BRINGING OUT A second revised and expanded edition of my translation of the Poetic Edda, which appeared in September 2014, gave me a chance to reappraise what I did nineteen years earlier when I first undertook the translation: to think about translation and what happens when you can revisit a translation, to adjust my perceptions of publishing cultures and audiences, and also to take on board how thinking about eddic poetry has changed since the mid 1990s. In this essay I offer some reflections on my attitude as a translator then, and talk about what I know now, and did not know in 1994 when I first approached the project. My observations may – or may not – be valid both for other translators and other kinds of translation.

The Poetic Edda is a collection of mythological and heroic poetry, largely written down in one manuscript in Iceland in 1270, now GKS 2365 4to in the Stofnun Árna Magnússonar in Reykjavík. Many of the poems are likely to be much earlier, some at least dating from before Iceland's conversion to Christianity. It was my idea to embark on the translation of the Poetic Edda, for I had been living at close quarters with it when writing my doctoral thesis on Old Norse and Old English wisdom poetry. I was quite easily able to persuade Judith Luna, the Commissioning Editor at Oxford World's Classics, of its usefulness. Further proposed translations of Old Norse poetry in popular translation series have not found favour: translation projects for the so-called Eddica minora (poems mostly preserved in a prose context in the ‘legendary sagas’ or fornaldarsogur) have not tended to be commissioned. Back in the early 1990s there were a few Edda translations around, such as Bellows (1923) and Hollander (1928) (American versions from early part of the last century with a great number of archaic usages such as I ween and thou and thee). Patricia Terry's version (1969), and closer to home, Auden and Taylor with Salus (1969) and the expanded Auden and Taylor (1981) were then the most recent translations. Terry's translation was published in the USA and not easy to get hold of while Auden and Taylor and Salus had not been reprinted since 1973. My translation then was timely.

This chapter seeks to explore several transitions of the fifteen years that followed the democratic re-establishment. In addition to the transition into democracy, Uruguay also experienced a transition into the implementation of neoliberal policies. As far as film is concerned, there was a transition into the video era and a transition into a stage in which filmmakers began to receive a timid support from both the state and private television channels. This was a period in which the national identity was also in transition. It was to be seen whether or not Uruguay would be able to regain the status of the Switzerland of America and whether or not it would truly recover its deeply appreciated democracy. Decisions were to be taken, on different levels, about the kind of interaction Uruguay was to (re-)establish with the rest of Latin America, the United States, Europe and the visible signs of globalisation. It was also a time in which technology began to develop at an increasing speed, and both the people and the state were to explore how to benefit from it.

These transitions are explored, first, through El cordón de la vereda (The Kerb; Esteban Schroeder, 1987), a documentary video which emphasises its performative characteristics to make visible the difficulties in approaching the recent past; second, through El dirigible (The Airship; Pablo Dotta, 1994), a feature fiction film, shot on 35mm, which engages deeply with the changes undergone by Uruguayan society and the images constructed around them; and finally, through Una forma de bailar (A Way of Dancing; Álvaro Buela, 1997), a fiction recorded on video, which was originally conceived as a tele-film but became a well-known piece of Uruguayan cinema, thereby underscoring the relevance of new technologies in the development of national cinema. Indeed, this chapter analyses the practice of making cinema recorded on video and reflects upon how each context influences reception beyond the actual technology used to make the film. It also explores both the constraints and possibilties offered by the use of 35mm film stock.

Political, Economic and Social Transition

After the newly elected president Julio María Sanguinetti took office on 1 March 1985, there were a series of situations to be addressed, such as how to deal with the remaining political prisoners, the reception of returning exiles, the military and the violations of human rights.

Key to production details

Title

Main author credits: Music, lyrics and book, with any details of adaptation

London: Theatre, date of first performance

PC: Principal cast members

MN: Musical numbers. This information is taken primarily from the original

theatre programme of the relevant production

Number of performances

ACORN ANTIQUES

Music, book and lyrics by Victoria Wood

Theatre Royal, Haymarket, 10 February 2005

PC: Julie Walters (Victoria Woods substituted at matinees), Celia Imrie, Duncan

Preston, Josie Lawrence, Neil Morrissey, Sally Ann Triplett

MN: No musical numbers listed in theatre programme

116 performances

ALWAYS

Music, lyrics and book by William May and Jason Sprague

Victoria Palace, 22 May 1997

PC: Clive Carter, Jan Hartley, Shani Wallis, Sheila Ferguson

MN: Long May You Reign; Someone Special; I Stand Before My Destiny; Why?;

Love's Carousel; If Always Were a Place; This Time Around; It's the Party of the

Year; Hearts Have Their Reasons; The Reason For Life Is To Love; Montage;

Invitation For Two; Always

76 performances

AMBASSADOR

Music by Don Gohman; lyrics by Hal Hackaday; book by Don Ettlinger, based on

Henry James’ novel The Ambassadors

Her Majesty's Theatre, 19 October 1971

PC: Howard Keel, Danielle Darrieux, Isobel Stuart, Richard Heffer, Margaret

Courtenay, Ellen Pollock, Blain Fairman

MN: A Man You Can Set Your Watch By; It's a Woman; Lambert's Quandary; Lilas;

The Right Time the Right Place; Surprise; Charming; All of My Life; What Can

You Do With a Nude?; Love Finds the Lonely; Tell Her; La Femme; Young With Him; I Thought I Knew You; What Happened To Paris?; La Nuit D'Amour; Am

I Wrong?; Mama; That's What I Need Tonight; You Can Tell a Lady By Her Hat;

This Utterly Ridiculous Affair; Not Tomorrow; Thank You, No!

86 performances

ANDY CAPP

Music and lyrics by Alan Price; book and lyrics by Trevor Peacock

Aldwych Theatre, 28 September 1982

PC: Tom Courtenay, Alan Price, Val McLane, John Bardon, Nicky Croydon

Social and economic thought in eighteenth-century Russia

The eighteenth century for Russia was a period perhaps more than any other when the country and its best minds were open to the intellectual currents of contemporary Europe. Emperor Peter I, the Great (ruled 1696–1725), in Aleksandr Pushkin's famous phrase, ‘cut a window through to Europe’. Russia's subsequent emergence as a great power and her opening to European science and culture coincided with the Enlightenment and the extraordinary supranational fluidity of its ideas and thought. During the century that followed Peter's reign, European ideas found increasing access and were taken up by the educated elites. French thought and literature were prominent – Voltaire had a following already in the 1730s – but German ideas also circulated in increasing measure. Christian Wolff had been invited repeatedly by Peter I and his successor Empress Catherine I to relocate to St Petersburg: he refused, but co-operated actively in the search for staff (mainly Germans) for the new Academy of Sciences. As in Germany, Wolff's became the dominant school philosophy in Russia during most of the eighteenth century, until supplanted by Kant; it was taught to succeeding generations of Russian students mainly through the textbooks of Wolff's populariser Friedrich- Christian Baumeister, repeatedly published in Russian translation.

Cameralist ideas also became important. As Marc Raeff emphasised in his pioneering account of cameralism in Russia, Peter's reign ‘was marked by the introduction of contemporary Western European norms in the political, cultural and institutional spheres – in short, a conscious taking over of the basic ideas of the well-ordered police state and of mercantilism and an effort to implement them in practice’. By the time of Empress Catherine II, the Great (ruled 1762–96), the full range of ideas of the period of the Enlightenment was available to educated members of the government and elites.

When the politics of opposition reappeared openly in Bristol in the first decade of the nineteenth century, it was driven once again by local issues, but also by the fortuitous arrival of Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt on the eve of the general election in 1807, who took a house in fashionable Bellevue, Clifton, while settling his business interests in the Jacobs Wells brewery. Hunt had developed an appetite for arguments about electoral independence through a series of noisy interventions in the contest for Wiltshire the previous year, and now saw Bristol as an ideal place in which to further develop his ambitions. Partly through Hunt's influence then, conflicts over local corruption and the right of franchise came to dominate the language of opposition in the city in this period, once more making the corporation and the local party system the principal focus of discontent.

The Bristol newspapers had loudly congratulated the Whig and Tory clubs for getting their candidates elected without the trouble of a poll after the general election of November 1806, but the collapse of the resulting ministry after just six months raised the issue again in the late spring of 1807. Soon after the new election was called, it was announced in Bristol that an independent candidate, Sir John Jarvis, had unexpectedly come forward to oppose the customary coalition. Jarvis was the commander of the city's Volunteer rifle corps, an unlikely candidate, and Hunt was highly suspicious of him. In the first place Hunt believed Jarvis to be a Tory and in the second Jarvis appeared to have nobody in place to nominate him. Suspecting that Jarvis was actually a paper candidate, produced by the coalition to dissuade the freemen from putting forward a genuine independent candidate of their own, Hunt accompanied Jarvis to the Guildhall. There he tried to nominate Jarvis himself, but was debarred since he was neither a freeman nor a freeholder in the city and since nobody else stepped forward to do it, the Whig Evan Baillie and the Tory, Charles Bragge-Bathurst were elected without a contest. Jarvis's farcical non-candidature raised tempers that had already been sorely tested in 1806, and public animosity towards Bathurst in particular led to serious disturbances, the immediate causes of which remain unclear.

THE STORY of Beethoven's cellos begins with a magnanimous gift from Prince Karl Lichnowsky, without whose support Beethoven's own story likely would have turned out very differently. That gift came in the form of a string quartet of valuable instruments given to the composer by the prince, in whose residence an ensemble assembled by violinist Ignaz Schuppanzigh held musical court. Though Schuppanzigh and his colleagues worked intimately with Beethoven on his early string quartets, the ensemble, which probably formed sometime around 1794, disbanded in 1799. According to Alois Fuchs, a former violinist in the imperial court orchestra, amateur musicologist, and autograph collector, around 1800 Schuppanzigh suggested to Lichnowsky that he give the set of string instruments to Beethoven - instruments that, we might reasonably assume, the prince had purchased and loaned out to the quartet members.

Beethoven's own words provide the earliest known reference to a string quartet of instruments in his possession: ‘I would like the instruments from Prince L[ichnowsky] to be preserved by one of you, but not to be the cause of strife between you, and as soon as they can serve you a better purpose, sell them.’ This passage comes from the Heiligenstadt Testament, the poignant document from 1802 that reads like a suicide note from Beethoven. As is well known, he preserved the document and mustered the strength to face down his deep depression and the deafness that threatened his life as a musician. Having come to terms with his irreversible hearing loss, Beethoven evidently never passed on ‘the instruments from Prince L’ to either of his brothers, the intended recipients of the document. On the contrary, a set of four instruments remained in the composer's possession until the time of his death. Then, with the disposition of his estate, confusion surrounding Beethoven's cello (and the other instruments) commenced in earnest. False labels and the suspected existence of a second cello were just two pieces of a riddle that consistently begged the question of whether what had come to be regarded as Beethoven's cello in fact was the instrument formerly owned by Lichnowsky and, subsequently, by the composer.

As the essays collected in this volume demonstrate, Violeta Parra has left us a formidable legacy, in the materials she collected as a folklorist, and in her own creative activity as a composer, songwriter and visual artist. It is noteworthy that Violeta undertook the artistic endeavours that are the foci of other chapters relatively late in life, when she was already in her mid-thirties. This does not mean that the two decades between her arrival in Santiago in 1932 at the age of 15 and her emergence as a folklorist in the early 1950s were unproductive ones. Quite the contrary. Violeta devoted much of the period in question to varied artistic pursuits. She sang música criolla in working-class bars and taverns and, eventually, in some of Santiago's upscale downtown venues. She pursued a successful if more short-lived career as a flamenco artist. Towards the tail end of the period, she made her entry into the mass entertainment industry via radio appearances and several recordings with the duo she formed with her sister Hilda, Las Hermanas Parra (The Parra Sisters).

Yet despite its relative longevity and accomplishments, this stage in Violeta's artistic trajectory remains un- or under-explored. This situation results at least in part from a paucity of sources, since much of Violeta's musical production from the period was ephemeral. It stems as well from a certain biographical dissonance and consequent erasure. When Violeta became a folklorist, the more ideal-laden and didactic labours of her newfound career clashed with her earlier, more urban and commercially oriented activities; they were, as Leónidas Morales puts it, ‘two irreconcilable worlds’. Then in her mid-thirties, Violeta would trace her folklorista passion directly back to her childhood years spent near and within rural communities learning the folkore of Chile. The twenty-odd years that she had devoted to less-than-authentic artistic endeavours now seemed to interrupt or even run counter to what was an otherwise coherent narrative. Violeta dealt with this contradiction by summarily dismissing her past artistic pursuits as ‘trivial’ and ‘so much nonsense’. Her many admirers, both contemporary and posthumous, would prove similarly dismissive; for them, Violeta's mid-thirties embrace of Chilean folklore marks the moment when she finally discovered her true vocation and, by extension, her authentic self.

Introduction

During the eighteenth century the rise of manufactures and manufacturing became one of the central concerns for economic policymakers in the territorial states of the Holy Roman Empire. This theme also occupied a prominent place in the treatises on cameralism that proliferated during the second half of the century. This essay explores this relationship through an examination of the institutional framework of ‘industrial policy’ (Gewerbepolicey) as discussed in cameralist works and applied to policy.

Consideration of the economic and social context of the Holy Roman Empire explains why the focus on manufacturing and manufactories is typical for cameralism in the second half of the eighteenth century. This sector offered possibilities for the employment of a growing population and so resolve the increasingly acute problem of poverty, in particular after the grain shortage of 1771–72. For these reasons the states governments in the Holy Roman Empire were under pressure, and were also prompted to introduce measures of Gewerbepolicey advocated by the flourishing economic discourse of the second half of the eighteenth century, including the cameral sciences. Furthermore, this sector had to be developed to offset a perception of economic backwardness in comparison to France, England, and the Dutch Republic, and to confront economic competition among the states of Holy Roman Empire. Given the impossibility of most German states increasing their power through territorial and colonial conquest, development of their industry was a primary objective. According to recent studies, this is a criterion that distinguishes German cameralism – centred on agricultural and industrial production – from trade-oriented English mercantilist discourse, which gave priority to a positive balance of trade.

A few preliminary observations will be useful. First, an analysis of the relationship between cameralist proposals and their application in German states (in other words, the relationship between theory and practice) points to a number of unresolved issues. Showing that theoretical proposals and particular policies have similarities is one thing; demonstrating that the former influenced the latter is quite another. One can also ask to what extent cameralists took any account of policies already in place, thereby reversing the terms of the question. Second, distinguishing an interventionist mercantilism or cameralism from a liberalism hostile to state intervention is not a helpful approach to the writings of the cameral sciences.

The multi-authorial Espejo de príncipes y caballeros cycle (1555-1587) was the most successful cycle of the genre during the second half of the sixteenth century. This cycle is composed of three different imprints that circulated widely. The first one, Espejo de príncipes y caballeros or El cavallero del Febo, was written by Diego Ortúñez de Calahorra and published for the first time in 1555. The second was written by Pedro de la Sierra Infanzón and first published in 1580, whilst the third, by Marcos Martínez, appeared in 1587, but remained in print until 1623. These three romances are the best examples of the last paradigm of the genre. Their influence and circulation prevailed until the second half of the seventeenth century.

Espejo de príncipes y caballeros (I) by Diego Ortúñez de Calahorra

In this section, I will analyse the foundation of the mise en cycle of the Espejo cycle and its development in the first romance by Diego Ortúñez de Calahorra. The princeps of the opening romance appeared in Zaragoza in 1555, followed by six more editions, including one from as late as 1617 (Eisenberg and Marín Pina 2000: 323–324). The influence and success of these editions was significant beyond its number of editions, as the Espejo de príncipes y caballeros (I) was translated into English, French, and Italian. In Spanish literature, several works from different genres attest to its cultural importance. The Espejo (I) was adapted into thirteen ballads of Lucas Rodríguez's Romancero historiado (1579), Calderón's play El castillo de Lindabridis (1661), and Pérez de Montalbán's play on Florisel de Niquea: Para nosotros amantes, para con todos hermanos (1632). The sequels that make up the Espejo cycle demonstrate its success within the genre, and its direct influence on Don Quijote has equally been proven (Eisenberg 1975: XLIX–LII).

The romance narrates in three sections the adventures of Emperor Trebacio's offspring, the Cavallero del Febo and Rosicler. Structurally, Espejo (I) follows the biographical model of the Amadís cycle, focusing on the heroic accounts of Trebacio's genealogy as a way to move the plot over time (Campos 2003a: 7–8). Ortúñez's romance contains many of the constituent events and topoi from the Amadís cycle and the rest of the genre (Campos García Rojas 2002: 392–394, 2008a). Hence, imitatio remained a central technique employed by the author in the composition of Espejo (I).

Reframing the Debate

The prostitute was a complex and ambiguous figure, simultaneously ‘desirable and despicable, appealing and appalling’ (Cohen 1991: 201). She was not only defined by her physicality and the sexual services she performed but held a symbolic function in society, intersecting with wider debates about class, gender, and economic status, as well as more abstract notions of agency. Despite the implicit acknowledgement that prostitution served a social good and was a necessary evil, she was regarded as a potentially dangerous figure as the living embodiment of man's fallen nature and the inherent baseness of the human condition. Like woman but not, she was also a fiction of femininity who undermined social and moral virtues and yet who was not easily differentiated from ‘honest’ women, such as the wives and daughters of respectable families. In early modern Europe we find clear evidence of a desire to control this ambiguity and regulate the prostitute's social interactions with the rest of society. These attempts took various forms and included measures to curb the prostitute's sartorial excesses and control their speech through legislation; mandates that limited them to certain parts of a town or that enforced temporary exile during certain feast days; taxation; and inspections and physical examinations to ensure cleanliness and prevent the spread of infection. As La vita delle puttane, Celestina, and other literary works that featured these women show, the prostitute could also be found in sixteenthcentury literature, which was used as a forum to engage with and mitigate her perceived danger and influence.

This chapter follows the third day of Pietro Aretino's Ragionamento as it moves to Spain and is translated into Spanish as the Coloquio de las damas by Fernán Xuárez in 1547. Like Celestina, La vita delle puttane exemplifies the fluidity of cultural exchange between Italy and Spain. It is also an example of the evolution of meaning that texts undergo when translated to different times and places. In fact, Ian Moulton compares it to ‘that other socially complex and multivalent dialogue from Renaissance Italy, Castiglione's Book of the Courtier’, arguing that its ‘nuanced views of social issues were radically simplified in transmission’ (2000: 153). Xuárez's aims are very different from those of Aretino.

THE PURPOSE OF this essay is to demonstrate that the corpus of medieval Irish poetry is broader, more challenging, and more imbued with poetic possibility than the relatively narrow range of oft-anthologised, oft-adapted poems would suggest. After an overview of the limited forms of poetry which have tended to be studied, translated and anthologised, and a discussion of some of the key methodological issues, I offer three examples of rather different, and hitherto neglected, poems – religious, historical and didactic – which hint at wider opportunities for creative and poetic engagement with more challenging verse forms. At the end of an essay on linguistics and poetry, the Irish poet Micheal O'Siadhail wrote: ‘I want to hold up the wonder of words and say: How about this?’ My aim here is comparable: I want to hold up some of the lesser-known wonders of medieval Irish poetry and say: How about this? Or this? Or this?

Anthologising Medieval Irish Poetry

When modern poets look to medieval Irish poetry for inspiration, they understandably turn to anthologies of translated medieval verse: Gerard Murphy's Early Irish Lyrics, originally published in 1956, was the first anthology to provide the original texts of a selection of medieval Irish poems, accompanied by facing page translations. It was a landmark publication and, along with two other significant collections, it has determined the way that medieval Irish poetry has been presented to the Anglophone reading public and to modern poets for the last half-century. The academic study of medieval Irish poetry has advanced hugely in the decades since then: large numbers of previously unedited and untranslated poems have been made available, although perhaps not sufficiently available since they can generally only be found in specialist scholarly journals, such as Celtica, Eigse and Eriu. There is no collection aimed at the non-specialist reader which contains these newly-presented riches. And, more frustratingly, in contrast to the corpus of Old English poetry, there are countless medieval Irish poems – beautiful, complex microcosms of medieval thought – which remain unedited and untranslated and thus entirely unavailable to the non-academic reader.

The poems which have previously been selected for inclusion in anthologies have been those which most closely conform to modern expectations of poetry, that is, lyric poetry, narrative verse, occasional verse and nature poetry.