Data sets that illustrate the methods developed in the book are introduced in this chapter. These are the Florentine marriage networks, Zachary’s karate club network, protein–protein interaction data, collaboration networks, gene co-expression networks, Sampson’s monastery networks, Krackhardt’s manager friendship networks, trade networks, Adamic and Glance’s political blog network and the World Wide Web. Networks encountered in practice are usually derived from larger, more comprehensive collections of data and ways of constructing a network from such data are also discussed.

This chapter provides an account of how literary criticism, especially the one associated with F. R. Leavis and the Cambridge school worked, or failed to work, in an African context and the role this critical tradition played in the mapping of African writing in the postcolonial period. Focusing on the critical work of Abiola Irele, perhaps the most dominant figure in African literary critical studies in the second half of the twentieth century, the chapter looks at how the use of African literature as a primary body of reference led to the questioning of the key concepts defining literary criticism including the notion of tradition, literary genealogies, and the relation between language and identity. The chapter explores how Irele, working within three distinct cultural formations, namely the English, the French, and the Yoruba, positioned literary criticism as both an affirmation of tradition and a critique of traditionalism. Tracing the evolution of Irele’s critical thinking as he moved from universities in West Africa to the United States, the chapter provides an account of the relation between criticism, institutions, and audiences.

Many early medieval saints struggled to work with their materials, particularly wood, which quickly degrades in moist climates without regular maintenance. Cadog of Llancarfan (d. 580 C.E.), for example, ‘[worked] bodily with his hands’ (manibus corporaliter operando) to build his monastery, moving earth into a tumulus and constructing a wooden kastil upon it. When Cadog departed for Ireland to study at Lismore, leaving his followers in charge, he returned after three years to find ‘his principal monastery destroyed, and the timber of the roofs scattered rudely’ (suum principale monasterium dirutum tignisque laquearium rudero … dispersis intuitus). Cadog, ‘[grieving] at the downfall’ (ruine condoluit), brought his disciples and ‘workmen’ (operariis) to the forest to harvest new wood (lignorum materiem) and rebuild the community's home. Later construction projects at Llancarfan, as described by Lifris, Cadog's hagiographer (ca. late eleventh century), sometimes assumed life-and-death significance: while cutting timber to build an oratory at Neath, Cadog's crew of twelve operariis murdered their professional rival, the Irish craftsman Linguri, ‘a truly skilful master-builder,’ because he ‘surpassed [the others] in [his] skill and ability’ to work with wood (artificiosum … architectum … paululum post, omnes artificio et uirtute excedebat). This tale, a grotesque parody of the carpenter Christ and his twelve apostles, reveals the potentially high stakes when operarii, frustrated in working with materia, begin to resent their rivals, even to the point of homicide.

Queens were typically accompanied by many persons at public and private events. As this brief description from the coronation of Elizabeth Woodville shows, the queen's entourage often included her ladies and gentlewomen as well as various officials, well-wishers and probably hangers-on. The question here is who, of the many individuals who surrounded a queen, could reliably be counted as being members of her affinity.

The term ‘affinity’ has often been used for this body of people by late medievalists, but it defies easy description. Scholars have characterised this group slightly differently, sometimes even contradictorily, with the result being that what we call the affinity lacks concrete definition. Affinity has been used interchangeably with retinue and at least one scholar believes that it possesses the same basic features as a clientele. Then again, one may regard the affinity as being on the same footing as a network, whether kinship, social, cultural or even political. However, an affinity was not necessarily the same as a network, although there could be significant overlaps.

The argument I put forward in the preceding article will no doubt attract many to contradict it; I fear it will be very hard to demolish a generally held opinion, and all the more deeply so because it has been agreed without reflection or reasoning. Experience must be more powerful than anything I could say, and I write only to provoke it. While waiting until experience has given rise to conviction, quotations and examples could not be adduced too generously: it's vital, by every possible means, to shine a light on this question and destroy a prejudice that has, for many artists, been a cause of discouragement, and whose influence is still so damaging for the direction of musical studies in general, and for the taste of the public.

So I shall now add to what I have said about works whose power has survived the passage of time, choosing my examples only from the most familiar compositions: What is fresher or more beautiful in its calm majesty than Palestrina's madrigal Alla riva del Tebro? It's clearly a lasting piece, and thousands of years will in no way alter the purity of its form or the charm of its expression. People will say, ‘It's not tuneful enough, and its effect stems really just from the chordal sequences and the successive voice entries. No one is denying that its harmony will ensure its survival, it's just the melody that's the problem’. – Very well. In that case, proofs will not be lacking.

Peter Smart (1569–1652), rector of Boldon, Durham, and prebendary of Durham cathedral, might have remained obscure had he not reacted so vehemently against the liturgical innovations and excesses of his younger colleague John Cosin (1595–1672). Both careers were transformed, Cosin becoming a ceremonialist celebrity, and Smart a long-term prisoner. The dispute between them reflected deepening divisions with the Caroline church.

On Candlemas Day, the feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 2 February 1628, John Cosin lit the high altar and the east end of Durham cathedral choir and chancel with more candles, more flames of light, than seen there since the reformation. Cosin's Candlemas extravaganza was a reverencing of the holiest part of the church, an act of devotion for God and the Virgin Mary, but also an announcement, a provocation, and a material manifestation of the controversial ecclesiastical tendency later associated with Laudianism. Cambridge wits, in the circle of Samuel Ward, master of Sidney Sussex College, quickly shared news from Durham, that

Franziska's visits to the Petofy house continued for several weeks, but then broke off rather conspicuously, and even the count's visits to Salesiner Street, which had gone on for a time, stopped. It was said that he was off traveling, and this was indeed so. Finally, he sent word from Paris and apologized in the most obliging way for his abrupt departure. But as obliging as his words were, they were still cooler than usual, or at least more reserved.

Franziska could sense this, but had become too accustomed to such changes to give them any great weight.

It was different in the small circle that continued to gather in the countess's salon on every third evening. Here, a degree of importance was attached to Franziska's absence, and even more so to the count's departure, nor did they refrain from whispering the strangest things among themselves. The old count must be completely besotted with the young lady, or at least interested in her to the point of distraction; the entire trip to Paris must be nothing short of an escape. The countess, furthermore, knowing the count's stubbornness, had initially objected to the trip—with the intention, of course, of making him all the more determined to go. Others dismissed all of this, saying that the old count's jours de fête were over. This only earned them the mockery of the habitues of the club and the casino, who never grew tired of pointing to the seventy-year-old Goethe, or even King Sigurd Ring, who fell passionately in love at ninety and went a-wooing. The count was surely capable of more, full-blooded Hungarian that he was.

Paul Cullen became Ireland’s first cardinal in 1866, an appointment which formalised his long-standing influence in the Propaganda Fide, especially in the appointment of bishops in the English-speaking world. This chapter considers two such interventions, in Scotland and Australia, where Cullen sought to use his influence, unsucessfully in the former and successfully in the latter. The chapter then turns to the first Vatican Council, where Cullen was an important voice in support of papal infalibility, ultimately providing the compromise language that was accepted as Catholic doctrine.

This is a book primarily about making things.

Since the “things” in question are pieces of music—ephemeral and intangible constructions of rhythm and tone—it may seem reasonable to put the word “composer” in the title. But I was hesitant do so, since “Composer” is a pretty lofty term, a designation which needs to be earned and which can mean so many things. The word suggests something achieved, whereas this is a book more about process more than achievement, about having an obsession with composing, and trying to get better at it. Even though I am seventy-five years old, I still think of composing as something aspirational, and of myself as an aspiring composer.

Rather than a summary of my public life, of how others responded to my work, this is an account of how my musical life looked to me from the inside, an account of trying to write music while constructing a life around it. To a large extent, it is also about education and teaching and includes accounts of working as a pianist and as a writer of four previous books. If I sometimes write at length about compositions that remained incomplete, and I neglect others that may have been among my better ones, it is because I am trying to tell a story, a story of searching, finding, losing, attempting, failing, at times reaching; a story of becoming.

A brief excursus after the 1820s reveals that the legacies of the Klangsymbolik and the reliance on vocalic theories continued to exert a pervasive influence during the nineteenth century. In 1880, the Rezitator Emil Palleske (1823–80), who counted among the most influential pedagogues of declamation of his time, considered that ‘as the faithful image of the spirit, [the word] must bring [the image] to expression in a pure and unfalsified manner’. As late as 1934, echoes of these vocalic Stimmungen remained still perceptible in Ernst Junger's short text Lob der Vokale (Praise of the vowel). Recalling in 1926 how ‘the Romantics celebrated true orgies of mystical interpretation of vowels’ and mentioning Jakob Grimm, Kerndorffer, W. Schlegel, Diesterweg (Schocher remains absent), Erich Drach could not totally shake off the belief in the inherent expressive quality of the vowels. Since vocalic pitches can be ordered along a pitch scale (in ascending order u-o-a-e-i), this justified for him the undeniable existence of ‘certain connections to the emotional directions of excitement and inhibition’, an argument still consistent with the gradation of emotions (Bestaffelung der Gefühle) that Bielfeld had exposed in 1812.

In the end, what was left from these early vocalic theories was an ossified remnant: vowels had Stimmungen, each of them the acoustic materialisation of a specific emotional state of the soul; but much less clear were the definitions of these Stimmungen. For instance, Jacob Grimm identified a series of affects in the vowels u, o, a, e, i, ü, ö, ä and the diphthongs ei, eu, au, even if these affects remained more vaguely defined than the Stimmungen following Schocher's theory.

The aptly titled poem on the preceding page by one of Africa's founding fathers, the late Agostinho Neto, raises pertinent issues that the continent continues to struggle with today, and with which this book contends. Both the continent's populations and the land itself suffer grief from the colonial past. That past continues to cause pain and suffering from unfulfilled dreams, dreams that died across the continent with the failure to realise the promise of liberation from colonialism. Yet the sun is still shining; the poem also alludes to hope and optimism amidst that grief. This book enquires into why this ‘grief’, as well as the glimmer of hope, persist at least in a portion of the continent, by focusing on its forested landscapes.

Africa's forests and tree-based landscapes contribute to a large proportion of global biodiversity preservation, nearly a fifth or 17 per cent (IPBES, 2018; Bollig, 2022). Such forests and natural landscapes provide 62 per cent of goods and services for Africa's populations besides being sacred to many cultures (IPBES, 2018; Mansourian & Berrahmouni, 2021). Yet the forested landscapes are highly contested by local people, many of whom were forcefully displaced to create them. In many such forested landscapes around the world, local people who have been dispossessed of their forested land and resource rights under colonialism and other jurisdictions have contested such preservation programmes (Shiva, 1988; Guha, 1989; Peluso, 1992). Along with many others (Siviramakrishnan, 1999; Peluso, 1992; Watts & Peluso, 2001; Igoe, 2004; Bosek, 2006; Brockington et al., 2008; Büscher, 2013; Mavhunga, 2014; Maguranyanga, 2009;

Hoon, 2004; Kwashirai, 2007; Kijazi, 2007; Chomba, 2015; Kepe, 2003; Murombedzi, 1994; Ramutsindela, 2004), I have studied the intricacies of such dispossessions and their impacts on local populations.

Count Petöfy, published in 1884, is a relatively early work by Theodor Fontane, Germany's pre-eminent Realist novelist. It was well enough received in Germany when it came out but was subsequently overshadowed by the success of his classic novels of the 1890s. It is nonetheless a significant and many-faceted novel. A consideration of its place in the writer's oeuvre and of striking connections to his other works will shed light on the ways in which character configurations and literary devices feature in subtly changing ways to create the expressive texture of Fontane's fictional world.

Prompted by a real-life case, Fontane takes the marriage of a seventy-year-old Viennese/Hungarian aristocrat to a twenty-four-year-old North German actress and examines the enduring questions of life choices and how they are made, of missteps and the limits of self-realization, questions of age and youth, of intergenerational negotiation, of status and social and economic pressures, of the choice between observing life and participating in it, of the conflict between the needs of the mind and of the body, of identity and autonomy, of gender and social convention. It explores the extent to which free will can be exercised and personal fulfillment achieved. In the wake of the Covid pandemic, the chapters dealing with isolation through illness will resonate anew.

INTRODUCTION

This Appendix should be used in conjunction with pages 3 to 646 in volume 1 of this edition. It is in three parts. The first part contains additional material for England and Wales, Scotland and Ireland which has been found since the publication of that volume in 2013. This material arises chiefly from the identification of seventy further occasions of special worship: processions, prayers, services, fast days and thanksgiving days. For forty-seven occasions already recorded in volume 1, further orders, forms of prayer, descriptions or information are provided. English translations are given for Latin texts of documents, including two which were not translated in volume 1. The material is arranged chronologically and presented in the same style as that used in the main parts of the edition, including the use of codes to identify each occasion. New codes are given for the additional occasions, which sometimes require interpolations in the existing system, by use of a, b, c, etc.

The second part presents a number of general orders for the observance of fasts and thanksgivings. These consist of ordinances issued by the English parliament as it sought to obtain better observance of the monthly fast days ordered for England and Wales in January 1642, which continued until April 1649, and the sub-directories for fasts and thanksgivings contained in the Directory for Public Worship of 1645, which was intended for use throughout England and Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The third part provides a revised summary list of all the known occasions of special worship from 1533 to 1660, in order to show how the additional occasions and the further texts or information relate to the occasions presented in the first volume.