Not Death, but Annihilation: Orwell’s Nineteen

Eighty-Four and the Catastrophe of

Englishness
Erik Jaccard

George Orwell’s 1984 is the expression of a mood, and it is a warning.

The mood it expresses is that of near despair about the future of man,
and the warning is that unless the course of history changes, men
all over the world will lose their most human qualities, will become
soulless automatons, and will not even be aware of it.
(Erich Fromm, Afterword to George Orwell’s 1984, 313)

German philosopher Erich Fromm’s Afterword to George Orwell’s

Nineteen Eighty-Four was added in 1961, twelve years after the
novel’s publication but well into its prestigious life as a classic
of dystopian fiction. Fromm’s interpretation, excerpted above,
exemplifies a popular vein of critical thought about both Orwell and
his novel that privileges universal categories over national ones. This
still-common reading situates Orwell as a seeker of universal truth
undisturbed by ideological affiliation or petty political difference.
The American literary critic Lionel Trilling, for example, claimed
in 1952 that Orwell “made no effort to show that his heart was in
the right place, or the left place . . . He was interested only in telling
the truth” (79). If the nature of that truth remains contested, we can
nonetheless conclude that Nineteen Eighty-Four, like its author, is
concerned with higher truths about the nature of the modern world.
However, this conclusion problematically depends on implicit
understandings of genre. Generally speaking, genre names “a type,
species, or class of composition” (Baldick 104), but it also describes
the conventions and features by which those types are created and
understood. Should an author wish to write a detective novel, for
instance, she will need to understand the genre’s form, common
character types, and tonal and stylistic characteristics. The genre
of dystopia takes broad issues of social organization and political

98 Critical Insights
ideology as its primary focus. There is no such thing as a pure or
final genre. Like languages, genres are fluid, social, and historically
situated. Every literary text comprises a hierarchy of generic
components, some dominant and some minor (Bakhtin 301-331).
Thus, even if Nineteen Eighty-Four’s dominant generic identity is
dystopian, other generic conventions and expectations—other ways
of seeing and thinking about the truths it tells—are necessarily in
play.
I question the tendency to read Nineteen Eighty-Four primarily
as a dystopia by reading the novel from a second generic lens, that
of the English catastrophe novel. This latter form of narrative fiction
depicts the destruction of Britain by a natural disaster, invasion, or
social collapse, and then depicts the struggles of an individual or
group who is forced to navigate the ruins of British—most often
English—society. Unlike dystopias, English catastrophe narratives
shift attention from the universal toward provincial cultural
concerns. Like the dystopia, the English catastrophe narrative
presents opportunities for social critique by contrasting post-
catastrophic societies with their predecessors; its emphasis on the
narrower domains of bourgeois social values and national culture
often leads to conservative reaffirmations of English imperial
ideology. Nineteen Eighty-Four’s simultaneous deployment of both
narrative modes exposes a crucial tension between its critique of a
mechanized, totalitarian modernity on the one hand and its requiem
for the immemorial values—and revolutionary potential—of English
culture on the other.
Before we dive into Orwell’s novel, however, it is important to
understand more about each genre. Crafted to depict and interrogate
large-scale forms of social organization—industrial modernity, for
example, or capitalism—the dystopia foregrounds the ideological
identity of the world built within its pages, necessarily emphasizing
universal concepts such as ‘modern man.’ We can see this in
Orwell’s protagonist, an English everyman named Winston Smith.
In one sense Winston represents a classic dystopian protagonist who
maps a universal loss of individuality and decency in a mechanized
and authoritarian world. Tom Moylan suggests that both utopias

Not Death, but Annihilation 99

and dystopias generate their universal dimension formally by
focusing on the ‘iconic register’—the dystopian society itself—at
the expense of the ‘discrete register’ of character and plot (Demand
36). A character’s function in this paradigm is thus different than
in conventional realist fiction. As Raffaella Baccolini contends, the
primary job of the dystopian protagonist is to create two distinct
narratives for the reader (qtd. in Moylan, Scraps 148). First, he or she
shapes a narrative of the dominant ideas that underpin the dystopian
society, helping the reader understand what kind of society it is and,
more importantly, how it works. Nineteen Eighty-Four’s opening
foray into Winston’s life reveals how Oceania’s socio-political
structure monitors, polices, and manipulates individual subjects
to promote Party power. Through Winston, we see an ideological
layout of Oceanic society ‘mapped’ onto our own, and this reveals
by critical contrast what the former lacks: individual identity, basic
decency, a firm sense of empirical truth, as well as freedom of love,
loyalty, and dissent.
This ideological mapping gives rise to the dystopian protagonist’s
second function, which is to produce a ‘counter-narrative’ through
which resistance to the dominant narrative can be expressed. Nineteen
Eighty-Four’s counter-narrative manifests itself in Winston’s small
but seemingly significant acts of rebellion against the Party, from
writing independent thoughts in his journal, to his clandestine affair
with Julia, to his ultimately fruitless attempt to overthrow the Party
by joining O’Brien’s mysterious ‘Brotherhood.’ Each small revolt
contributes to a larger counter-story, which the novel presents as
Winston’s attempt to “[carry] on the human heritage” in an inhuman
world designed to deform and suppress it (Orwell, 1984 33). Here
we see the dystopian emphasis on the universal once again. Winston
revolts not only for the citizens of Oceania, but in defense of
humanity. Interrogating Winston in the Ministry of Truth, O’Brien
explains that, “If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your
kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are
alone?” (270, Orwell’s italics). While this statement is directed at
Winston, the individual man, its implications are more fundamental.
The Party confronts humanity at the level of species-being. It aims

100 Critical Insights

not to retrain one to be a different or ‘correct’ kind of man, to
think about society or politics in this or that conscious way, but to
eliminate the very concept of a thinking ‘man’ altogether. Winston’s
counter-narrative foregrounds resistance to this threat of universal
annihilation, and it is through his resistance—futile though it is—
that we learn to critique the ideological conditions which might one
day allow an Oceania to arise in our own world.
The English catastrophe novel, on the other hand, often works to
reaffirm prevailing ideological conditions, particularly those related
to the role of Britain as an imperial power and to the centrality of
English culture. Like the dystopia, it emerged in the late nineteenth
century, during an extended economic recession that weakened
national confidence and hinted that the country’s global dominance
might be waning. The imperial context is especially important
for understanding the cultural work performed by the catastrophe
narrative. British imperial expansion after 1875 brought Britons into
contact with an increasing number of so-called primitive peoples,
whose very existence, when read in light of recently popularized
Darwinian theories of adaptation and evolution, led to a pervasive
ambivalence about the role of English civilization relative to the
larger world. On the one hand, the colonial encounter justified the
imperial civilizing mission; from their perch atop the pecking order,
the English tasked themselves with bringing light to the supposedly
uncivilized. On the other, Darwin’s theories suggested that social
evolution did not necessarily equate to historical ‘progress’; a
society, like a species, could also decline. If the English were among
the most powerful of nations at the close of the nineteenth century,
from that point, they could only fall.
The catastrophe novel provided a cultural vehicle for expressing
the latent fear of a people threatened by the prospect of historical
change and cultural obsolescence. Because we use ‘catastrophe’
primarily to signify disaster in the contemporary age, we forget
that its original meaning in ancient Greek tragedy also connoted
the subversion of the existing order such a calamity produces.
Catastrophe thus foregrounds transformation, particularly the fall
of one power and the rise of another. From a British perspective,

Not Death, but Annihilation 101

‘change’ would most likely mean the collapse of the British Empire
and the displacement of the English from the forefront of world
history.
The English catastrophe novel mimics this anxiety in its form,
which privileges strategies of ‘world-reduction.’ This term has three
relevant meanings for us. First, it describes the plot of a catastrophe
novel: a disaster occurs, reduces the possible scope of narrative
action—what we would normally think of as ‘the world’—and
confines it to a very specific location, in this case England. Second,
this narrative-spatial contraction generates a process of sociocultural
reduction, which Istvan Csicsery-Ronay Jr. describes as “apocalyptic
winnowing”:

a small fraction of humanity survives the near-annihilation of the

species. The survivors are deprived of the conditions of civilization.
. . . Typically, they degenerate into tribes. The genre often treats this
reduction of human civilization as a form of historical purification,
or at least an opportunity to begin the civilizing process again from
scratch. (226)

In this scenario, the distinction between a universally conceived

‘humanity’ and the more specific sociocultural identities of
specific human survivors collapses. Think of the possible issues in
interpretation that might arise if we assume that ‘humanity’ is the
same thing as ‘the English.’ The latter is actually only a sliver of the
former, yet in the catastrophe, they are made synonymous.
Third, this sociocultural reduction has significant political
consequences. Fredric Jameson describes the strategy of world-
reduction as “the experimental production of an imaginary situation
by excision of the real” (274). This strategy is linked to the utopian
desire to explore a world “released from the multiple determinisms
(economic, political, social) of history itself” (Jameson 274-5). In
other words, the catastrophe novel frames what Csicsery-Ronay Jr.
describes above as “an opportunity to begin the civilizing process
again from scratch” as an experiment in speculative politics. In
this, it is very similar to the dystopia. However, while the dystopia
examines what might happen if this or that ideology were to take
102 Critical Insights
hold and transform the world, the catastrophe interrogates what
might happen if this or that people were freed from the world and
left to their own devices. This experiment questions how humans
might organize themselves if freed from the broad forces—global
capitalism, for instance, or industrial social organization—which
drive historical change and limit political solutions to pressing
human problems.
Unlike the dystopia’s pretensions to the universal, the
catastrophe narrative is more parochial and inwardly-focused. It
foregrounds a cast of common characters marked specifically as
products of English society and culture, complete with ingrained
habits and values representative of the national character. The
disaster that narrows narrative vision focuses attention on what
these people do when the routine civilized conditions they take for
granted suddenly vanish. This puts such characters—and the English
cultural values they represent—under a microscope. Subjected to
sustained physical and psychological pressure, survivors often shed
the trappings of civilized English culture to reveal baser motives
and ‘savage’ desires. This commonplace development represents the
genre’s critical edge, as cultural regression of this kind illuminates
the hypocrisy of English imperial ideology to reveal that the English
are not special or privileged, but are, in fact, of the same human
cloth as those colonized peoples against whom their superiority has
traditionally been defined. This frequently produces an existential
crisis, as survivors are forced to examine critically the relationship
between their identities and the social and material conditions which
legitimize them. As Roger Luckhurst asserts, “The extremities of
the English disaster narrative . . . work as a laboratory reconceiving
English selfhood in response to traumatic depredations” (132). Most
often, this self-reflexive energy gives way to the question of how
survivors will rebuild their new (and often better) world.
The reader takes at face value the universal human dimension
of this new world without understanding how it remains conditioned
by its implicit association with the social consciousness and cultural
habits of the English. What begins as an articulation of national
identity crisis ends with the ideological reaffirmation that English

Not Death, but Annihilation 103

cultural and political values are, as the basis of the new society to
come, central to world-historical experience. This process takes
many forms across a variety of texts, but in many cases when the
English catastrophe novel critiques British imperial arrogance, it
also implicitly reestablishes imperial authority. Therefore, if the
dystopian genre generates a critical perspective by foregrounding
a universal defense of humanity, the catastrophe works against
this by reinforcing hierarchical distinctions within humanity,
privileging the English above everyone else. Reading dystopia
as catastrophe narrative exposes the parochial dimensions of the
former’s pretensions to universality, while reading catastrophe as
dystopia illuminates how the latter goes about universalizing those
dimensions. This approach reveals the too-often-ignored centrality
of imperial English ideology to Orwell’s novel.
It is not a stretch to describe Nineteen Eighty-Four as a
catastrophe novel. First, from exposure to both Winston’s dim
memories and the historical narrative contained in Emmanuel
Goldstein’s book, we learn that the current global order emerged
following a protracted period of nuclear warfare (Orwell, 1984 32-3,
194), making the society described quite literally post-catastrophic.
While Oceania is in part the result of dystopian world-building, it
is also the product of catastrophic world-reduction. The political
fracture of the earth into three equally powerful superstates ensures
that, as the Goldstein book announces and O’Brien later confirms,
“Oceania is the world” (265).
The catastrophic isolation of the English setting—clearly
marked in the novel’s focus on a near-future London and English
countryside—is literal. But the text also depicts world-reduction
figuratively in its representation of Oceania’s abolition of empirical
truth: “Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the
erasure was forgotten, the lie became truth” (75). If the world of
Nineteen Eighty-Four is not actually an island of humanity in a sea
of desolation, it exists as though it were. This is relevant because
it establishes the grounding for narrative action and meaning in
two overlapping registers. One is the product of dystopian world-
building and the other of catastrophic world-reduction; one indicates

104 Critical Insights

a universalized ‘human’ context and the other a national ‘English’
context.
In this double frame, Winston can easily be read as a
quintessential English catastrophe survivor looking nostalgically
back at a vanished past from the vantage point of its ruined future.
Early in the novel, for instance, the narrator notes that Winston “felt
as though he were wandering in the forests of a sea bottom, lost
in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was
alone. That past was dead, the future was unimaginable” (Orwell,
1984 26). The last part is crucial, as one of the characteristics
separating the dystopia from the catastrophe novel is the latter’s
shift in orientation—noticeable here—toward the ‘dead’ past. Born
or raised in entirely different worlds, dystopian protagonists often
live in either partial or total ignorance of the past; it is because
they are so totally integrated into their worlds that they can inhabit
them naturally. Catastrophe survivors, however, are often haunted
by the old world precisely because it comprises the material and
ideological conditions on which their sense of self is based. With
little memory of the world as it was before the Revolution, Winston
exists most consciously in the dystopian realm. Yet, while he cannot
consciously understand the nature of the connection, he is, like a
catastrophe survivor, also drawn inexorably to the past in ways which
complicate his primary role as a dystopian protagonist fighting in
defense of universal human values.
Consider Winston’s compulsion to write. The narrator tells us
that Winston’s journal is a record of “a truth that nobody would ever
hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity
was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying
sane that you carried on the human heritage” (Orwell, 1984 27).
From the perspective of the text’s dystopian register, this comment
indexes Winston’s struggle both to claim a generically construed
individual identity through the act of writing and, in doing so, to
forge a connection with ‘the human heritage,’ carrying on the feeble
light of human resistance. However, his motivation is also that of
the catastrophe survivor to connect that vague future, previously
described as “unimaginable” (26), to an English past of which he

Not Death, but Annihilation 105

is the sole remaining embodiment and which he understands as the
sole repository of knowledge and truth on which any viable future
can be based. Performing a toast with Julia and O’Brien in the
latter’s apartment, Winston refuses to acknowledge the dystopian
critique generated in and by his character, choosing instead to look
backward: “‘What shall it be this time?’ [O’Brien] said, still with
the same faint suggestion of irony. ‘To the confusion of the Thought
Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?’ ‘To
the past,’ said Winston.‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien
gravely” (176). This exchange marks a moment of noticeable
confusion between the novel’s dystopian and catastrophic registers.
As a dystopian protagonist intent on destroying the inhuman world
he is in part responsible for illuminating, Winston should choose
to toast any of the options offered by O’Brien because they signify
a universal level of humanity and an imagined future better than
his conscious resistance might help create. Nonetheless, he balks
at this opportunity and instead retreats into the safety of an English
tradition he can barely remember.
However, if we turn to Orwell’s WWII-era writings on
Englishness, we can see that Winston needn’t consciously remember
his English heritage to feel a connection to it. In “England Your
England,” Orwell constructs the English as an inherently free people
bound together by a transcendental sense of unified identity. While
the ardent socialist in Orwell can admit that the modern English
nation is “the most class-ridden country under the sun,” Orwell the
popular patriot can simultaneously affirm that it is nonetheless still
“a family . . . bound together by an invisible chain” of “emotional
unity” (Collection 266-7). What Englishness means cannot be tied
to the nation’s modern dispensation because “in all societies the
common people must live to some extent against the existing order.
The genuinely popular culture of England is something that goes on
beneath the surface” (256, Orwell’s italics). It is something that one
feels rather than something one does consciously. Furthermore, it
is always accessible because “[England] is continuous, it stretches
into the future and the past, there is something in it that persists, as
in a living creature” (254). What we can know about the English,

106 Critical Insights

however, derives from the things they do and feel naturally. Thus, we
can look for “the gentleness of English civilization,” “the privateness
of English life,” or, most importantly, the fact that “the liberty of the
individual is still believed in” (255-257, Orwell’s italics).
Deprived of the past, Winston cannot know his Englishness
consciously. Therefore, he must depend on a more fundamental
structure of unarticulated feeling, which in Nineteen Eighty-Four is
described as ‘ancestral memory’:

Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest,
a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right
to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different…
And though, of course, it grew worse as one’s body aged, was it not
a sign that this was not the natural order of things… Why should
one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral
memory that things had once been different? (60, Orwell’s italics)

These moments of ancestral memory occur regularly throughout

the text and provide Winston with vague references to a past and a
set of values he cannot remember, but which he nonetheless feels
to be his. The room above Mr. Charrington’s shop fills him with
an emotional nostalgia for English privacy: “it seemed to him that
he knew exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an
armchair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender…utterly
alone, utterly secure” (Orwell, 1984 97). Even more acute is his
reaction to ‘the Golden Country,’ an idyllic country landscape that
awakens in him the perennial connection between English land and
national identity (122-3).
Most importantly, though he has never known true freedom,
Winston—our English protagonist who is otherwise a proxy for
humanity—nonetheless feels it to be his ‘right.’ Cairns Craig writes
that Orwell’s articulation of popular Englishness dovetails with a
commonly held, Second-World-War myth that “[the English] were
uniquely the representatives of the traditions of liberty . . . the
inherent liberty of those who are ‘free-born’ because they are born
English” (142). Taking this into account, we might say that Winston
does not know he is free because he is a human faced with systematic
Not Death, but Annihilation 107
inhumanity in a dystopian society, but rather because ‘being free’ is
something an Englishman does naturally.
Reading the catastrophe elements in Nineteen Eighty-Four
against its primary dystopian framework helps us see that within
the novel’s universal defense of humanity is the far less human
assumption that the basis of that humanity lies in English cultural
antecedents. In other words, it exposes the parochial in the global.
English cultural and political values masquerade as the spirit of
humanity tout court. Conor Cruise O’Brien writes of Orwell that,
“He never thought it worth while [sic] to imagine seriously what it
would be like to belong to a people with quite a different historical
experience from that of the English” (159-60). Nineteen Eighty-Four
presents all historical experience as a version of imperial English
experience and suggests that all ideas about humanity or freedom or
individualism extend outward from an English center.
If Nineteen Eighty-Four can be read as a form of narrative
catastrophe, we can also turn this around and read catastrophe
as dystopia. Nineteen Eighty-Four takes assumptions about the
primacy of Englishness and universalizes them through a process of
dystopian world-building. On the other hand, Nineteen Eighty-Four
is not a novel in which English cultural values remain central to the
world created. As we learn from Winston’s journey, it is precisely
his inability to access the Englishness at the heart of historical
experience that leads to his ultimate downfall. The horror of Nineteen
Eighty-Four lies not only in the absence of individuality and human
values. Jonathan Rose suggests that “the ultimate horror of Nineteen
Eighty-four” is that “there won’t always be an England” (41). This is
true, but it does not go far enough. Rather, the novel’s final despair
lies in the utter annihilation of the English cultural foundations from
which the very possibility of individual life proceeds.
The novel famously culminates with Winston’s final
‘conversion’ in Room 101. Here, faced with his worst fear—vicious
rats—his individual resistance is overcome, and he saves himself
only by denouncing Julia, the last remaining exterior object to which
he retains any private attachment. The crucial idea hanging over this
scene is foreshadowed in Winston and Julia’s initially confident

108 Critical Insights

assumption that “they can’t get inside you” (Orwell, 1984 166). As
Winston explains: “Facts . . . could not be kept hidden. They could
be tracked down by inquiry, they could be squeezed out of you by
torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay human . .
. what difference did it ultimately make? . . . the inner heart, whose
working were mysterious even to yourself, remained impregnable”
(167). Winston assumes that there remains in humanity something
sacred and inviolable, “some spirit, some principle . . . that [the
Party] will never overcome . . . The spirit of Man” (270). Armed with
this belief, he can, as he does throughout the novel, live as though he
were already dead because it is not the biological condition of being
alive that matters, but rather ‘staying human.’ This idea is similar in
form to the assumption Orwell makes in “England Your England”
that, while an Englishman may die, the humane popular spirit of
the common people lives on ‘beneath the surface’ (Collection 256),
where it remains forever accessible. Musing on the tenacity of
private loyalties, Winston thinks that “It was natural for his mother
to protect him and his sister; it was natural for the woman in the
boat, even though it was futile. Things persist, even though we die”
(Orwell, 1984 164, Orwell’s italics). In turn we might say that it was
natural for the English-born Winston to assume his own individual
freedom and to thus assume that he could ‘carry on the human
heritage’ (27): as long as ‘they can’t get inside of you,’ this seems
entirely reasonable.
Of course, as both Winston and Julia learn, in Oceania, they
can get inside of you, and what they can do once there is compel
“not death, but annihilation.” As readers of a dystopia, we are free
to interpret this phrase literally. Not only do citizens of Oceania die
in the reductively physical sense, but the very idea of their being is
obliterated: “You must stop imagining that posterity will vindicate
you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted
clean out from the stream of history . . . nothing will remain of
you” (Orwell, 1984 254). However, the metaphorical possibilities
inherent in this statement are also hugely significant in terms of its
larger cultural resonance. In The Road to Wigan Pier (1937), Orwell
argues that the bourgeois individual’s sense of self is so conditioned

Not Death, but Annihilation 109

by social and material class privilege that any real attempt at
“[abolishing] class distinctions means abolishing a part of yourself”
(161). While this is directed specifically at the English Leftists with
whom Orwell frequently quarreled, it has wider implications for the
current discussion. The ‘part’ that Orwell believes must be abolished
is that deeply entrenched English sense of social distinction, the
ability to conceive of the value of one’s humanity as above another.
Because he conceived of England as, “A family with the wrong
members in control” (Orwell, Collection 267), however, Orwell
naturally assumed that rejecting this ideology and reclaiming power
for the common people involved something like that ‘partial self-
abolition’: excise the rotten bits and trust in the organism to heal
itself and grow. As he notes: “England . . . is changing. And . . .
it can change only in certain directions. . . . That is not to say that
the future is fixed, merely that certain alternatives are possible and
others not. A seed may grow or not grow, but . . . a turnip seed
never grows into a parsnip” (254). The political possibility of a new
and more just world is here made metaphorically reliant on a pre-
existing framework Orwell links to English culture. Englishness
itself represents the possibility of that future, and as long as an
Englishman can never be separated from that which is natural to
him, the utopian possibility of a better world remains.
This separation is what transpires in Nineteen Eighty-Four.
While never confirmed, the text suggests that Winston’s conscious
opposition to the Party has been carefully managed by O’Brien:
“There was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O’Brien
had not long ago known, examined, and rejected. His mind contained
Winston’s mind” (Orwell, 1984 256). This can be seen in Winston’s
constant reference to ideas and feelings that float vaguely at the
periphery of his consciousness. For example, Winston describes a
recurring dream, first experienced seven years prior, in which he
hears a voice floating out of the darkness saying, “We shall meet
in the place where there is no darkness” (25). Though he does
not know why, he feels that this is O’Brien’s voice, a conclusion
eventually confirmed by narrative events. As the plot progresses it
grows increasingly clear that the trajectory of Winston’s ‘counter-

110 Critical Insights

narrative’ to his dystopian society has been engineered. Winston is
drawn to the prole quarters because “he had a feeling that he had
been in this neighborhood before” (86), and this leads to his belief
that the proles represent a possible connection to a lost human future.
Similarly, the piece of paper Winston finds that exculpates three men
earlier convicted of treason “had evidently been slipped in among
the others and then forgotten” (78). The use of passive voice here
implies that an absent subject may have purposefully performed this
subversive act, leading him to believe in the existence of empirical
truth. The Party is depicted as having coopted Winston’s natural
ability to connect with that everlasting organic Englishness on which
human freedom depends; its ability to do so is perhaps the ultimate
catastrophe of Orwell’s dystopian nightmare.

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Jeff Prucher, Oxford UP, 2006. Oxford Reference, 2007. Accessed on
2 Mar. 2016.

112 Critical Insights