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By examining the centrality of Romantic authorship to both copyright and the music industry, the author highlights the mutual dependence of capitalism and Romanticism, which situates the individual as the key creative force while challenging the commodification of art and self. Marshall reveals how the desire for bootlegs is driven by the same ideals of authenticity employed by the legitimate industry in its copyright rhetoric and practice and demonstrates how bootlegs exist as an antagonistic but necessary component of an industry that does much to prevent them. This book will be of great interest to researchers and students in the sociology of culture, social theory, cultural studies and law.
This book is an enquiry into memory in the Western world. Specifically, memory is the framework of culture, because it links the present to the past - or tradition - and projects it into the future. For this reason, any work focusing on memory involves a double challenge: (1) to reveal the origin of concepts and (2) to glimpse the course of thoughts. This is the case of the present volume, in which the authors make several tastings of Europe's intellectual heritage, by taking into account both the Greek origin of this legacy and its relevance for understanding the European philosophical heritage. In particular, these papers focus on the Aristotelian tradition, the true keystone of Europe, and on other currents of thought that have also played an essential role in the intellectual evolution of the Old Continent. In the latter field, there are contributions, for instance, on philosophical-religious traditions such as Orphism or on certain fundamental aspects of Neoplatonism both in the Classical World and in Christian authors. The volume concludes with various works on the survival of these intellectual trends from the Renaissance to the present day. Consequently, this work offers the opportunity to delve deeper into some of the aspects that define Western civilisation, observed both from its origin and its evolution over the centuries. The volume contains papers in Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and English. Este libro es una indagación en la memoria del mundo occidental. Específicamente, la memoria es el armazón de la cultura, porque liga el presente al pasado —o tradición— y lo proyecta al futuro. Por ello, toda obra centrada en la memoria entraña un doble reto: (1) revelar el origen de los conceptos y (2) atisbar el rumbo de los pensamientos. Este es el caso del presente volumen, en el que realizan diversas catas en el patrimonio intelectual europeo. Lo hace teniendo en cuenta tanto el origen griego de ese legado como su relevancia para comprender el acervo filosófico europeo. En concreto, se centra en la tradición aristótelica, verdadera clave de bóveda de Europa, y en otras corrientes de pensamiento que también han jugado un papel esencial en la evolución intelectual del viejo continente. En éste último ámbito hay contribuciones, por ejemplo, sobre tradiciones filosófico-religiosas como el orfismo o sobre determinados aspectos fundamentales del neoplatonismo en el mundo clásico y en autores cristianos. Concluye el volumen con diversos trabajos sobre la pervivencia de esas tendencias intelectuales desde el renacimiento hasta nuestros días. En consecuencia, esta obra ofrece la oportunidad de profundizar en algunos aspectos que definen nuestra civilización, observados tanto desde su origen como desde su evolución a lo largo de los siglos.
As well as presenting articles on Neo-Latin topics, the annual journal Humanistica Lovaniensia is a major source for critical editions of Neo-Latin texts with translations and commentaries. Please visit www.lup.be for the full table of contents.
Vols. for 1969- include a section of abstracts.
Consists of English translations of articles in the Spanish American press.
Issue for Jan./Apr. 1979 called Special issue; consists of official proceedings of the International Colloquium on Contextual Theology.
“My head is in the United States and my feet are in Mexico!” cried Carlos sprawling at ease upon the sun-warmed grass. Whereupon Carlota, not to be outdone in anything, promptly rolled her plump little person over the sward until its length lay along a lime-line running due east and west across the plain. Her yellow curls touched her twin’s yet her body formed a right angle to his. Then she remarked: “Pooh! I’m better than that! My heart is in my own country and my—my— What is it that’s on the other side of you from your heart, brother?” “I don’t know. Maybe gizzard.” Carlota sat up, amazed and indignant. “Girls don’t have gizzards, Carlos Manuel. Only chickens and geeses and things like those. You haven’t paid attention when my father teached you.” Carlos laughed; so merrily and noisily that old Marta came to the door of the adobe house to see what was the fun. Nobody knew the housekeeper’s real age, it was so very great. None could remember things so far back as she, but she had ceased to count the years long, long ago, why not? What matter, if she still had the heart of a child, yes? Certainly, neither Carlos nor Carlota cared. To them she had never changed, either in appearance or kindness, and they found no birthdays worth remembering except their own. These only, probably, because of the gifts andfiestas then made upon the whole rancho. “Perhaps, I didn’t, little sister, but neither did you, or you’d never have said ‘geeses’ nor ‘teached’.” “Both of us was wrong, weren’t we?” returned the girl, with as fine a disregard of grammar as of ill temper. “We’ll be more ’tentive when our father comes home, won’t we? When will that be, Carlos?” It was a perplexing question, and the boy put it aside, as he put all difficulties, until a more convenient season. Crossing his arms above his head, he gazed unblinkingly upward into the brilliant sky, proposing: “Let’s find things in the clouds, Carlota. I see a ship, I do, truly. It’s just like the pictures in the books. All its sails are set and flying. Oh! can’t you see? Right there? There! It’s moving northward fast—fast! It might be the ship in which our father will come home.” He meant to comfort her, but Carlota would not look up. She could not. The sunbeams made prisms of the teardrops on her lashes and blinded her. She buried her face in the grass to escape these tiny “rainbows,” and all at once fell to sobbing bitterly. Carlos hated that. He hated anything dark or unhappy. He sat up and patted his sister’s shoulder, soothingly, entreating: “There, don’t! Don’t, girlie. Our father wouldn’t like it if he should come home now, this minute, and find you crying.” The words were magic. Carlota sprang to her feet and earnestly peered into the distance, crying: “Is he? Do you see him, brother? Do you?” Carlos, also, leaped up and threw his arm about her waist: “I didn’t say that, did I? I only said ‘if.’” “I don’t like ‘ifs,’” sobbed Carlota. “Oh, Carlota, don’t cry. You shall not. If you do I will go away myself, to the northwest, to find my father.” “Oh! let’s!” “I said ‘I.’ Not you. Girls never go anywhere, because they always cry. If it hadn’t been for that my father might have taken me with him. You see, he couldn’t take you, on account of it; and he couldn’t leave you at home with only Marta and the men, for then—that would make more tears. So I had to stay to take care of you, and I do think, if I were a girl, the very first thing I would do—I wouldn’t cry. Criers never have real good times, I guess.” This was logic, and from Carlos, whom Carlota idolized only less than their absent father, most convincing. She winked very fast and drew her sleeve across her eyes, to dry the drops which would not be shaken off.