Pub Date : 2023-06-23DOI: 10.1353/sub.2023.a900523
Orchid Tierney
About two hours from where I grew up in Invercargill, Aotearoa New Zealand, is a large finger lake called Lake Wakatipu. The lake is nested in the Southern Alps of the South Island and, at the extremes, its body measures three miles wide and fifty-two miles long. The surrounding mountains are haunting in the evenings when the coniferous wildlife is silent, and for as long as I can remember, Wakatipu has been called the breathing lake. I must have read this moniker on a brochure or travel poster in a hotel or a restaurant—I used to visit the area around the lake regularly during the winter months as a child—but according to local legend, it is the beating heart of a taniwha—an ogre called Matau—that causes the lake’s respirations. Matakauri, the hero of this particular myth, set alight the ogre whilst he slept in order to rescue his beloved Manata, the beautiful daughter of a local chief, whom the taniwha had kidnapped. As Matau burned, he left behind his heart, which continued to beat rhythmically in the years that followed Matakauri’s daring rescue. The myth brilliantly invokes the scientific expertise of the local Indigenous people, for the lake really does rise and fall regularly throughout the day. Despite being landlocked, Wakatipu has an observable seiche, or standing wave, that occurs every 26.7 minutes and results in a tide that rises and falls almost eight inches. Of course, the seiche is the Western scientific explanation for the lake’s regular aquatic behavior. The lake breathes because Matau’s heart is still beating. Wakatipu’s origin myth proposes a respiration that is both wonderfully metaphorical and scientific, but it also raises questions about the embodiments of breath itself. Namely, I’m curious here as to who is an agent of breath? Who and what breathes? Who can breathe easily in the Anthropocene? Who can breathe easily at all? And yet: what an un-
{"title":"Breathing Without a Head: Plant Respirations in John Gerrard's Smoke Trees","authors":"Orchid Tierney","doi":"10.1353/sub.2023.a900523","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sub.2023.a900523","url":null,"abstract":"About two hours from where I grew up in Invercargill, Aotearoa New Zealand, is a large finger lake called Lake Wakatipu. The lake is nested in the Southern Alps of the South Island and, at the extremes, its body measures three miles wide and fifty-two miles long. The surrounding mountains are haunting in the evenings when the coniferous wildlife is silent, and for as long as I can remember, Wakatipu has been called the breathing lake. I must have read this moniker on a brochure or travel poster in a hotel or a restaurant—I used to visit the area around the lake regularly during the winter months as a child—but according to local legend, it is the beating heart of a taniwha—an ogre called Matau—that causes the lake’s respirations. Matakauri, the hero of this particular myth, set alight the ogre whilst he slept in order to rescue his beloved Manata, the beautiful daughter of a local chief, whom the taniwha had kidnapped. As Matau burned, he left behind his heart, which continued to beat rhythmically in the years that followed Matakauri’s daring rescue. The myth brilliantly invokes the scientific expertise of the local Indigenous people, for the lake really does rise and fall regularly throughout the day. Despite being landlocked, Wakatipu has an observable seiche, or standing wave, that occurs every 26.7 minutes and results in a tide that rises and falls almost eight inches. Of course, the seiche is the Western scientific explanation for the lake’s regular aquatic behavior. The lake breathes because Matau’s heart is still beating. Wakatipu’s origin myth proposes a respiration that is both wonderfully metaphorical and scientific, but it also raises questions about the embodiments of breath itself. Namely, I’m curious here as to who is an agent of breath? Who and what breathes? Who can breathe easily in the Anthropocene? Who can breathe easily at all? And yet: what an un-","PeriodicalId":45831,"journal":{"name":"SUB-STANCE","volume":null,"pages":null},"PeriodicalIF":0.3,"publicationDate":"2023-06-23","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"45577488","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-06-23DOI: 10.1353/sub.2023.a900529
Françoise Vergés
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Pub Date : 2023-06-23DOI: 10.1353/sub.2023.a900531
S. Connor
Recent events and sociorhetorical expatiations upon them have reaffirmed breathing as the ideal form of free and unimpeded life, that struggles against the throttlings of oppression. The root meaning of oppression, from the past participle of Latin opprimere, is to press, crush or bear down upon, and the word oppression has commonly been used to signify the feeling of the difficulty of breathing, through some constriction or pressure, as in the nocturnal attentions of the nightmare, the spirit imagined as settling suffocatingly on the chest of the sleeper. As a mare that rides rather than being ridden, the spirit is often imagined as a female succubus, though in Fuseli’s 1781 painting the mare is accompanied by a simian incubus who squats on the chest of a female sleeper, prompting these lines from Erasmus Darwin:
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Pub Date : 2023-06-23DOI: 10.1353/sub.2023.a900534
F. Berthet, D. F. Bell
Little paper-fish cutouts have been placed on the ground, on the carpet. We’re in the reassuring ‘70s stylishness of a doctor’s office. The carpet is soft and glistens like in interior decoration magazines, it’s with it, in. We couldn’t care less about what Dyson vacuum cleaners and “purifiers” boast they can eliminate several decades later: acarids, those microscopic domestic arthropods, human parasites (notably), and airborne vectors of infectious disease (colds, coughs, respiratory distress). No, in the spring of 1975, innocently and self-satisfyingly, the urbane doctor flaunts the opulent carpet with curly pile in his luxury apartment with its state-ofthe-art waiting room. In this grand interior of a medical office, a man in a white coat plies his important trade. For example, that day a little girl is re-learning how to breathe. One might think that exhaling and inhaling is learned for life—je t’aime comme je respire, elle parle comme elle respire, il ment comme il respire1—from the very first cry at birth. But in fact, sometimes in life breathing gets stuck between the nasal cavity and the bronchial tubes, between the respiratory tract and the lungs. Progressively, imperceptibly, the organism is short of air, a malicious infection spreads and impairs
{"title":"Comme Elle Respire: Memory of Breath, Breath of Memory","authors":"F. Berthet, D. F. Bell","doi":"10.1353/sub.2023.a900534","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sub.2023.a900534","url":null,"abstract":"Little paper-fish cutouts have been placed on the ground, on the carpet. We’re in the reassuring ‘70s stylishness of a doctor’s office. The carpet is soft and glistens like in interior decoration magazines, it’s with it, in. We couldn’t care less about what Dyson vacuum cleaners and “purifiers” boast they can eliminate several decades later: acarids, those microscopic domestic arthropods, human parasites (notably), and airborne vectors of infectious disease (colds, coughs, respiratory distress). No, in the spring of 1975, innocently and self-satisfyingly, the urbane doctor flaunts the opulent carpet with curly pile in his luxury apartment with its state-ofthe-art waiting room. In this grand interior of a medical office, a man in a white coat plies his important trade. For example, that day a little girl is re-learning how to breathe. One might think that exhaling and inhaling is learned for life—je t’aime comme je respire, elle parle comme elle respire, il ment comme il respire1—from the very first cry at birth. But in fact, sometimes in life breathing gets stuck between the nasal cavity and the bronchial tubes, between the respiratory tract and the lungs. Progressively, imperceptibly, the organism is short of air, a malicious infection spreads and impairs","PeriodicalId":45831,"journal":{"name":"SUB-STANCE","volume":null,"pages":null},"PeriodicalIF":0.3,"publicationDate":"2023-06-23","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"48707317","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-06-23DOI: 10.1353/sub.2023.a900530
Antoine Volodine
1. Dögbruz Dögbruz dépassa le dernier lampadaire de l’avenue et il s’arrêta pour calmer sa respiration haletante. Derrière lui, la ville semblait déserte. La nuit était tombée depuis des heures, de longues heures, un grand nombre d’heures, et, alors que cette idée prenait naissance dans l’esprit de Dögbruz, la phrase bourgeonna et devint quelque chose d’inquiétant, une réflexion qui n’appartenait pas totalement à notre monde : la nuit, pensa soudain Dögbruz. Elle est tombée depuis plusieurs jours. Plusieurs jours sans soleil ni lune, sans crépuscule, plusieurs longues tranches noires de vingt-quatre heures. La noirceur n’avait connu aucune interruption. – Je... Mais qu’est-ce que... bougonna Dögbruz. L’air était tiède, le sol sous ses pieds était chaud, de temps en temps une ombre minuscule voletait en silence autour de sa tête, puis disparaissait. Un flocon charbonneux. Une mouche, pensa-t-il. Elle est épuisée ou déjà morte, pensa-t-il. – Non, non, pas ça, murmura-t-il, effrayé par ce qui faisait des allées et venues entre sa sous-conscience et sa conscience, des images et des expressions qui avaient rompu avec la logique du réel. Il avait besoin de bouger les lèvres et les cordes vocales pour les chasser, ces images et ces expressions désagréables. – Non, pas morte, cette sale bestiole, corrigea-t-il à voix basse. Très fatiguée, peut-être. Comme moi, très, très fatiguée. Mais pas encore morte. Autrement elle serait au sol. Elle ne pourrait pas voler. Comme moi, pensa-t-il. Moi aussi je suis au sol. Et, s’il y a au moins une certitude ici cette nuit, c’est que je ne vole pas. Il resta quelques minutes immobile, sans rien faire d’autre que combattre les petites intuitions délirantes qui traversaient les couches inférieures de son intelligence et montaient sans hâte, comme des bulles de méthane cherchant, dans un marécage, la surface de la vase. Il reprenait son souffle en observant l’avenue, devant et derrière lui : une vallée d’obscurité monotone, deux parois de maisons non éclairées, quelques arbres qui agonisaient sous la poussière, des palmiers en phase terminale, quatre ou cinq, dans la distance, et, pour le reste, une vilaine coulée
{"title":"Two Narracts","authors":"Antoine Volodine","doi":"10.1353/sub.2023.a900530","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/sub.2023.a900530","url":null,"abstract":"1. Dögbruz Dögbruz dépassa le dernier lampadaire de l’avenue et il s’arrêta pour calmer sa respiration haletante. Derrière lui, la ville semblait déserte. La nuit était tombée depuis des heures, de longues heures, un grand nombre d’heures, et, alors que cette idée prenait naissance dans l’esprit de Dögbruz, la phrase bourgeonna et devint quelque chose d’inquiétant, une réflexion qui n’appartenait pas totalement à notre monde : la nuit, pensa soudain Dögbruz. Elle est tombée depuis plusieurs jours. Plusieurs jours sans soleil ni lune, sans crépuscule, plusieurs longues tranches noires de vingt-quatre heures. La noirceur n’avait connu aucune interruption. – Je... Mais qu’est-ce que... bougonna Dögbruz. L’air était tiède, le sol sous ses pieds était chaud, de temps en temps une ombre minuscule voletait en silence autour de sa tête, puis disparaissait. Un flocon charbonneux. Une mouche, pensa-t-il. Elle est épuisée ou déjà morte, pensa-t-il. – Non, non, pas ça, murmura-t-il, effrayé par ce qui faisait des allées et venues entre sa sous-conscience et sa conscience, des images et des expressions qui avaient rompu avec la logique du réel. Il avait besoin de bouger les lèvres et les cordes vocales pour les chasser, ces images et ces expressions désagréables. – Non, pas morte, cette sale bestiole, corrigea-t-il à voix basse. Très fatiguée, peut-être. Comme moi, très, très fatiguée. Mais pas encore morte. Autrement elle serait au sol. Elle ne pourrait pas voler. Comme moi, pensa-t-il. Moi aussi je suis au sol. Et, s’il y a au moins une certitude ici cette nuit, c’est que je ne vole pas. Il resta quelques minutes immobile, sans rien faire d’autre que combattre les petites intuitions délirantes qui traversaient les couches inférieures de son intelligence et montaient sans hâte, comme des bulles de méthane cherchant, dans un marécage, la surface de la vase. Il reprenait son souffle en observant l’avenue, devant et derrière lui : une vallée d’obscurité monotone, deux parois de maisons non éclairées, quelques arbres qui agonisaient sous la poussière, des palmiers en phase terminale, quatre ou cinq, dans la distance, et, pour le reste, une vilaine coulée","PeriodicalId":45831,"journal":{"name":"SUB-STANCE","volume":null,"pages":null},"PeriodicalIF":0.3,"publicationDate":"2023-06-23","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"48968842","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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