Chapter 1 examines what mental illness stigma is and analyzes the components of mental illness stigma to show how people with mental illness experience stigma in their daily lives. These components include labeling, stereotyping, prejudice, moral distancing, social exclusion, status loss, dehumanization, microaggressions, discrimination, and epistemic injustice. In each case, I use empirical evidence from the social psychology literature on stigma to show ways in which people with mental illness experience these forms of stigma. Next, I look at factors that affect the kind, degree, and scope of stigma associated with mental illness, including beliefs, political values, cultural values, socioeconomic status, education, and gender. Finally, I examine how many people experience compounding stigmas that come from multiple sources.

This chapter documents how the Bank of England’s thinking on the various transmission channels of QE changed over time through an analysis of quotes from policymakers and members of Bank staff.

In the photograph that adorns the cover of this volume, two young girls are shown peering at a giant window display advertising Richard Eichberg's 1938 film Der Tiger von Eschnapur (The Tiger of Eschnapur). The scene is from July 1949, when Eichberg's film was being rescreened in the newly established Federal Republic of Germany, and the location is the Atrium Theater in Essen. The advertising shown in this image is imbued with cultural symbols of the “exotic” East: a Hindu goddess, Indian royalty in traditional regalia, and a wild tiger threatening to devour the white German hero. This exquisite photograph immediately touches on questions of Orientalism and spectatorship central to transnational cinema in general and Asian German film history in particular: what was so tantalizing about Asia, in this case, South Asia, that drew curiosity from (young) Western viewers? How can archival sources on production history and audience reception elucidate the enduring popularity of Orientalist tropes in German cinema from the Weimar era through the Third Reich and the Cold War to the present? How can contemporary filmmakers and scholars reinterpret the often problematic but also fruitful entanglements between Asia and the German-speaking world?

To answer such questions, film scholars have attempted to remap world cinema through the critical lens of postcolonialism and migration studies.

The tribute attempts to locate Ngugi as a major player within the African literary revolution. It draws attention to how writers like Ngugi used literary imagination to challenge colonial systems of thought, while offering decolonial alternatives and a powerful sense of newness, including the need to privilege writing in African languages. In a sense Ngugi was at the forefront of challenging the mythology of Englishness. For him, literature offered a platform for the critique of dominant ideologies. The tribute argues that Ngugi’s late career was, however, defined by exile and with it the challenge of writing about Africa away from Africa. In his last days, his writing wrestles with the idea of home – its politics and poetics.

The art historian Serafin Moralejo once described a group of twelfthcentury Spanish ivories as “erratic, strange and isolated”. These adjectives are equally apt for other works – from buildings to manuscripts – produced in northern Iberia in the middle decades of that century. These artefacts frequently lack both evident local formation and a clear legacy. In some circumstances a high rate of loss could account for this effect, but intent also is at play here. Above all, this art is eclectic, not in a merely derivative sense but as an expression of experimental collecting. The importation of diverse styles and techniques, sometimes within one work of art, sits alongside the re-display of material from archives and the re-deployment of earlier pieces. This body of work delights in varietas, in jarring juxtapositions, and in playful rhetorical approaches. It can also be remarkable for the quality of its invention and execution. It rarely yields to familiar categorisations and yet offers tantalising resonances. The difficulty in classifying these works is perhaps one reason why these decades of the twelfth century are rarely the focus of art historical studies.

The range of the corpus requires this study to stretch geographically across the north of the Peninsula, from Portugal to Catalunya, and over the Pyrenees into modern-day France and Italy. Chronologically, it will cover the period c.1110 to c.1170. These decades are bracketed by instability: at the beginning, civil war between Leon-Castile and Aragon; at the end, uncertainties engendered by minority reigns in both Castile and Aragon- Catalunya. In the middle of this were two relatively settled reigns: those of Alfonso VII (r.1126–57), son of Count Raymond of Burgundy and Queen Urraca, in Leon-Castile, and Ramon Berenguer IV (r.1131–62) in Catalunya and, from 1137, in Aragon.

INTRODUCTION

Jean Brown's case began when she moved into the parish of Penninghame, north of Newton Stewart, as a servant, and the kirk session heard that the newcomer claimed to have extraordinary visions of spirits. The session’s investigation began in January 1706. The resulting narrative of Brown's past doings and sayings gave few dates, but the earliest events mentioned had occurred in Kirkinner, to the south of Wigtown, and she herself may have grown up there. Her spirits had told her in Kirkinner that all who took the Test would go to hell. This referred to the anti-presbyterian Test Act of 1681, which remained in force until the revolution of 1689 – an unusual example of national political and religious controversy being recorded in popular discourse. Brown herself may have learned of this controversy only after the revolution. She seems to have been a young woman, having first encountered her spirits either ten or sixteen years earlier, when she had apparently been in her early teens. As an adult she had moved north to Colmonell in southern Ayrshire, where she had a quarrel that was alleged to have led to the death of Robert MacCaw. Other places in Wigtownshire referred to include Kirkcowan.

The case is remarkable for Brown's visions of spirits, and for her insistence on her interpretation of the spirits even when the minister and others told her repeatedly that she was wrong. She said that her spirits were her ‘maker’; she later added that they were God, and then that they called themselves the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Yet she also insisted throughout that these spirits had sex with her, and gave many further idiosyncratic and unorthodox details.

This final volume of National prayers contains three main sections and a series of appendices, together with biblical and general indices for all four volumes. The first two sections describe and provide edited versions of the main texts for the anniversary commemorations. First are the early modern anniversaries that began in England and Wales, Ireland and Scotland during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, most of which continued to be observed until the mid-nineteenth century and in one case was still being reordered in the twenty-first century. The second section is concerned with the annual commemoration dating from the early twentieth century, remembrance day – more strictly, armistice day, armistice Sunday, and remembrance Sunday – as it has been observed in the Church of England and the Church of Scotland, and at the national and imperial (later commonwealth) ceremony held at the Cenotaph in London.

The third section is a continuation of the texts and commentaries for particular occasions of special worship described in the first three volumes, which ended in 2016. This section adds the calls for prayer during the Covid pandemic of 2020–1, and the special forms and worship resources provided for general use to mark the close succession of royal events from 2021 to 2023. In the Church of England, the clergy were – in contrast to the practice of previous centuries – encouraged to compile and print their own forms of prayer.

World’s fairs or international expositions occurred regularly in the United States between 1876 and 1916. These seasonal spectacles exhibited American national progress, technological development, and industrialization. Women and non-Whites, however, were relegated to subordinate roles, although their opposition and protests are equally part of the story of this period’s fairs. The fairs also generally consigned entertainment to specific zones. The expositions of this period – especially the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, the 1893 Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition, the 1901 Buffalo Pan-American Exposition, the 1904 St. Louis Louisiana Purchase Exposition, the 1915–1916 San Francisco Panama–Pacific Exposition, and the 1915–1916 San Diego Panama–California Exposition – attracted millions of tourists while photos, postcards, and other souvenirs informed millions more about them. They were international stages that wove popular culture into ideological displays about American empire and technological progress and were originators for several types of twentieth-century popular culture.

The fact that the novel was an imported genre meant that African writers who sought to use it needed to signal its function in contexts that were far removed from the European experiences and ideas that had generated the emergence of the genre in the first place. This chapter takes up a simple but transformative question: How did novelistic genres travel from their assumed European centers to the outposts of empire and why and how did fictional forms acquire high cultural authority outside metropolitan settings? To answer this question, the chapter compares African novels to those produced in other colonial landscapes such as India not so much to identify a common purpose, but to show the deliberate process by which local writers brought local cultural elements, histories, and forms to domesticate the novel, to make them appear to be products of local communities and ideas even when they deployed familiar tropes. Popular novels could remind readers both of their colonial education in English literature and their connection or disconnection to the local customs rehearsed in fiction.

To a lady fair and good and wise, noble of heart and lineage, this man who dares not write his honest name – to avoid opening the way for slanderous tongues to wag and lie – instead of greetings sends his heart and all his thoughts, along with this work: these verses written specially for her. But though he's composed and completed it first and foremost for her, he dares not send it to her directly, not wishing to provoke envious, malicious minds: rather, he wishes to challenge them with it. And to tell the truth, he's not entirely sure she’d want to receive it! So he's sending it to various friends of both sexes, and to all more generally who love faithfully and truly. He's sending it to her, then, by way of others: he's hoping that somewhere it's seen by the one for whom it was all composed – beginning, middle and end. For when she sees it or hears it read, she’ll be able plainly to realise it was made for love of her, containing as it does certain things that reveal it's meant for her specifically – but no one else will know, unless she tells them: they won't be able to spot them otherwise. And I ask her, kind and generous- hearted as she is, to approve with pleasure that I’ve composed it for her sake. [38] So now let me turn to the work itself, which begins like this:

Sirs, ever since I was a child I’ve heard that dreams can sometimes prove true. That's why I’m reciting this: I wish to record a dream, and one I dreamt not long ago.

Introduction

In this final chapter of the book, I return to the conundrums I started with in the Introduction and discuss the insights that have emerged from the three cases across southern Africa. The main question I started with is: why is there no open revolution by local people regarding their dispossession around forests? Why have rights that were taken away from local people by states during colonial times not been restored in the post-colony? So many decades after the attainment of independence, for Zimbabwe, and the charting of a democratic dispensation for South Africa, technical arms of the state are still confused, unsure, and are caught in between regarding the best ways to resolve communities’ demands for rights to their land and resources around protected areas. In other words, they find themselves in situations of ‘chronic liminality’ (Cliggett, 2014). Despite many decades of waiting and engaging in various forms of struggle and articulating their claims against state exercise of power over nature, local people are yet to realise their ambitions of having their rights restored. As much as states are stuck and unsure what to do next, local people on their part are equally in various conditions of chronic liminality regarding what action to take regarding their plight around protected forests.

Luigi (Carlo Zanobi Salvadore Maria) Cherubini, born in Florence in 1760, had died on 25 March 1842.

The life of this great composer can be offered as a model for young artists in almost every particular. Cherubini's studies were long and patient, his compositions numerous, his enemies powerful. To the inflexibility of his character and the tenacity of his convictions must be added a real dignity that kept him always respectable, and which, sad to say, one does not often find in even the most eminent of artists. He was born in Florence towards the end of 1760, was taught from the age of nine by Bartolomeo and Alessandro Felici, and later by Bizzari and Castrucci, all composers nowadays forgotten. He didn't complete his musical education until around his twentieth year under Sarti. The Grand Duke of Tuscany [later Holy Roman Emperor Leopold II] then took him under his special protection, and Sarti, as payment for his lessons, was happy to get his pupil to write a large number of works which he inserted among his own, unscrupulously keeping all the honour of them for himself. Ultimately however, the teacher had to decide on launching his pupil's career, and Cherubini, finally free to see his music applauded under his own name, wrote several scores for Italian theatres, the success of which soon led to him being invited to London. It was there that he wrote La finta principessa and Giulio Sabino.

This chapter questions the explanatory validity of the term “Enlightenment” to understand intellectual and religious change in early modern England and the Dutch Republic. Not only do both countries claim to be the cradle of the Enlightenment, but their intellectual, political and religious developments were so deeply entangled during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that terms such as ‘Anglo-Dutch context’, ‘Anglo-Dutch moment’, ‘Anglo-Dutch sphere’, and ‘Anglo-Dutch connections’ are now of common usage in modern scholarship concerning the relations between these neighbouring nations.

According to Roy Porter, ‘England's special role’ in the development of the Enlightenment ‘was that in many areas – freethinking, empiricism, utilitarianism – she came first’, while Frederick Beiser affirmed that ‘although England … never had a self-conscious intellectual movement called ‘the Enlightenment’, it has a strong claim to be ‘cradle’ of such an intellectual movement. England was therefore the country most responsible for the emergence of the Enlightenment, and specifically of a strand of Enlightenment that characterised itself as ‘Christian’ on the basis of the idea – developed by the so-called ‘Cambridge Platonists’, Locke, and moderate Anglicans such as William Warburton (1698–1779) – that the Christian religion was an eminently reasonable religion and that reason and revelation could be reconciled by identifying the moral essentials of the Christian faith. Furthermore, at variance with the long persistent commonplace that the Enlightenment was essentially a revolt against established religion and ‘priestcraft’, researchers have recently shown that English apologists adopted arguments which incorporated assumptions they shared with their critics.

Preferential attachment models yield graphs that are generated as the result of a growth mechanism. Whenever a vertex is added to the graph, it is joined by edges to a number of the vertices already present in the graph, and these vertices are chosen with reference to their current popularity, as measured by their current degree. Models reflecting this general principle can be formulated in many different ways, some of which are discussed in the chapter. A useful property, observed when popularity is a linear function of degree, is that the degree distribution exhibits a power law decay in the tails, as the number of vertices in the graph increases. Other possible scenarios are also briefly discussed.