This article is a reconsideration of The Virgin Spring that focuses upon the rape at the centre of the film’s action, despite the film’s surface attempts to marginalise all but its narrative functionality. While the deployment of this rape supports critical observations that rape on-screen commonly underscores the seriousness of broader thematic concerns, it is argued that the visceral impact of this brutal scene actively undermines its narrative intent. No matter how central the journey of the vengeful father’s mission from vengeance to redemption is to the story, this ultimately pales next to the shocking impact of the rape and murder of the girl herself.
James R. Alexander identifies Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring as “the basic template” for the contemporary rape-revenge film , and despite spawning a vast range of imitations , the film stands as a major entry in the canon of European art cinema. Yet while the sumptuous black and white cinematography of long-time Bergman collaborator Sven Nykvist combined with lead actor Max von Sydow’s trademark icy sobriety to garner it the Academy Award for Best Foreign film in 1960, even fifty years later the film’s representation of the rape and murder of a young girl remain shocking. The film evokes a range of issues that have been critically debated: What is its placement in a more general auteurist treatment of Bergman? What is its influence on later rape-revenge films? How does it fit into a broader understanding of Swedish national cinema, or European art film in general? But while the film hinges around the rape and murder, that act more often than not is of critical interest only in how it functions in these more dominant debates. This article is a reconsideration of The Virgin Spring that focuses upon the rape at the centre of the film. In doing so, it re-address Karin’s violation, and asks: if the rape in The Virgin Spring is there only to underscore the seriousness of the film’s broader thematic concerns, what does this say about the relationship between rape, art and film?
As one of the major figures of 20th century European art cinema, the films of Ingmar Bergman stand as testament to the accomplishments of Swedish national cinema, as well as to the broader cultural capital inherent in the label ‘auteur’. Marked by a signature fascination with the mysteries of both the self and the universe – or, more specifically, the self as a universe – titles such as Wild Strawberries (1957), Persona(1966), and The Seventh Seal (1975) underscore why Bergman’s vision is understood widely not only as great film, but also as fine art. Bergman was propelled into the international spotlight with the success of Smiles on a Summer Night in 1956, and Bergman scholar Birgitta Steene has observed that even as early as the period from 1956 to 1971, at least 28 monographs had been dedicated to his films .
Perhaps as backlash to this frenzy of critical attention, for many the beatification of Bergman struggled to equal his diverse output over the years. As Susan Sontag observed as early as 1969, Ingmar Bergman’s “signature has come to mean a prodigal, tirelessly productive career; a rather facile, often merely beautiful, by now…almost oversized body of work; a lavishly inventive, sensual, yet melodramatic talent, employed with what appeared to be a certain complacency, and prone to embarrassing displays of intellectual bad taste” . From a contemporary perspective, the sobriety of Bergman’s films is as striking as their overwhelming beauty: when viewed alongside the hyperactive vibrancy of postmodernist glee, his films become doubly sombre. The importance of his oeuvre is just as inescapable a reality as the fact that these movies are heavy viewing, a fact that for many may suggest a self-conscious project of highbrow exclusion and pretension. But Bergman’s own love of enigmas and riddles manifests clearly in the usually redundant invitation to figure his films out: as so many of his most famous titles suggest, meaning – and life itself – is ultimately unfathomable.
If Bergman’s films are intellectually demanding at the best of times, the addition of sexual violence to The Virgin Spring adds an ideological complication that renders the viewing experience even more difficult. It therefore comes as little surprise that critical treatments have been appropriately intense. While for Robin Wood it is “a near-perfect film” , Philip Mosley views it as “forced (and)…sentimental” , rejecting it as part of the Bergman canon because it was written by Ulla Isaksson and therefore is “less clearly personal than many of Bergman’s previous films” . Stanley Kauffmann is more explicit, calling it an out-and-out “failure” , but hastening to add that “when Bergman fails, he does it at a level quite beyond most directors’ successes” . Bergman himself joined Mosely and Kauffmann in their view of the film, and it is renowned as one of the director’s least favourite of his films. In an interview with Stig Björkman, he said: “I want to make it quite plain that The Virgin Spring must be regarded as an aberration. It’s touristic, a lousy imitation of Kurosawa” . During the period in which he was making the film, Bergman was consciously working on a new artistic direction . He took a decided step away from the Italian neorealism that had influenced him earlier, and instead began studying Japanese cinema: it comes as little surprise that The Virgin Spring was heavily influenced by Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950) . Peter Cowie observes a range of formal features that, external to the source of narrative interest, demonstrate Bergman’s desire to replicate a Japanese filmic sensibility:
Bergman’s affection for Kurosawa and the Japanese cinema may be felt in the rhythm of The Virgin Spring, in the juxtaposition of bouts of violent action and allusive silence, in the tracking shots that accompany Karin and Ingeri, and later Töre and his family, as they hasten through the forest, and in the controlled acting of Max von Sydow and Birgitta Valberg as the parents.
Despite The Virgin Spring’s straying from Rashomon’s driving fascination with subjectivity and constructions of the truth, it maintains perhaps the most defining aspects of Bergman’s authorial mark: an interest in religion and the nature of God.
But while Bergman has not been spared often harsh critical attentions of film commentators, his status as one of the most readily identifiable art cinema auteurs has arguably rendered certain aspects of The Virgin Spring such as its rape scene relatively invisible to criticism. From within the confines of ‘Bergman Studies’, it may seem only logical to give the man who made such celebrated films as The Seventh Seal and Persona the benefit of the doubt when it comes to his deployment of rape on a good/bad taste scale. If so many of his other films are viewed as challenging traditional binaries of right and wrong, then by authorial proximity alone The Virgin Spring must be viewed as continuing along the same thematic axis. While a director such as Bergman presents a near textbook case in support of auteurist readings of film, it is useful to position this next to directors of less repute linked closely to the rape-revenge category. Michael Winner, for instance, has made three rape-revenge films : Chato’s Land (1972), Death Wish (1974), and Dirty Weekend (1993). Renowned for views far from progressive (particularly in relation to his gender politics ), Winner’s authorial reputation is such that it has rendered actual analysis of these films almost unnecessary: to my knowledge, there has yet to be any critical treatment of the rape-revenge elements of these three films specifically. This treatment would not warrant a necessarily progressive reading of Winner’s work, but the absence of such treatments exposes what are often unquestioned assumptions that lie at the heart of auteurist analyses.
In the same sense, this privileging of Bergman as an intellectual art film auteur also lends itself to an elevation of The Virgin Spring’s representation over later, notoriously problematic depictions of sexual violence such as those in Straw Dogs (Sam Peckinpah, 1971) and A Clockwork Orange (Stanley Kubrick, 1971). But the history of rape in film history is more complex than this three-film reading allows, and claims that Bergman was ahead of his time are complicated when a broader survey of rape on film is undertaken. For instance, while certain textual markers line traditional constructions of this history – including,notable films such Birth of a Nation(D.W. Griffith, 1915), Anatomy of a Murder (Otto Preminger, 1959) and Johnny Belinda (Jean Negulesco, 1948) – this leaves a range of less readily known films excluded from the broader critical memory, such as Safe in Hell (William A. Wellman, 1931) and Something Wild (Jack Garefin, 1961). These films are as diverse as they are fascinating, and support Art Historian Diane Wolfthal’s claim that “diverse notions (of rape) coexisted contemporaneously” . A case in point is Ida Lupino’s Outrage (1950) , where a happy young woman, Ann Walton (Mala Powers), is raped one evening on her way home from work. The film follows her trauma through the rape itself, to being interviewed by police and trying to deal with her family, fiancé and co-workers, to finally her running away to a neighbouring town where she befriends the local priest who dedicates himself to her rehabilitation. Like The Virgin Spring, rape trauma in Outrage is constructed as a problem to be solved by male authority figures. But assumptions that Outrage is less or more progressive than The Virgin Spring are open to critical interpretation: that Ann is far more likeable than Karin, that Karin is murdered but Ann is not, that Outrage is set in a contemporary era and not a ‘primitive’ past, and the formal construction of the rape scenes in each film demonstrate the discursive scope of these potential arguments. At its core, this example demonstrates that to privilege a comparison between The Virgin Spring and what came after (such as films like A Clockwork Orange and Straw Dogs) necessarily opts out of a consideration of what came before. Whether consciously or not, Bergman’s The Virgin Spring exists in conversation with an often contradictory and diverse line of films about rape. While it is difficult to discuss this film without resorting to auteurist treatments, its position not as a ‘Bergman film’ but as a ‘film about rape’ should be considered deserving of equal critical interest.
A Cure for Your Suffering…A Cure for Your Woe
Clearly, sexuality, gender and power are integral to discourses about rape. But at the core of The Virgin Spring lies a consideration of traditional dichotomies of good versus evil, victim versus villain and right versus wrong. While these polarised positions are imbued with ideological significance, they also have a clear narrative function: as Mieke Bal demonstrates in her essay on rape in the Book of Judges, as a device, rape propels narrative , and both Sarah Projansky and Jacinda Read underscore the transformative function of rape as a narrative motif (Read in particular observes this in the specific context of the rape-revenge film). The narrative alchemy of rape – the ability to turn a story that seems to be about rape into something else – is one of the major sites of interest the representation of rape on-screen (and in fictional narratives in particular) presents to critics. For Projansky, “rape narratives are so common in cinema (and elsewhere) that they seem always to be available to address other social issues” . Sabine Sielke identifies this in American literature and popular culture as the “rhetoric of rape”, where “transposed into discourse, rape turns into a rhetorical device, an insistent figure for other social, political and economic concerns and conflicts” . What these observations suggest is that conceptually, cinema itself seems unable to look the phenomenon of rape itself squarely in the eye. So while issues such as class, race, masculinity, and female identity are all inherently associated with rape, it is these elements that often take centre stage over rape trauma itself. This is the transformative power of rape on screen: rape triggers a narrative, rather than is a narrative.
So what is the narrative and thematic function of the rape in The Virgin Spring? From an auteurist perspective, this can best be answered in the context of the director’s relationship to the project as a whole. The film’s origins famously predate its era of production, and Bergman first read the medieval ballad “Töre’s Daughter at Vänge” upon which the film is based while he was a student at the University of Stockholm . Bergman was intrigued with the story, and at different points of his career he had considered adapting it – first as a ballet, then as a play, and finally, while making Wild Strawberries, he decided that it was perfect for a film . Unusual for a man who so often penned his own films, Bergman employed writer Ulla Isaksson to write the script of The Virgin Spring, and holing up in a hotel in Sweden, she set to work on the project early in spring, 1959 . Much has been made of Bergman’s decision to collaborate with Isaksson on this film: for Frank Gado, it was a combination of Bergman attempting to avoid more accusations of flamboyant symbolic hyperbole, and (perhaps more convincingly) that as a practicing Christian, Isaksson bought to the project a genuine faith that could in part create more of an authentic tension in its narrative . Birgitta Steene offers a different suggestion: in terms of pure literary style, Isaksson was more capable of “the stylized detachment of the balladeer”, and more likely to produce “a direct and simple rendering of the original” . This latter point in particular was crucial to Bergman, and he urged Isaksson to “preserve the archaic and primitive spirit of the original legend” . It is this primitive spirit into which the Isaksson adaptation injected the bulk of its religious urgency: the tension between paganism and Christianity rises to the top of an array of more common cinematic binaries, such as good/evil, innocence/experience, virtue/villainy, order/chaos, and cleanliness/abjection.
But even beyond this auteurist perspective, the rape is clearly utilised as a narrative device to embark upon an exploration of the film’s real concerns: the nature of faith and redemption. There is little interest within the text in the rape itself as such, despite the sexual assault and murder of Karin providing the primary narrative-propelling action. Instead, for Töre’s spiritual crisis to be understood, it is imperative that Karin’s rape provides an unquestionable motive for his desire for such extreme vengeance (and, of course, God’s consequent response). This suggestion that the rape and murder of Karin is deployed only to add weight to Töre’s vengeance of course raises significant questions surrounding the film’s climactic scenes of violence. A brief look at the formal features of the scenes that construct the leading up to and execution of his vengeance are, most obviously, simply awarded much more screen time –the rape and murder of Karin takes notably less time than the scenes when Töre first discovers that his houseguests raped and murdered his daughter and their consequent execution. But this does not automatically assume that the longer scenes are necessarily more intense or significant. More important is the logic of narrative placement: as the title of the film makes explicit, the thematic core is Töre’s discovery of the “virgin spring”. For the discovery of that spring to have the spiritual impact upon Töre that it does, the vengeance is crucial, not the act that provoked that vengeance. Hypothetically, if Töre did not seek vengeance – and if that vengeance was not placed in the privileged position of being the film’s climactic scenes of physical action – the discovery of the spring at the site of his daughter’s death would no doubt still be meaningful to him, but would have been comparatively ineffective in communicating the intensity of his spiritual journey. Put more simply, Töre had two potential responses to Karin’s death – he could grieve and act, or grieve and not act. Grieving and not acting would not have led him to the same place emotionally and spiritually that grieving and acting did. It was the aftermath of his vengeance that permitted Töre to see the error of his ways and reach his spiritual awakening, and significantly not the act (the rape and murder of Karin) that triggered that vengeance.
This does not mean that the film’s focus on Töre conceptually renders it mute on the phenomenon of sexual violence. Whether intended or not, there can be little denying the affective intensity (and undeniable beauty) of the rape scene itself. The spectacle of this assault may prompt a range of potential responses on the spectator’s part – including shock and terror at her rapists, and pity (even, perhaps, fascination) with Karin’s traumatised body. Karin’s suffering is essential to her construction as a victim, and it is her status as a victim that is required specifically to justify Töre’s retribution that drives the film’s narrative action. The narrative emphasis in The Virgin Spring on Töre’s vengeance therefore seeks to act as a distraction from key questions regarding Karin’s experience. Narratively, she functions successfully as the pure (yet somewhat overly-privileged) golden child, but critical responses to her are notably diverse, and often ambivalent: while Robert E. Lauder calls her “a lovely, innocent, young girl” , for Stanley Kauffmann she is “spoiled and vain” . Both are right in the sense that Karin is far from uncomplicated: she demonstrates a shrewd self-awareness, and understands the value of her innocence and purity to others. But there are also moments of genuine kindness on her behalf: she does care for Ingeri, and she willingly and happily shares her lunch with the hungry goat herds.
But Karin’s suffering during the rape transcends these readings of her character, and the horror of the rape is communicated through the physical, visceral terror of the moment itself, existing beyond (and in competition with) the surface narrative. The scene unfolds after Karin has left an upset Ingeri to rest with a strange old man whose path they cross. Continuing alone, the first shot of her rapists show them in tableaux, basking in the sun with their animals, enjoying the fast-paced sounds of a mouth harp that one of them plays. As Karin comes into view, the tableaux is corrupted and the music stops. The silence is shattering, and the three goat herds rush forward to watch excitedly as she too basks in the sun (this contradicts Peter Cowie’s suggestion that “Karin excites the herdsmen by flirting with them as they beguile her with a succession of vulgar compliments”  – they were clearly excited, and looked overtly menacing, before she even spoke to them). The three goat herds stalk her through the forest, watching Karin as she continues on her journey, and contrive passing her on the path – goats in tow, and the sound of the mouth harp having returned. After delivering sweeping bows, they engage Karin in conversation and, when she offers them her food, they insist that she sits with them and eat it. In its own deliberate restaging of the “grandmother, what big eyes you have!” sequence from Little Red Riding Hood, a tightly cropped close up between the two adult goat herds and Karin shows her first moment of real discomfort. They admire her hands (“princesses do not launder or make fires”, she answers) and her white neck (“so that gold necklaces will glean brighter” she says), and commenting upon her slender waist, she leaps to her feet, visibly shaken. When the mute goatherd picks up a knife, the tone of the scene shifts abruptly. As a toad that a jealous Ingeri had earlier placed into Karin’s lunch jumps out of a neglected sandwich, Karin leaps backwards and is met by the cold, hard stare of the goat herds. As she tries to escape, it is only the sound of the animals, the water, and her own screams that fill the soundtrack. Shot through the dried branches that impede her escape, the rape scene is intercut with Ingeri’s face as she witnesses it, horrified, intrigued and frozen. A frenzy of limbs fills the screen as one goatherd holds Karin’s legs in place while his mute brother assaults her. After a lengthy close up of Karin’s profile as she lies shocked on her back, she stands and wanders around crying in a confused manner. The sound of her wheezy crying ends when the mute hits her on the back of the head, but unlike her rape, this occurs off-screen. Karin’s last cogent act is her turning her head to look at her killers: it is not so much accusatory as it is simply stunned.
For Robin Wood, it is difficult to not share Karin’s sense of confusion. The attack comes out of the anonymous, rustic ‘nowhere’, and it functions far beyond a realm of binary melodramatic logic:
Nothing is quite as it appears; nothing is unmixedly pure or simply evil. The goat herds emerge out of ‘nature’ as its representatives respectively, animal instinct…animal cunning and animal innocence. They are not symbols of evil: only of a nature where instinct and impulse easily override concepts of right and wrong.
In the world of The Virgin Spring, good and evil are like subterranean streams, potent, determining matters of life and death, but invisible and mysterious. No one is pure. 
By this, he also explicitly includes Karin who, while not exactly ‘asking for it’, he still bewilderingly suggests “provokes her own rape by flirting with the goat herds” . But to view The Virgin Spring as a symbolic drama about purity, nature and goodness again diminishes the actual rape itself: because the narrative is more concerned with Töre’s redemption than it is with Karin’s trauma, it is unnecessary that the rapists be considered evil. Indeed, as Töre enacts his bloody vengeance, their dumbstruck confusion itself evokes pity: Töre’s attempt at restoring moral equilibrium is as unsatisfying to watch as it appears to be for Töre himself to experience. Consequently, Karin’s rape – the visceral core of the film – actively undermines The Virgin Spring’s superficial engagement with spirituality. Grander debates about faith and redemption pale in comparison to the experience of watching Karin’s rape and murder, and while Töre’s story ends up with some sense of narrative resolution, the spiritual revelation is more hollow than bittersweet. Nothing – not even the symbolic spring that appears to make him so happy – can undo Karin’s violation.
If The Virgin Spring has proven difficult for Bergman scholars, it no doubt stems in part from this unresolved and unacknowledged tension between the film’s narrative privileging of faith and redemption at the expense of the shocking rape itself. Attacking the more didactic aspects of the film, when Stanley Kauffmann calls it “a religious-moral charade” , the film’s moral lessons stem from its religious aspects and less from the physical trauma that has unfolded so viciously upon the screen before us. Although Birgitta Steene warns against dismissing the spoken dialogue in the film , an emphasis upon the function of silence in The Virgin Spring articulates precisely why this thematic tension between the surface narrative focus upon faith and redemption and the visceral shock of witnessing Karin’s rape is never properly resolved. The silence of this sequence (next to the relatively dialogue-heavy opening segment of the film) is formally striking. Simply, Karin’s trauma is unable to be communicated verbally: her experience (and its emphasis upon muteness and silence) demonstrates only too well Elaine Scarry’s observation that “whatever pain achieves, it achieves in part through its unsharability, and it ensures this unsharability through its resistance to language” . In this sequence, the impact of these non-lingual registers is rendered through a near-pantomime level of silent physicality: facial expression, violence, staging, and gesture combine to create the pure shock and terror of Karin’s experience.
Like so many of the more notorious titles in the rape-revenge category, The Virgin Spring manifests a hyperactive and often conflicting ethical tension in its battle between narrative, form and theme. The Virgin Spring superficially constructs a morality tale as far removed from the act of rape as possible, but positions that in opposition to the affective intensity of the rape that triggers its central narrative. As one of Bergman’s most celebrated and influential films, The Virgin Spring has evoked a range of often-contradictory responses from those willing to tackle the inescapable tensions between the films formal beauty and the nastiness of its subject matter. But it is in the collision of these two factors that the devastating rape and murder of Karin can be understood as the film’s lasting legacy. Regardless of the film’s surface focus upon Töre’s spiritual journey, his tale pales in the affective impact of witnessing Karin’s rape and murder. It is the shock, the terror, the confusion and the suffocating silence of the attack upon her that leave the most indelible stain: the eponymous spring may soothe the traumatised Töre, but the spectator may find there are some things that cannot be so easily washed away.
The author of this paper wishes to acknowledge the support and insight of Dominique Russell (University of Western Ontario), whose comments on an earlier version of this paper have been invaluable.
 James R. Alexander, “The Maturity of a Film Genre in an Era of Relaxing Standards of Obscenity: Takashi Ishii’s Freeze Me as a Rape-Revenge Film,” Senses of Cinema. 36 (2005). 24 August 2005http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/05/36/freeze_me.html. For Sarah Projansky, rape-revenge is a diverse category that manifests in two distinct categories, of which The Virgin Spring is clearly in the former: “In these films, sometimes the revenge is taken by a man who loses his wife or daughter to a rape/murder, and sometimes the revenge is taken by women who have faced rape themselves. The films in the first category depend on rape to motivate and justify a particularly violent version of masculinity, relegating women to minor ‘props’ in the narrative. The films of the second category, however, can be understood as feminist narratives in which women face rape, recognize that the law will neither protect nor avenge them, and then take the law into their own hands.” (Watching Rape: Film and Television in Postfeminist Culture (New York, New York University Press, 2001), 60.)
 Most famous of these is Wes Craven’s grindhouse classic, Last House on the Left (1972), which itself spawned myriad imitators and remakes. For further examination of Last House on the Left and one of these adaptations, Aldo Lado’s Night Train Murders (1975), see: Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, “Last Trope on the Left: Rape, Film and the Melodramatic Imagination,” Limina: A Journal of Historical and Cultural Studies, 15 (June 2009). www.limina.arts.uwa.edu.au
 Birgitta Steene, “About Bergman: Some Critical Responses to His Films,” Cinema Journal, 13, No. 2. (Spring, 1974): 1.
 Susan Sontag, “Bergman’s Persona,” in Ingmar Bergman’s Persona. ed. Lloyd Michaels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 62.
 Robin Wood, Ingmar Bergman (London, Studio Vista, 1969), 104.
 Philip Mosley, Ingmar Bergman: The Cinema As Mistress (London, Mario Boyars, 1981), 79.
 ibid. 62.
 Stanley Kauffmann, “The Virgin Spring,” In Ingmar Bergman: Essays in Criticism. Ed. Stuart M. Kaminsky with Joseph F. Hill (London, Oxford University Press, 1975), 222.
 ibid., 223.
 Ingmar Bergman, Bergman on Bergman (London, Secker & Warburg, 1973), 120.
 Frank Gado, The Passion of Ingmar Bergman (Durham, Duke University Press, 1986), 241.
 ibid. 241.
 Peter Cowie, Ingmar Bergman: A Critical Biography (London, Andre Deutsch, 1992), 189.
 This number would be five if Death Wish II (1982) and Death Wish III (1985) are included.
 As Elizabeth Wilson delicately puts it, Winner is “not exactly well-known for his feminist credentials”. Elizabeth Wilson, “Bodies in Private and Public,” In Private Bodies/Public States: New Views on Photography, Representation, and Gender, Eds., Jane Brettle and Sally Rice (Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1994), 20.
 Diane Wolfthal, Images of Rape: The ‘Heroic’ Tradition and Its Alternatives (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), 182.
 Pam Cook provides one of the few in-depth analyses of this film, and it is recommended for further insight. See: Pam Cook, Screening the Past: Memory and Nostalgia in Cinema (London, Routledge, 2005).
 Mieke Bal, “The Rape of Narrative and the Narrative of Rape: Speech Acts and Body Language in Judges,” In A Mieke Bal Reader (Chicago, Chicago University Press, 2006), 339.
 Projansky, 21.
 Jacinda Read, The New Avengers: Feminism, Femininity, and the Rape-Revenge Cycle (Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2000), 71.
 Projansky, 61.
 Sabine Sielke, Reading Rape: The Rhetoric of Sexual Violence in American Literature and Culture, 1790-1990 (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2002), 2.
 Birgitta Steene, “The Virgin Spring”. In Ingmar Bergman: Essays in Criticism. Ed. Stuart M. Kaminsky with Joseph F. Hill (London, Oxford University Press, 1975), 215.
 Gado, 242.
 Cowie, 181.
 Gado, 242.
 Steene, 1975, 215.
 Cowie, 182.
 Robert E. Lauder, God, Death, Art and Love: The Philosophical Vision of Ingmar Bergman (New York, Paulist Press, 1989), 61.
 Kauffmann, 223.
 Cowie, 186.
 Wood, 102.
 ibid., 103.
 ibid., 102.
 Kauffman, 224.
Steene, 1975, 217.
 Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and the Unmaking of the World (New York, Oxford University Press, 1985), 4.
Created on: Wednesday, 1 September 2010