AS EARLIER CHAPTERS HAVE established in different ways, the revival of global approaches in historical research has brought fresh attention to transnational and long-distance connections and their impact on knowl-edge production. Consequently, the study of different modes and vectors in the interaction and circulation of ideas and knowledge, along with different ways of interpretation and reappropriation, have emerged as promising subjects of study. It has begun to be acknowledged that the cross-cultural encounters, and in particular the exchanges with Asiatic civilizations, have been crucial for the development of scholarly production in Europe during the early modern period. Some studies have addressed the role of Orien-talist scholars as intermediaries and suggested that their works opened up new perspectives for an understanding of eighteenth-century schol-arship. However, the study of Orientalist scholarship remains a marginal domain within that of the so-called ‘Republic of Letters’ and the mapping of these global, cross-cultural, boundary-crossing circulations needs further exploration.

This chapter therefore examines the circulation of Oriental knowledge in the Enlightenment, focusing on a major Orientalist work of the late seventeenth century, Barthélemy d’Herbelot's Bibliothèque orientale, and on its several later editions during the second half of the eighteenth century. This analysis engages with the intellectual as well as the material, situating them both in the context of Western scholarship and cross-cultural encounter during this critical period for the global history of Orientalist knowledge. Our purpose is, in the first place, to examine the diversity of agencies, spaces and practices involved in these editorial projects. The study thus focuses on the investigation of the interaction between local and long-distance exchange, the networks and practices involved in the making of the Bibliothèque orientale, and it particularly points out the role of local agency (Oriental scholars) and the involvement of non-academic actors, revealing unexpected places of knowledge production and circulation. Tracing the ways in which local knowledge is negotiated and reconfigured, this study shows that the perspective of the Bibliothèque orientale, in its various versions (and both the methodology of the authors and the editorial decisions that have given a new form to the work), places it at the intersection of different historiographical traditions (Ottoman, Arabic, Persian, Chinese, European).

GSG 9's DRAMATIC RESCUE of the hostages aboard Lufthansa Flight 181 did not end the Federal Republic's ongoing struggle against terrorism or the questions its responses raised about the ethics of secu-rity in a democracy. The success of GSG 9 was tempered by the failure of West Germany's security forces to locate and rescue Hanns-Martin Schleyer before he was murdered by the RAF. Former Interior Minister Hermann Höcherl investigated the failed attempt to find Schleyer and in his final analysis, recommended more coordination between the Federal Republic's security agencies. Six weeks after Colonel Wegener and his men returned in triumph, however, the BGS faced accusations that the government's security policies had gone too far. Border police officers assigned to the Munich Airport detained Bundestag Deputy Eckart Kuhlwein (SPD) during a routine pre-boarding security check. His com-plaints about his treatment renewed the public debate about the nature of the government's collection of personal data from travelers, and, more important, which agencies it was sharing it with. Interior Minister Werner Maihofer, who replaced Genscher when he became Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1974, faced problems of his own over invasive security policies. In 1977, Der Spiegel revealed that he had authorized a secret wiretapping operation against nuclear physicist Klaus Traube, whom he suspected of having ties to the RAF. When he failed to produce evidence linking Traube to the RAF, Maihofer resigned. Gerhart Baum, a liberal member of the FDP, replaced him.

Baum brought a new approach to the post of Interior Minister, and his progressive policies were a moderating influence on the BGS. The 1972 revisions to the Border Police Act had set the organization on a path towards modernization and in the years that followed led to greater integration of its personnel with West Germany's state police forces. Because of these reforms, by 1973 the BGS reached and exceeded its full strength of 20,000 men for the first time in its history. The Interior Ministry no longer needed conscripts to maintain adequate staffing. The passage of a new Personnel Structure Act in 1976 equalized the pay, benefits, and training of border police officers with their state police colleagues. Moreover, the Federal Republic's state police forces now hired twenty percent of their recruits from the BGS, providing its members with greater career incentives and better prospects for advancement.

AS THE NUMBER AND activities of printing presses proliferated so spec-tacularly during the second half of the seventeenth century, so did the nature and reach of their activity. So much has been evident in the preceding chapters: that the presses increasingly provided governments, military personnel, religious officials, merchants, finance agents, investors and many others with the ability to reproduce texts and disseminate them to varied reading audiences. Much journalism developed from the con-veyance of business news, and the history of indigenous presses in many colonies, and especially in the Caribbean, reflected the hunger for news of financial and commercial conditions and activities. Caribbean plantation economies in particular became centres of extraordinary global profit, and financial news became imperative. The growth of plantation economies exhibited a close relationship to the growth of publishing industries that served imperial goals.

What has not been as stressed so far, whether concerning financial, religious or political publications, is the speed with which printed production and then, especially during the eighteenth century, circulation might be undertaken. The speed of production and circulation was also startling in comparison to scribal methods. Considerations of speed, however, become more complex as other material conditions, and notably shipping and cargo loading, changed, a transformation often driven by the new needs of expanding and increasingly far-flung colonial territories and global trading and financial relationships.

A fundamental aspect of the reconfiguration of time and space in the traffic in books and print over this period is the changing relationship between the metropole and the distant recipient of its goods – but where developments in the ‘outpost’ (as seen in fascinating focus in Chapter 6) increasingly offered challenges in the interpretation of received materials or even challenged and reshaped the relationship itself. During the eighteenth century, London alone hosted almost 650 printing businesses, while in Paris some 1,224 printing, publishing and bookselling establishments oper-ated between 1788 and 1813. Approximately 47 printers and 179 booksellers and publishers worked in Paris on the eve of the French Revolution.

The contrast with the metropolitan book trades and those of the British and French colonies is all the more dramatic, therefore. Despite Europe's reliance on the printing press, its introduction to the Caribbean colonies came much later.

The obligation to produce an inventory of a deceased person's goods as part of the procedure for obtaining probate or letters of administration developed during the medieval period. Some aspects were formalised in legislation by the Probate Fees, Inventories etc. Act 1529, which was not repealed until 1925 by which time the practice of producing an inventory had fallen out of use. Although the 1529 Act did not give a reason for making an inventory, later commentators explained it as to prevent fraud, principally by the executor, and to protect creditors and anyone else having a claim on the estate. It is quaintly explained by Swinburne as ‘least the executor be disposed to deale unfaithfully, shoulde defraude the creditors or legataries, by concealing the goods of the deceased.’

Diocesan officials, proctors and notaries public who practised in the church courts in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and earlier and the scriveners who worked for some decedents probably had formularies or notes to guide them with the documentation. How the laity who helped people with wills and inventories gained the knowledge of procedure and the formulas to use is not known and there were no printed law books to guide either group until the end of the sixteenth century. The process is described here to inform the reader of the different requirements and enable a comparison with Bedfordshire practice.

The framework for making inventories set out in the 1529 Act focussed on curbing excessive fees, setting the scale for proving wills and exhibiting inventories (which remained unchanged throughout the period covered by this volume) and setting out who had priority for appointment as administrator in cases of intestacy. The framework was commented on and developed in books published later in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The detailed procedure has to be teased out of these sources.

William Lyndwood's Provinciale, made in the previous century, gathered together orders and procedures that governed the church. It was printed in an English trans¬lation in 1534 and was later cited by Swinburne. Henry Swinburne, who practised in the church courts of York, published a Brief Treatise on Testaments in 1591 with editions in 1611, 1635 and 1640. West's Symboleography, 1598 was a precedent book on all subjects. The Canons of the Church of England 1604, produced by the Bishop of London were concerned with doctrine and procedure from the church's standpoint.

The inner-object conception

The concept of understanding occurs in Wittgenstein's writings first and mainly with respect to language. Understanding is discussed as a correlative to meaning and explanation. Wittgenstein argues against the idea of understanding as an inner process or occurrence – a mental representation of what is understood. Locke presented the view that words have meaning if they are accompanied by a mental image ‘in the mind of him that uses them’ (Locke 1690, 3.2.2). Understanding would then require that the same words are associated with the same images in the mind of the hearer. A little reflection shows, however, that what comes before our minds when we understand a word – a picture or mental image – cannot determine or constitute our understanding of the word, for the same mental image can accompany the hearing of a word in two people when they understand the word very differently (PI §140). They may, for example, both imagine an Alsatian when one of them takes the word in question to mean ‘dog’, while the other understands it to mean ‘Alsatian’. Similarly, the same mental image can accompany our understanding of completely different words, which we know to be different in meaning: thus the word ‘winter’ may make me see the image of a snow-covered street, but the same image may come up in my mind when I hear the words ‘snow’ or ‘Advent’. On the other hand, very often, when I use or understand the word ‘winter’, no such mental imagery occurs (cf. PI §449). Mental images are neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition of understanding.

Conceding that our words are not always accompanied by mental images, one may still be inclined to insist that understanding must consist in some sort of mental representation, whatever it may be. When I understand that something is the case, it would appear that the object of my understanding must somehow be represented in my mind.

Boulez, Leibowitz and aesthetic protests

The final key influence on the young Boulez was the Second Viennese School. Schoenberg, Berg and Webern were very little known in France in the mid-1940s, and René Leibowitz (1913–72) can be credited with introducing Boulez to these composers, whatever their subsequent disagreements. Most publications on Boulez highlight the importance of Webern's serial language to the young composer, but Schoenberg was arguably a stronger influence on his earliest works. Michel Leiris's article on Schoenberg, first published in a programme book for one of Leibowitz's concerts, ends with words that could equally apply to Boulez:

It was the hyper-emotional, expressionist Schoenberg that Boulez knew before February 1945, when he attended a concert at the home of Claude Halphen, a young supporter of contemporary music. Boulez told Antoine Goléa that this was

This prompted Boulez to attend Leibowitz's private classes from spring 1945 to autumn 1946, again as part of a group of fellow private students of Messiaen including Nigg, Grimaud and Loriod. Nigg told Jean Boivin that he instigated the ‘defection’ of Messiaen's students to study with Leibowitz, whom he had met through his first French pupil, André Casanova (1919–2009).

February 1945 also witnessed one of the most notorious events involving the group of students. Stravinsky's Danses concertantes (1941–2) was given a Paris premiere on 27 February 1945 by the Société Privée de Musique de Chambre, and a small group of Messiaen's students, led by Boulez, protested against what they perceived as the old-fashioned neoclassical style of this work, shouting and blowing police whistles.

INTRODUCTION

In March 1765, Catherine Ettrick began proceedings in the Durham Consistory Court to obtain a separation from her husband William Ettrick. As we shall see, the Ettrick case is characterised by many similar themes to those found in other suits for separation in this period in terms of how both parties attempted to represent the behaviour of the other. However, in this chapter I shift the focus onto what it might be able to tell us about the role of women’s clothing in the context of marital breakdown, as Catherine Ettrick’s clothing appears again and again in her own allegations, in her husband’s response to them, and in the depositions of a number of witnesses. This analysis is exploratory as I look across the different ways in which the clothing of one woman was described, and demonstrate what might be gained from using a source perhaps less familiar to scholars of consumption than those explored in previous chapters. As we have seen, the use of court records as a source is nothing new as trials for theft have been effectively mined for details about stolen clothing. Indeed, trial records have been hailed as an essential corrective to ‘static’ lists of clothing found in sources like probate records and account books, as they can reveal things in movement and use.

Attention has already turned to the role of clothing and other objects in suits for breach of promise, and scholars have demonstrated that torn and disordered clothing could provide powerful evidence in rape trials. Nevertheless, the role of clothing and textiles in other types of litigation beyond theft remains underexplored. This is perhaps because trials for theft seem to be straightforwardly concerned with consumer goods in a way that other records are not, and appear to confirm the existence of the things described. In contrast, the clothing described in other types of litigation is often a more ambiguous blend of the real, the imagined, and the rhetorical; in the previous chapter, for instance, we found linen belonging to Mary Vezey described in different ways during her husband’s trial. It has therefore been studies of marital breakdown and violence which have noted the role that clothing could play, rather than scholarship on clothing and consumption. Indeed, if we look to records of suits for separation only for confirmation of what women owned, we must find ourselves disappointed.

Introduction: Some Notes on Postfascism

Christian Petzold’s Transit (2018) is an adaptation of Anna Seghers’s homonymous antifascist novel that engages with the history of forced migration of European refugees in Marseille trying to flee fascism in the hope of getting asylum in North and South America. In Petzold’s adaptation, Seghers’s novel has been reworked to address contemporary political contradictions. The film’s central anachronism is that although it is set in the past, it is filmed in the contemporary spaces of Marseille, thus foregrounding a dialectical tension between the history of fascism and the present reality of forced displacements, exile, and militarized border controls in Europe. Petzold justified this choice, explaining that the film seeks to identify the parallels between the past, rising neo-fascism, and the refugee crisis in Europe. As he states, “my aim was not Brechtian disruption, but to emphasize correspondences between then and now.” Indeed, scholars have been quick enough to recognize the film’s references to the current refugee crisis, but nobody has paid attention to the issue of the rising fascism mentioned by the filmmaker. In this chapter, I suggest that the film’s anachronism points to the contemporary reality of postfascism, a term predominantly associated with the Hungarian philosopher Gáspár Miklós Tamás and secondarily with the Italian historian Enzo Traverso, both of whom argue that reactionary practices of exclusion that we identify with the history of European fascism have been embedded in mainstream politics. Postfascism, for these scholars, therefore refers to a historical period in which policies and ideas associated with the extreme right have become part of mainstream liberal politics. This leads also to the rise of neo-fascist movements precisely because their political narrative seems to have been vindicated by the (neo)liberal mainstream. Before analyzing the film, some further comments on postfascism are in order.

Introduced by Tamás in 2000, the term postfascism describes the present historical experience when contemporary fascism does not operate as a form of counter-revolution against international Socialism as it was the case with its twentieth-century precursor. Tamás suggests that contemporary liberal democracies are postfascist because they have undermined “the Enlightenment idea of universal citizenship,” according to which every individual irrespective of race, class, origin, gender, and nationality should be part of the civic community. Socialist internationalism embodied this desire to complete the Enlightenment project that could not be realized in bourgeois societies.

Are pains owner-individuated particulars?

In the sections of the Philosophical Investigations commonly known as ‘the private language argument’ (PI §§243ff.), Wittgenstein argues against the idea that sensations, such as pain, are private inner objects accessible only to their owner. This doctrine is, of course, a version of Cartesian dualism, but it is perhaps more illuminatingly called ‘the inner object account’ of sensations. For whereas the label ‘dualism’ emphasises the sharp difference drawn by this theory between the mental and the physical, the main thrust of Wittgenstein's criticism is, on the contrary, that the theory exaggerates the similarities between the two realms: that it misconstrues the grammar of psychological terms by assimilating it too much to the grammar of names of perceptible occurrences in the physical world (cf. Schroeder 2006, pp. 182–5; pp. 201–19).

Wittgenstein's main concern is with the claim that sensations are epistemically private: that ‘only I can know whether I am really in pain’ (PI §246); but he also discusses and dismisses the claim that sensations are essentially owned by a single individual: that ‘another person can't have my pains’ (PI §253). The two are, of course, related. The inner object model construes sensations as particular occurrences in the private realm of the mind – like beetles in a box (cf. PI §293) – and their privacy is seen as a consequence of their unalterable and unsharable location. Only the owner of a consciousness has access to its contents. So, on this view, it is because you cannot have my pain that, strictly speaking, you cannot know of my pain.

This, however, may be denied. Anthony Kenny, for example, is prepared to accept, as a grammatical triviality, that pains are owner-individuated but denies that that makes them private. After all, the same holds for sneezes, blushes or smiles: you cannot have my sneeze, for if you sneeze, it is ipso facto your sneeze and not mine, but of course it doesn't follow that you cannot know of my sneezes (Kenny 1973, p. 189).

But the step from ‘I can't have yours’ to ‘I can't know of yours’ is more easily blocked in the case of sneezes and blushes, which are visible events located in physical space in a way pains are not.

The National Interest and the Geopolitical Dimension

The more that the national interest is rooted in a geopolitical dimension the more likely it is that it will manifest in powerful ways. Isolationism is not a viable option for countries that seek to instill a narrative of greatness at home and abroad. A retreat away from the responsibility to manage the international order is likely to create the conditions for other powers to arise and erode that sense of greatness. The great powers do not have interests that revolve around economic reasons. They are glory seekers, in the words of Italian geopolitician Dario Fabbri.

The way that this manifested in the 1950s was ref lected in the impact that American Exceptionalism and Eurasianism had on creating an indelible mark on the international order. The expansion of American Exceptionalism and Eurasianism was undertaken in the context of changing the complexion of the area of inf luence with whom they shared cultural commonalities. American Exceptionalism profoundly altered the notion of Europeanness, which was imbued with the values of the modern world, namely liberalism. Something similar can be said about the Soviet Union and Eurasianism, in regard to the forms of organization adopted in the Eastern bloc.

The geopolitical dimension is the main way in which prominent states can accomplish their national interest due to the way in which culture and space interact. During the initial period of the Cold War, the interaction between the United States and the Soviet Union demarcated the geostrategic spaces that would enable them to fulfill their most vital interests. The geopolitical perspective explains why the divergence of interests between the superpowers did not result in overt military conflict. The United States and the Soviet Union were not motivated by the same interests. The United States had an expansive approach regarding the management of the international order, which translated into the handling of a common geopolitical space in areas of the world with cultural affinity and complementary economic interest. For the Soviet Union, the main interest was to maintain the vitality of the Communist system at home and to expand that ideology in a careful manner.