort has already saved students $5.5 million since fall 2011, according to an analysis by The Student Public Interest Research Groups, an advocacy organization.
“Students are clearly the winners in the open courseware library model,” said Marty Brown, the executive director of the State Board for Community and Technical Colleges, in a conference call with reporters.
Nicole Allen, a textbook advocate for the student group, said Washington's materials are used outside the state, including by a math department in Arizona. Policymakers in California and British Columbia have created similar projects, she said.
“A poem,” wrote William Carlos Williams toward the end of World War II, “is a small (or large) machine of words.” I’ve long wondered if the good doctor -- Williams was a general practitioner in New Jersey who did much of his writing between appointments – might have come up with this definition out of weariness with the flesh and all its frailties. Traditional metaphors about “organic” literary form usually imply a healthy and developing organism, not one infirm and prone to messes. The poetic mechanism is, in Williams’s vision, “pruned to a perfect economy,” and there is “nothing sentimental about a machine.”
Built for efficiency, built to last. The image this evoked 70 years ago was probably that of an engine, clock, or typewriter. Today it’s more likely to be something with printed circuits. And a lot of poems in literary magazines now seem true to form in that respect: The reader has little idea how they work or what they do, but the circuitry looks intricate, and one assumes it is to some purpose.
I had much the same response to the literary scholarship Matthew L. Jockers describes and practices in Macroanalysis: Digital Methods & Literary History (University of Illinois Press). Jockers is an assistant professor of English at the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. The literary material he handles is prose fiction -- mostly British, Irish, and American novels of the 18th and 19th centuries -- rather than poetry, although some critics apply the word “poem” to any literary artifact. In the approach Jockers calls “macroanalysis,” the anti-sentimental and technophile attitude toward literature defines how scholars understand the literary field, rather than how authors imagine it. The effect, in either case, is both tough-minded and enigmatic.
FollowingFranco Moretti’s program for extending literary history beyond the terrain defined by the relatively small number of works that remain in print over the decades and centuries, Macroanalysis describes “how a new method of studying large collections of digital material can help us to understand and contextualize the individual works within those collections.”
Instead of using computer-based tools to annotate or otherwise explore a single work or author, Jockers looks for verbal patterns across very large reservoirs of text, including novels that have long since been forgotten. The author notes that only “2.3 percent of the books published in the U.S. between 1927 and 1946 are still in print” (even that figure sounds high, and may be inflated by the recent efforts of shady print-on-demand “publishers” playing fast and loose with copyright) while the most expansive list of canonical 19th-century British novels would represent well under 1 percent of those published.
Collections such as the Internet Archive and HathiTrust Digital Library available for analysis. Add to this the capacity to analyze the metadata about when and where the books were published, as well as available information on the authors, and you have a new, turbocharged sort of philology – one covering wider swaths of literature than even the most diligent and asocial researcher could ever read.
Or would ever want to, for that matter. Whole careers have been built on rescuing “unjustly neglected” authors, of course, but oblivion is sometimes the rightful outcome of history and a mercy for everyone involved. At the same time, the accumulation of long-unread books is something like a literary equivalent of the kitchen middens that archeologists occasionally dig up – the communal dumps, full of leftovers and garbage and broken or outdated household items. The composition of what’s been discarded and the various strata of it reveal aspects of everyday life of long ago.
Jockers uses his digital tools to analyze novels by, essentially, crunching them -- determining what words appear in each book, tabulating the frequency with which they are used, likewise quantifying the punctuation marks, and working out patterns among the results according to the novel’s subgenre or publication date, or biographical data about the author such as gender, nationality, and regional origin.
The findings that the author reports tend to be of a very precise and delimited sort. The words like, young, and little “are overrepresented in Bildungsroman novels compared to the other genres in the test data.” There is a “high incidence of locative prepositions” (over, under, within, etc.) in Gothic fiction, which may be “a direct result of the genre’s being ‘place oriented.’” That sounds credible, since Gothic characters tend to find themselves moving around in dark rooms within ruined castles with secret passageways and whatnot.
After about 1900, Irish-American authors west of the Mississippi began writing more fiction than their relations on the other side of the river, despite their numbers being fewer and thinner on the ground. Irish-American literature is Jockers’s specialty, and so this statistically demonstrable trend proves of interest given that “the history of Irish-American literature has had a decidedly eastern bias…. Such neglect is surprising given the critical attention that the Irish in the West have received from American and Irish historians.”
As the familiar refrain goes: More research is needed.
Macroanalysis is really a showcase for the range and the potential of what the author calls “big data” literary study, more than it is a report on its discoveries. And his larger claim for this broad-sweep combination of lexometric and demographic correlation-hunting – what Moretti calls “distant reading” -- is that it can help frame new questions about style, thematics, and influence that can be pursued through more traditional varieties of close reading.
And he’s probably right about that, particularly if the toolkit includes methods for identifying and comparing semantic and narrative elements across huge quantities of text. (Or rather, when it includes them, since that’s undoubtedly a matter of time.)
Text-crunching methodologies offer the possibility of establishing verifiable, quantifiable, exact results in a field where, otherwise, everything is interpretive, hence interminably disputable. This sounds either promising or menacing. What will be more interesting, if we ever get it, is technology that can recognize and understand a metaphor and follow its implications beyond the simplest level of analogy. A device capable of, say, reading Williams’s line about the poem as machine and then suggesting something interesting about it – or formulating a question about what it means.