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Ice scallops are a small-scale (5–20 cm) quasi-periodic ripple pattern that occurs at the ice–water interface. Previous work has suggested that scallops form due to a self-reinforcing interaction between an evolving ice-surface geometry, an adjacent turbulent flow field and the resulting differential melt rates that occur along the interface. In this study, we perform a series of laboratory experiments in a refrigerated flume to quantitatively investigate the mechanisms of scallop formation and evolution in high resolution. Using particle image velocimetry, we probe an evolving ice–water boundary layer at sub-millimetre scales and 15 Hz frequency. Our data reveal three distinct regimes of ice–water interface evolution: a transition from flat to scalloped ice; an equilibrium scallop geometry; and an adjusting scallop interface. We find that scalloped-ice geometry produces a clear modification to the ice–water boundary layer, characterized by a time-mean recirculating eddy feature that forms in the scallop trough. Our primary finding is that scallops form due to a self-reinforcing feedback between the ice-interface geometry and shear production of turbulent kinetic energy in the flow interior. The length of this shear production zone is therefore hypothesized to set the scallop wavelength.
A previous small study suggested that Brain Network Activation (BNA), a novel ERP-based brain network analysis, may have diagnostic utility in attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). In this study we examined the diagnostic capability of a new advanced version of the BNA methodology on a larger population of adults with and without ADHD.
Subjects were unmedicated right-handed 18- to 55-year-old adults of both sexes with and without a DSM-IV diagnosis of ADHD. We collected EEG while the subjects were performing a response inhibition task (Go/NoGo) and then applied a spatio-temporal Brain Network Activation (BNA) analysis of the EEG data. This analysis produced a display of qualitative measures of brain states (BNA scores) providing information on cortical connectivity. This complex set of scores was then fed into a machine learning algorithm.
The BNA analysis of the EEG data recorded during the Go/NoGo task demonstrated a high discriminative capacity between ADHD patients and controls (AUC = 0.92, specificity = 0.95, sensitivity = 0.86 for the Go condition; AUC = 0.84, specificity = 0.91, sensitivity = 0.76 for the NoGo condition).
BNA methodology can help differentiate between ADHD and healthy controls based on functional brain connectivity. The data support the utility of the tool to augment clinical examinations by objective evaluation of electrophysiological changes associated with ADHD. Results also support a network-based approach to the study of ADHD.
The Birth of Tragedy is not a work of classical scholarship. It does contain a good deal of incidental material which only a scholar would be likely to know; and it takes a good deal for granted in a way that only a scholar could find natural. It could only have been written by one who, whatever else he was or wanted to be, was a scholar. And if there is any single group of readers that it seems to presuppose, it can only be a select group of sympathetic, or at least open-minded, classical scholars. But the book is still not a work of scholarship. Not only does it denounce from the pulpit, with all the strident vigour at its author's command, the heresy of Socratism, of which all science and scholarship are expressions. It also practises what it preaches by flouting most of the obvious norms of scholarly prose and striving after other, less ‘Socratic’, virtues. And yet it represents a significant contribution to the appreciation of the cultural and spiritual realities of the ancient world. As such, and despite Wilamowitz, it has come to exert a considerable influence on subsequent Greek scholarship. Eduard Fraenkel – one of the foremost scholars of our own century and himself a pupil of Wilamowitz – once suggested that ‘the most powerful factor in the difference of outlook between Wilamowitz and [Fraenkel's] own generation was the influence of Nietzsche’. BT has been the main source of that influence, and it continues to deserve the attention of serious students of antiquity today.
As a comment on Greek culture Nietzsche's book is an extraordinary composite of brilliant insight, expressed with unforgettable force, conventional wisdom, sloppiness, speciousness, distortion and (for lack of a better name) artistic construct. It would have been convenient to use Wilamowitz as an expert adviser to help separate the ingredients of this strange mixture. Unhappily, Wilamowitz, in the violence of his objection to Nietzsche's explicit assault on scholarship and unbalanced by his own personal interest, evaded or denied Nietzsche's insights and misrepresented his procedures. That unspeakable book (Wilamowitz assured the world) was all sloppiness, speciousness, distortion – and furthermore (he added half a century later) its unspeakable author had no scholarly credentials anyway.
The Birth of Tragedy represents Nietzsche's most sustained attempt at a theory of art. Apart from the late essay, The Wagner Case, and its companion piece, Nietzsche Contra Wagner, it is his only book in which art occupies a central place, even though musical and literary criticism and aesthetic speculations abound in all his writings. Those who discuss Nietzsche's views on art often treat his books as if they were separate chapters of one continuous work. The coherence of this œuvre is sometimes strongly affirmed, sometimes denied, but the whole sequence is taken to be a single work in the sense that excerpts from different parts of it may be played together, like cards from a single pack, without further ado. Allowance is usually made for Nietzsche's revaluation of Wagner, which is too obvious a reversal to be ignored; this apart, the question of development or changes of mind is hardly raised.
This procedure is unacceptable. Whatever may be said of Nietzsche's thought as a whole, the fact is that, despite continuities, his view of art does develop and change, and nowhere is the development more marked than between BT and the work of the later 1870s and 1880s. That development proceeds in conjunction with the revaluation of Wagner, but is not restricted to it. In opposition to the thesis put forward in BT, the later Nietzsche will espouse the ideals of classicism, partly with reference to French culture; he will express hostility to the theatre; he will be able to see convention as ‘the condition of great art, not an obstacle to it’ and art itself as ‘the cult of the untrue’ – and insofar as these two propositions are relatable to his earlier conception of art, it can only be to his conception of Apolline art. A further important change, implicit in this last pair of instances, will be the tendency to equate all forms of art at the expense of those distinctions to which BT is devoted. In this development tragedy must forfeit much of its special status – and so too will music, which, as far as the post-Wagnerian Nietzsche is concerned, is no longer ‘a universal language for all time’ or a language with a unique, metaphysical power.
An ironist might observe that the unbroken sequence of German theories of tragedy from Lessing to Brecht and beyond constitutes a body of writing at least as interesting, and possibly more interesting, than the German tragedies which were written during that time. And even though the statement is unfair and an exaggeration, it does reflect a tenacious preoccupation with the theory of drama and the idea of ‘the tragic’ which has no parallel in any other literature. Nietzsche's own theory must be assessed, as we have tried to assess it, as a contribution to the understanding of tragedy in its own right. At the same time, consideration of the German theoretical tradition to which he belongs provides a necessarý perspective. In the first place it helps to explain the extra-literary character of his interest in the tragic stage. The particular existential slant of his theory may be his own, but throughout this long line of theories tragedy is anything but a narrowly literary concern. Correspondingly, the theorists tend tacitly to agree with Nietzsche that detailed technical analyses of an Aristotelian kind are not their business. Nietzsche, once again, may have a special aversion to technicalities, but the German theorists as a whole are not given to them. It may sound paradoxical, but their theories are more philosophically far-ranging than Aristotle's, while his is more detached, more ‘aesthetic’ in the Kantian sense; but then, the Kantian critical mode of thought is closer to Aristotle than to the speculative theoreticians of the post-Kantian era.
Lessing's observations in Hamburg Dramaturgy II (1759), our first case in point, reflect that multiplicity of interests, or rather cares, of which Nietzsche remarked that they squandered Lessing's finest gifts. Dramatic critic and dramatist, cosmopolitan and patriot, theologian and enlightened moralist, savant and popularizer – Lessing pursues all these callings and uses his theorizing about drama in each of them. We may summarize his thinking – to the extent that it is relevant to our historical sketch – under three headings, all of which really point in the same direction:
(i) The theatre is an inculcator of virtues.
(ii) The theatre – or rather the taste for it – is a matter of national culture, and consequently the virtues (that is, a people's sense of values) are at least co-determined by historical and national considerations.
Friedrich Nietzsche's book, The Birth of Tragedy, appeared in 1872. It is a book that can be related closely to the age in which it was written, and especially the personal circumstances of its author, then a young classical scholar. It can be related, again, to the mature philosophy of its author's later years. It must, obviously, be considered in relation to the actual matters it is concerned with, of which Greek tragedy is the most specifiable. And in respect of this main concern, it is also to be related to a particular tradition within German thought, which provides us with our starting point: a tradition of theoretical enquiry into the nature of tragedy – Greek tragedy, above all. This tradition goes back at least to Herder and Lessing in the eighteenth century; and it continues beyond Nietzsche to Johannes Volkelt and Bertolt Brecht in our own time. Common to all the contributors, up to and including Nietzsche, is their profound interest in the literature of ancient Greece. They all take issue, in a variety of different ways, with the classic theory of tragedy propounded in Aristotle's Poetics; they all, in the wake of Herder, make some attempt to relate the achievements of the Greek tragedians to the religious or social facts of Greek life; and they all consider the dramas of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides to form one of the summits of world literature. About the other summit there is less agreement: it is not always Shakespeare. But while the reasons for ‘the tyranny of Greece over Germany’ are many, the belief in the paramount value of these Greek plays as in some sense forming one of humanity's fundamental documents is always present.
Why the interest in theory? It is true that preoccupation with theoretical accounts of phenomena of all kinds is characteristic of German culture at least since the day of Leibnitz at the beginning of the eighteenth century, but in this instance there is a more specific reason.
‘Scholarship, art and philosophy’, Nietzsche had written in 1871, ‘are now growing together inside me so much that I'll be giving birth to centaurs one day.’ It is not some incidental flaw or quirk but the essential condition of BT that it is, as Nietzsche had predicted, a hybrid: a work of mixed mode between literature and ‘science’, between art and thought. It was this hybridity that prompted Rohde to call it a ‘didactic poem’ (Lehrgedicht) and Cosima Wagner to explain that she felt obliged to ‘read it as a poem’, even though it dealt with ‘the most profound problems’ – and finally Nietzsche himself to disown the book in his Self-Criticism of 1886 as neither one thing nor the other: ‘What spoke here…was something like a mystical, almost maenadic soul…that stammered with difficulty…as if in a strange tongue…It should have sung, not spoken, this new soul. What I had to say then – what a pity that I did not dare to say it as a poet: perhaps I had the ability. Or at least as a philologist: even today practically everything in this field remains to be unearthed and discovered by philologists!’ Here as elsewhere, however, Nietzsche's afterthoughts are not to be taken as definitive. We must define the hybridity more closely.
Although Nietzsche does not write as a philologist, he remains unmistakably a Hellenist. Despite his intense admiration for Schopenhauer and Wagner, and notwithstanding his own testimony to the stature or representative importance of the ‘entire Aryan community’ (§9), of Buddhism (§§18, 21), of Shakespeare (§2), of Rome (§21), he assumes that, within man's entire cultural experience, Greece (in its creative rise or its Socratic fall) comes first, ‘that the Greeks, as charioteers, hold in their hands the reins of our own and every other culture’ (§15). This unargued assumption – for assertion, however majestic, does not constitute an argument – Nietzsche shares with a hundred years of German Hellenism before him. From the time of Winckelmann, however, the quest for Greece is generally pursued in the spirit of historical method. Nietzsche's tendency is in a different direction.
Nietzsche on Tragedy is a study of Nietzsche's first book, The Birth of Tragedy. It is not a commentary on his philosophy as a whole, although it does take account of his other writings – letters and notes as well as books – where these have a bearing on the discussion. For anyone concerned with an understanding of the ancient world or the history of modern culture or ideas, with Nietzsche and the evolution of his philosophical idiom, with Wagner or with drama, especially Greek drama, The Birth of Tragedy is an important book. But although it is widely read and although it has been extremely influential, it has never been discussed as a whole (or, in some aspects, discussed at all), and it has been much misunderstood. The chief cause of both misunderstanding and partial treatment is the particular way that the book combines the perspectives of German thought with the knowledge of a Greek scholar. Being concerned with these two spheres in their daily work, and having a common interest in Nietzsche's book, the authors felt that together they might contribute in a concerted way to its appreciation. Their collaboration, under the circumstances, was bound to be a close one; in the event, it has been unusually close. In the first instance the Greek and the biographical material was worked by M. S. S., the material pertaining to German literature and thought by J. P. S. But each stage of the writing was preceded by so much discussion and followed by so much intensive rewriting on both sides, that the final version cannot be regarded as anything other than the joint effort of the two authors, who accept equal responsibility for it. When they first mooted the idea of a collaboration (at the institution to which this book is dedicated), the authors did not, as a matter of fact, share a common view of their subject. The final version is the product of mutual correction and convergence.
The authors wish to thank all those who assisted them during several years’ work on this book, among them Professor Mazzino Montinari, who generously provided material and advice concerning the unpublished portions of Nietzsche's Nachlass in Weimar, and Michael Tanner, who read the proofs.
The advance copies of BT appeared in the last days of 1871. On 2 January 1872 Nietzsche sent one to Wagner at Tribschen. In his covering letter he stressed, with extreme deference, the close relation of his book and its theories to Wagner's creative achievements: ‘if I myself think that in essence I am right, then that only means that you with your art must be eternally right… I feel proud that… now people will always link my name with yours.’ At the same time, in the lofty tone appropriate to communication with the Master on such an occasion, he alluded to his misgivings about the public's response: ‘God have mercy on my philologists if they insist on learning nothing now.’ To Rohde, we recall, only a few weeks earlier, he had expressed the more general concern that the book's multifariousness would alienate all his prospective specialist readers, but the philologists above all. On that occasion he had, in fact, put it to his friend that, as far as the philological fraternity was concerned, his book (the central part of which Rohde had now seen) would be in dire need of some ‘higher advertising’ (‘höhere Reklame‘– Nietzsche's inverted commas), and he had suggested that the solution might be an open letter about the book from Rohde, preferably in some scholarly journal. Rohde gladly offered his services: the idea had already occurred to him, although his inclination was to try a less specialized journal, the Litterarische Centralblatt.
Bypassing any such anxieties for the moment, Tribschen responded in tones of ecstasy. Here was its supreme vindication. Wagner wrote by return: ‘I have never read a finer book than yours. It is utterly magnificent.’ And Cosima: ‘How beautiful your book is! How beautiful and how profound – how profound and how daring!… You have conjured up spirits I thought only the Master had at his service.’ As her diary records, she and Wagner spent several days on the book, reading it, discussing it, and enthusing over it. In addition, she indicates that they too were privately uneasy about the public reaction, albeit not quite for Nietzsche's reasons.
Up to this point in our narrative, it has been possible, with some difficulty, to keep the three main strands of Nietzsche's life apart. With the beginning of his Basle period, it is virtually impossible to separate these or any aspects of his life or work, including the complicated genesis of BT. Everything converges – and Nietzsche himself does everything possible to ensure that it should. The convergence, in fact, reflects his first full-scale, and characteristically self-conscious, attempt to oppose fragmentation in favour of a whole response to experience. As he puts it, with a certain dispassionate irony, in a letter of early 1870: ‘I observe how my philosophical, moral and scholarly endeavours strive towards a single goal and that I may perhaps become the first philologist ever to achieve wholeness.’ And how should he achieve it? Throughout this early period, ‘Schopenhauer’ is the device behind which Nietzsche is mustering his increasingly independent thinking. And so he can still express his aspiration towards that ‘wholeness’ in terms of a unifying Schopenhauerianism. In September 1869 he writes: ‘I really do stand now at a centre from which Schopenhauerian threads reach out into all parts of the world’; and it was in April, on the eve of his departure for Basle, that he had expressed the ambition to infuse his own philological discipline with ‘that Schopenhauerian seriousness…; I should like to be something more than a drill-master for competent philologists – the generation of present-day teachers, the care of the growing younger generation, this is what I have in mind.’
Despite these protestations, however, it can hardly be denied that Nietzsche's main enthusiasm, and the main stimulus to his enthusiasms in general, was no longer Schopenhauer, but the composer whose devotee he was and whose intimate friend he shortly became. ‘Intimate’ is not, perhaps, the right word. There is a case for saying that Nietzsche's relationships, though often intense, hardly ever permitted the degree of self-revelation, at least on his side, that true intimacy presupposes. His friendship with Rohde might be an exception here; his relationship with Wagner was probably not. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that this relationship flourished.