Download the Full Version of textbook for Fast Typing at textbookfull.

com

Singular and plural : ideologies of linguistic

authority in 21st century Catalonia 1st Edition
Woolard

https://textbookfull.com/product/singular-and-plural-
ideologies-of-linguistic-authority-in-21st-century-
catalonia-1st-edition-woolard/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWNLOAD NOW

Download More textbook Instantly Today - Get Yours Now at textbookfull.com

 Recommended digital products (PDF, EPUB, MOBI) that
you can download immediately if you are interested.

New Speakers of Minority Languages: Linguistic Ideologies

and Practices 1st Edition Cassie Smith-Christmas

https://textbookfull.com/product/new-speakers-of-minority-languages-
linguistic-ideologies-and-practices-1st-edition-cassie-smith-
christmas/
textboxfull.com

Managing innovation and operations in the 21st century 1st

Edition Garza-Reyes

https://textbookfull.com/product/managing-innovation-and-operations-
in-the-21st-century-1st-edition-garza-reyes/

textboxfull.com

The Ethics of Citizenship in the 21st Century 1st Edition

David Thunder (Eds.)

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-ethics-of-citizenship-in-
the-21st-century-1st-edition-david-thunder-eds/

textboxfull.com

Creative Dimensions of Teaching and Learning in the 21st

Century 1st Edition Jill B. Cummings

https://textbookfull.com/product/creative-dimensions-of-teaching-and-
learning-in-the-21st-century-1st-edition-jill-b-cummings/

textboxfull.com
Conciliarism and Heresy in Fifteenth Century England
Collective Authority in the Age of the General Councils
Alexander Russell
https://textbookfull.com/product/conciliarism-and-heresy-in-fifteenth-
century-england-collective-authority-in-the-age-of-the-general-
councils-alexander-russell/
textboxfull.com

Issues in 21st Century World Politics Mark Beeson

https://textbookfull.com/product/issues-in-21st-century-world-
politics-mark-beeson/

textboxfull.com

Brazilian Agricultural Diplomacy in the 21st Century 1st

Edition Niels Søndergaard

https://textbookfull.com/product/brazilian-agricultural-diplomacy-in-
the-21st-century-1st-edition-niels-sondergaard/

textboxfull.com

Death in the Early Twenty-first Century: Authority,

Innovation, and Mortuary Rites 1st Edition Sébastien
Penmellen Boret
https://textbookfull.com/product/death-in-the-early-twenty-first-
century-authority-innovation-and-mortuary-rites-1st-edition-sebastien-
penmellen-boret/
textboxfull.com

Handbook of the Sociology of Education in the 21st Century

Barbara Schneider

https://textbookfull.com/product/handbook-of-the-sociology-of-
education-in-the-21st-century-barbara-schneider/

textboxfull.com
SINGULAR AND PLURAL
 OXFORD STUDIES IN THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF LANGUAGE

Series editor
Laura M. Ahearn, Rutgers University
This series is devoted to works from a wide array of scholarly traditions that
treat linguistic practices as forms of social action.
Editorial Board
Alessandro Duranti, University of California at Los Angeles
Paul B. Garrett, Temple University
Justin Richland, The University of Chicago

Thank You for Dying for Our Country: Commemorative Texts and Performances
in Jerusalem
Chaim Noy
Singular and Plural: Ideologies of Linguistic Authority in 21st Century Catalonia
Kathryn A. Woolard
SINGULAR
AND PLURAL
Ideologies of Linguistic Authority in
21st Century Catalonia

Kathryn A. Woolard

1
1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide.Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.

© Oxford University Press 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction
rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above.

You must not circulate this work in any other form

and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Woolard, Kathryn Ann.
Title: Singular and plural: ideologies of linguistic authority in
21st century Catalonia / Kathryn A. Woolard.
Description: Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, [2016] |
Series: Oxford Studies in the Anthropology of Language |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015039517 | ISBN 978–0–19–025862–7 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978–0–19–025861–0 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 978–0–19–025863–4 (ebook) |
ISBN 978–0–19–060046–4 (online content)
Subjects: LCSH: Language policy—History—21st century—Spain—Catalonia. |
Ideologies—Span—Catalonia. | Catalan language—Social aspects. |
Catalans—Ethnic identity. | Catalonia (Spain)—Languages—Political aspects.
Classification: LCC P115.5.S7 W77 2016 | DDC 306.442499—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015039517

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
CONTENTS

List of Figures and Table vii

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xiii
Abbreviations xvii
Note to the Reader on Terminology and Transcription xix

1. Introduction 1

PART I: Theoretical and Empirical Overview

2. Ideologies of Linguistic Authority: Authenticity,

Anonymity, and Naturalism 21
3. Reframing Linguistic Authority in Spain and Catalonia 39

PART II: Shifting Discourses of Language in Catalan Politics and Media

4. “Deeds Not Words”: An Immigrant President and the Politics

of Linguistic Parody 97
5. Linguistic Cosmopolitanism in the Celebration of Locality 143
6. “Singular and Universal”: Branding Catalan Culture in the
Global Market 169
vi • Contents

PART III: Changing Discourses of Language in Personal Life

7. Back to the Future: High School Revisited 211

8. Is the Personal Political? Linguistic Itineraries across Time 257

9. Conclusion 299

Epilogue 305
References Cited 307
Index 341
L I S T O F F I G U R E S A N D TA B L E

Figures
1.1 Demonstration for Catalan independence, 2010 2
3.1 “Use your tongue/​language” 76
3.2 La Queta, mascot of the Dóna corda al català
“Wind up Catalan” campaign 77
3.3 “Catalan, a shared, integrative, modern language” 78
3.4 2006 parliamentary campaign flyer, Ciutadans 82
3.5 2006 parliamentary campaign poster, Ciutadans 84
4.1 “Deeds not words”; 2006 parliamentary
campaign image of José Montilla, Catalan Socialist
Party candidate 98
4.2 Montilla at work; lower section of campaign image
in Figure 4.1 99
4.3 Fontdevila cartoon, “Urban legends of today” 113
4.4 Fontdevila cartoon, “The challenges of the Montilla
government” 114
4.5 Email quiz on “Montillan” language 123
4.6 Two Montillas: José Montilla and Sergi Mas
on Polònia 130
5.1 “Catalan, shared language” 167
6.1 “Catalan Culture, Singular and Universal”:
Poster by Miquel Barceló for the Frankfurt
Book Fair, 2007. 203

Table
7.1 Mean Status Scores by Language Guise and Year 220
P R E FA C E

When I first began research in Catalonia in 1979, it was a place where the
unusual alignments of political, economic, and linguistic forces defied stereotypi-
cal expectations about minority languages. It was also alive with aspirations for
political and sociolinguistic transformations, as it returned to political autonomy
after the end of the Franco regime. Catalonia has gotten all the more complex and
surprising in this millennium, and once again it is alive with aspirations for politi-
cal transformations, now for sovereignty. The historical layering of complexity as
well as my own increased awareness of it has made this book about Catalonia in
the 21st century more challenging to write than my first monograph on it was.
Given this, I want to acknowledge briefly the stance I have taken here as an author
and comment on how I have imagined possible readers.
It meant a lot to me when a sociolinguist told me that he found in my first
book a sympathetic account of the perspectives of both of the linguistic groups
in contact. I hope that readers of this new book will again find that to be true of
my portrayal of individuals who generously shared their experiences and views
with me. At the level of public controversies discussed in Parts I and II, it will be
evident that my own sympathies are for the continued vibrant and significant use
of Catalan, especially in creative patterns that do not quite fit traditions of any
stripe. This book tries to give both a critical and a sympathetic view of the ideo-
logical foundations of contemporary Catalanism, with the former framed well
within the latter. This is in part to redress a public record that I find imbalanced.
The book is primarily addressed to an audience outside of Catalonia, especially
in the United States, where Catalanist voices are rarely heard except among a
relatively small circle of supporters.
While writing this book, I have found that the news about Catalonia that
reaches the United States and Northern Europe is generally filtered through the
perspective of the Spanish state, in part because most international reporting
originates in Madrid, and in part because of the invisibility to social scientists,
journalists, and lay audiences of the banal nationalism of already existing states.
As a result, I often encounter systematic incomprehension of the Catalanist
x • Preface

movement, even at the basic factual level. A peer-​reviewed political science arti-
cle mischaracterizes the centralized Spanish state as federal; an anthropologist
of Latin America asks me, “What more do the Catalans want? They’re already
completely autonomous,” and is surprised to learn that Catalonia has more lim-
ited powers than any state in the United States. I could cite many more examples
of misconceptions that come from international newspapers of record as well as
social science.
Catalanist politics and policies rest on ideological grounds, not disinterested
objective truths, just as Spanish nationalist policies do. Thoughtful critique of
linguistic and educational policies is always in order, and that is true of Catalonia
as elsewhere. However, critical studies that demythologize the ideological foun-
dations of minority nationalist movements often leave the implication that there
is some alternative and better non-​ideological, disinterested position in our actu-
ally existing world. By default, that implicit alternative is the status quo of the
dominant state. In this case, the politicized Spanish positions from which cri-
tiques of Catalan policies are often launched go unremarked. Failure to acknowl-
edge the dialogic nature of minority movements and to critique the positions
to which they respond leaves the nationalist underpinnings of a state like Spain
unquestioned and even strengthened. “I don’t believe in any nationalisms,” pro-
gressive colleagues tell me to explain their bewilderment or skepticism about the
Catalan sovereignty movement. Does that include the kind that you don’t notice,
I ask; the kind that takes for granted that in Spain one should speak Spanish, but
doesn’t comprehend that anyone in Catalonia or the Basque Country might be
expected to learn—​or might want to learn—​Catalan or Euskara? Sometimes the
response is a shrug. Sometimes it is an avowal that the return to electoral democ-
racy after Franco made further demands from minority regions illegitimate. That
claim is increasingly hard to square with the stark contrast between Britain’s
recent democratic handling of Scottish demands for independence and Spain’s
absolutist refusal to even engage the question of a Catalan “right to decide.” This
situation is a significant backdrop for the way I present my research here.
A further note on the place of politics in the account given in this book
is in order. I do not attempt to offer here a full account of language policy-
making in autonomous Catalonia, much less of the complexities of Catalan
politics and the sovereignty movement. There are analyses wholly devoted to
these phenomena, and I give references to some of them throughout the book.
Nonetheless, the point of the now well-​established study of language ideolo-
gies is to understand representations of language as socially positioned. A book
about language politics is, obviously, a book about politics, involving strate-
gies, rhetorics, and policies of competing political organizations and actors
who are not naïve. Throughout this book I have tried to locate the discourses
 Preface • xi

I analyze in relation to electoral politics as briefly as possible without embroil-

ing general readers in all the details of the increasingly complex Catalan politi-
cal scene. I am not convinced of how successful I have been, but this is not
intended as an analysis of organized party politics as such. Instead, I am inter-
ested in identifying the linguistic ideological frameworks that electoral poli-
tics draws on, and in seeing how these reflect and are reflected in other spheres
of social life. To this end, the political and media texts that I discuss are taken
from a wide variety, even a patchwork, of sources to illustrate discursive trends
that cut across different domains. At the same time, instead of surveying the
discourses on language of the full spectrum of political parties, my examples
are often weighted toward particular parties because they appeared to me dur-
ing my fieldwork to indicate important new discursive trends. Current events
confirm for me that that view was not mistaken.
As a researcher I am equally interested in Catalonia and in language ideol-
ogies, but I realize that not all readers will share both of those interests to the
same degree. I have tried to address this book to those who are not specialists in
Catalonia. Catalan observers will probably not find that I say many things they
did not already know, although I hope they might find something of use in the
way I put it. I try to give enough background information to allow readers unfa-
miliar with the setting to follow my account and analysis, but I do not give an
introduction to the history of Catalonia or of the language. For an abbreviated
version of that, readers may see my earlier book (1989a) or a number of other
sources referenced in this one. Those who are knowledgeable about Catalonia
may be nonplussed at the many details that I gloss over, especially when I do not
identify all the players and commentators by name in my in-​text discussions.
I have chosen, with apologies, to compromise on those details for the sake of the
general reader, and I believe that those who are interested will find the relevant
identities and other details in footnotes and in the citations I give for all sources.
I assume that most readers of this book will have at least some background
in the study of the social life of language and the linguistic life of society, but
I have tried to make my account accessible to readers who are not expert in socio-
linguistics or linguistic anthropology by being relatively sparing with technical
vocabulary. It has proven impossible to avoid a number of such terms: iconiza-
tion, indexicality, intervocalic fricative, just to take a few examples from one point
in the alphabet. When I introduce them, I try to give a basic definition and/​or
example. On a few occasions, I have resorted to telegraphing a point to specialists
through the use of some technical terms. I hope these moments will not be too
baffling to nonspecialists, and that all readers will find here both empirical and
theoretical arguments that are worth their consideration.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Over the decade that I’ve worked on this project, I’ve had many interchanges
about ideas and been much influenced by the comments and the work of Catalan,
American, and international colleagues. The result is an Escher-​like experience.
As I rewrite, reread, and occasionally newly discover published pieces I missed
earlier, I keep meeting myself and some of my colleagues on the stairs going up, or
is it down? Although I have tried to acknowledge these influences, bibliographic
citation and prefatory thanks are inadequate to capture the deep resonance I find
with the work of a number of colleagues. I take heart that this intertextuality
means that we are on to something, and I hope those who might meet themselves
on the stairs of this book feel the same way.
Several institutions made this research and writing possible. I did the fieldwork
as a visiting researcher affiliated with the Department of Catalan Philology at the
Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, kindly sponsored by Professor Joan Argenter
and supported by a fellowship from the Agència de Gestió d’Ajuts Universitaris i
de Recerca de la Generalitat de Catalunya (grant # 2005PIV2-​31). The Wenner-​
Gren Foundation provided indispensable funding for the fieldwork, and the
University of California, San Diego (UCSD) contributed support for both field-
work and manuscript completion. The analysis was completed and much of the
writing was done when I was a resident fellow at the Netherlands Institute for
Advanced Studies (NIAS), which provided me the perfect sabbatical environ-
ment in its Brigadoon by the sea. Many thanks to all these institutions. All views
expressed in this work are my own and not those of the funding agencies.
In carrying out the fieldwork and analysis, I had the help of more people
than I can name here. My deep gratitude goes to the students and teachers who
patiently let me follow and record them throughout their school day, and espe-
cially to the former students who went out of their way to respond to me and
bring me up to date after twenty years. There has not been space to tell all their
stories in the course of this book, but all of them contributed to my understand-
ing of contemporary Catalonia. I hope that those whose lives and views I do
discuss and whose words I quote find that I have represented them fairly and
xiv • Acknowledgments

faithfully. All personal names used in this book except those of public figures are
pseudonyms, as is the name of the high school where I did my case studies. I am
not able to acknowledge these indispensable people properly by name, but I hope
they accept my thanks.
In Barcelona and beyond, Melissa Moyer and Susanna Fosch have been
extraordinarily generous friends who have sustained me both personally and pro-
fessionally and solved all kinds of problems for me. Many thanks also to Núria
Guàrdia, Manel Udina, Adela Ros, and Adrianne Saltz for much support, and to
Helen and Roger Bryce for providing respite.
I owe Susan Gal special thanks for the conceptual distinction that organizes
this book, though she is not responsible for how far I have taken it. I’m grateful to
all my fellow fellows at NIAS for creating a friendly and supportive environment,
most particularly Leonie Cornips and Vincent de Rooij, who invited me to join
their research group, and co-​participants Peter Auer, Ad Backus, Jürgen Jaspers,
Barbara Johnstone, Tanja Petrović, and Irene Stengs. For insights and collegial
assistance of different kinds in different moments, my thanks to Celso Álvarez-​
Cáccamo, Albert Bastardas, Emili Boix,Verena Berger, Michael Berman, Marcelo
Borges, Jordi Ballart, Albert Branchadell, Mary Bucholtz, José del Valle, Nicolau
Dols, Joe Errington, Paja Faudree, Susan Frekko, Jonathan Friedman, John
Haviland, Judit Hersko, Miyako Inoue, Misty Jaffe, Eva Jaurros-​Daussà, Stewart
King, Liesbeth Koenen, Maarten Mous, Michael Newman, Luci Nussbaum,
Bernadette O’Rourke, Nancy Postero, Bambi Schieffelin, Miquel Simonet,
Miquel Strubell, Jackie Urla, Xavier Vila, Max Wheeler, and Ana Celia Zentella.
Laura Ahearn, Hallie Stebbins, and Rob Wilkinson have been encouraging and
patient in the editorial process of turning this work into a book.
The Centre de Documentació de la Direcció General de Política Lingüística
de la Generalitat de Catalunya was essential to the research in Part II of this book,
and I thank Elena Heidepriem for her help in navigating its collection. Thanks
also to Pere Mayans of the Servei d'Ensenyament del Català de la Generalitat for
helping me understand the history of Catalan education policy, and to Kathy
Creely, Karen Heskett, and Kirk Wang of the UCSD library for generous help
with technology for producing the final manuscript. I’m grateful to artist Miquel
Barceló and representative Hannah Rhadigan, cartoonist Manel Fontedevila,
Josep Gisbert and Susanna Fosch again, and the artists and representatives of sev-
eral organizations for facilitating permission to reproduce the illustrations in this
book.
Throughout the fieldwork and again in correcting the whole manuscript,
Maria Rosa Garrido Sardà has been an extraordinary research assistant who
always goes an extra mile, and I am extremely grateful to her. For their work on
transcription, translation, analysis, and bibliography over the years, my thanks
also to Míriam Arboix, Cristina Aliagas, Vanessa Bretxa, Teresa Ciurana, Andrea
 Acknowledgments • xv

Davis, Susanna Llop, Aida Ribot Bencomo, Page Piccinini, Daniel Scarpace,
Elena Vicario, and Katia Yago. A special thank you to Josep Soler Carbonell for
much collegial help.
Susan DiGiacomo has been a great friend and colleague since we met doing
fieldwork in Barcelona in 1979, and with this book project she’s been beyond
generous, giving almost every chapter of the manuscript a careful and encourag-
ing reading and consulting on all kinds of questions. My debt to her is enormous.
Joan Pujolar also provided help over the years of this project and read many chap-
ters in manuscript. Along with Maria Rosa Garrido, they saved me from many
of my embarrassing gaffes and gave me much to think about, some of which
I haven’t been able to reflect adequately here. The errors that remain are my own
fault. Many, many thanks to Joel and Ben Sobel for living with this research proj-
ect in the field and for their sympathetic support in the interminable preparation
of the final manuscript. Thanks also to my father Tom Woolard for his patience
as I fixed just one more thing and then another.
Finally, I thank the journals and publishers for allowing me to draw on and
develop material from these earlier publications:

2007 La autoridad lingüística del español y las ideologías de la autenti-

cidad y el anonimato. In La lengua, ¿patria común? Ideas e ideologías del
español, ed. Jose del Valle, pp. 129–​142. Madrid: Vervuert Iberoamericana.
2008 Language and identity choice in Catalonia: The interplay of con-
trasting ideologies of linguistic authority. In Lengua, nación e identidad:
La regulación del plurilingüismo en España y América Latina, ed. Kirsten
Süselbeck, Ulrike Mühlschlegel, Peter Masson, pp. 303–​323. Madrid/​
Frankfurt: Iberoamericana/​Vervuert.
2009 Linguistic consciousness among adolescents in Catalonia: A case
study from the Barcelona urban area in longitudinal perspective. Zeitschrift
für Katalanistik 22: 125–​129.
2011 Is there linguistic life after high school? Longitudinal changes in the
bilingual repertoire in metropolitan Barcelona. Language in Society 40
(5):617–​648.
2013 Is the personal political? Chronotopes and changing stances
toward Catalan language and identity. International Journal of Bilingual
Education and Bilingualism 16 (2):210–​224.
2014 What’s so funny now? The strength of weak pronouns in Catalonia.
(with Aida Ribot Bencomo and Josep Soler Carbonell). Journal of
Linguistic Anthropology 23 (3) 127–​141.
A B B R E V I AT I O N S

ANC Assemblea Nacional Catalana

Catalan National Assembly
CAL Coordinadora d’Associacions per la Llengua Catalana
Coordinated Associations for the Catalan Language
C’s Ciutadans—​Partido de la Ciudadanía
Citizens—​Party of the Citizenry
CiU Convergència i Unió
Convergence and Union (Coalition of Democratic Convergence of
Catalonia and Democratic Union of Catalonia)
CT Catalan
CS Castilian
ERC Esquerra Republicana de Catalunya
Republican Left of Catalonia
IEC Institut d’Estudis Catalans
Institut of Catalan Studies
IRL Institut Ramon Llull
L1 First language
L2 Second language
PP Partido Popular
Popular Party/​People’s Party
PSOE Partido Socialista Obrero Español
Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party
PSC Partit Socialista de Catalunya
Catalan Socialist Party
TV3 TV3-​Televisió de Catalunya
Television of Catalonia
NOTE TO THE READER ON TERMINOLOGY
AND TRANSCRIPTION

Terminology
All personal names except those of public figures are pseudonyms, as is the name
of the school where I conducted the research for Part III. For public figures and
scholars, I follow the common usage of giving both paternal and maternal sur-
names, hyphenated when that reflects their own use, as well as referring to the
person within the text only by the paternal surname.
In Catalonia and the rest of Spain, “Spanish” (CS español, CT espanyol) and
“Castilian” (CS castellano, CT castellà) refer to the same language. “Castilian” is
the more common term and will be used in this book except where sources use
the term “Spanish,” which is politically significant. As here, I use the abbrevia-
tions CT for Catalan and CS for Castilian when identifying linguistic forms.
For ethnolinguistic categories, compound words are used in both Catalan
and Castilian to identify speakers by their first and/​or dominant language: CT
catalanoparlant, castellanoparlant, CS catalanohablante, castellanohablante, the
way the terms anglophone and francophone are used in Canada. Unfortunately
English doesn’t have equivalent forms, and terms like “Catalanspeaker” are
infelicitous to the English-​reading eye, so I gloss these as “Catalan speaker”
and “Castilian speaker.” In Catalonia the terms are usually used for social cat-
egories rather than as strictly linguistic descriptors, but there is slippage in the
usage. Neither term as used in this book means that the speaker is monolingual,
although as Xavier Vila (2003) has explained, self-​described castellanohablantes
often do not speak Catalan. Those of Castilian-​speaking background who do
speak Catalan are more likely to identity themselves as “bilingual.” All “Catalan
speakers” also speak Castilian, although a few of them claim not to be very com-
fortable in that language. Most of the individual “Castilian speakers” among the
two generations of informants for this study do speak Catalan, many of them very
fluently. When I wish to stress the native language of an individual, I will use the
terms “first language” or “L1” Castilian or Catalan speaker in contrast to “second
xx • Note to the Reader on Terminology and Transcription

language” or “L2” speaker, and occasionally “native speaker” when social roots are
being emphasized.
I use several terms to label political-​ideological positions and actors so that
the general reader can keep track of them. “Independentist” and “sovereigntist”
are inelegant terms in English but are direct translations from the Catalan and
the Castilian forms. “Catalanist” is a translation of catalanista, and advocates for
the Catalan language as well as for the nation and/​or sovereignty generally use
that term for themselves, though perhaps not everyone to whom I apply this label
in this work. I use it for both the linguistic and the political position. Espanyolista
generally means Spanish nationalist. When writers or speakers whom I quote
actually used this term, I incorporate it in my text. When I am not quoting a
source and am imposing my own label, I use the term Hispanicist to identify posi-
tions that I classify as Spanish nationalist. I apply the label “Castilianist” more
narrowly to advocates for the Castilian language in various debates, although
their critics might call them espanyolista. Nobody in Catalonia calls him/​herself
Castilianist, and many of those to whom I apply the term would say they are not
Castilianist, but rather liberal, fair-​minded, normal, etc. This may be true of some
of those I call Catalanist as well.

Quotations and Transcription

The originals of all Catalan and Castilian-​medium quotes that appear in
English in the body of the text are given in footnotes. Translations to English
are my own except where indicated. In quoting from media sources, I do not
use different conventions to represent the Catalan and Castilian languages,
again except where noted. This is because quotations given in the media do
not usually indicate the language the speaker actually used. They are routinely
translated to the standard medium of the periodical or news outlet without
any indication of the source language. Moreover, more than one news out-
let has both Catalan and Castilian versions, and the choice between them in
my corpus is not significant, so it would be misleading to mark the linguistic
medium of my source.
In quotes from my own recordings of interviews and interactions (most of
them appearing in Part III), short extracts from only one speaker are generally
given only in English in the text; the original appears in the footnotes. Longer
dialogic stretches are given in the original and the English gloss in parallel, to
indicate at least some of the interactional dynamics that affected the discussion.
In these transcript extracts, interviewees’ turns are identified by the first initials of
their pseudonyms. “KW” refers to the interviewer.
 Note to the Reader on Terminology and Transcription • xxi

In interactional and interview extracts, the typeface distinguishes the more

marked from the less marked of the two languages in that data set. Regular roman
type is used for the more frequently used of the two and italics indicate the less fre-
quent language. Because these were different in the interviews with the younger
and older informants, the conventions I use are also different. In Chapter 7,
reporting on the younger informants, Catalan is unmarked and Castilian is itali-
cized. In Chapter 8, since Castilian was the medium of the greater part of the
interviews discussed, Castilian appears in unmarked roman type and Catalan is
in italics. In textual citation of lexical items in these chapters as in others, both
languages are italicized without distinction.
These transcriptions of interviews and interactions, like the English glosses,
are quite broad in order to be more readily accessible to readers, and they are
not intended for close interactional or sociolinguistic analysis. Stumbles and
hesitation phenomena are generally transcribed, but only the most salient pho-
nological forms are represented graphically with nonstandard spelling. These are
specifically deletion of intervocalic /​d/​(acabao for acabado “finished”) and the
aspiration of /​s/​in stylized Andalusian Castilian. Following Joan Pujolar (2001),
I represent the emblematic aspirated form with orthographic “h”; e.g., ehpañoleh
in place of standard Castilian españoles “Spaniards.” In Catalan, the yodization of
initial voiced palatal-​alveolar fricatives is represented by orthographic “i”; e.g., io
for jo (“I”), ia for ja (“already”). Although this pronunciation makes those spe-
cific words bivalent, i.e., identical in Catalan and Castilian, they are widespread
and commonly accepted forms in vernacular Catalan.

Transcription Key
[words] speech overlapping with interlocutor’s, also marked in adjacent turn
(.)   short pause
(word) uncertain transcription
(x)   unintelligible
(( ))     analyst’s comment, clarification, or substitution
…   material omitted
:     elongation of speech segment
word  neither only Catalan nor Castilian: bivalent or English in original
=    latched speech, no pause
-​    word breaks off
SINGULAR AND PLURAL
 1 INTRODUCTION

What makes a particular language authoritative in community mem-

bers’ eyes and ears? What relationship to language allows a government
and its institutions to be perceived as legitimate? And what entitles a
speaker to use a language freely and to convince others with that use?
Monolingual speakers of dominant languages rarely have to pause to
consider such questions, but members of bilingual and minoritized
speech communities routinely confront them, implicitly and explic-
itly. The answers matter because the foundations of linguistic author-
ity are also foundations of identity, community, nation, polity, and
citizenship. The subject of this book is a constellation of ongoing con-
sequential changes in the foundations of linguistic authority and com-
munity in Catalonia, where language has long been a powerful social
symbol and political issue.
Catalan language and identity have been mobile in recent years,
in multiple senses: political, demographic, ideological. Politically,
Catalan national identity moved into the international spotlight in
September, 2012, when 1.5 million people demonstrated in the streets
of Barcelona to demand what is called “the right to decide” on sover-
eignty for Catalonia, currently an autonomous political community
within Spain.1 The next year, even more people linked hands to form
the Via Catalana, the “Catalan Way to Independence,” stretching 480
kilometers from south to north and again capturing the attention of
international news media (Televisió de Catalunya 2013a, 2013b).2
A broad coalition from center-​right to progressive left parties in the
Catalan Parliament joined to call a referendum on independence for
2014 (Minder 2013). Despite the conservative Spanish government’s

1. “Dret a decidir.” For an English-​medium collection of sympathetic views on the sovereignty

movement from intellectuals as well as Catalan political activists, see L. Castro 2013.
2. This display of support for Catalan independence was organized by a civic group, the
Assemblea Nacional Catalana (Catalan National Assembly) and modeled after the successful
1989 “Baltic Way” that had symbolically put the Baltic states on the path to independence.
2 • Singular and Plural

Figure 1.1 Demonstration for Catalan independence, 2010. Photograph by Josep

Renalias.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. https://​commons.wikimedia.org/​wiki/​File:Ebullició_​indepen-
dentista.JPG

flat rejection of any vote as illegal and unconstitutional, 2.3 million voters turned
out in November 2014 for a nonbinding citizens’ consultation in which 90%
supported statehood for Catalonia and 80% voted for outright independence
(Generalitat de Catalunya 2014, El País 2014).3 This movement had erupted pub-
licly in 2010, in response to the Spanish Constitutional Court’s curtailment of
significant clauses of the revised Catalan Statute of Autonomy (Fig. 1.1). Within
just a few years, Catalonia had become visibly rife with previously unthinkable
possibilities, as well as apparent impossibilities given the intransigence of the
Spanish government and the challenges that party politics present.
International media attributed this mobilization for Catalan independence
both to the effects of the global economic crisis that began in 2008 and to Catalans’
longstanding “fierce pride in a distinct culture and language” (e.g., Associated
Press 2014). Economic grievances in the wake of the crisis were undoubtedly

3. Catalonia has a total population of about 7.5 million, of which eligible voters were estimated
at roughly 5.4 million. The turnout for this nonbinding vote was low in comparison to parlia-
mentary elections, both Spanish and Catalan, but not unlike turnout in recent elections for
the European Parliament.
 Introduction • 3

crucial to this 21st century surge and widening social base of Catalan nation-
alism. And Catalan language and identity do indeed intertwine with economic
and political tensions in giving rise to the movement (Muñoz and Tormos 2012).
The Catalan language has traditionally been viewed as key to the existence of the
Catalan nation itself and to Catalan identity for individuals. Moreover, in the
last decade autonomous Catalonia’s established language policy, particularly in
education, has repeatedly been challenged in Spanish government actions and
in lawsuits brought in the Spanish courts, and this has aggravated sentiment for
Catalan independence. With the first new wave of this relatively broad popular
mobilization for independence in 2010, the official language policy of an inde-
pendent Catalonia became a topic for debate in public forums, well before a date
was even set for a referendum, much less the outline of an independent state
sketched.
In the dominant perspective on minority nationalisms inherited from the
19th century Romantic tradition, the equation of a language, a culture, and a
nation that is evoked by the international reporting on this Catalan indepen-
dence movement is not surprising. However, the ethnolinguistic backdrop of the
contemporary Catalan sovereignty mobilization is considerably more surpris-
ing and complex than conventional accounts of language and national identity
would suggest, and those complexities motivate the research behind this book.
Demographically, a shift was already well established in late 20th century
Catalonia as a result of mass labor migration to industrialized Catalonia from
other parts of Spain. Roughly three-​quarters of Catalans are estimated to have
immigrants in the family tree who arrived since 1900 (Cabré 1999, 164).4 The
twenty-​five most common surnames in Catalonia are all of Castilian origin
(IDESCAT 2014). Less than one-​third of the population of Catalonia now
speaks Catalan as its first language. In contrast, about 55% of the adult popula-
tion are first-​language speakers of Castilian (the term for the Spanish language
generally used in Catalonia and the rest of Spain) (IDESCAT 2013). Most of
these Castilian speakers are working-​class immigrants themselves or the chil-
dren and grandchildren of such immigrants from other parts of Spain. In short,
the autochthonous and Catalan-​speaking population of Catalonia is demo-
graphically outweighed by Castilian speakers with roots in the rest of Spain,

4. English speakers are often confused when the term “immigrants” is used for those who
moved to Catalonia from other parts of Spain, but it was the term in general use there. It
indexes the significance of the historical national boundary even though no state boundary is
crossed. This usage of the term was displaced by transnational immigration in the 21st century.
One of my interviewees asked me in some confusion how she should refer to her parents, who
had moved to Catalonia from Andalusia in that great migration, now that “immigrants” come
from other countries and she could no longer use it for her family.
4 • Singular and Plural

complicating any easy Romanticist assumption of a fiercely motivating pride in

Catalan language and cultural heritage.
Despite such a demographic divide in geographical and linguistic origins,
in the run-​up to the November 2014 vote, polls showed that 75%–​80% of the
potential voters of Catalonia supported the call for the popular consultation on
sovereignty. Estimates of support for independence itself varied considerably
depending on the pollster and the polling question, but most showed it hovering
a little below 50%.5 These figures suggested that appreciable numbers of Spanish
immigrant-​descent and Castilian-​speaking citizens supported the bid to hold a
referendum, and a smaller but still noteworthy percentage figured among those
calling for independence. Indeed, immigrant-​origin and Castilian-​speaking resi-
dents of Catalonia formed organizations to support the cause such as Súmate
(“Join In”), and these included participants in the significant new transnational
immigration as well as the earlier immigration from other parts of Spain.
Within this putatively post-​national era of globalization, and especially in
such a convoluted and potentially fragile ethnolinguistic context, the mobiliza-
tion for national sovereignty and independence that swept Catalonia was not
expected. Not only international but also Spanish and even Catalan observ-
ers and politicians were caught off guard when the movement for the “right to
decide” took off so resoundingly in autumn 2012. Even many of those who par-
ticipated were astonished by their own numbers.
One of the most challenging aspects for observers (in Spain as much as the rest
of the world) to comprehend is how the potential for a divide along ethnolinguis-
tic lines that coincide strongly with social class differentiation within Catalonia fits
with such a broad sovereignty movement. What role do ethnolinguistic identity
and the Catalan language in particular play in Catalan citizens’ and leaders’ views
of themselves and their society? One perspective depicts Catalonia as a “divided
society” with a “pronounced ethnolinguistic cleavage” and a linguistic policy that
does not reflect the preferences and interests of the primarily working-​class-​origin
Castilian-​speaking population (Miley 2013). However, I ended my first book
about Catalonia with a point that will be pursued in this one, and that has become
all the more relevant with the sovereignty movement:

The complexities of ethnic politics in Catalonia point out an important

constraint on generalizations about the causes of ethnic conflict. …
Attempts to understand the relation of class and ethnicity must con-
sider the context of power in which conflicts take place, and in which

5. In spring 2014, a Catalan official poll showed support for independence a little below 50%,
and The Economist reported an estimate of a majority vote, at 55% (The Economist 2014).
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
There was nothing that I could see. Only the incoming tide, with
perhaps one set of ripples more local than the long-flung line of
breakers. But now Zadok was shaking me, and I turned back to
watch the melting of that fear-frozen face into a chaos of twitching
eyelids and mumbling gums. Presently his voice came back—albeit as
a trembling whisper.
"Git aout o' here! Git aout o' here! They seen us—git aout fer your
life! Dun't wait fer nothin'—they know naow—Run fer it—quick—aout
o' this taown—"
Another heavy wave dashed against the loosening masonry of the
bygone wharf, and changed the mad ancient's whisper to another
inhuman and blood-curdling scream.
"E-YAAAHHHH!...
"YHAAAAAAAA!..."
Before I could recover my scattered wits he had relaxed his clutch on
my shoulder and dashed wildly inland toward the street, reeling
northward around the ruined warehouse wall.
I glanced back at the sea, but there was nothing there. And when I
reached Water Street and looked along it toward the north there was
no remaining trace of Zadok Allen.

IV

I can hardly describe the mood in which I was left by this harrowing
episode—an episode at once mad and pitiful, grotesque and
terrifying. The grocery boy had prepared me for it, yet the reality left
me none the less bewildered and disturbed. Puerile though the story
was, old Zadok's insane earnestness and horror had communicated to
me a mounting unrest which joined with my earlier sense of loathing
for the town and its blight of intangible shadow.
The hour had grown perilously late—my watch said 7:15, and the
Arkham bus left Town Square at eight—so I tried to give my thoughts
as neutral and practical a cast as possible, meanwhile walking rapidly
through the deserted streets of gaping roofs and leaning houses
toward the hotel where I had checked my valise and would find my
bus.
Studying the grocery youth's map and seeking a route I had not
traversed before, I chose Marsh Street instead of State for my
approach to Town Square. Near the corner of Fall Street I began to
see scattered groups of furtive whisperers, and when I finally reached
the Square I saw that almost all the loiterers were congregated
around the door of the Gilman House. It seemed as if many bulging,
watery, unwinking eyes looked oddly at me as I claimed my valise in
the lobby, and I hoped that none of these unpleasant creatures
would be my fellow-passengers on the coach.
The bus, rather early, rattled in with three passengers somewhat
before eight, and an evil-looking fellow on the sidewalk muttered a
few indistinguishable words to the driver. I was, it appeared, in very
bad luck. There had been something wrong with the engine, despite
the excellent time made from Newburyport, and the bus could not
complete the journey to Arkham. No, it could not possibly be repaired
that night, nor was there any other way of getting transportation out
of Innsmouth, either to Arkham or elsewhere. Sargent was sorry, but
I would have to stop over at the Gilman. Probably the clerk would
make the price easy for me, but there was nothing else to do. Almost
dazed by this sudden obstacle, and violently dreading the fall of night
in this decaying and half-unlighted town, I left the bus and reentered
the hotel lobby; where the sullen, queer-looking night clerk told me I
could have Room 428 on next the top floor—large, but without
running water—for a dollar.
Despite what I had heard of this hotel in Newburyport, I signed the
register, paid my dollar, let the clerk take my valise, and followed that
sour, solitary attendant up three creaking flights of stairs past dusty
corridors which seemed wholly devoid of life. My room, a dismal rear
one with two windows and bare, cheap furnishings, over-looked a
dingy courtyard otherwise hemmed in by low, deserted brick blocks,
and commanded a view of decrepit westward-stretching roofs with a
marshy countryside beyond. At the end of the corridor was a
bathroom—a discouraging relique with ancient marble bowl, tin tub,
faint electric light, and musty wooden panelling around all the
plumbing fixtures.
As twilight deepened I turned on the one feeble electric bulb over the
cheap, iron-framed bed, and tried as best I could to read. I felt it
advisable to keep my mind wholesomely occupied, for it would not do
to brood over the abnormalities of this ancient, blight-shadowed town
while I was still within its borders. The insane yarn I had heard from
the aged drunkard did not promise very pleasant dreams, and I felt I
must keep the image of his wild, watery eyes as far as possible from
my imagination.
Another thing that disturbed me was the absence of a bolt on the
door of my room. One had been there, as marks clearly showed, but
there were signs of recent removal. No doubt it had become out of
order, like so many other things in this decrepit edifice. In my
nervousness I looked around and discovered a bolt on the
clothespress which seemed to be of the same size, judging from the
marks, as the one formerly on the door. To gain a partial relief from
the general tension I busied myself by transferring this hardware to
the vacant place with the aid of a handy three-in-one device including
a screw-driver which I kept on my keyring. The bolt fitted perfectly,
and I was somewhat relieved when I knew that I could shoot it firmly
upon retiring. There were adequate bolts on the two lateral doors to
connecting rooms, and these I proceeded to fasten.
I did not undress, but decided to read till I was sleepy and then lie
down with only my coat, collar, and shoes off. Taking a pocket
flashlight from my valise, I placed it in my trousers, so that I could
read my watch if I woke up later in the dark. Drowsiness, however,
did not come; and when I stopped to analyze my thoughts I found to
my disquiet that I was really unconsciously listening for something—
listening for something which I dreaded but could not name.
At length, feeling a fatigue which had nothing of drowsiness in it, I
bolted the newly outfitted hall door, turned off the light, and threw
myself down on the hard, uneven bed—coat, collar, shoes, and all. In
the darkness every faint noise of the night seemed magnified, and a
flood of doubly unpleasant thoughts swept over me. I was sorry I
had put out the light, yet was too tired to rise and turn it on again.
Then, after a long, dreary interval, and prefaced by a fresh creaking
of stairs and corridor, there came that soft, damnably unmistakable
sound which seemed like a malign fulfilment of all my apprehensions.
Without the least shadow of a doubt, the lock on my hall door was
being tried—cautiously, furtively, tentatively—with a key.
The change in the menace from vague premonition to immediate
reality was a profound shock, and fell upon me with the force of a
genuine blow. It never once occurred to me that the fumbling might
be a mere mistake. Malign purpose was all I could think of, and I
kept deathly quiet, awaiting the would-be intruder's next move.
After a time the cautious rattling ceased, and I heard the room to the
north entered with a pass key. Then the lock of the connecting door
to my room was softly tried. The bolt held, of course, and I heard the
floor creak as the prowler left the room. After a moment there came
another soft rattling, and I knew that the room to the south of me
was being entered. Again a furtive trying of a bolted connecting door,
and again a receding creaking. This time the creaking went along the
hall and down the stairs, so I knew that the prowler had realized the
bolted condition of my doors and was giving up his attempt for a
time.
The one thing to do was to get out of that hotel alive as quickly as I
could, and through some channel other than the front stairs and
lobby!
Rising softly and throwing my flashlight on the switch, I sought to
light the bulb over my bed in order to choose and pocket some
belongings for a swift, valiseless flight. Nothing, however, happened;
and I saw that the power had been cut off. So, filling my pockets with
the flashlight's aid, I put on my hat and tiptoed to the windows to
consider chances of descent. Despite the state's safety regulations
there was no fire escape on this side of the hotel, and I saw that my
windows commanded only a sheer three-story drop to the cobbled
courtyard. On the right and left, however, some ancient brick
business blocks abutted on the hotel; their slant roofs coming up to a
reasonable jumping distance from my fourth-story level. To reach
either of these lines of buildings I would have to be in a room two
doors from my own—in one case on the north and in the other case
on the south—and my mind instantly set to work calculating what
chances I had of making the transfer.
First, I reinforced my own outer door by pushing the bureau against
it—little by little, in order to make a minimum of sound. Then,
gathering from the grocery boy's map that the best route out of town
was southward, I glanced first at the connecting door on the south
side of the room. It was designed to open in my direction, hence I
saw—after drawing the bolt and finding other fastenings in place—it
was not a favorable one for forcing. Accordingly abandoning it as a
route, I cautiously moved the bedstead against it to hamper any
attack which might be made on it later from the next room. The door
on the north was hung to open away from me, and this—though a
test proved it to be locked or bolted from the other side—I knew
must be my route. If I could gain the roofs of the buildings in Paine
Street and descend successfully to the ground level, I might perhaps
dart through the courtyard and the adjacent or opposite buildings to
Washington or Bates—or else emerge in Paine and edge around
southward into Washington. In any case, I would aim to strike
Washington somehow and get quickly out of the Town Square region.
My preference would be to avoid Paine, since the fire station there
might be open all night.
I was irresolutely speculating on when I had better attack the
northward door, and on how I could least audibly manage it, when I
noticed that the vague noises underfoot had given place to a fresh
and heavier creaking of the stairs. A wavering flicker of light showed
through my transom, and the boards of the corridor began to groan
with a ponderous load. Muffled sounds of possible vocal origin
approached, and at length a firm knock came at my outer door.
For a moment I simply held my breath and waited. Eternities seemed
to elapse, and the nauseous fishy odor of my environment seemed to
mount suddenly and spectacularly. Then the knocking was repeated—
continuously, and with growing insistence. I knew that the time for
action had come, and forthwith drew the bolt of the northward
connecting door, bracing myself for the task of battering it open. The
knocking waxed louder, and I hoped that its volume would cover the
sound of my efforts. At last beginning my attempt, I lunged again
and again at the thin panelling with my left shoulder, heedless of
shock or pain.
Finally the connecting door gave, but with such a crash that I knew
those outside must have heard. Instantly the outside knocking
became a violent battering, while keys sounded ominously in the hall
doors of the rooms on both sides of me. Rushing through the newly
opened connection, I succeeded in bolting the northerly hall door
before the lock could be turned; but even as I did so I heard the hall
door of the third room—the one from whose window I had hoped to
reach the roof below—being tried with a pass key.
For an instant I felt absolute despair, since my trapping in a chamber
with no window egress seemed complete. Then, with a dazed
automatism, I made for the next connecting door and performed the
blind motion of pushing at it in an effort to get through!
Sheer fortunate chance gave me my reprieve—for the connecting
door before me was not only unlocked but actually ajar. In a second I
was through, and had my right knee and shoulder against a hall door
which was visibly opening inward. My pressure took the opener off
guard, for the thing shut as I pushed, so that I could slip the well-
conditioned bolt as I had done with the other door. As I gained this
respite I heard the battering at the two other doors abate, while a
confused clatter came from the connecting door I had shielded with
the bedstead. Evidently the bulk of my assailants had entered the
southerly room and were massing in a lateral attack. But at the same
moment a pass key sounded in the next door to the north, and I
knew that a nearer peril was at hand.
The northward connecting door was wide open, but there was no
time to think about checking the already turning lock in the hall. All I
could do was to shut and bolt the open connecting door, as well as its
mate on the opposite side—pushing a bedstead against the one and
a bureau against the other, and moving a washstand in front of the
hall door. I must, I saw, trust to such makeshift barriers to shield me
till I could get out the window and on the roof of the Paine Street
block. But even in this acute moment my chief horror was something
apart from the immediate weakness of my defenses. I was
shuddering because not one of my pursuers, despite some hideous
pantings, gruntings, and subdued barkings at odd intervals, was
uttering an intelligible vocal sound!
As I moved the furniture and rushed toward the windows I heard a
frightful scurrying along the corridor toward the room north of me,
and perceived that the southward battering had ceased. Plainly, most
of my opponents were about to concentrate against the feeble
connecting door which they knew must open directly on me. Outside,
the moon played on the ridge-pole of the block below, and I saw that
the jump would be desperately hazardous because of the steep
surface on which I must land.
The clatter at the northerly connecting door was now terrific, and I
saw that the weak panelling was beginning to splinter. Obviously, the
besiegers had brought some ponderous object into play as a
battering-ram. The bedstead, however, still held firm; so that I had at
least a faint chance of making good my escape. As I opened the
window I noticed that it was flanked by heavy velour draperies
suspended from a pole by brass rings, and also that there was a large
projecting catch for the shutters on the exterior. Seeing a possible
means of avoiding the dangerous jump, I yanked at the hangings and
brought them down, pole and all; then quickly hooking two of the
rings in the shutter catch and flinging the drapery outside. The heavy
folds reached fully to the abutting roof, and I saw that the rings and
catch would be likely to bear my weight. So, climbing out of the
window and down the improvised rope ladder, I left behind me
forever the morbid and horror-infested fabric of the Gilman House.
I landed safely on the loose slates of the steep roof, and succeeded
in gaining the gaping black skylight without a slip. The place inside
was ghoulish-looking, but I was past minding such impressions and
made at once for the staircase revealed by my flashlight—after a
hasty glance at my watch, which showed the hour to be 2 A.M. The
steps creaked, but seemed tolerably sound; and I raced down past a
barnlike second story to the ground floor. The desolation was
complete, and only echoes answered my footfalls.
The hallway inside was black, and when I reached the opposite end I
saw that the street door was wedged immovably shut. Resolved to
try another building, I groped my way toward the courtyard, but
stopped short when close to the doorway.
For out of an opened door in the Gilman House a large crowd of
doubtful shapes was pouring—lanterns bobbing in the darkness, and
horrible croaking voices exchanging low cries in what was certainly
not English. Their features were indistinguishable, but their
crouching, shambling gait was abominably repellent. And worst of all,
I perceived that one figure was strangely robed, and unmistakably
surmounted by a tall tiara of a design altogether too familiar. Again
groping toward the street, I opened a door off the hall and came
upon an empty room with closely shuttered but sashless windows.
Fumbling in the rays of my flashlight, I found I could open the
shutters; and in another moment had climbed outside and was
carefully closing the aperture in its original manner.
I walked rapidly, softly, and close to the ruined houses. At Bates
Street I drew into a yawning vestibule while two shambling figures
crossed in front of me, but was soon on my way again and
approaching the open space where Eliot Street obliquely crosses
Washington at the intersection of South. Though I had never seen
this space, it had looked dangerous to me on the grocery youth's
map; since the moonlight would have free play there. There was no
use trying to evade it, for any alternative course would involve
detours of possibly disastrous visibility and delaying effect. The only
thing to do was to cross it boldly and openly; imitating the typical
shamble of the Innsmouth folk as best I could, and trusting that no
one—or at least no pursuer of mine—would be there.
Just how fully the pursuit was organized—and indeed, just what its
purpose might be—I could form no idea. There seemed to be unusual
activity in the town, but I judged that the news of my escape from
the Gilman had not yet spread. The open space was, as I had
expected, strongly moonlit. But my progress was unimpeded, and no
fresh sound arose to hint that I had been spied. Glancing about me, I
involuntarily let my pace slacken for a second to take in the sight of
the sea, gorgeous in the burning moonlight at the street's end. Far
out beyond the breakwater was the dim, dark line of Devil Reef.
Then, without warning, I saw the intermittent flashes of light on the
distant reef. My muscles tightened for panic flight, held in only by a
certain unconscious caution and half-hypnotic fascination. And to
make matters worse, there now flashed forth from the lofty cupola of
the Gilman House, which loomed up to the northeast behind me, a
series of analogous though differently spaced gleams which could be
nothing less than an answering signal.
I now bent to the left around the ruinous green; still gazing toward
the ocean as it blazed in the spectral summer moonlight, and
watching the cryptical flashing of those nameless, unexplainable
beacons.
It was then that the most horrible impression of all was borne in
upon me—the impression which destroyed my last vestige of self-
control and sent me running frantically southward past the yawning
black doorways and fishily staring windows of that deserted
nightmare street. For at a closer glance I saw that the moonlit waters
between the reef and the shore were far from empty. They were alive
with a teeming horde of shapes swimming inward toward the town!
My frantic running ceased before I had covered a block, for at my left
I began to hear something like the hue and cry of organized pursuit.
There were footsteps and guttural sounds, and a rattling motor
wheezed south along Federal Street. In a second all my plans were
utterly changed—for if the southward highway were blocked ahead of
me, I must clearly find another egress from Innsmouth. I paused and
drew into a gaping doorway, reflecting how lucky I was to have left
the moonlit open space before these pursuers came down the parallel
street.
Then I thought of the abandoned railway to Rowley, whose solid line
of ballasted, weed-grown earth still stretched off to the northwest
from the crumbling station on the edge of the river gorge. There was
just a chance that the townsfolk would not think of that!
Drawing inside the hall of my deserted shelter, I once more consulted
the grocery boy's map with the aid of the flashlight. The immediate
problem was how to reach the ancient railway; and I now saw that
the safest course was ahead to Babson Street, then west to Lafayette
—there edging around but not crossing an open space homologous to
the one I had traversed—and subsequently back northward and
westward in zigzagging line through Lafayette, Bates, Adams, and
Banks Streets—the latter skirting the river gorge—to the abandoned
and dilapidated station I had seen from my window. My reason for
going ahead to Babson was that I wished neither to re-cross the
earlier open space nor to begin my westward course along a cross
street as broad as South. I crossed the street to the right-hand side
in order to edge around into Babson as inconspicuously as possible.
In Babson Street I clung as closely as possible to the sagging,
uneven buildings; twice pausing in a doorway as the noises behind
me momentarily increased. The open space ahead shone wide and
desolate under the moon, but my route would not force me to cross
it. During my second pause I began to detect a fresh distribution of
the vague sounds; and upon looking cautiously out from cover beheld
a motor car darting across the open space, bound outward along
Eliot Street.
As I watched—choked by a sudden rise in the fishy odor after a short
abatement—I saw a band of uncouth, crouching shapes loping and
shambling in the same direction; and knew that this must be the
party guarding the Ipswich road, since that highway forms an
extension of Eliot Street. Two of the figures I glimpsed were in
voluminous robes, and one wore a peaked diadem which glistened
whitely in the moonlight. The gait of this figure was so odd that it
sent a chill through me—for it seemed to me the creature was almost
hopping.
When the last of the band was out of sight I resumed my progress;
darting around the corner into Lafayette Street, and crossing Eliot
very hurriedly lest stragglers of the party be still advancing along that
thoroughfare. I did hear some croaking and clattering sounds far off
toward Town Square, but accomplished the passage without disaster.
My greatest dread was in re-crossing broad and moonlit South Street
—with its seaward view—and I had to nerve myself for the ordeal.
Someone might easily be looking, and possible Eliot Street stragglers
could not fail to glimpse me from either of two points. At the last
moment I decided I had better slacken my trot and make the
crossing as before in the shambling gait of an average Innsmouth
native.
I had not quite crossed the street when I heard a muttering band
advancing along Washington from the north. As they reached the
broad open space where I had had my first disquieting glimpse of the
moonlit water I could see them plainly only a block away—and was
horrified by the bestial abnormality of their faces and the dog-like
sub-humanness of their crouching gait. One man moved in a
positively simian way, with long arms frequently touching the ground;
while another figure—robed and tiaraed—seemed to progress in an
almost hopping fashion. I judged this party to be the one I had seen
in the Gilman's courtyard—the one, therefore, most closely on my
trail. As some of the figures turned to look in my direction I was
transfixed with fright, yet managed to preserve the casual, shambling
gait I had assumed. To this day I do not know whether they saw me
or not. If they did, my stratagem must have deceived them, for they
passed on across the moonlit space without varying their course—
meanwhile croaking and jabbering in some hateful guttural patois I
could not identify.
Once more in shadow, I resumed my former dog-trot past the leaning
and decrepit houses that stared blankly into the night. Having
crossed to the western sidewalk I rounded the nearest corner into
Bates Street, where I kept close to the buildings on the southern
side. At last I saw the ancient arcaded station—or what was left of it
—and made directly for the tracks that started from its farther end.
The rails were rusty but mainly intact, and not more than half the ties
had rotted away. Walking or running on such a surface was very
difficult; but I did my best, and on the whole made very fair time. For
some distance the line kept on along the gorge's brink, but at length
I reached the long covered bridge where it crossed the chasm at a
dizzy height. The condition of this bridge would determine my next
step. If humanly possible, I would use it; if not, I would have to risk
more street wandering and take the nearest intact highway bridge.
The vast, barnlike length of the old bridge gleamed spectrally in the
moonlight and I saw that the ties were safe for at least a few feet
within. Entering, I began to use my flashlight, and was almost
knocked down by the cloud of bats that flapped past me. About
halfway across there was a perilous gap in the ties which I feared for
a moment would halt me; but in the end I risked a desperate jump
which fortunately succeeded.
I was glad to see the moonlight again when I emerged from that
macabre tunnel. The old tracks crossed River Street at a grade, and
at once veered off into a region increasingly rural and with less and
less of Innsmouth's abhorrent fishy odor. Here the dense growth of
weeds and briers hindered me and cruelly tore my clothes, but I was
none the less glad that they were there to give me concealment in
case of peril. I knew that much of my route must be visible from the
Rowley road.
The marshy region began very shortly, with the single track on a low,
grassy embankment. Then came a sort of island of higher ground,
where the line passed through a shallow open cut choked with
bushes and brambles. I was very glad of this partial shelter, since at
this point the Rowley road was uncomfortably near according to my
window view.
Just before entering the cut I glanced behind me, but saw no
pursuer. The ancient spires and roofs of decaying Innsmouth gleamed
lovely and ethereal in the magic yellow moonlight, and I thought of
how they must have looked in the old days before the shadow fell.
Then, as my gaze circled inland from the town, something less
tranquil arrested my notice and held me immobile for a second.
What I saw—or fancied I saw—was a disturbing suggestion of
undulant motion far to the south; a suggestion which made me
conclude that a very large horde must be pouring out of the city
along the level Ipswich road. The distance was great, and I could
distinguish nothing in detail; but I did not at all like the look of that
moving column.
All sorts of unpleasant conjectures crossed my mind. I thought of
those very extreme Innsmouth types said to be hidden in crumbling,
centuried warrens near the waterfront. I thought, too, of those
nameless swimmers I had seen. Counting the parties so far glimpsed,
as well as those presumably covering other roads, the number of my
pursuers must be strangely large for a town as depopulated as
Innsmouth.
Who were they? Why were they here? And if such a column of them
was scouring the Ipswich road, would the patrols on the other roads
be likewise augmented?
I had entered the brush-grown cut and was struggling along at a very
slow pace when that damnable fishy odor again waxed dominant.
There were sounds, too—a kind of wholesale, colossal flopping or
pattering which somehow called up images of the most detestable
sort.
And then both stench and sounds grew stronger, so that I paused
shivering and grateful for the cut's protection. It was here, I recalled,
that the Rowley road drew so close to the old railway before crossing
westward and diverging. Something was coming along that road, and
I must lie low till its passage and vanishment in the distance.
Crouched in the bushes of that sandy cleft I felt reasonably safe,
even though I knew the searchers would have to cross the track in
front of me not much more than a hundred yards away. I would be
able to see them, but they could not, except by a malign miracle, see
me.
All at once I began dreading to look at them as they passed. I saw
the close moonlit space where they would surge by, and had curious
thoughts about the irredeemable pollution of that space. They would
perhaps be the worst of all Innsmouth types—something one would
not care to remember.
The stench waxed overpowering, and the noises swelled to a bestial
babel of croaking, baying, and barking, without the least suggestion
of human speech. Were these indeed the voices of my pursuers?
That flopping or pattering was monstrous—I could not look upon the
degenerate creatures responsible for it. I would keep my eyes shut till
the sounds receded toward the west. The horde was very close now
—the air foul with their hoarse snarlings, and the ground almost
shaking with their alien-rhythmed footfalls. My breath nearly ceased
to come, and I put every ounce of will-power into the task of holding
my eyelids down.
I am not even yet willing to say whether what followed was a hideous
actuality or only a nightmare hallucination. The later action of the
government, after my frantic appeals, would tend to confirm it as a
monstrous truth; but could not an hallucination have been repeated
under the quasi-hypnotic spell of that ancient, haunted, and
shadowed town?
But I must try to tell what I thought I saw that night under the
mocking yellow moon—saw surging and hopping down the Rowley
road in plain sight in front of me as I crouched among the wild
brambles of that desolate railway cut. Of course my resolution to
keep my eyes shut had failed. It was foredoomed to failure—for who
could crouch blindly while a legion of croaking, baying entities of
unknown source flopped noisomely past, scarcely more than a
hundred yards away?
For I knew that a long section of them must be plainly in sight where
the sides of the cut flattened out and the road crossed the track—and
I could no longer keep myself from sampling whatever horror that
leering yellow moon might have to show.
It was the end, for whatever remains to me of life on the surface of
this earth, of every vestige of mental peace and confidence in the
integrity of nature and of the human mind. Can it be possible that
this planet has actually spawned such things; that human eyes have
truly seen, as objective flesh, what man has hitherto known only in
febrile phantasy and tenuous legend?
And yet I saw them in a limitless stream—flopping, hopping,
croaking, bleating—surging inhumanly through the spectral moonlight
in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic nightmare. And some
of them had tall tiaras of that nameless whitish-gold metal ... and
some were strangely robed ... and one, who led the way, was clad in
a ghoulishly humped black coat and striped trousers, and had a
man's felt hat perched on the shapeless thing that answered for a
head....
I think their predominant color was a grayish-green, though they had
white bellies. They were mostly shiny and slippery, but the ridges of
their backs were scaly. Their forms vaguely suggested the
anthropoid, while their heads were the heads of fish, with prodigious
bulging eyes that never closed. At the sides of their necks were
palpitating gills, and their long paws were webbed. They hopped
irregularly, sometimes on two legs and sometimes on four. I was
somehow glad that they had no more than four limbs. Their croaking,
baying voices, clearly used for articulate speech, held all the dark
shades of expression which their staring faces lacked.
But for all of their monstrousness they were not unfamiliar to me. I
knew too well what they must be—for was not the memory of that
evil tiara at Newburyport still fresh? They were the blasphemous fish-
frogs of the nameless design—living and horrible—and as I saw them
I knew also of what that humped, tiaraed priest in the black church
basement had so fearsomely reminded me. Their number was past
guessing. It seemed to me that there were limitless swarms of them
—and certainly my momentary glimpse could have shown only the
least fraction. In another instant everything was blotted out by a
merciful fit of fainting; the first I had ever had.

It was a gentle daylight rain that awaked me from my stupor in the

brush-grown railway cut, and when I staggered out to the roadway
ahead I saw no trace of any prints in the fresh mud. Innsmouth's
ruined roofs and toppling steeples loomed up grayly toward the
southeast, but not a living creature did I spy in all the desolate salt
marshes around. My watch was still going, and told me that the hour
was past noon.
The reality of what I had been through was highly uncertain in my
mind, but I felt that something hideous lay in the background. I must
get away from evil-shadowed Innsmouth—and accordingly I began to
test my cramped, wearied powers of locomotion. Despite weakness,
hunger, horror, and bewilderment I found myself after a time able to
walk; so started slowly along the muddy road to Rowley. Before
evening I was in the village, getting a meal and providing myself with
presentable clothes. I caught the night train to Arkham, and the next
day talked long and earnestly with government officials there; a
process I later repeated in Boston. With the main result of these
colloquies the public is now familiar—and I wish, for normality's sake,
there were nothing more to tell. Perhaps it is madness that is
overtaking me—yet perhaps a greater horror—or a greater marvel—is
reaching out.
I dared not look for that piece of strange jewelry said to be in the
Miskatonic University Museum. I did, however, improve my stay in
Arkham by collecting some genealogical notes I had long wished to
possess; very rough and hasty data, it is true, but capable of good
use later on when I might have time to collate and codify them. The
curator of the historical society there—Mr. E. Lapham Peabody—was
very courteous about assisting me, and expressed unusual interest
when I told him I was a grandson of Eliza Orne of Arkham, who was
born in 1867 and had married James Williamson of Ohio at the age of
seventeen.
It seemed that a maternal uncle of mine had been there many years
before on a quest much like my own; and that my grandmother's
family was a topic of some local curiosity. There had, Mr. Peabody
said, been considerable discussion about the marriage of her father,
Benjamin Orne, just after the Civil War; since the ancestry of the
bride was peculiarly puzzling. That bride was understood to have
been an orphaned Marsh of New Hampshire—a cousin of the Essex
County Marshes—but her education had been in France and she
knew very little of her family. A guardian had deposited funds in a
Boston bank to maintain her and her French governess; but that
guardian's name was unfamiliar to Arkham people, and in time he
dropped out of sight, so that the governess assumed his role by court
appointment. The French-woman—now long dead—was very taciturn,
and there were those who said she could have told more than she
did.
But the most baffling thing was the inability of anyone to place the
recorded parents of the young woman—Enoch and Lydia (Meserve)
Marsh—among the known families of New Hampshire. Possibly, many
suggested, she was the natural daughter of some Marsh of
prominence—she certainly had the true Marsh eyes. Most of the
puzzling was done after her early death, which took place at the birth
of my grandmother—her only child. Having formed some
disagreeable impressions connected with the name of Marsh, I did
not welcome the news that it belonged on my own ancestral tree; nor
was I pleased by Mr. Peabody's suggestion that I had the true Marsh
eyes myself. However, I was grateful for data which I knew would
prove valuable; and took copious notes and lists of book references
regarding the well-documented Orne family.
I went directly home to Toledo from Boston, and later spent a month
at Maumee recuperating from my ordeal. In September I entered
Oberlin for my final year, and from then till the next June was busy
with studies and other wholesome activities—reminded of the bygone
terror only by occasional official visits from government men in
connection with the campaign which my pleas and evidence had
started. Around the middle of July—just a year after the Innsmouth
experience—I spent a week with my late mother's family in
Cleveland; checking some of my new genealogical data with the
various notes, traditions, and bits of heirloom material in existence
there, and seeing what kind of a connected chart I could construct.
I did not exactly relish this task, for the atmosphere of the Williamson
home had always depressed me. There was a strain of morbidity
there, and my mother had never encouraged my visiting her parents
as a child, although she always welcomed her father when he came
to Toledo. My Arkham-born grandmother had seemed strange and
almost terrifying to me, and I do not think I grieved when she
disappeared. I was eight years old then, and it was said that she had
wandered off in grief after the suicide of my uncle Douglas, her
eldest son. He had shot himself after a trip to New England—the
same trip, no doubt, which had caused him to be recalled at the
Arkham Historical Society.
This uncle had resembled her, and I had never liked him either.
Something about the staring, unwinking expression of both of them
had given me a vague, unaccountable uneasiness. My mother and
uncle Walter had not looked like that. They were like their father,
though poor little cousin Lawrence—Walter's son—had been an
almost perfect duplicate of his grandmother before his condition took
him to the permanent seclusion of a sanitarium at Canton. I had not
seen him in four years, but my uncle once implied that his state, both
mental and physical, was very bad. This worry had probably been a
major cause of his mother's death two years before.
My grandfather and his widowered son Walter now comprised the
Cleveland household, but the memory of older times hung thickly
over it. I still disliked the place, and tried to get my researches done
as quickly as possible. Williamson records and traditions were
supplied in abundance by my grandfather; though for Orne material I
had to depend on my uncle Walter, who put at my disposal the
contents of all his files, including notes, letters, cuttings, heirlooms,
photographs, and miniatures.
It was in going over the letters and pictures on the Orne side that I
began to acquire a kind of terror of my own ancestry. As I have said,
my grandmother and uncle Douglas had always disturbed me. Now,
years after their passing, I gazed at their pictured faces with a
measurably heightened feeling of repulsion and alienation. I could
not at first understand the change, but gradually a horrible sort of
comparison began to obtrude itself on my unconscious mind despite
the steady refusal of my consciousness to admit even the least
suspicion of it. It was clear that the typical expression of these faces
now suggested something it had not suggested before—something
which would bring stark panic if too openly thought of.
But the worst shock came when my uncle showed me the Orne
jewelry in a downtown safe-deposit vault. Some of the items were
delicate and inspiring enough, but there was one box of strange old
pieces descended from my mysterious great-grandmother which my
uncle was almost reluctant to produce. They were, he said, of very
grotesque and almost repulsive design.
As my uncle began slowly and grudgingly to unwrap the things, he
urged me not to be shocked by the strangeness and frequent
hideousness of the designs. There were two armlets, a tiara, and a
kind of pectoral; the latter having in high relief certain figures of
almost unbearable extravagance.
He seemed to expect some demonstration when the first piece—the
tiara—became visible, but I doubt if he expected quite what actually
happened. I did not expect it, either, for I thought I was thoroughly
forewarned regarding what the jewelry would turn out to be. What I
did was to faint silently away just as I had done in that brier-choked
railway cut a year before.
From that day on my life has been a nightmare of brooding and
apprehension, nor do I know how much is hideous truth and how
much madness. My great-grandmother had been a Marsh of unknown
source whose husband lived in Arkham—and did not old Zadok say
that the daughter of Obed Marsh by a monstrous mother was
married to an Arkham man through a trick? What was it the ancient
toper had muttered about the likeness of my eyes to Captain Obed's?
In Arkham, too, the curator had told me I had the true Marsh eyes.
Was Obed Marsh my own great-great-grandfather? Who—or what—
then, was my great-great-grandmother? But perhaps this was all
madness. Those whitish-gold ornaments might easily have been
bought from some Innsmouth sailor by the father of my great-
grandmother, whoever he was. And that look in the staring-eyed
faces of my grandmother and self-slain uncle might be sheer fancy,
bolstered up by the Innsmouth shadow which had so darkly colored
my imagination. But why had my uncle killed himself after an
ancestral quest in New England?
For more than two years I fought off these reflections with partial
success. My father secured me a place in an insurance office, and I
buried myself in routine as deeply as possible. In the winter of 1930-
31, however, the dreams began. They were very sparse and insidious
at first, but increased in frequency and vividness as the weeks went
by. Great watery spaces opened out before me, and I seemed to
wander through titanic sunken porticos and labyrinths of weedy
cyclopean walls and grotesque fishes as my companions. Then the
other shapes began to appear, filling me with nameless horror the
moment I awoke. But during the dreams they did not horrify me at
all—I was one with them; wearing their unhuman trappings, treading
their aqueous ways, and praying monstrously at their evil sea-bottom
temples.
There was much more than I could remember, but even what I did
remember each morning would be enough to stamp me as a
madman or a genius if ever I dared write it down. Some frightful
influence, I felt, was seeking gradually to drag me out of the sane
world of wholesome life into unnameable abysses of blackness and
alienage; and the process told heavily on me. My health and
appearance grew steadily worse, till finally I was forced to give up my
position and adopt the static, secluded life of an invalid. Some odd
nervous affliction had me in its grip, and I found myself at times
almost unable to shut my eyes.
It was then that I began to study the mirror with mounting alarm.
The slow ravages of disease are not pleasant to watch, but in my
case there was something subtler and more puzzling in the
background. My father seemed to notice it, too, for he began looking
at me curiously and almost affrightedly. What was taking place in
me? Could it be that I was coming to resemble my grandmother and
uncle Douglas?
One night I had a frightful dream in which I met my grandmother
under the sea. She lived in a phosphorescent palace of many
terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and grotesque
brachiate efflorescences, and welcomed me with a warmth that may
have been sardonic. She had changed—as those who take to the
water change—and told me she had never died. Instead, she had
gone to a spot her dead son had learned about, and had leaped to a
realm whose wonders—destined for him as well—he had spurned
with a smoking pistol. This was to be my realm, too—I could not
escape it. I would never die, but would live with those who had lived
since before man ever walked the earth.
 "One night, in a frightful dream, I met two Ancient Ones
under the sea in a phosphorescent, many terraced palace
surrounded by gardens of strange, leprous corals."

I met also that which had been her grandmother. For eighty thousand
years Pth'thya-l'yi had lived in Y'ha-nthlei, and thither she had gone
back after Obed Marsh was dead. Y'ha-nthlei was not destroyed
when the upper-earth men shot death into the sea. It was hurt, but
not destroyed. The Deep Ones could never be destroyed, even
though the palaeogean magic of the forgotten Old Ones might
sometimes check them. For the present they would rest; but some
day, if they remembered, they would rise again for the tribute Great
Cthulhu craved. It would be a city greater than Innsmouth next time.
They had planned to spread, and had brought up that which would
help them, but now they must wait once more. For bringing the
upper-earth men's death I must do a penance, but that would not be
heavy. This was the dream in which I saw a shoggoth for the first
time, and the sight set me awake in a frenzy of screaming. That
morning the mirror definitely told me I had acquired the Innsmouth
look.
So far I have not shot myself as my uncle Douglas did. I bought an
automatic and almost took the step, but certain dreams deterred me.
The tense extremes of horror are lessening, and I feel queerly drawn
toward the unknown sea-deeps instead of fearing them. I hear and
do strange things in sleep, and awake with a kind of exaltation
instead of terror. I do not believe I need to wait for the full change as
most have waited. If I did, my father would probably shut me up in a
sanitarium as my poor little cousin is shut up. Stupendous and
unheard-of splendors await me below, and I shall seek them soon.
Iā-R'lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iā! Iā! No, I shall not shoot myself—I
cannot be made to shoot myself!
I shall plan my cousin's escape from that Canton madhouse, and
together we shall go to marvel-shadowed Innsmouth. We shall swim
out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black
abysses to cyclopean and many-columned Y'ha-nthlei, and in that lair
of the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory forever.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHADOW
OVER INNSMOUTH ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S.

copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in
these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it
in the United States without permission and without paying
copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of
Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything
for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is
very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as
creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research.
Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given
away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with
eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject
to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
 PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free

distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or
any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and

Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree
to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be
bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund
from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in
paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be

used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people
who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a
few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.
See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with
Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the
collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the
individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the
United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law
in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do
not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing,
performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the
work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of
course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely
sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated
with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this
agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached
full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge
with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also
govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most
countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the
United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the
terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying,
performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this
work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes
no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in
any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other

immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must
appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™
work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears,
or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is
accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived

from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a
notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright
holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the
United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must
comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through
1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted

with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted
with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning
of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project

Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a
part of this work or any other work associated with Project
Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this

electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1
with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form,
including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you
provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work
in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in
the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or
expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or
a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original
“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must
include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in
paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing

access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive
from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the
method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The
fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty
payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on
which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your
periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked
as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information
 about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who

notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt
that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project
Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of

any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in
the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90
days of receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™

electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend

considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe
and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating
the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may
be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to,
incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a
copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

textbookfull.com