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One measure of writers' rising status is by their receiving honours, titles, and prizes. This period saw the first writer to be raised to the peerage solely for services to literature — Tennyson in 1883 — yet in this instance and in many others, where writers accepted or refused knighthoods, politics mattered too. Case studies involving J. M. Barrie, Arnold Bennett, Walter Besant, Thomas Carlyle, Conan Doyle, Galsworthy, Kipling, Lewis Morris, Quiller-Couch, Walter Raleigh, Leslie Stephen, Rabindranath Tagore, H. G. Wells, and W. B. Yeats, are examined. Comparisons are made with artists and actors, and publishers and newspaper proprietors and editors, upon whom titles were also conferred in this period. The efforts of writers to organise themselves and to exert influence, as by the Society of Authors or by a British equivalent of the Academie Francaise, are analysed. Finally, the chapter looks at the rival candidatures for the most prestigious domestic literary award, the Poet Laureateship, held in this period by Tennyson, Alfred Austin, and Robert Bridges; likewise international honours, such as the Nobel Prize for Literature, which was won by Kipling but which saw nominated at different times Swinburne, Herbert Spencer, and Thomas Hardy.

This chapter takes its title from Henry James to give examples of period tourism and visitors’ impressions, often on their way to the Continent. It includes examples from Washington Irving through to Mark Twain and demonstrates travellers’ different ways of exploring the city. These bring out the national contrasts registered by the tourists.

In the 1880s and 1890s Walter Besant was one of Britain’s most lionized living novelists. Today he is one of the least read Victorian fiction writers of comparable standing. In addition to outlining the contents of this volume, the introduction provides an overview of Besant’s life and career.

After Walter Besant completed Wilkie Collins’s unfinished novel, Blind Love (with Collins’s authorization and elaborately detailed instructions), Besant emphatically declared that he had “altered nothing” in the final version. A comparison of the published novel with Collins’s notebook, however, reveals that Besant’s declaration was somewhat disingenuous. In addition to making several significant alternations to Collins’s original plot, the more conservative Besant incorporated both anti-Irish and anti-feminist themes, thus undercutting the more socially progressive narrative originally intended by the deceased author.

Walter Besant waged what some would call a relentless campaign for copyright reform in the last twenty-five years of the nineteenth century. At its core was an insistence on proper remuneration for authors, yet his campaign may also be seen as part of his broader aim for authorship to attain the status of a profession on par with medicine or law. In Besant’s hands, copyright reform thus takes on important social and political functions in addition to its more pragmatic aim of protecting authors’ rights.

This chapter traces the copyright legislative process in Palestine. A first piece of legislation was the little-known Ottoman Authors’ Rights Act 1910. When the British replaced the Ottomans, one of their first enactments was the Copyright Ordinance 1920. The chapter queries their motivation in enacting copyright law at such an early stage, and provides several possible answers: it was a British imperial interest, intertwined with the international agenda; it fit the colonial mission of developing the country, and lastly, a personal motivation of the Attorney General, Norman Bentwich. The list does not include local demand: none existed at the time. The next legislative step was the British extension of the Imperial Copyright Act in 1924 and the local enactment of the Copyright Ordinance 1924. The chapter also discusses the late official publication of the 1911 Act, and the establishment of copyright relationship between Palestine and the United States

Argues that writers of minor-character elaboration foreground a tension between structural and referential views of character that has dominated theories and scholarly debates surrounding literary character. The chapter argues that authors who adopt the genre reveals how reference is produced by readers’ supplementing textual structure with outside information, a process that is both central to realist reading practices and, when extended, produces characters’ virtual lives.

This introductory chapter discusses how Germaine Dulac played a groundbreaking role in the evolution of the cinema both as art and social practice. Over the course of her film career (1915–42), Dulac directed more than thirty fiction films, many marking new cinematic tendencies, from Impressionist to abstract. A careful study of Dulac's life and work establishes the importance of her voice in the diffusion and legitimization of French film and film culture, as evidenced through her prolific writings and lectures. She also played a prominent role in several cultural organizations such as the Society of Film Authors (SAF), the French Federation of Cine-Clubs (FFCC), the International Council of Women (ICW), the International Educational Cinematographic Institute(IECI), and the League of Nations' International Committee for Intellectual Cooperation (ICIC), among others.

This chapter focuses on the proposed settlement of the Authors Guild v. Google lawsuit that charged Google with copyright infringement for digitizing millions of books for its Google Book Search (GBS) initiative. Proponents of the proposed settlement, which was announced in October of 2008, cast it as a win-win-win: for Google, the public, and rights holders who would stand to benefit from Google’s commercialization of books in the GBS corpus if they signed up with the Google Partner Program, or a new collecting society, the Book Rights Registry (BRR), which would be established upon approval of the settlement. However, a closer examination of the terms of the proposed settlement casts the deal in a far different and more troubling light. There are three main problems with the settlement. First, there are insufficient checks and balances in the settlement agreement to prevent abuses that seem likely to manifest themselves over time. Second, this settlement is deeply unfair to tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of members of the class on whose behalf the plaintiffs in the Authors Guild case purport to be acting. The third are the antitrust objections of the Department of Justice.

Chapter 2 discusses the history, policies, and practices of the Greek military regime’s censorship (via the book index and preventive and hortatory censorship), but also addresses the reactions of authors and theater practitioners. The chapter covers the “Authors’ Silence” or the silence boycott by authors and playwrights, self-censorship, and the dissident contestation of state censorship. It also focuses on the role of ancient drama and especially on Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, identifying the defiant, intellectual tragic hero as a voice of modern resistance. The chapter further discusses the activist contributions of Anna Synodinou and George Seferis, to then turn to transgressive plays representative of the New Greek Theater and of the Greek Performative Turn (associated with the work of stage director Giorgos Michaelides). The chapter also presents a case study of The Trombone, a thought-provoking play written by Marios Pontikas. The final section outlines the role played by the Greek revue

This chapter focuses on G. K. Chesterton's last years, beginning with his travel to Dublin in June 1932 for the 31st International Eucharistic Congress. It then considers Chesterton's articles that he wrote for the English Catholic weekly newspaper the Universe and one article for the Jesuit periodical Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review; those articles were subsequently published in book form in November 1932 as Christendom in Dublin. The chapter turns to Chesterton's attendance of a lunch in London in July 1933, given by the Royal Society of Literature for the Canadian Authors' Association, before proceeding with a discussion of Chesterton's holiday with his wife Frances and Dorothy Collins. Finally, it recounts Chesterton's death on June 14, 1936, followed by Frances Chesterton on December 12, 1938.

Every piece of science writing has a trajectory, a life history. You decide you want to write something, you find a subject to write about, you find someone to publish it, you research it, you write it, and then—if all goes well—it eventually turns up in print. These milestones mark the life history of every piece of science writing, whether it's a magazine feature, a newswire story, a post on a Web log, or a book. But these genres are a bit like animals. Every species has its own life history. All animals are born, grow, and reach maturity, but each species takes its own route from one milestone to the next. You can't equate the life of a mayfly with the life of a tortoise. Here, then, is the life history of a science book. I hope that in describing it, I convince you that the science book is not simply a very long article, but an altogether separate beast. Book ideas come about in many different ways. The idea for my first book, At the Water's Edge, occurred to me one day in 1996 as I was sitting at my desk at Discover. I had just written an article about how our fish-like ancestors crawled on land 360 million years ago. I was flipping through the published article, sometimes glancing up at my stack of notes and papers. The stack was a foot thick. (I'm very slow about clearing off my desk.) I probably managed to get half an inch of that information into the story. All the rest of those wonderful stories within the story—about the evolutionary principles these animals illustrate, about the 150 years of scientific debate over this central mystery of our heritage—would never see the light of day. I thought about the other articles I had written on other great evolutionary transformations, and all the details I had left out of them because of space constraints. I decided to write a book. I suspect this is a common route to many first science books. Others are born when authors are approached to write a companion book to a television series, or to serve as a co-author with a scientist.

This chapter focuses on general formatting guidelines for three commonly used graphics in chemistry writing: figures, tables, and schemes. The major purposes and uses for each graphic are described, and common formatting expectations are shared. Before-correction and after-correction examples are used to identify common formatting errors and ways to correct them. Each section of the chapter ends with a table of useful guidelines. By the end of the chapter, you will be able to do the following: ◾ Know when it is appropriate to include a figure, table, or scheme ◾ Recognize common formatting mistakes in figures, tables, and schemes ◾ Format figures, tables, and schemes in appropriate and conventional ways As you work through the chapter, you will format your own graphic, guided by the Formatting on Your Own task at the end of the chapter. Graphics, in combination with the text, allow authors to communicate complex information efficiently. When done properly, text and graphics work together, reinforcing each other without duplicating information. Like the text, graphics must follow formatting conventions. In this chapter, we call your attention to some common formatting practices. Of course, we cannot address all of the formatting practices in chemistry, nor can we anticipate how these conventions will change over time. Thus, use this chapter for basic formatting information and for insights into the many details involved in a properly formatted graphic. As always, consult The ACS Style Guide and your targeted journal’s Information for Authors for more detailed and current information. Authors use figures (e.g., graphs, illustrations, photographs) to display scientific information. Examples of figures are included throughout the textbook, for instance, an ion source (excerpt 3S), a comet assay (excerpt 4E), a chromatogram (excerpt 9F), and an illustration of hydrogel adsorption (excerpt 131). Figures are numbered consecutively throughout a paper (Figure 1, Figure 2, etc.) and mentioned by name and number in text preceding the figure. Although many figure types exist, by far the most common is the graph. Because of their frequency, we devote this section of the chapter solely to formatting graphs; however, the guidelines presented are applicable to many other figure types as well.

This chapter introduces the journal article module. The chapter describes some of the defining characteristics of a journal article while emphasizing concise writing and organization. By the end of this chapter, you should be able to do the following: Recognize the importance ◾ of concise writing ◾ Identify the broad organizational structure of journal articles ◾ Explain what is meant by targeted reading and keywords As you move through the chapter, you will begin to plan your own journal- quality paper. The Writing on Your Own tasks throughout the chapter will guide you in this process: 2A Get started 2B Select your topic 2C Conduct a literature search 2D Find additional resources 2E Decide on the broad organization of your paper Module 1 focuses entirely on writing a journal-quality paper, a paper suitable for submission to a refereed chemistry journal. Refereed journals include only articles that have made it through a rigorous peer-review process. In this process, a submitted manuscript is critically reviewed by two or more anonymous reviewers. The reviewers are asked to judge both the scientific merit and writing quality of the manuscript. Authors are often required to revise their work before it can be accepted for publication. The entire review process can take six months or longer. An account of the review process typically appears in the published article, for example, Received for review March 9, 2008. Revised manuscript received August 3, 2008. Accepted August 5, 2008. Once published, the journal article becomes part of the primary literature of chemistry. The primary literature is a permanent and public record of all scientific works, many of which are refereed journal articles.

The ‘Introduction’ helps the readers situate Hindu and Brahmo women’s literary outpourings within the wider sociopolitical context of nineteenth-century Bengal. It locates the eager penmanship of Bengali women within the larger and growing milieu of print literature; the tension between formal and informal forms of Bengali language; and the statistical analysis of ‘books in print’. The startling fact of the price of woman-authored books being on par with male-authored ones is a revelation about the market for women-authored texts. Extant literature on women authors in the nineteenth century considers the major scholarly epitomes that have appeared in the last 50 years in Bangla and English on women’s writings in Bengal. The ‘Chapters’ Overview’ deals with autobiographies, diaries, didactic tracts, novels, and travelogues written by women writers to examine how their literary production varied in style, content, and language form within and across genres. It demonstates both divergences and convergences in literary creations amongst male and female writers.

This chapter focuses on Broadcast Music Inc. (BMI), the competitor of the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). In response to ASCAP's hold over Broadway, BMI searched for inventory in musical genres and geographic regions historically disdained by ASCAP as well as radio networks. BMI also signed up foreign and ethnic music of all sorts. Initially dismissive of BMI, ASCAP's rhetoric heated up as accessions to the BMI catalog steadily grew. Unsuccessful songwriters, including many amateurs, saw in BMI their long-awaited chance for recognition; Ira B. Arnstein was among their number. In summer 1940, Arnstein submitted eleven songs to BMI, all of which were rejected. He later became convinced that BMI was stealing his songs and turning them into America's biggest hits.

This chapter describes Arnstein's later years as well as the fates of Sigmund Spaeth, the Edward B. Marks Music Corporation, Broadcast Music Inc. (BMI), and the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). Arnstein's bleak old age was devoted to eking out such subsistence as he could manage from odd jobs, public relief, and handouts from his sister Mae. His last commercial musical enterprise came in 1948. Inspired by Israel's declaration of independence and the outbreak of the first Arab-Israeli war, Arnstein published “Soldiers of Israel,” a new version of the “Jewish national anthem” he had written for Yossele Rosenblatt thirty years earlier.

This chapter focuses on Arnstein's antipathy towards the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). Arnstein's resentment can be traced back to the ASCAP's rejection of his membership application. In November 1937, acting as his own lawyer, Arnstein filed what Variety dubbed the “MultiSuit,” Arnstein v. American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers, et al. Arnstein alleged that he had “unintentionally aroused a bitter antagonism and hatred” among ASCAP's leaders. As a result, ASCAP had barred him from membership despite his meeting the society's formal criteria, “deprived him of all income and stamped him as an outcast to be shunned by all publishers, theatrical producers, motion picture producers, radio sponsors, etc.,” and “encouraged all its members to plagiarize all his songs which he submitted to various publishers”.