Wallace MacCafrey's study of the ‘shaping of the Elizabethan regime’ concluded that though the essential decision of the English Reformation was made ‘with surprising ease and minor disturbance’ at the very outset of the reign, only after the determinative climacteric of 1569–71 was it possible ‘to feel some sense of its permanence’. The wheel had not turned.The regime, as Francis Bacon put it, continued to be ‘imbarcked into the Protestant cause’. The narrowed political options to which Catholic notables were subsequently reduced have been outlined. Tis concluding chapter seeks to draw out underlying reasons for the failure of Catholic noble leadership in the crisis years.

It might be argued that, insofar as it was derived from the unwillingness of key Catholic nobles to deploy their militarised afnities, Catholic political failure saved England from a full-scale war of religion. Equally, it might be argued that England had had its – episodic-war of religion. As Peter Marshall has reminded us, though Tudor England avoided the full-scale religious confict aficting France from 1562 to 1598, the progress of the English Reformation ‘was at every stage lubricated by copious efusions of blood’, some of it ‘spilled in skirmishes and battles between armed forces in the feld’.

Introduction

In 2005 the Dutch Agricultural History Society organised a symposium on biographies of leading figures of the Dutch agricultural sector. A lot of attention was paid to the Mansholt family, a wealthy family of Groningen farmers, and its most prominent member: Minister and European Commissioner Sicco Mansholt. One of the participants remarked ironically that the Society was somewhat behind the times. Nowadays, he said, in the agricultural sector the money is no longer being made by the arable farmers of lowland Groningen, but by the intensive animal farmers of the uplands. Therefore, he suggested, it would be more useful to focus on their leaders. Unsurprisingly, this remark was made by a professor at Maastricht University in Limburg, the most upland part of the Netherlands. He was right, however, and his remark illustrates the shifts that took place in the countryside. As early as 1910 the German economist Friedrich Swart had remarked that during the preceding decades the uplands had been catching up with the lowlands. The time of the prosperous lowland farmers, who lived like ‘small kings’ on their large farms and looked down upon the poor uplanders, was coming to an end.1 Therefore, the 1880–1980 period is fundamentally different from the previous centuries. Although mechanisation and the use of artificial fertilisers and pesticides led to unprecedented levels of land and labour productivity, the lowland farmers lost their prominent position in rural society. Paradoxically, the agricultural sector itself prospered, but individual farmers lost wealth, power and status.

On May 1, 1653, an unusual hailstorm struck North Frisia. In his Nordfresische Chronik (North Frisian Chronicle, 1666), M. Antoni Heimrich reports that, along with the usual ice clumps, there fell on that day “ein groß geschmeiß einer sonderlichen art von fliegen fast wie ein schnee herunter gefallen, daß man nerlich die augen dafür hat können auffthun” (a large shower of a strange sort, one made up of flies fell like snow, such that it was nearly impossible to open one's eyes). His report of a shower of insects falling from the skies seems fantastic, but is by no means impossible: so-called “rains of animals,” while rare, do take place and can be explained scientifically. Other events Heimrich records, however, defy rational explanation. In 1636, on the Feast of the Chair of St. Peter, for instance, he says that a local administrator in the town of Lunden found a signum sanguinis around his house, and when he went to wash himself, he discovered five death's heads in his washbasin. Two centuries later, Theodor Storm lifted these events directly out of Heimrich's chronicle for his 1888 novella Der Schimmelreiter (The Rider on the White Horse). But whereas Heimrich depicts these incidents straightforwardly as “real” enough that they do not trouble the chronicle's claim to historical truth, in Storm's novella these and similarly fantastic elements can only appear at odds with Der Schimmelreiter's realist claims.

Of all the groups charged in the early 1960s under apartheid security laws, the National Liberation Front (NLF) alone had not used violence. The NLF was a successor to the tiny Yu Chi Chan Club (YCCC), whose name, adopted from Mao Zedong's book Yu Chi Chan, meant guerrilla warfare. They were Cape Peninsula breakaways from the Non-European Unity Movement (NEUM, Unity Movement) – an African National Congress (ANC) rival. Although the NLF described itself as a paramilitary organization with political and military aims, it was decidedly intellectual. Its members – mostly young teachers and students – thought, read, discussed, wrote, fundraised to publish articles, distributed articles and formed study groups.

The YCCC and NLF were exceptional among early 1960s underground groups in their concerted attempts to theorize guerrilla struggle and assess its relevance to South Africa and, in the NLF's case, to build a structure of tiny groups – cells – for political education. Despite splintering from the Unity Movement, they nonetheless adapted its educational techniques. The YCCC, formed around April 1962, disbanded in December to organize the NLF. But six months after the NLF's January 1963 launch, its founding members were arrested. While they had produced theoretical analyses and begun setting up study groups, they had not developed a national network nor taken any steps towards armed activities. Yet eleven members received prison sentences ranging from five to ten years. Scholarly literature has neglected – indeed, excluded – these groups. They have virtually been erased from history.

The Rivonia Trial of Nelson Mandela and his comrades in Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK, Spear of the Nation) has been the subject of volumes.

One of the earliest English-language programme notes on the Sinfo¬nietta was written by Rosa Newmarch (1857–1940), Janáček's most enthusiastic advocate in Britain and the person to whom Janáček dedicated the work – a fact Newmarch mentions in the heading of her note. She gives no hint of any extra-musical significance or inspiration, preferring instead to approach it entirely in terms of absolute music. Originally written for the work's London premiere in 1928 conducted by Henry Wood, Newmarch's note was reprinted in 1938. Its historical interest lies primarily in its status as an introduction to British audiences of a composer whose music was completely unfamiliar at the time. In general, Newmarch's comments are typically concise and clearly expressed, though curiously she makes no mention of the entry of the banda trumpets in the second movement (she even omits trumpets from the list of instruments). She is more perceptive about the structure and thematic inter-relationships of the third movement and has useful comments on the finale. Above all, this note is fascinating in presenting the thoughts of the work's dedicatee – a dedication of which Newmarch was understandably proud. In her later book, The Music of Czechoslovakia, Newmarch summarised Janáček's style in this piece: ‘What he has to say is said tersely, swiftly, and directly, with no time lost upon extended developments. This is strongly marked in the Sinfonietta for orchestra, a work in five movements, each of which is scored for a different combination of instruments.’ Her earlier thoughts provide a more detailed commentary.

In Occitan-speaking lands, Charlemagne was commemorated as a warrior, a founder and restorer of holy shrines, and a model of authority. As in the rest of the regions that were nominally or actively ruled by the French crown from the High to the Later Middle Ages, Charlemagne was often remembered as rex Francorum. However, by dint of his strong identification with locations, the emperor that circulated in Occitan-speaking lands was sometimes more regional than either spiritual or imperial. In terms of the three functions, his profile remained consistently identified with the first (spiritual authority) and the second (military power). As has been shown by Amy Remensnyder, many texts and sites in Occitan-speaking regions combined the historical Charles the Great with the legendary figure familiar from chansons de geste, and it is not easy to distinguish one from the other. In these regions, the Pseudo-Turpin Chronicle (hereafter Pseudo-Turpin) is often the bridge between the historical and the legendary Charlemagne. Indeed, until the discovery in 1912 of a manuscript that contained two Occitan Roland poems, there was little written evidence that the Midi had possessed a vernacular Cycle du Roi, the tradition of chansons de geste centred on Charlemagne. Part I of this chapter traces the evidence of an epic tradition, and more specifically of a heroic Charlemagne, while Part II analyses selected texts in terms of their geographical and socio-political context.

The turn of the twelfth century was a strikingly disruptive moment for the Latin Christian world. In Spain, in northern and eastern Europe, in southern Italy and Sicily, as well as of course in the Holy Land, the frontiers of Latin Christendom were expanding at an unprecedented rate. In the burgeoning schools of northern France and Italy especially, authors were confronted by an influx of new philosophical and scientific texts, brought into the Latin world above all via translators working on these new frontiers, principally in Spain, southern Italy, Antioch and Constantinople. Indeed, such was the confusion caused by this influx of texts that one mid-century schoolmaster recalls having to explain to an abbot in Laon that Boethius was not in fact a pagan like Aristotle, but a champion of the Christian faith. At the same time, a new awareness of Judaism and Islam as rivals of Christianity was emerging that was a cause for alarm in some quarters of Latin Christendom. It was in fact the work of a Spanish Jewish convert to Christianity, Petrus Alfonsi (d. post 1116), that introduced the Latin world at large both to the existence of the Talmud and to the basic doctrines of Islam. Along with these intellectual and intercultural challenges, the turn of the twelfth century was likewise punctuated by political chaos in Latin Europe, most famously with the Investiture Controversy between the papacy and German emperors over who had the right to appoint bishops. And it should not go unremarked that from the conquest of Jerusalem in 1099 through to at least the failure of the Second Crusade in 1148, it was widely believed that the apocalypse was just around the corner or had even already begun. These trends coalesce into a new awareness of geography that shines through across a wide range of texts from many different authors and regions in this period.

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).