It was a day between winter and spring in 1934 that a fluid group of people had gathered in the Theater Café in Oslo, people coming and going. Felicia arrived in company with a lady who knew one of the men [p. 148] of the group. Chairs were being moved wherever needed. Some of the crowd were having dinner in the midst of the confusion; others only drank. Erling had been responsible for the get-together that day. It had become the sort of affair where everyone borrowed money from everyone else, or went scouring for booty around the café and came back with ten crowns maybe, or maybe empty-handed. The young Felicia, no longer in her schoolgirl dress, had changed places a few times and was now pressed into the leather seat close to Erling. It was eight o'clock, he had been there since eleven in the morning, and now he wanted to get some air and motion, go to some other place. It was then he started to snare Felicia, and in a few moments they were in the cool, fresh air on the sidewalk. His head started to clear, he hadn't really been drunk. He suggested they go to Blom's, but she said no, it would be much better to take a long walk; a long walk was the last thing he wanted.
As ill luck would have it Felicia was alone at home for a few days. That was why she had been able to stay so late in the restaurant for the first time in her life. It turned out they went for a walk to Majorstuen and then took the tram to her home in Slemdal. He took a taxi back to the city between four and five in the morning, and had made arrangements to meet her again in the evening. He had not intended to break that engagement, but during all the excitement he had forgotten that he was to give a lecture that evening. When he called her over the telephone there was no answer, otherwise he had intended to ask her to come along. But he could have left a message at the café where they were supposed to meet, and this he had not done. He slept a few hours, went out on some errands between twelve and one, folded up in a friend's apartment around five, with promise to be called at seven-thirty. At eight-thirty he stood behind the speaker's lectern as per agreement, shaved, showered, and sober. Those were the days of youth and strength.
The experience with Felicia Ormsund had been only a passing one, but could have developed into more. To her it remained a fact that a man had had her and then broken his engagement to meet her again. Today he knew exactly how she had taken this and how humiliating it had been to her. His only defense might be that he never had tried to defend himself; but even this explanation evaporated when he realized he hadn't dared to.
In those days he occasionally let himself be persuaded to give a lecture, in spite of knowing that it was always a fiasco. So it turned out this time also, but in a way unlike others. Later, his lecture had been talked about a great deal, and of the three hundred-odd listeners only one had not been furious, had indeed been uproariously entertained and had [p. 149] gained a great deal from it, among other things a divorce. None of this had touched him very deeply. He took few things very seriously during those years—but it had hit him rather hard many years later when Felicia one night at Venhaug had told him she had known all the details from the very first. The story pursued him even to her. She used a strange image in relating it to him: During those days I felt like a beautiful new summer dress someone had dirtied and torn to shreds.
The lecture he was to give dealt with sex. It was at the time when Marxism and psychoanalysis carried on their crimen bestialitatis together, the result being an unholy and repulsive mixture somewhat similar to what the Folk Schools daubed together of Christianity and Nationalism—something like deposing the Virgin Mary for Satan's grandmother. Oil and water are each in themselves excellent, but if mixed there is one great problem—how to separate them again.
It must be made clear in this lecture that actually he wasn't too sure of his position in the sexual field. He also knew from attending similar lectures on sexual problems that the listeners' faces were not burning with expectation; it seemed speakers explained again theories long ago accepted, as so often happens. The listeners would be experienced people, hoping to receive absolution for something they had experienced long before the man on the podium had come to instruct them. Erling quoted to himself the words of Stig Sjödin: "What if all the lecterns could arise and defend themselves!"
The Question and Answer column in the Journal of Sexual Advice was in those days on an entirely different level; it was carrying on welfare work in a sexual slum—here was a salvation army of young doctors fired with honest indignation concerning existing conditions.
The opposition to all this was an undeniable argument that always was effective. It was that people had managed to reproduce themselves since the morning of time—then why suddenly all this education? Such platitudes had a certain force, but they failed to take into account that part of the educational activity was directed toward stopping senseless reproduction, and the rest was aimed at circumstances very far removed from the ones people had lived under since the morning of time.
Now, so long afterwards, Erling, sitting at home in Lier, read of new theories concerning the length of time Man has lived on earth; it was considered now to be much longer than assumed earlier. But time does not exist, he thought; it is something we have invented in our cobwebby thoughts, a sort of help-notion like many others which wither away facing the incomprehensible fact that another summer has passed never to return. Anyway, during the so-called time that had passed or evaporated [p. 150] since people first appeared on earth (one could be sure it was long ago) they had indeed managed to reproduce without the aid of books, and would undoubtedly manage in the future also, and it was obvious and it cried to high heaven, that they were beginning too late to regulate their own destinies.
That time when he was to deliver this lecture—it seemed to him now it must have been in the morning of time—all this had not quite crystallized out of his established ideas. He had promised to give this lecture that was to become such an extra burden to Felicia. He had thrown himself into the subject and written twenty pages which would sink into literature's dead sea once he had flung them to a gathering that had said they needed instruction, in spite of the fact that this was pure nonsense. It was a boring lecture; he yawned while he wrote it. The title he remembered only vaguely, something about sexual excesses, a subject people usually didn't yawn over. He recalled he wrote something about using reason, a surprising but rather unconscious self-knowledge for him in those days. It contained all the foreign words he had managed to lay hands on, which so often create the warm masonic-language of the initiated, while the simple masses gape. His effort would bring in one hundred and fifty kroner, not to mention the honor which had been especially emphasized in the invitation; he, in return, dishonored the audience.
He was received with the usual display of compliments and given a seat while the chairman stepped onto the podium and introduced him as a prominent person. The audience applauded dutifully as he rose and strode to the lectern. That trip was fateful. It was only a few paces long but while covering them he was struck by something about sexual excesses: in a flash he happened to see them from an entirely different point of view—namely that they did not exist at all.
It was an inspiration, a revelation. Ever since he was half-grown he had listened to a lot of talk about sexual excesses and had added what he could, as if he were one of the initiated. But what actually were sexual excesses? He had never in his life encountered such a phenomenon. He couldn't honestly say that he had participated in anything that could be called sexual excess, never. It was only something he had jabbered along about, written about, and now he was to speak on the subject.
He had encountered sex, and profited by it, but sexual excess? One can have one thing or another to excess, thought Erling; liquor for example could land you in jail with no memory of how you got there. It could be called excessive to be drunk, dead drunk, or hopelessly drunk. [p. 151] But a sexual experience was sating and sobering, and no one wished it to excess, even if able.
However, this was a belated discovery since he was already standing on the podium. Instead of this lecture on sexual excesses, which was to be one in a series of many, he now remembered enjoyable experiences which could under no circumstances be called sexual excesses—memories of a fragrant wheat field and a fragrant Helene, and other places and other girls whose names were not Helene—in rented rooms, behind locked doors, and wherever it had happened to take place over the years. Only one among them had been a virgin, he thought distractedly, and she had been the last. He had also had experiences that were utterly painful, but these were excesses to a much lower degree, if one now could speak of degrees when they weren't excesses at all. For example Olga, who had disappeared into a built-in iron wash tub, while watchmaker Hermansen with the funny cork leg had silently hanged himself on an iron hook outside the door. Erling became confused at the recollection of Olga who had yelled so terribly, and he began to finger his nose, as he did when alone and thinking deeply about something. He discovered what he was doing when the finger already was on its way and he scratched his head instead. They couldn't possibly think that the experience with Helene could be called an excess? And again his thoughts circled: When one had experienced the pleasure, there was no need for excess, one had no desire so soon again. It was not an act one could overdo and then store for some other time when needed.
He felt like yelling out at the top of his voice.
Of course he had never practiced excess; he had only stood up, brushed off his clothes with his hands, or lain down to sleep, depending on time, place, and other circumstances, as well as the nature of the surroundings.
One should learn how it feels to get up on a podium and only then discover that one has twenty pages of miserable nonsense to read about the pope's nonexistent whiskers—to realize that such a lecture can never be delivered, though it might be forced out by torture. It could not be delivered to an audience of presumably sensible beings. He began to perspire.
It was bad enough the way things were, but then a new misfortune hit him in the head. In his increasing confusion (he stood quite still staring at his hands) he recalled his idea of introducing a new lecture-form. It must have been because the situation was so hopeless; here something new was needed. He managed to mix this problem with the impossibility [p. 152] of sexual excesses, a tremendous concoction which in one well-aimed blow struck out the Folk School's National Christianity (or was it the opposite perhaps). He turned the pages of his script and coughed, to create some sound at least. Then it was silent again, until the audience in their turn began to cough. Erling said nothing.
On the right down in the hall sat a woman in her early thirties. While Erling was contemplating how to renew the lecture-form and why anyone would have wanted him to talk about sexual excesses when they didn't exist, his male eye, in spite of his confusion, told him that she apparently had come unescorted. He wet his lips in deep thought and kept his silence. On the first bench sat a number of ladies and gentlemen of formidable appearance. In a general way he recognized them; they were ogres of discussion societies. They considered themselves authorities on any subject, and Erling knew that when he had finished each one in turn would rise and pick him to pieces. They never doubted their ability to crush any speaker. Their remarks were long and well thought out. He had once made the remarkable discovery that not one of them owned a bean.
He looked again at the young woman, and then he heard someone say quite loud: One can never be sure.
It was he himself who had said it and he quickly closed his mouth which he had left open. It had caused a mild disturbance in the audience—every speaker's fear; he had awakened them but in a way that would have been better undone. Now started a curious play; he looked severely at the people in the hall and they became silent. He looked down and a whisper began. He looked at them again, and it became silent. He never learned how long he might have kept this up, because with one jerk—and he didn't know how long a time had passed—he started the lecture. He began in confusion that no one was aware of, in a bubbling revenge for his faux pas. And he started with the story about Olga and the hanged watchmaker:
"I would like to tell you how my fourth love affair ended. She was fifteen, her name was Olga, we were about the same age. Olga was kitchen maid in a hotel in my home town, and the daughter of a man who was sent to prison because he had stolen a barrel of coal oil. The judge had said he could not give him a suspended sentence in view of the barrel's value, but I have not looked into the cost of coal oil in 1913, as I have never been interested in figures. Olga was round and plump and I felt she had exciting thoughts about me. Perhaps she did; what she thought of me later I would rather not go into. Because what happened was quite unexpected for her, and I wouldn't be surprised if she later [p. 153] became a nun. That sort of sex might give anyone a severe psychological trauma."
He could see on the faces in the audience that they took this to be an introductory story, an example that would be dealt with more definitely later.
"The hotel basement had concrete passages, exactly wide enough for one to feel the walls on either side with the finger tips if one walked with arms outstretched. From these passages doors led to food cellars and various supply rooms. The doors had enormous padlocks, all except one which led to the laundry room where I had seen the girls in steaming air busy with the wash. Unfortunately this room was at the very end of the building and there was no light in the passages. It was like walking through catacombs. My gift of persuasion was not particularly developed in those days, but nevertheless I had managed to make Olga see things my way, and one evening we stole through the passages of this hotel to the laundry room. This we should never have done."
Erling made a pause for effect, and he could hear the proverbial pin drop to the floor. He continued:
"In this laundry room was a built-in wash tub, and this was involved in my plans. There had been no fire under the tub that day, and I might as well tell you at once that it was empty. I struck a match and noticed that the big wooden lid was in place, but this lid had an unfortunate protruding handle also of wood. And the handle would become a hindrance, so I turned the lid upside down. This I should not have done either. Indeed, I ought not to have done anything; I should have been sitting home with my parents working a crossword puzzle. This would have been best for all concerned.
"I managed to get Olga onto the inverted lid—not an easy task—and climbed up after her. In my favor it should be said that I was terribly nervous, although I had not the slightest premonition of what actually was to take place. The lid was not built to resist great pressure from the underside, and I had turned it over. With both of us on top, it caved in and Olga disappeared among splinters and nails into the bottom of the tub, while I remained lying across the tub, for my position was such that I could not fold together and follow her to the bottom.
"With this happening both Olga and I momentarily lost our senses.
"The fact was that she had become wedged in the bottom, and she started to howl in the most heart-rending manner. I was sure it echoed throughout the whole hotel. I quickly climbed down and thought to escape. I didn't do so at once, though. I still had enough sense to realize it would be best to get Olga away also. She might bear witness against [p. 154] me. While she kept yelling loudly and wildly in her—shall we say—sex-fear, I struck another match. I beheld a horrible sight: only her round face, pressed between her feet and her fingers, stuck up from the tub. I was unable to do anything, and, scared to death, I felt for the door. Then I started to run in the dark, feeling my way with my outstretched arms. Olga's cries pursued me through the passages, the echoes increased them until it sounded like pigs being slaughtered. I could also hear the commotion upstairs in the hotel, and then I ran into someone. I jumped back and hit at my antagonist for I had no time to lose. My fist hit something but I felt it could not be a human being. I struck a match for the third time and discovered it was watchmaker Hermansen hanging by a cord. That made me lose whatever sense I still might have left. The watchmaker was dancing around on his right leg which barely reached the floor. This was his cork leg. The left one didn't quite reach down to the floor, it dangled inside an empty crate he must have kicked over. Unconsciously I yelled out and threw myself down on my hands and knees to get past him, his feet dangling against my back. But something in the cork leg caught in my jacket, and in my confusion I thought the watchmaker had got me by the collar. I rolled over, yelling to high heaven, while Olga was yelling at the top of her lungs in the laundry room. I caught hold of the leg that had become entangled in my clothing and pulled and tore, and if he wasn't dead before I must surely have finished him off. At last I got free, crawled some distance on all fours, and escaped, while Olga's groans faded behind me.
"I joined the group in front of the hotel where wild rumors were circulating: the watchmaker Hermansen had pushed the girl down the wash tub to boil her, but had been overcome with remorse and had hanged himself. They never obtained any explanation from Olga—she steadfastly maintained she hadn't been there at all. Such a position was rather untenable, but she didn't give in."
Erling did not stop after telling the ending of his fourth love; he went right on explaining the impossibility of sexual excesses, because they were contrary to biological and other familiar natural obstacles. And, furthermore, the lecture-form was inexcusably antiquated as a means of information. Of all this there had been nothing in the advertisments of the lecture, nothing in Erling's script, nothing in the program, nothing anywhere. He spoke fluently, without stumbling a single time, talked for more than an hour, and finished his performance with a most courteous bow.
During this whole peculiar performance he had been apprehensive. Undoubtedly, in some way or other he had been successful even though [p. 155] he wasn't sure how or why. The learned members of the "Ogre Discussion Society" did not applaud. He looked down on them for the first time since he had begun and realized he had insulted them. They wanted to see him hanged beside the watchmaker. There they had been sitting at the Theater Café and other places where they gathered, preparing themselves for the lecture, reading all there was to read about complexes, and had been ready to jump on him. Then this lecturer Erling Vik talked outside the announced subject—about new lecture-forms, about the childishness of believing sexual excesses were possible. "Has anyone in the audience ever heard of such?" he had pleaded. "I would like to be given a description of sexual excess. I cannot imagine what it could be."
He had shaken their world by questioning the value of lectures in general; the very existence of these members was based on lectures. He had brushed off sexual excesses, removed the crutch from under their lovely, problem-filled existence. What would they have to live for if no problems existed?
The chairman rose to thank Erling, as is customary. He looked angry, almost blue in the face; he was a student of criminal law.
Erling was sitting at home recalling the story once more. In trying to remember the confused situation one might forget the most important angle at first, perhaps overlook something of the most essential. Thus it was that sometimes a witness changed his testimony. But if every nuance was to be included in remembering a happening then it must be thought through many times. Each might seem like a new version, but actually it was only different layers of the same story, or the same story seen from different angles. It would only cause great confusion to attempt at one time to include all that had taken place.
When he had stood on the podium and communicated so painfully with himself without saying a word, finally bursting out that one could never be sure, he had actually come to the conclusion that, in spite of his own protests, he must follow the script. Otherwise he might as well jump down from the podium and escape. For this other thought—about the new lecture-form and the impossibility of sexual excesses—he hadn't thought through nearly as well as was necessary, and one can't use inspiration the moment inspiration comes over one; only prophets speaking in tongues could do that. Then his eyes had again come to the lady on the third bench to the right.
He recognized her type, although there are many variants. Not so few women are treated badly by fate in early youth—at home, in school, everywhere—until they approach thirty or so, when they take revenge. [p. 156] Among other things they have suffered from being ugly, or seeming stupid because their looks did not conform to conventional ideas of beauty, or because they did not care to participate in idle talk. They had turned inward, with a thought-world unlike the others—or plainly, they had a thought-world. This put them apart. Young as they were they might envy the others their easy manners, their ability to talk without having anything to say, their ability to make friends and intimates, while they were sitting alone. Many of that type begin to grow when the others begin to go to seed. The girl who gets along easily is without weapons when the first blooming is over, and one day she looks about in consternation: Well, I used to be so popular—why no more? She looks at her husband and doesn't find him exciting any longer, and he obviously doesn't think she is, and now there is no excitement in anything, and the dishes are waiting, and one returns yawning from the movie. Then they discover that the ugly duckling of yesteryear is sailing forth, a swan now, her turn now. She who has had everything easy suddenly feels cheated, but never discovers what has happened—namely that she never was exposed to the hard pressure which forces one to build up a reserve. Now when the glitter of youth is fading she discovers she has neither exterior nor interior. And there the swan sails forth; now she is popular, think the hens, and one hen cackles to another, "But she never looked like anything!" And then the hens hear that among other things she is so witty that she makes the men laugh, but all they can do is to read advertisements about ointments against underarm perspiration, and if they buy a jar perhaps it has no effect.
Erling knew that the lady sitting in the audience to the right was a swan who had been an ugly duckling, and he also realized that his behavior was becoming too noticeable, for he had eyes for no one except her—and it was she who that evening revised the lecture-form. She was of strong build and had an abundance of dark fluffy hair. Her forehead was broad, which perhaps made it look too low, her brows thick and dark, the eyes ice-blue. Her nose had a twist upwards. She looked steadily at Erling with something resembling a smile, a provocative smile one might call it. And then something astonishing happened; it was as if his soul left his body and disappeared into her eyes—and this soul of his had eyes of its own, noticed in passing the hollows of her cheeks, so much resembling the cheeks of sculptured high-caste young Egyptians, and his soul looked at her high cheekbones before it disappeared inside her head, but what it did there he did not know; he had to stand and wait for the return of his soul. Was it then so strange that he couldn't get a word across his lips? Now her mouth opened imperceptibly and out [p. 157] flew the homing soul and returned to him. It seemed his soul had been out on an expedition of discovery, but it kept to itself what it had seen. But also, like a carrier-pigeon, it had brought her thoughts to him: "God only knows what that man is up to?" It was then his words had escaped him, clear and loud: One can never be sure.
(Felicia! She had received a detailed report the following day, she who had been sitting alone in a café, waiting. There had been no end to the scandal, and it was to grow worse before he got his full deserts.)
A shadow of surprise passed over her face, but then she suddenly opened her mouth and laughed soundlessly. Her teeth fascinated him, they were strong and broad; he thought in passing, they could easily bite off a thumb. With a definite gesture he pushed the script to the very right-hand corner of the reading-desk, took a step backwards and sounded off about Olga, the built-in iron wash tub, and watchmaker Hermansen. But first he had said: "I will now prove the impossibility of sexual excess."
The effect would have been the same had he fired a gun. Something seemed to flutter through the hall while three hundred necks straightened up and bent backwards as if sitting on the same spinal column (he wished he had had an ax but now it was already too late). From then on he only looked at his new friend, not a single time did his eyes meet anything except her face, neck, and shoulders.
For a moment he had a feeling of being dropped from the moon and having to find his way in these new surroundings. He was only vaguely aware of what happened in the hall, his eyes did not leave her, it was to her he talked, no one could be mistaken about this, and many necks were stretched. His look was directly at her for over an hour. After the startling beginning his voice became calm. He wondered whether he should commune with her informally or formally; perhaps better be indefinite. One could never be sure—
This was his revision of the lecture-form. It made it more intimate, but as it turned out no one else liked it. It was an unsuccessful revision.
Not a single time did he lose the thread; he could hear his own voice, firm and clear. The lady of his heart did not move head nor finger, not a facial muscle, and as the lecture progressed and he managed to escape alive from the catacombs—where Olga still yelled in the tub and the watchmaker ghost-like lunged with his cork leg—he could see how she collected herself, mobilizing her will, to clear the situation. Later he could see how her face began to radiate pleasure—to heck with the other three hundred, her eyes sparkled towards him. (Half a year later it seemed incomprehensible to him that the two of them could ever have [p. 158] gone their own ways.) He felt overwhelmingly as never before that one could be inspired by another, and he saw she knew what he felt. A few times it seemed the words he was using had been transmitted to him from her. When his voice fell, or he hesitated for a second, he saw her grow nervous, and she sent him desperate messages without moving a muscle: You must carry through this nutty idea without making a fiasco of it! Because it would be mine too! You must find words for all the things that never have entered your head before!
That evening hardly anyone in the audience could have believed that he and Cecilie never had seen each other before, that he had never intended to divulge how the tailor's son had gained his introduction to sex—which had left its mark on the whole life of the speaker, had indeed encompassed horror that could be expressed only jokingly. He had ironically mentioned a trauma; through this he had intended to make fun of the ridiculous tone of the pretentious debates, but did anyone of the three hundred actually know what a trauma was? Had they realized what was the result of the agony when Olga had disappeared into the wash tub and that dastardly watchmaker had hanged himself outside—just in the moment one was to experience the miraculous? Had they themselves gained their erotic introduction by having been grabbed in the neck by the hook of a dead man's cork leg? Each time he reached a point in his explanation of the impossibility of sexual excess he could hear, now that the audience had grown warm but no less astonished, how the laughter rose from a rustle to a storm, forcing him to wait, almost annoyed, before he could make himself heard again. The professional debaters on the first bench shrugged their shoulders, as they learned to do in their club. Deep within him he felt afraid of losing the thread of his dissertation, since there was no hope of returning to the script. But the thread held. He decapitated Casanova. He made mincemeat of this one and that. Without hesitation he dishonored Sigmund Freud about whom at that time he had rather vague notions, he disemboweled St. Augustine, made a lightning-visit to Sodom, but consistently he ended his sentences with potent oratorical questions: "Tell me, do you know"—turned to Cecilie—"how one goes about practicing sexual excesses? We are unable to. It is only all those jealous preachers imagining things about us. It has been said that the Roman Empire was destroyed through sexual excesses, but that idea, I'm sure, must have been invented in an overheated monastery."The chairman shook hands with him when he finished, for one must stick to etiquette. He said it had been an unusual evening, but he regretted that the lecture on the program had—[p. 159]
He became angry at being interrupted by the audience, for they had to express themselves somehow because the advertised lecture had not been given, so he announced that there would be a fifteen-minute recess before the discussion period. He tried to tell Erling about coffee, or beer, being served, but the lady had risen from her bench and Erling walked towards her. She said, "I feel the three hundred pairs of eyes like the pins in the Spanish Virgin." Erling said, "Let's go this way."
They went into a side room where there were only a few people who stood chatting and who stopped short to look at them. "This way to the Cloak Room," he said, and found a door that led to the street. He motioned to a taxi and said to the driver: "Just drive on! We'll give you the address in a moment." Someone came running after them, and Erling urged the driver, "Get going! Hurry!"
The taxi started with a jerk—he felt for Cecilie's hand and asked, "Where do you live?"
She didn't reply but leaned forward and gave the address to the driver.
He knew now that a certain riddle probably would follow him to the grave, but it didn't matter since the riddle was wholly his own and could not interest anyone else: How had it been that during that time he had done his best writing? A few times, he recalled, he had concentrated on something for longer periods, once three months, another time for half a year. But though his memory was dim, the result of this particular time was available for anyone to read, and how time and health had allowed him to consume such quantities of liquor as he had done and how he had time for all the nonsense and scandals—this he couldn't grasp, especially as he had never worked with liquor in his system. Indeed, he had tried a few times but when he saw the result the following morning, it was so frightful that his fear of anyone seeing what he had written while drunk pursued him even in his drunkenness. Liquor led to a vulgarization of thought and word that aroused the deepest shame in him. But these confrontations with the products of his own liquor-brain had never contributed to temperance in him. However, they quickly taught him to stay away from writing when drinking.
This did not lessen the riddle; he had been drunk practically every day for ten years. The only explanation must be that he had worked intensely after having slept off one drunkenness before beginning on the next, but he couldn't remember. When he once asked advice from a doctor, a good friend of his, he had been told: "You have never been an alcoholic—you're a drunkard!" This raised an echo in him and he knew the truth was never far away when something raised an echo. It was [p. 160] about the same with him as it was with the maid Elvira whom Felicia often referred to: the only thing needed to keep her sober was for the cupboard to be empty and the bar far away.
Copyright © 1958 by H. Aschehoug & Co., Oslo, Norway. Used by permission. English translation copyright © 1966 The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System. All rights reserved. Use of this material falling outside the purview of "fair use" requires the permission of the University of Wisconsin Press.
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