The finale of Schubert's Piano Trio in E flat, D 929, composed in 1827, encapsulates the doubling that permeates the soundworlds of this chapter. The funereal theme from the Andante, cast initially in C minor, re-emerges in curious locations – first in B minor at bar 279, then in E flat minor at bar 795 – moments before the end of the piece (Example 2.1). In both instances, the theme, detached from its processional accompaniment, skims a texture of pizzicato chordal interjections in the upper range of the violin part and étude-like figurations in the piano part. Such reconfigurations position the funereal music, seemingly of the past, as returning in the present.

On first hearing, these repetitions may not sound out of the ordinary. Yet tracing their roots back to the theme's initial presentation in the Andante unsettles ideas of the Finale bringing about ‘resolution and closure’. Its first appearance in the upper registers of the cello (bars 1–21) carries signs of the disjuncture to follow, as it soars above the accompaniment, rooted in the dactylic pattern of death in Schubert's music, while confined by its restricted melodic compass (Example 2.2). Mournful on the surface, replete with disruptive undercurrents, the theme distorts the regularity of the funeral march through the accent on the second half of the bar (cf. bars 4 and 5), the dotted rhythmic motion, and emphasis on the minor iv. Here, as in all of Schubert's music, surface details run deep. Thus, when the texture is inverted in bars 21–40, the theme doubled in the upper ranges of the piano, the impression of hovering at the boundaries is intensified through the withdrawal from piano to pianissimo.

Returns of this kind, connected to and detached from their earlier incarnations, provide a backdrop against which to hear the doubles and distortions across the main case studies of this chapter: the Grande Marche Funèbre, D 859, the C minor Impromptu, D 899/1, and the F minor Fantasy for four hands, D 940.

THE ‘HEADS’ OF RAPIN exemplified increasing, innovative and far-flung exchanges in print – and resistance to them – and particularly across the English Channel, where exchanges of knowledge were notably strong. A hotbed of varied invention and circulation, Enlightenment Europe boasted an array of exchanges, from the lofty circles of luminaries and officials to the lower ranks of less celebrated agents of transfer.

Among the lesser-known but intriguing agents of exchange was the Scottish inventor, statistician and writer William Playfair (1759–1823). Born the son of a Kirk minister, Playfair was trained by his brother, the famed professor of the University of Edinburgh John Playfair (1748–1819) and sponsored by Scottish Enlightenment literati as well as more conventional political patrons such as Lord Shelburne. Playfair's travels in Enlighten-ment Europe, particularly in France between 1787 and 1792, are particularly illustrative of the different purposes of cross-Channel exchanges before the French Revolution.

In many respects, Playfair's endeavours and cross-Channel schemes demonstrate the various problems of often interlinked technological, industrial and intellectual transfers. The history of Playfair's activities also challenges both ‘diffusionist’ assumptions of top-down transfers (from elites to the lower ranks) and centralised perspectives (from ‘capitals’ of innovation to peripheries) in the exchange of ideas and knowledge, even though there has been much recent research on the role of ‘go-betweens’. Playfair further exemplifies striking features of the relationship between the materiality of ideas and their exchange: technical innovation, material culture and intellectual dissemination. His Parisian career as a foreign projector questions ‘from below’ issues such as the terms and modalities of exchange, the geography of transmission, the market for translations and the social and institutional reception of inventions. His career also reveals the individual initiatives and the social and personal mechanisms of patronage, sometimes straightforward and sometimes oblique, that ena-bled inventiveness and its acceptance.

THE FORTUNES OF PATRONAGE

William Playfair's Commercial and Political Atlas (1786) received only a succès d’estime from the British public and the press (notably a rather lengthy and supportive review in the Scots Magazine on 1 January 1787). This was despite its genuine graphical innovativeness by the creation of redesigned line-graphs and the invention of bar charts.

ALTHOUGH THE NUMBER of border police officers who transferred to the army never reached the levels predicted by Gerhard Matzky, the strength of the BGS plummeted. More than 9,572 border police offi-cers transferred to the army, leaving a total of 7,042. Besides the obvi-ous shortage in manpower, the army requisitioned the majority of BGS equipment and took over its best barracks, leaving entire units to billet in local hostels or temporary accommodations. It was questionable whether the BGS would ever recover. Interior Minister Schröder tried desperately to reassure his personnel and their commanding officers that the orga-nization could expect a secure future. He wrote to Konrad Adenauer and implored him to publicly recognize the BGS as a way to boost the men's faltering morale. Adenauer did his part, and in an open letter to the organization, thanked its staff for their loyal service, but also reas-sured them that the nation still needed them. The chancellor affirmed that “even those who remain in the BGS will have to fulfill an important duty, which although it might be in other fields, cannot be considered less significant to the duties of the military … the living spirit in the BGS and their future work in the service of the Fatherland will continue up to the day in which a reunified Germany will thank you.”

Nevertheless, serious questions about the future of the organization remained. What purpose did a militarized police force serve now that the Federal Republic had an army? How would the Interior Ministry reach a new generation of young men and convince them to join an organization like the BGS? To be sure, recruitment had never been a significant challenge for the Interior Ministry, since there had always been more applicants than available positions. Yet the birth of West Germany's economic miracle and the declining postwar unemployment figures meant that the BGS now had to compete for candidates with the army in addition to the other career opportunities available for young men in both the public and private sectors. Since it faced many challenges and steep costs to rebuild the organization, why did the Federal Republic keep the BGS rather than transfer its duties to state security agencies?

Introduction

The ideological construction of the Cold War in the 1950s responded to the need to outline a geopolitical strategy capable of sustaining the interests of the United States and the Soviet Union. In order to accomplish that aim, the superpowers resorted to the essential aspects of their founding ideologies, namely American Exceptionalism and Eurasianism. Metapolitics is important in understanding the functioning of the international order. The actions set in motion by the superpowers in the 1950s coincided with the evolution of the strategic situation that unfolded during that decade. Cultural values served to demarcate the boundaries of rational action. What was considered to be rational differed for each superpower, for they both held different cultural values. The social practices that emerged from these cultural values responded to an essentialist ideology informed by notions of American Exceptionalism and Eurasianism, which had a significant heuristic component that allowed the leadership of both countries to deploy a workable scheme of international relations capable of bolstering their geopolitical standing. Therefore, it is important to determine the metapolitical tenets that guided the actions of the United States and the Soviet Union in world affairs during the 1950s and the manner in which they served to legitimize their system of government. These factors were of significant importance in the creation of an essentialist construction of the international order in the 1950s, which was aimed toward meeting the geopolitical needs of the United States and the Soviet Union.

The Importance of Metapolitics in the Understanding of the Evolution of the Cold War

The actions undertaken by the United States and the Soviet Union responded to essentialist accounts of the notion of civilization. The actions undertaken by the superpowers during the 1950s attest to the fact that certain practices arise as a result of long-held beliefs about the way in which a particular community should engage with the world. The “exceptionalist” attitude espoused by Washington was aimed at satisfying specific political interests. Communism succeeded in entrenching itself in power in the Soviet Union due to its quasi-religious qualities. Berdyaev states that “Russia has always been full of mystical and prophetic sects and among them there has always been a thirst for the transfiguration of life [and that] the religion of the soil is very strong in the Russian people [as] it lies deep down in the very foundations of the Russian soul.”

AS THIS VOLUME's CHAPTERS have insisted, the transnational and global ambit is crucial to fuller understanding of the changing relationships between ideas and literary materialities in the Enlightenment world. More than sixty years after the publication of L’Apparition du Livre (‘The Coming of the Book’) by Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin, studies in what has become known as ‘book history’ have revolutionized the scope of bibliographical scholarship. Until recently, however, the new ‘book histories’ remained largely bound by nationally or linguistically based frameworks. They all too rarely engaged with adventurous research, both ongoing and well-established but conducted outside Europe and North America, concerning other vehicles for the conveyance of thought, approaches to the history of material objects, and communication networks in broad cultural-historical terms.

Whether it be contrasting European literary perceptions of China, the construction of iconic images of a British past, or the sharing of knowledge of the Orient, at issue is the interplay between textual content and the physical design and material construction of written or printed materials. In different ways, the preceding chapters reveal how, at a critical period in global interchange, textual meaning and appreciation were filtered by materiality and paratextual disposition, by the relationship between images and printed and or written characters and by the further interventions of letterpress, engraving and other methods of textual replication – and crucially, the relationship between them. Such relationships entailed numerous and complex hierarchies and dependencies, whether in non-representational Qur’anic penmanship and engraving, inked talipot palm leaf, hand-painting on printed and translated statistical charts, Christian missionary tracts or woodcuts and poor-quality intaglio accompanying subversive or scandalous literature. As contributors to this volume have made clear, transformations and transpositions were multiple. The aim has been to combine understanding of the intellectual and the material in the creation, diffusion and reception of different editions in different formats and translated languages, including adaptations, abridgements, illustrations, dedications, commentaries, advertisements and annotations. All these aspects generate their own questions: how, for example, did translated editions which might already have subtly changed meaning from the original (especially if abridged), convey knowledge and understanding even more differently when repackaged and published (and sometimes after a gap of many years) in different regional or national contexts?

LIFE MAGAZINERANA SPECIAL ISSUE in 1954 titled “Germany: A Giant Awakened,” which included a cover photo of the iconic Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria. Inside, an article and a series of pictures by legendary twentieth-century photojournalist David Douglas Duncan highlighted a BGS company rounding up “bandits” during a training exercise. In one of the photos, border police officers wearing camouflage with machine guns at the ready have a group of civilians lined up against a wall. The pictures had all the appearances of and indeed evoked the anti-partisan operations of Nazi Germany's military security forces. Images and actions have meaning. Yet if the date and captions were removed, one could easily confuse these images of the BGS with similar photos of Nazi counterinsurgency operations on the Eastern Front.

Did it really matter that border police officers were trained to carry out military-style assaults? After all, what harm could there be in preparing its men for the possibility that they might face invading East German or Soviet armed forces at the Inner-German border? The point is not to say that West Germany became an illiberal regime because it trained its border police officers like soldiers, but rather to highlight the ways in which proceeding in this manner stood in contrast to its democratic ideals and postwar commitment to demilitarization. The government also under-mined its credibility by claiming one thing in public while doing precisely the opposite in practice, giving the impression to many observers that it had formed an army disguised as a police force. If the BGS really was a law enforcement agency and nothing else, as the Interior Ministry often proclaimed, then it should have left fighting wars to the Bundeswehr or NATO. The sociologist George E. Berkley has argued that “nothing is more vital to the creation of a democratic policeman than education.” Although the BGS never fought the hypothetical wars they spent years training for, why risk the negative consequences of police militarization that proved so disastrous to Germany's first experiment with democracy? Training is thus a useful category of analysis because it lays bare the organizational tensions between continuity and change—between those who recognized a need to move away from past models and proponents of maintaining the status quo

THE INTRODUCTION IN THE 1955 edition of Text and Reading Book for Political and Civics Education in the Federal Border Police, states: “The foundations of human morality and thus also of the state-political education are founded in the West on the Christian religion and its culti-vation by the Christian Churches.” On the face of it, the strong empha-sis of religion in a textbook intended to teach police officers about politics and civics seems unusual. The police in democratic states are supposed to be impartial and apolitical when enforcing the law. With no official state church, West Germany's Basic Law and Federal Constitutional Court pro-moted religious neutrality. Yet the Federal Republic's stance on religion did not adhere to the same strict separation of church and state found in American constitutional jurisprudence. According to the legal scholar Donald Kommers, “Because it provides for peoples spiritual needs, the church is crucially important to the life of the state and society.”

Whereas combat veterans trained border police officers like soldiers, teaching them to use infantry weapons and preparing them to fight wars, Protestant and Catholic chaplains tried to instill moral behaviors they thought would arm the men for policing a democracy. They did this through the medium of professional ethics courses, first during basic training and then in a series of ongoing seminars where attendance was mandatory. To be sure, this approach revived a Weimar-era practice, where the churches administered pastoral care and ethics training to Germany's state police forces. Although the National Socialists banned this practice during the 1930s, Germany's Christian churches and their clergy came with their own moral baggage from the Third Reich. Historians have shown that both the Protestant and Catholic churches supported National Socialism, even though the state persecuted some of its members for speaking out against its racist policies. During the postwar period, many of the Wehrmacht's chaplains returned to their pastoral work, and several of them later joined the BGS. Omer Bartov and Phyllis Mack have argued that the postwar clergy behaved as if it was “their self-proclaimed task to restore the moral order in German society.” This is precisely what BGS chaplains attempted to accomplish through professional ethics, and it allowed them to obfuscate the role of their institutions in the perpetration of Nazi crimes.

Smell is hard to represent in text or image. Describing the difference between two pleasant or unpleasant fragrances – in English at least – pushes us into comparative structures that can only point outside representational limits to the world of real experience (it smells of, it smells like …). What tends to be registered primarily in our descriptions is a value judgment or an affective response, normally pleasure or disgust. Aroma acts on us, activating memories and emotions, past and present. Spaces may be coterminous with scents, which makes olfactory perception a way of navigating and understanding our environment. Because smell can be so visceral, it is a site onto which ethical and social values are projected. Bigoted distinctions in class and race may be expressed along olfactory lines. Discernment for truth may be conceived as an act of sniffing (Nietzsche located his genius in his nostrils), and suspicious activity may give off a ‘fishy’ smell. Olfactory scientist Avery Gilbert states that while smell is in the animal world predominantly a call to action, ‘human cognitive abilities turn smells into symbols’. As an object of cultural inquiry, smell sits therefore at a suggestive intersection of actual sense-experience, affect, and symbolization. All the while, the serious challenge of disentangling these three aspects from one another makes smell of potential methodological and theoretical importance for new lines of research in sensory history, affect theory, and aesthetics as a branch of philosophy.

This essay takes as its focus the poetic output of Gautier de Coinci, a monastic author writing in Old French between 1214 and 1233 at the Abbey of Vic-sur-Aisne in northeastern France. Gautier composed what is now called the Miracles de Nostre Dame (Miracles of Our Lady), a compilation made of two ‘books’ (livres) that follow a carefully designed structure. Each book opens and ends with a series of lyric songs and chants, while the main bulk of the text is taken up by miracle narratives of various lengths written in octosyllabic rhyming couplets, a standard French narrative form of the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries.