Copyright gives creators a monopoly on most uses of their work throughout their lives and for seventy years post mortem. Copyfraud, in Mazzone's striking but far from unjustified usage, is a claim of ownership made by institutions and individuals that do not possess it. To discover how prevalent such frauds are (and the degree to which they constrain and contort writers, musicians, filmmakers, and others) is truly amazing. Mazzone deals only with the US, but though the precise contours of copyright (...) are slightly different in the UK and the EU, the same kinds of overreach arise more or less everywhere nowadays. Who are the perpetrators? Museums that claim copyright in images of works that they own or hold but that are in the public domain; picture libraries that charge license fees for out-of-copyright works; publishers who make false assertions of copyright in government publications, even in law school editions of the US Constitution; media corporations that claim to be able to license excerpts of works that they own despite the provisions of the (admittedly vague) “fair use” clause in long-established copyright laws; and the heirs and estates of writers who claim control of all uses made of the published and unpublished words of their fathers, aunts, and so forth. Publishers collude in this now rampant abuse of public access to cultural goods by insisting that authors of fiction and nonfiction works undertake to clear copyright to material borrowed from sources, a laborious process for which most writers are ill equipped. The result is that key evidence in scholarly work is often simply left out. In documentary film, the effects of copyfraud can be seen only in those films that are not made: the industry convention—“when in doubt, obtain a license”—makes many subjects financially and practically unviable.This book should have been a wake-up call, when it appeared a decade ago, for all involved in what is now called “cultural production” to reassert their rights, and the rights of the public, to free access to material that is not and never will be privately owned. Alas, Mazzone's detailed chapters on what ought to be done next have remained dead letters. It is time to reread them and to heave the ball back down the false mountain of improper claims of ownership made by corporations and individuals who know what they are doing and know they can get away with it. This laudably clear, direct, and readable book brings to mind an old English rhyme that remains as relevant today as it ever was: The law doth punish man or woman / That steals the goose from off the common / But lets the greater felon loose / Who steals the common from the goose. (shrink)

Both a political history and a moral critique of the twentieth century, this is a personal and impassioned book from one of Europe's most outstanding intellectuals. Identifying totalitarianism as the major innovation of the twentieth century, Tzvetan Todorov examines the struggle between this system and democracy and its effects on human life and consciousness.Totalitarianism managed to impose itself because, more than any other political system, it played on people's need for the absolute: it fed their hope to endow life with (...) meaning by taking part in the construction of a paradise on earth. As a result, millions of people lost their lives in the name of a higher good. While democracy eventually won the struggle against totalitarianism in much of the world, democracy itself is not immune to the pitfall of do-goodery: moral correctness at home and atomic or "humanitarian" bombs abroad.Todorov explores the history of the past century not only by analyzing its spectacular political conflicts but also by offering moving profiles of several individuals who, at great personal cost, resisted the strictures of the communist and Nazi regimes. Some--Margarete Buber-Neumann, David Rousset, Primo Levi, and Germaine Tillion--were deported to concentration camps. Others--Vasily Grossman and Romain Gary--fought courageously in World War II. All became exemplary witnesses who described with great lucidity and humanity what they had endured.This book preserves the memory of the past as we move into the twenty-first century--arguing eloquently that we must place the past at the service of a just future. (shrink)

An eye-opener and a head-scratcher, this set of fifty exercices de style offers an oblique and learned introduction to a great classic of ludic literature dating from the twelfth century, the Maqamat of al-Hariri. Each of the fifty tales of the trickster Abu Zayid, some or perhaps all of which contain or are constituted by one or more formal restrictions, is here presented in the form of a pastiche of some familiar or exotic register of writing in English. We can (...) only admire Cooperson for having taught himself to channel Chaucer, Woolf, and Twain, to parrot Singaporean, Nigerian, and Indian English, to compose in dramatic form and in verse, and to riff off Austen as well as a dictionary of law.... What is frustrating to readers is that our translator-imposter does not let us play the game. He explains each exercise and justifies his approach to it in a prefatory note, then adds footnotes, a bibliography, and a glossary of the “dialect” chosen. We are not even allowed to play guess-the-author! The aim of the elaborate and scholarly apparatus attached to these imitative imitations is to give a hint—a necessarily and unapologetically misleading one—of the pleasure and value of the medieval Arabic for its first and later readers.The problem is that pastiche is not only an entertaining exercise. It typically serves a purpose located somewhere between mockery and homage, and sometimes plays both ends against the middle. Cooperson, however, is not mocking Dickens or Gibbon, even less the al-Hariri he clearly admires beyond all others. Consequently, the nonparticipant reader becomes ever more baffled as to what the game is really for. Surely it cannot be intended only to show us how clever and knowledgeable Mr. Cooperson is? Which he certainly is, but not beyond tripping over his own skipping rope. For example, the prisoner's constraint used in the middle of a pastiche of Dickens, when implemented in the way it was defined by its inventor Paul Fournel, excludes the letter z and also cannot accommodate the tilde of señor—and Dickens would have written bade for the past tense of bid. The more you read, the less you smile, the more you quibble as you are drawn into a surely unintended game of spot-the-blooper.It takes genius to write like someone else, which is why the people who get away with it for real use a battery of extratextual devices to deceive (think of Guilleragues, Ossian, Chatterton, Kuzma Proutkov, Romain Gary... ). Cooperson is not seeking to deceive (yet how can a pastiche not gesture toward deception?), but he is not actually offering fifty linked stories by fifty different hands either. What he has produced with the help of his distinguished préfacier, two editors, and a bevy of consultants is a curiously unidentifiable literary object, and quite possibly the only one of its kind.Two statements made by the translator in his introduction disturb me. He says he avoided using most twentieth-century literary models and references in order not to run into copyright issues. This is a declaration of submission to the Copyright Monster invented and unleashed by publishers in flagrant disregard of the laws of the UK, the US, and the EU, all of which allow parody and pastiche without permission of the copyright holder. Second, he “takes seriously the argument that privileged users of Standard English have no business imitating... the speech varieties associated with less privileged communities.” In all times other than our own, the privileged did not deign to use “less privileged” forms of speech (unless they were Victor Hugo), but if now they do not even dare, we can still guess what will happen. The less privileged will seek to use more privileged forms of speech, just as Anglo-Saxon serfs aped Norman French until they ended up speaking English. More recently, wealthy corporations have sought to own whole programming languages by extending the reach of copyright law; perhaps “less privileged communities” are now about to use similar weapons to protect their linguistic turf. We must object as noisily as we can to attempts to enclose public goods by corporations, by self-defining communities, or by any other entities. We would all be the poorer if they should ever succeed. (shrink)

The undisputed master of stylistic criticism, Leo Spitzer combined phenomenal learning in historical and comparative linguistics with brilliant and original critical insight. He was born in Vienna in 1887. He studied Romance Philology at the Universities of Vienna and Paris and then taught at Vienna, Bonn, Marburg and Cologne. After escaping from Germany in 1933, he taught briefly at Istanbul and then at The Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. He died in 1960. He was the author of over 800 books, (...) articles, reviews and notes on the language and literatures of France, Spain, Italy, Portugal, Romania, Germany, England and America from the Middle Ages to the twentieth century. This translation brings together for the first time in any language all of Spitzer's work on the literature of seventeenth-century France, including 'Racine's classical piano' and 'Saint-Simon's portrait of Louis XIV'. Each of the essays demonstrates in practical rather than theoretical terms the essential unity of literary and linguistic study. David Bellos's introduction sets Spitzer's method of textual and stylistic interpretation in its historical context and sketches out the career of this supremely knowledgeable reader for whom knowledge was less important than understanding. (shrink)

Etymologies are often entertaining, but it is not always obvious what they mean. Take the case of Old Frankish *sal, meaning a single-roomed dwelling. The word was taken over by speakers of Vulgar Latin as sala, and by 1100 CE it had become a word of Anglo-Norman French, since in The Song of Roland it crops up as sale, meaning the living area of a castle. Some time later, it wandered into Italian. Renaissance architects wanted to make a new word (...) for the increasingly grandiose spaces they were designing, so they added an augmentative suffix, producing salone. In the seventeenth century, French translations of Italian works on architecture reproduced the new term, only dropping the final e so as to keep the masculine gender of the Italian. French salon came into English in the early eighteenth century, initially as a word for a large and lofty room; but as French speakers applied it more and more to social functions occurring in such spaces, English speakers did so too. Then came a fork: a phonological adaptation produced saloon, which drifted off as a fully naturalized word of English toward hotels, carriages, bars, and cars; but salon persisted nonetheless. By retaining the stress pattern and marginally nasal final vowel of its source language, the doublet has remained in use as a xenism—a word of English understood to be not English, but understood in English all the same.How many such words are there? Hundreds, maybe thousands. Coupé, du jour, fuselage, pizza, paparazzi, sauerkraut, Zeitgeist—all signal their foreignness either by nonstandard pronunciation of written consonants (s, g, j, z), the presence of foreign diacritics, or irregular tonic stress. These are the kinds of loanwords that Scholar calls “émigrés,” but he gives us not thousands or hundreds or even a dozen of them: his chapters deal only with four: à la mode, ennui, naïveté, and caprice. The histories of these words do not really teach us any more about the cultural, social, and political relations between England and France than do saloon and salon, which is not much at all, or any other set of loanwords that retain phonetic or orthographic signs of foreignness. Scholar nonetheless does his level best to put his favored four at the heart of early modern English culture. Lengthy accounts of a play by Dryden, a famous work of Schiller's, an essay by Raymond Williams, Caribbean notions of creolization, and a John le Carré novel, learned though they all may be, do not really make the argument more persuasive, or even clear. By the end of this beautifully produced and floridly written book, the reader (or at least this reader) is not quite sure what it was really about. The very title of Émigrés repurposes a xenism which in regular usage is associated with high social status (we never talk of émigré workers, for example), thus exhibiting what I suppose the whole field ought to demonstrate: the ways in which new, hard, or nonnative words are always used to establish pecking orders between speakers, between their interlocutors and between their worlds. In Bourdieusian terms: not to make distinctions, but to create distinction. (shrink)