In 2013, Volker Reiche—most widely known for his daily comic strips in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung—published his graphic memoir Kiesgrubennacht (Gravel Pit Night), an account of his early life in post-WWII West Germany. In his memoir, Reiche recalls carefree moments with his four siblings, but also constant conflict between his parents and taking refuge in comics, picture books, and drawing. In a visual style reminiscent of children's comics, the memoir documents the familial tensions and violence that structured Reiche's daily existence between the ages of four and nine. As a child of ardent Nazi supporters who remained silent about their wartime experiences, young Volker is only dimly aware of the extent of the atrocities committed by Nazi Germany and oblivious to his parents’ complicity. He is, however, a frequent witness to the domestic violence committed by his father. In fact, violence of many sorts—from physical and psychological abuse to violence in popular forms of entertainment— permeates his surroundings.

The confrontation of the postwar generation with their parents, and especially with fathers who committed crimes during the Nazi regime, is hardly new in German-language culture. Thematically, Kiesgrubennacht can be classified as another entry in the long-established category of Väterliteratur. Moreover, the treatment of the National Socialist past was already a frequent theme in comics. From early works such as Al Feldstein and Bernie Krigstein's “Master Race” (1955) to the wealth of comics on the Holocaust that followed in the wake of Art Spiegelman's groundbreaking Maus, reflection on the events and legacies of the Shoah has become a major topic in international comics publishing.

One of the ways of reading photography is to understand it as a translation of past events. This chapter considers how a photo book by the former Magnum photographer, Kent Klich, allows us to engage with this concept. This photographer's work evidences a strong sense of solidarity with his photographic subject. His images manifest a clear desire to use photography to allow his subject(s) to communicate specific visual messages to his viewers and invite social change. Indeed, he allows us to see how the visual can translate moments from the past into a coherent narrative, inviting viewers to reflect and to act. Because many of these topics cover sensitive subjects such as sex work, violence, abandonment, homelessness, and thorny international politics; his photography is often transgressive in nature yet executed with the highest visual standards. I selected his Mexican photographs as a case study because they demonstrate how it is possible to read photography as translation and reveal to the viewer what is often invisible, what occurs when these translations do not comply with market and cultural constraints on circulation, and the valuable lessons that studying texts of a transgressive nature teach their readers.

Photography Translation: A Working Definition

To establish a framework upon which to build my analysis, I offer a working definition of photography translation and elaborate on some of the ways it differs from other forms of translation. To do this (and to help connect it with that established field) I will employ terms from translation studies. A photograph can be understood as a target text/translation (TT) taken from a source text (ST).

Bald's Leechbook ii.22–4

XXII […] Ac mon sceal sona on fruman þa ær genemnedan beþunga. ne drince he wines naht. 7 gif se lifersioca mon blodes to fela hæbbe þonne sceal him mon ær eallum oþrum læcedomum blod lætan of þam swiðran earme on þære | niþeran ædre. Gif þa mon ne mæge eaþe geredian þonne sceal mon on þære middel ædre blod lætan. þa þe þæt ne doþ on micel earfeþu becumað.

XXIII Hwæt him sie to forganne on liferadle hwæt him sie to healdanne ge on læcedomum ge on mete.

For þon is þearf micel þæt mon nauþer ne sealfa ne baþu ne onlegena ær to nyde. ær him mon blod læte þam þe fela blodes hæfþ. æfter þon þe se lichoma sie þurh þa blodlæse geclæsnad. þæs mannes bileofa is to besceawianne. ærest him is to sellanne þæt þone innoð stille 7 smeþe. ne sie scearp ne to afor. ne slitende. ne swigene.

ælc broþ is to forganne for þon þe hit biþ þindende 7 yfele wætan wyrcþ. ægru sint to forganne forþonþe hira wæta bið fæt 7 maran hæto wyrcð. hlafes cruman gif hie beoþ ofþænde oþþe gesodene sint to þicganne ac na to swiðe. oþre wætan mete gearwa 7 cocnun|ga ealle sint to forbeodanne. 7 eal þa wætan þing 7 þa smerewigan 7 oster hlafas 7 eal swete þing þe wyrcað aþundenesse. ge þa scearpan afran þing sint to fleonne. forþonþe þa sint fortynende þa innoþas. 7 gesamniað þone swile 7 unyþelice meltað. forðon ne æppla ne win nis to sellanne. forðonþe hie habbað hatne bræþ þam is to þicganne unscearp win.

Your excellent Essay towards The Natural History of the Earth, ha's obliged and even commanded, the true Friends of Religion, and Philosophy, to serve you with as many Communications as they can, that may be subservient unto your Noble Intention. But the Letters wherewith you have honoured me, have laid me under your more particular Commands, to supply you with such Subterraneous Curiosities, as may have been in these Parts of America mett withal. I do with much Alacrity apply myself immediately to obey your Commands, in one Remarkable Instance, wherein I apprehend myself best able to do it; reserving for another Opportunity (if perhaps, I find myself a Master of) any further Treasures, worthy to be laid before a Person of so clear a Judgment, & so reaching a Sagacity. And that I go cheerfully about this Point of my Obedience, you will conclude it, when you see me begin with assuming the Air of telling you, That you must look upon all the American Curiosities which are sent you.

So began Cotton Mather's “Curiosa Americana” in 1712, a rich collection of epistolary essays on early modern science and the American natural world. One of only eight colonial fellows of the Royal Society of London, Mather obliged Dr. John Woodward's request over the span of many years. As secretary of the Royal Society, geologist, and member of the Royal College of Physicians, Woodward (1665–1728) particularly welcomed Mather's far-ranging Curiosa on the flora and fauna of the New World – including medicinal plants, passenger pigeons, rattlesnakes, fossils, and moose – as well as remarkable phenomena like monstrous births, Parhelia, and hurricanes.

This chapter looks at Pastor Daniel Kolawole Olukoya, a Yoruba (Nigerian) general overseer and Pentecostal leader and analyzes his publications and sermons, taking into account my field observations. Discussion about him becomes essential as he is the sole Yoruba Pentecostal leader whose primary doctrinal focus is on witchcraft; some of the interviewees in this study have been in contact with him, his spiritualities, and similar pastors during their Christian journeys. Although many scholars have written extensively about this Pentecostal leader, this chapter chooses a firsthand textual analysis of his sermons, messages, beliefs, and practices that influence the proliferation of child witchcraft in Yorubaland and beyond Nigeria.

Analysis of this megapastor (including interviewees) demands adherence to a consistent theoretical framework. The pastor's understanding of himself is clearly expressed in his leadership, personality, and interactions with his family, members of his church, and outsiders. Adding to Blumer's triad of core realities, Schwalbe proposes three methodological practices concerning power: linking meaning to power, looking for inequalities rendered invisible by exercising power, and turning a symbolic interactionist eye on ourselves.

Late on in A View of the Present State of Ireland, Irenius turns his thoughts to ‘plant[ing] a good towne’ by Bantry Bay, on land escheated to Elizabeth I but ‘forcibly kept from her, by a rough tayle kerne that proclaimes him selfe the bastarde sonne of the Erle of Clancar, beinge called Donnell Mac Chartie’. It would be ‘meet’, Irenius suggests, ‘to cut of[f]’ the rough-tailed Mac Carthy to ensure that the earl's estates revert to the Crown on his demise. The danger is that, in spite of the fact that, technically,

In 1596, when Edmund Spenser was writing A View, Domhnall Mac Carthaigh Mór, earl of Clancarty, was indeed on his deathbed, but those in Spenser's sights here are not Domhnall Mac Carthaigh, père or fils naturel, but ‘some others’ whom he does not name. Not mentioned but very much in the picture are Hugh O’Neill and Fínghin Mac Carthaigh Reagh – the ‘Machiavellian ambodexter’ whom O’Neill would later invest as the next Mac Carthaigh Mór. Spenser's inclination to camouflage such players beneath indirection and anonymity captures a general truth about the View's relationship with the Gaelic Irish.

This chapter will outline the extant medical texts in Old English, first considering what is meant by a medical text, and surveying those writings which fit the definition. Despite the small size of the corpus, many recipes or clusters of recipes exist in different versions, permitting the illustration of textual variation between witnesses, which will be important throughout the book. Finally, the chapter will provide an overview of Old English medical language as it pertains to other medical literatures, specifically Latin. This survey excludes some texts which were included by Cockayne in his Leechdoms, specifically the marginalia and prognostics, which have been excellently discussed by other authors, while it considers some manuscript witnesses which were unknown to Cockayne.

Some texts which may be considered a priori medical have been omitted due to their incidental transmission as encyclopaedic extracts in commonplace books, such as some of the prognostics in London, BL Cotton Tiberius A. iii which concern childbirth, disease or death. These texts are omitted because they fall outside the scope of this book, which is to document the reception of known late antique medical texts in early medieval England, although Claire Burridge has recently demonstrated the enormous value of studying those recipe collections which cannot be tied directly to these traditions.

The manuscript basis of the Old English medical corpus

Only eight manuscripts, including single-leaf documents, transmit Old English medical recipes as their primary contents, as opposed to marginalia, compared to the hundreds of extant Latin manuscripts from the Continent.

INTRODUCTION

The composite manuscript edited below bears many resemblances to the better-known True Narrative of the Sufferings and Relief of a Young Girle, published in 1698, which is edited as the subsequent text in the present volume. However, the manuscript also contains revealing differences, of three types. First, it contains additional documents that are not included in the True Narrative – most strikingly, a tract by James Williamson criticising the evidence used in the witchcraft trials. Second, it omits some of the documents published in the True Narrative. Third, there are intriguing differences in some of the documents that are common to both texts. For instance, both texts contain the central narrative of Christian Shaw's demonic possession, but in two noticeably different versions. These differences may reveal much about how the narrative was compiled, and help us to understand the bizarre events that it related. At the end of the edition, a further short document is added as an appendix: a contemporary newsletter relating yet another version of some of these events.

The manuscript: description, date, purpose

The ‘Bargarran Witches’ manuscript, as it is known by its present holders, the Mitchell Library, Glasgow, is an untitled foolscap volume in original binding containing the texts of a number of documents relating to the Bargarran witchcraft case. The manuscript was bought in London for the Library by George Neilson, who published one of its documents in 1910 – a sermon by James Hutchison, minister of Kilallan, that he preached in Paisley on 13 April 1697 to the commissioners of justiciary trying the accused witches. Neilson noted internal evidence that the volume had been in the possession of the Shaw of Bargarran family in the eighteenth century, and it seems reasonable

Holst's self-esteem as a composer grew very quickly during 1914–1916, for those were the years dominated by the composition of his largest orchestral work, The Planets, Op. 32 [H125]. Astrology was nothing new to him and he may have been exposed to it at a very young age. Raymond Head comments,

Holst himself comments from a 1914 perspective:

The first movement of The Planets, “Mars: The Bringer of War,” was begun in early 1914 and, true to its subtitle, was entirely sketched out before World War I had begun. “Mars” had not been inspired by that particular war; neither had his musical documentary on the horrors of war, A Dirge for Two Veterans [H121] (1914).

‘Cyfiawnder rhwng tyddynwr a phenaeth a lawcha wlad’. This message, delineating that ‘justice between tenant and chief will succour the land’, was inscribed into the silver-rimmed cups that were used at the celebrations accompanying the coming of age of Robert Williames Vaughan of Nannau in 1824. The Vaughans provided custom-made acorn-shaped cups for each of the principal sites of celebration, fashioned from the wood of the fallen ‘Ceubren yr Ellyll’ oak tree that had previously stood near Nannau as a primary marker of the family's ancestry in the landscape. Participants were encouraged to share in the sentiments of the inscription by communally drinking from the cups in accompaniment to the toasts delivered at the celebratory dinners. The cups also displayed an engraving which reinforced the meaning of the Welsh inscription: a scale in hand with the words ‘landlord’ and ‘tenant’ balanced in equilibrium on each side. One of the speeches proclaimed that this signified that ‘equity and justice should always be the characteristic essential of every transaction between Sir Robert and his tenants.’ More generally, it symbolised the reciprocity and cooperation required to make the landed estate function effectively, positioning the relationship between landowner and tenant as critical to the operation or ‘succour’ of society. In this equation, the associated inscription of ‘Llwydiant i etifedd …’ (‘Prosperity to the heir …’) had larger resonance for the future of everyone connected with the celebration: his prosperity was presented as being intricately bound up with that of the wider estate community.