Hybridity in Design

Persepolis: Hybridity in Design

            Citing Robert Young, Ania Loomba points out that “a hybrid is technically a cross between two different species [...] However, in postcolonial theory, hybridity is meant to evoke all those ways in which [the vocabulary of the extreme right] was challenged and undermined” (171). In The Complete Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi presents another level of hybridity for us to consider in her use of the graphic narrative as her chosen medium for her autobiography. Professors Hillary Chute and Marriane DeKoven, in their “Introduction: Graphic Narrative” explain that “Graphic narrative, through its most basic composition in frames and gutters—in which it is able to gesture at the pacing and rhythm of reading and looking through the various structures of each individual page—calls a reader’s attention visually and spatially to the act, process, and duration of interpretation” (767).

Certainly, Satrapi could have utilized traditional literary means to tell her story, yet opted to utilize the hybrid form as a method of asking us to not only read, but to look at moments, both real and imagined, from her life. The decision seems clear when considering Chute and DeKoven’s comment on the hybridity inherent to graphic narrative: “We read this hybridity as a challenge to the structure of binary classification that opposes a set of terms, privileging one” (769). It is important, then that we as readers and academics, abide by these terms and avoid privileging either the text or image in any given cell as we consider any interpretations of the work.

In the introduction to Persepolis, Satrapi does opt to privilege text, orienting the reader in a more traditional literary form that lends itself to framing the narrative as authentic and to be believed, as she discusses the history of Iran from the “second millennium B. C.,” to the modernization brought on by Reza Shah, and lastly the Islamic revolution in 1979, which serves as the backdrop for the beginning act of the graphic narrative (i-ii). Satrapi sets out her thesis in the introduction, informing the reading that “Since then, this old and great civilization has been discussed mostly in connection with fundamentalism, fanaticism, and terrorism. As an Iranian who has lived more than half of my life in Iran, I know that this image is far from the truth” (ii).

She returns to the idea of truth in the section “The Heroes” where we find young Marji scolded for telling Siamak’s daughter, Laly, “Don’t you know that when they keep saying someone is on a trip it really means he is dead?” (48/4). Satrapi punctuates Laly’s disbelief and her mother’s disapproval with “Nobody will accept the truth” (48/8). The truth, here, is not as simple as her youthful decryption of Siamak’s trip, but rather Siamak and Mohsen’s discussion regarding the treatment of another fellow prisoner Ahmadi. Whereas most of this chapter is depicted with black walls as background, the image of torture is highlighted with a white backdrop, which causes the reader’s eyes to be drawn to the contrast. Instead of individual cells, separated by gutters, Satrapi display’s Ahmadi’s torture as one continuous image, with Siamak, Mohsen, Marji, and her father occupying the upper left corner, connecting them directly to the actions described (51/4). Siamak narrates the image, explaining: “Ahmadi... Ahmadi was assassinated. As a member of the guerillas, he suffered hell,” a statement punctuated by  an image of a whipped Ahmadi on his hands and knees, in nothing but a pair of briefs, being urinated on as a guard asks “How do you like this?” Without visual interruption, we see Ahmadi tied down while another guard whips him demanding: “Confess! Where are the others!” and another image of Ahmadi crying out in anguish as “they burned him with an iron.” Separated by a page break, we are shown an image of the assassinated Ahmadi cut into sections, like the graphic narratives story is often cut into sections, with the simple narration “In the end he was cut to pieces.” (52/1).

It is this violent truth, described to a child and her parents that “nobody would accept.” And it is this same truth that highlights that the acts of terrorism experienced in Satrapi’s life were often visited not on the foreign Westerner, as is often depicted in the media. No, these acts of terrorism and brutality were visited on these men and women by their own government. By utilizing the hybridity of the text, though, Satrapi asks us not only to consider the truth of her text, but also the messages conveyed in the image as we gaze at the torture seen. By stating that “nobody would accept the truth,” she is asking us to not only accept the truth, but be moved by it and in doing so, we might reconsider our notions regarding Iran and its position in the Middle East and the world.

Works Cited

Chute, Hillary L., and Marianne Dekoven. "Introduction: Graphic Narrative." MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 767-82. Web.

Loomba, Ania. Colonialism-Postcolonialism. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2015. Print.

Satrapi, Marjane, and Marjane Satrapi. The Complete Persepolis. New York: Pantheon, 2007. Print.

The Shaved Chin: Cultural Imperialism and Gender Norms in Dwarves

William C. Riley

The International Conference on the Fantastic in Art

March 18, 2016

                       

            Before delving into the heavy topics of cultural imperialism and gender norms, I would like to reflect a moment on J.R.R. Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-Stories,” where he shares that he discusses the nature of Fairy-Stories and Secondary Worlds— “Inside it, what [the story-maker] relates is ‘true’” (Tolkien, The Tolkien Reader 60). And it is this truth, within his Secondary World, that we should situate ourselves as we consider Tolkien’s Dwarves and their beards.

            From the Poetic and Prose Edda to Snow White, Dwarves have labored deep in the earth, carving their way into European folk traditions.  Tolkien pulled from these old stories when shaping Middle-Earth and crafted the prototype for Dwarves that continues to permeate fantasy literature. Instead of constituting them as simply humans of smaller stature, Tolkien created a unique race devoid of sexual dimorphism so common among various creatures in our primary, earthly, world. In “Durin’s Folk,” Tolkien describes Dwarf-women as “in voice and appearance, and in garb if they must go on journey, so like Dwarf-men that the eyes and ears of other people cannot tell them apart” (Tolkien, Lord of the Rings 360). This lack of sexual dimorphism produces a culture that challenges our semiotic understanding of beards and presents fantasy authors rich source material through which they can interrogate Western gender construction.

            Many fantasy works, unfortunately, have eschewed the opportunities presented by Tolkien’s prototype, and subordinated Dwarves by framing them into Western notions of gender. In doing so, Dwarven women in fantasy literature have been both literally, as seen in the comic Rat Queens, and metaphorically, in various other works, “shaved” of their beards. Often, this “shaving” is framed as an act of feminine liberation when, in fact, it is an example of cultural imperialism, whereby we, as authors and readers, impose our own understanding and ideals of femininity on this foreign culture.

            Under the auspices of Tolkien’s belief that fairy-stories should be presented as true, I will contrast the semiotic understanding of beards in EuroAmerican and Dwarven cultures. Through the use of ethnographic comparison on the effects of cultural imperialism on gender construction among non-European, I will also demonstrate the act of “shaving” the Dwarf-woman’s beard is an attempt to control and subjugate a race that outwardly appears queer, due to their lack of phenotypic difference between genders. By critiquing the beardless presentation of Dwarven women, I am also challenging future works to consider alternative ways non-hegemonic gender construction might appear in fantasy literature and to explore the meaning of gender in this unique race.

            As readers and writers, we need to consider our own, human, semiotic understanding of facial hair and consider how it shapes our reading of beards. As a secondary sex characteristic, androgenic hair is common in both men and women after puberty, though its placement will vary between sexes. In considering the history of beards, physician Allan D. Peterkin points out in his book One Thousand Beards: A Cultural History of Facial Hair, that the growth of a beard, along with the first shaving of the face, has been a rite of passage facilitating the transformation from boyhood to manhood since antiquity (Peterkin 63). At various times in history Peterkin notes the presence, and absence has been “a much required, enduring religious, political, and masculine symbol” (130) allowing us to clearly signal to others our allegiances and even our class standing. The shaving of someone else’s beard has been a declaration of war (19), as well as a sign of ownership (21) or defeat (20).

            Unlike men, however, Peterkin notes there has been “no historic edicts, laws, or papal decrees” governing the growth of female beards (98). Egyptian queens, like Hatshepsut, would wear “lavish fake beards of gold and silver” (17) during rituals and celebrations, and our myths and legends contain a select few women whose beard growth symbolizes “piety, sexual purity, or fidelity” (99). Despite the lack of formal laws, EuroAmerican culture, shaped by patriarchal influences, has suggested that female facial hair is unwanted and essentially non-feminine. Professor Elizabeth Grosz, in her paper “Freaks” points out that hirsute women have been categorized as freaks and relegated to sideshows to be ridiculed and mocked for the entertainment of others as a “problematized” intersection between sexes (Grosz 25).

            Unlike humans, Tolkien, in The War of Jewels, describes Dwarves as having “beards from the beginning of their lives, male and female alike” which changes the nature of their connection to their beards. Instead of being a sign of one biological sex or another, the Dwarven beard becomes a symbol of their innate Dwarf-ness and a cultural marker that sets them apart from Man or Elf. In fact, “this strangeness they have that no Man or Elf has ever seen a beardless Dwarf— unless he were shaven in mockery and would then be more likely to die of shame than of many hurts that to us would seem more deadly” (205). While shaving a human may function as an act of symbolic castration, the removal of a Dwarven beard is an act of hewing their spirit from their bodies.

            It is difficult, then, to believe that any Dwarf would visit such injury on themselves willingly. Yet, in the pages of the comic Rat Queens, we find Violet, the beardless Dwarf. When first encountered, (Rat Queens Vol 1, 12) it is difficult discern her race. Even when standing upright (14/1) she could easily pass for a young human female in comparison to her teammates, who are obviously elven and human, though the illusion of youth passes quickly as she points out, “We can sit around and bitch or we can make some monsters bleed. And my sword is hungry for blood” (16/2). Violet’s racial identity is finally disclosed in passing as the narration “[skips] past the part where Violet sang a Dwarven forest adventuring song of old” (22/1).

            In a flashback, Wiebe connects Violet to Tolkien’s prototype by providing a full image of a bearded Violet (Rat Queens Volume Two 57). In this flashback, after being consigned to model her father’s armor line instead of being allowed to fight in a tournament, due to the dictates of tradition (63/3), Violet meets a fellow Dwarf-woman who is shaved and permitted to fight (66/8 - 68/4), Violet decides to “fuck tradition” and shears off her beard (74) with her mother’s help (76).

            Violet’s shorn beard works, on terms that follow Dick Hebdige’s work with subculture, as a “construction of style, in a gesture of defiance or contempt” (Hebdige 3), but only within the confines of human cultural behavior. Acts of rebellion work within cultural codes set out by the culture being rebelled against, by creating norms and permissible avenues of defiance against them. While human males, whose interest in their beards may wax and wane depending on its cultural importance in time and place, Dwarven beards are a salient part of their cultural and racial identity, much like an Elf’s pointed ears. While Wiebe’s Dwarves may not “die of shame” should their beard be shorn, it is clearly a cultural marker, as noted by Violet’s mother during the shaving: “I remember when you first started to grow your beard. It was my proudest moment. The little girl becoming a woman” (75/5). Its removal is not just a refusal of tradition; it is also a denial of her racial identification and a rejection of her transition from girl to womanhood.

            Because of the stigma that would be generated from the act of shaving, it is difficult to believe Violet would readily remove her beard, much less get assistance from her mother. By ignoring the social stigma and treating it as no different than a contemporary adolescent human shaving their head or getting a tattoo, Wiebe is demonstrating the very EuroAmerican tendency toward cultural imperialism. Here the author, as representative of the dominant culture, is enforcing his own cultural norms and deviations on the subordinated, fictive, culture. Among human women, their choice to shave or leave their androgenic hair is a means by which they can claim authority over their own bodies, but they do so based on human cultural norms and expectations. Overlaying this action on a character from a different culture, albeit a literary one, and ignoring the implication of the action from their perspective is deeply problematic, as it carries with it implications that human norms are universal while utterly disregarding those of Dwarves.

            When examining ethnographic data collect regarding non-EuroAmerican cultures in post-colonial contact, a similar pattern is seen regarding gender construction and norms. Prior to first contact, many Native American tribes held cultural norms regarding both male-bodied and female bodied cross-gender people. In her book Gender Diversity: Crosscultural Variations, anthropologist Serena Nanda explains that at contact, Europeans “were filled with contempt and outrage when they recorded the presence” of cross-gender member, labeling them as berdache, “a term originally meaning male prostitute.” (11) By linguistically othering, these Europeans were expressing their disgust with actions they felt were abominable based on their own culture.

            In truth, cross-gender members of these tribes were not viewed negatively prior to contact. Nanda explains that “the association between spiritual power and gender variance occurred in most, if not all, Native American societies,” and highlights that “recruitment to the role was occasioned by a child’s interest in occupational activities of the opposite sex, supernatural sanctions, frequently appearing as visions or dreams, was also involved” (19). European cultural imperialism and the pressure on Native Americans to assimilate re-branded cross-gender members as repugnant, though contemporarily Native Americans are reclaiming their cultural respect towards gender variance and non-heterosexual members, using the term two spirit to describe them (Nanda 12-3).

            With our expanding exploration on the performative aspects of gender, it is time to use literature, regardless of genre, to explore its various methods of construction and interpretation. Tolkien provides fantasy literature and its derivatives with a unique race by which to do this, though this may not have been his original intention. Regardless of his intention, however, the lack of sexual dimorphism in Dwarves allows fantasy authors and readers to reconsider our expectations that gender and sex are directly linked to secondary sexual characteristics.

            An example of this exploration is presented in the Discworld books written by Terry Pratchett. In The Fifth Elephant, Pratchett explains “It wasn’t that Dwarfs weren’t interested in sex [...] it was simply that they also saw no point in distinguishing between the sexes anywhere but in private. There was no such thing as a Dwarfish female pronoun or, once the children were on solids, any such thing as women’s work” (42). Deriving from Tolkien’s prototype, Pratchett explores the nature of Dwarven gender norms through the character Cheery, or Cheri, Littlebottom and allows her to explore and establish how she will perform her gender outside of her Dwarven home. She was the “first Dwarf in Ankh-Morpork to wear a skirt” and she “retained her beard and round iron helmet, of course. It was one thing to declare that you were female, but quite unthinkable to declare that you weren’t a Dwarf” (43).

            While outwardly, Dwarves may appear queer given their lack of sexual dimorphism, they present a wonderful opportunity to explore the ways gender may be constructed and performed. Perhaps, like Pratchett’s, fantasy Dwarves don’t make any clear distinctions between the sexes in public. Or, perhaps their beards may act as a symbol of both their race and their gender, presenting authors the ability to create distinct methods by which different genders might shape, groom, style, perfume, and decorate their beards. Doing so would allow authors to pay homage to Tolkien’s prototype while also providing a space to interrogate our understanding of gender.

Works Cited

Grosz, Elizabeth. "Freaks." Social Semiotics 1.2 (1991): 22-38. Print.

Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London; New York: London; New York : Routledge, 1991. Print.

Nanda, Serena. Gender Diversity: Crosscultural Variations. Second edition.. ed. Long Grove, Illinois: Waveland Press, 2014. Print.

Peterkin, Allan D. One Thousand Beards: A Cultural History of Facial Hair. Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 2001. Print.

Pratchett, Terry. The Fifth Elephant: A Novel of Discworld. Mass Market Paperback Harper, 2014. Print.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Return of the King: Being the Third Part of the Lord of the Rings. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001. Print.

--- The Tolkien Reader, 9th ed. New York: Del Ray Books, 1979. Print.

--- The War of the Jewels: The Later Silmarillion, Part Two, the Legends of Beleriand. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 1994. Print.

Weibe, Kurtis, J., Roc Upchurch, and Ed Brisson. Rat Queens Volume One: Sorcery and Sass. Ed. Laura Tavishati. Berkeley, CA: Image Comics, 2014. Print.

Wiebe, Kurtis J., and Roc J. Upchurch. Rat Queens Volume Two: The Far Reaching Tentacles of N'Rygoth. Berkeley, CA: Image Comics, 2015. Print.

Tygers in the Damndest Places

--> Literature can encounter us in the damndest places. The preset notion is it  is guaranteed to find us within the confines of a class, a library, maybe the Internet (when we close down Facebook, Reddit, Twitter, etc). My predisposition was that literature is there when I am looking for it. I never thought I would encounter it in the midst of watching cartoons. However, Fox Network proved me very wrong, though I would come to realize it until this week.

          While watching Batman: the Animated Series back in 1992, I encountered a strangely hypnotic poem that held fast in my mind. I can still hear Kevin Conroy, voice of Bruce Wayne/Batman in the series, saying the opening lines to William Blake’s poem “The Tyger.” I was thirteen at the time and had no idea who William Blake was, but the words: “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright / in the forest of the night” haunted both my waking and sleeping dreams for years after.

            Twenty-two years later, I can’t tell you much about the episode itself. Those words, however, still give me chills. I have quoted the first couplet countless times over the last two decades and I was pleasantly surprised that the remaining line similarly spellbound me. I read it aloud to my partner several times over the last two days, trying to find the proper way to intone each syllable. I suppose, some part of me hoped that if I did it right, I might encounter a “tyger” of my own, forged wholly by the words set down by Blake 220 years ago (I also can’t help notice the similarities in the years since I first encountered the poem, and when the world first encountered it). Alas, no “tyger” has graced my apartment, or my car, or the hallways and byways I travel during the day. I still haven’t relented in my desire to find the proper method to read this poem. 

            I have to admit, despite my love for the English language and the methods by which it can be used to evoke emotions, images, and experiences that seem to transcend barriers like time and space, I have never held much enthusiasm for poetry. At times, I have found individual poems that will jump out at me and grab on to some part of my mind (or rather my heart or soul) and just resonate with me. And this is one such poem. Not only has it remained firmly engrained in my mind longer than many of my fellow classmates have been alive, it has never ceased to move my and excite my mind, heart and soul.  It reminds me to keep my ear out – whether I am watching a cartoon, surfing the ‘net, or talking with folks, Literature is out there and it will find you in the damndest places.

(Batman: the Animated Series, Episode 42, “Tyger, Tyger.” First aired October 30, 1992)

My Safe Place

            There is a passage in the Bible that haunts me during my dark times: First Corinthians 13:11, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” When the stresses of adulthood reach their peak and I feel like I am ready to break, I seek shelter in the safest place from my childhood and I simply cannot seem to put it away. There is this empathic resonance that makes me feel safe and secure there, even in my memories.

            It’s a simple enough room I suppose; four walls, two windows, bed, card table, dresser and closet. It was special because it was the first time I had a room to myself. The four years we lived on Elm Street gave me my own space, away from my elder brother. It was in that room that I could get away from the real world and step into my own mind; my own imagination.

            The most important aspect of the room, the one that provided me the security was the lock on the door. If I wanted to be by myself, that lock made sure that no one could come in, unless I wanted them to. It protected me from the frosty grip of reality when my father abandoned me. My father promised if I was a good boy he would be at JB’s restaurant to pick me up for our week together. He never showed up, even though I had been especially good since our last visit. When my mother pulled into the driveway of the little duplex, I ran for my room and locked that door. I had to think it through, with the mind of a child, and puzzle through what I had left undone. With the door locked, nothing else existed.

            The room had this strange smell that was two parts wood smell from the press-board dresser and one part turtle-water. The first summer we stayed in the duplex, I watched a painted turtle that was a class pet from the school where my step-dad worked. I was trying to prove that I could keep an animal, so that I could get a pet of my own. The turtle was neat, but he wasn't really the kind of pet you could take out and play with, but I would take him out and play in the yard. When he wasn't being played with, he lived in a large metal tub that sat atop an old card table. After that summer, I got a kitten of my own, but the turtle lived on and the smell of his water just never cleared the air.

            After the turtle left, the card table became home to my stuffed animals. Not all of them mind you, just the most numerous type: stuffed bears. My favorite was an antique Winnie the Pooh who had lost his red felt shirt a few years before we moved in. This bear originally was given by my Uncle Gary to my older brother, who in turn gave it to me. His yellow fur had become dingy in places; the casualty of being handled by a small boy. Pooh was joined by a cadre of Care Bears and other nameless stuffed bears, each with the power to banish nightmares or go on a rocket adventure.

            The bears certainly weren't the only stuffed animals. I had a veritable menagerie of stuffed animals: lions, and tigers, and bears, as well as rabbits, penguins, and raccoons. Each had a place within the room. The stuffed cats occupied the top of my dresser, the penguin in the corner between my closet and the window opposite of my door, and the raccoon in the opposite corner, beside my bed, while the rabbit sat between the door and my bed. Each had their place and I would often pretend it was a zoo and I was the zookeeper, though in reality they were taming the animals in my own mind.

            My room not only served as a place to sleep; it was also the contents of my imagination. The walls were decorated with wide-ruled lined paper, drawn up to resemble computer screen and ship controls. The animals, stuffed and alive, were my crew and I often found myself light years away from the loneliness I felt outside of those four walls. I would draw the blinds, shutting out the neighbor kids, lock my door, and push the make-belief comm-control and announce to my crew that we were leaving. A quick series of taps on another set of control and I would jump onto my bed, which served as my means of navigating the interstellar vastness inside my imagination.

            After a few years of freedom inside my room, we had to move. My step-dad was going back to College and my mother couldn't provide a three bedroom place for us any longer. My brother and I were forced to share a room. While I no longer physically had those four walls to keep me safe, I still carry it inside me. Sometimes, when the strain of a job, school, relationship, and depression become too much to bare, I close my eyes and I am in my room. The door locked, surrounded by my stuffed animals, tapping away at the controls and rocketing through space. These precious moments are often the only respite I can enjoy in my hectic life, and while I have grown into a man, I just can’t put away those childish things.    

Mortality

I stated keeping a journal recently. Not some diary to keep today’s list of items I accomplished. I suppose I always felt weird writing: “Today I got up and logged in to Facebook. After the cat pictures stopped amusing me, I logged off and showered. After that I headed off to work.” This part of my life is not terribly exciting. I sleep, I go to work, and I go to school. Instead, I have been writing about my memories. Thinking about the people that have been part of my life and remembering how they affected me. Each of them has impacted me and shaped my story. And sometimes, it feels like I have no one that will carry these memories beyond this generation.

Accepting this fact has been a trial. My family line stops at this generation. My uncle never had children and neither have my brother and I. Certainly, there are cousins and such. But their story isn't ours. My cousins may well remember me to their children, but after that who will keep my memory alive? What lasting mark do I leave for the world? Who am I to the future? I don’t want to be an insignificant speck. I don’t want to believe that I lived this life simply to enable me to die.

We carry in us the memory of our parents and our grandparents. These people imparted their memories of the generations before that. We keep these memories alive and pass them from one generation to the next. In part, that is why I am so interested in my family history. I want to be able, even if only for a moment, to hold on to those of my line that came before me and to remember them. That their name will echo into this current time. But there will be no one after me to carry my memory into a future world; to know that I existed, for however long I will be here.

I keep trying to wrap my mind around why the fates played out the way that they did. Of the four children conceived between my mother and my father, I am the only one to survive. Prior to my birth, my older brother, James Bryan, lived to be five and passed away in a tragic accident. Two years later, my mom conceived what we believe were twin and miscarried. Yet, a few weeks later the doctors agree that she miscarried and remained pregnant. My twin and o separated. And a few years later, she miscarried again. Four chances to carry on out family line and the sole survivor is incapable of fathering a child.

Thinking about all of this made me think of the final soliloquy in Blade Runner: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain…" There are things that I have done, places I have seen, and felt that are so personal and so unique that no one else has that exact memory. And I am frustrated that there is no one to carry these for me beyond my death.

Of course, it isn't just about me. I hold the memories of my parents in me as well as the memories of my brother. After I pass, there is no one to hold their memories either. My grandmother and grandfather Matross have my wonderful cousins to carry their memories. But, even those are diluted by time and distance. They didn't get to spend the same amount of time with them as I did. And my father Wayne, who contributed half of the material to make me, he has no one in his family to carry his memory after I am gone.

I know that I have my friends to remember me. But most of them are of a similar age as me. We are likely to pass at a similar age together. And I feel weird about asking them to have their children carry my memory. Who am I to them, aside from some strange friend of their parents’? Without the familial bond, there is no need for these children to pass it on beyond them.

I suppose that is why I write, hoping that something that I put down on paper or float out into the internet will become my legacy. That it will be the seed of my memory that will someday cause a man or woman to say, “Who was William Cody Matross?” And in that question, bring my memory forward from now to exist in that time. That this question will prompt them to research me and find out about my parents and my brother, what my life was like, what were my passions. And I suppose I write to give them bread crumbs to figuring out what I was and that I here. That I lived and loved and I made a difference in people’s lives. And that those before me existed and that they form a long line stretching back to the beginning of time. I suppose I write, not for the people of this age, but for those that will come after us.