Introduction

The Australian wine industry's export-led growth and quality upgrading since the 1980s has added remarkable wealth and vitality to many rural regions of Australia. It has also altered the characteristics of grape and wine production in those various regions. This Chapter summarizes the more easily measured of the industry's regional economic contributions. Other contributions multiply those regional benefits, including to the complementary restaurant, accommodation and other tourist-related industries, and to input-supplying industries such as bottle producers, designers and printers of labels, and transport firms.

This Chapter also summarizes some key characteristics of the industry at the regional level. In doing so it reveals the increasing distinctiveness of the various wine regions as they seek to add value by differentiating themselves from each other and from producers abroad.

One reason for compiling regional data is because regions are investing increasingly in their own promotional efforts, as a supplement to national generic promotion through the Australian Grape and Wine Authority and its predecessors. Pressures to move in that direction have intensified in recent years as the Australian dollar strengthened as a result of a boom in mineral and energy raw material exports, and as competition from other New World suppliers intensified.

Another reason to focus on regional differences within the industry is to assist producers in each region to develop strategies to adapt to climate change and associated developments in water markets. Changes such as rising mean temperatures, a greater frequency and intensity of extreme weather events, changing precipitation patterns, and widening fluctuations in irrigation water prices and availability are altering over time the optimal methods of production and possibly even the optimal regional location for producing particular varieties of winegrapes (see, e.g., Webb 2006 and other references cited in Anderson et al. 2008). For that reason we highlight climate zones in addition to geographic regions: each region is classified, according to the region's average January and February temperatures and growing degree days (Webb 2006, pp. 239-40), as belonging to one of three viticultural climate zones as defined at the bottom of Table 45 and detailed in Table 46: hot, warm or cool.

All this activity and jockeying for visibility was a welcome development for a culture too often made timid by what AA Phillips had identified in the 1950s as the ‘cultural cringe’. In its own way it was a grassroots upsurge, not necessarily led by the universities, but it played a part in opening up the possibilities of an Australian literature. If as Nile suggests, quoting Roland Barthes, ‘literature is what is studied inside of universities, in that universities legitimate and give value to canonical texts’ (202), it was not until the 1970s that some progress was made in introducing some Australian books to curricula. There had been proponents for many years in and outside the system — such as Colin Roderick, Nettie Palmer, PR Stephenson, Rex Ingamells and Miles Franklin — and in 1940 Brian Elliott became the first specialist appointment at the University of Adelaide. Even so, scholars such as Leonie Kramer and JM Stewart still actively questioned whether there was ‘enough of it’ to study:

Founded in 1963, Australian Literary Studies pre-empted, and later articulated, the changes. Australian Literary Studies was solely dedicated to critical work on Australian literature, and was the first journal of its type. Further formalisation followed in 1977 with the foundation of the Australian Association for the study of Australian Literature (ASAL). According to Denholm, Australian Literary Studies was founded on the suggestion of James McAuley at the University of Tasmania (2: 68) and Laurie Hergenhan became its first editor and over much of its life its mainstay. According to Michael Wilding, McAuley, because of his conservative leanings, wanted to counter the promotion of Australian literature along the radical nationalist lines promoted by Meanjin and Overland at the time (Australian Literary Studies 76). Furthermore, the aim was that ‘Australian Literary Studies would be professional — not amateur, enthusiastic and radical’ (‘Letter to the author’).

In any case, the early years of the new millennium, unpredictably, witnessed the birth of a number of new magazines — partly, it appears, as a response to a publishing crisis for new writers. It was also apparent that non-fiction (as a broad definition) was outselling fiction in the marketplace. Most of the new magazines would then heavily promote essays and creative non-fiction in such an environment.

In 2003, Griffith University decided to upgrade its intellectual profile (at a time when most universities were leaving the difficult business of supporting such unpredictable ventures) by creating the Griffith Review under the editorship of Julianne Schultz, a professor at Griffith University. The Griffith Review was offered financial and in-kind support from the university, in an interesting move from an institution that was not a part of the Group of Eight. The charter for Schultz was to make the Griffith Review largely a nonfiction journal that would participate and prefigure national debate. This was during a time when the conventional wisdom in publishing continually stressed that literary fiction did not sell but that non-fiction in its various guises did well. Unknown authors, though, were rarely published in its pages.

Thus the Griffith Review has successfully anticipated republican debates, for example, and initiated themed issues such as ‘Re-imagining Australia’. Schultz was a public intellectual during a time when university-employed academics were withdrawing from public space into specialised enclaves. In a sense, she shrewdly anticipated developments in the zeitgeist, publishing articles, for instance, by Marcia Langton, Noel Pearson and Peter Sutton, whose views were contrary to the established wisdom on Indigenous policy after the 1970s. In its early years, the Griffith Review was designed like a book, consisted of over 200 pages, and consolidated the general move, over three decades, away from magazine formats to chunkier, more ‘serious’ constructions.

The creation of the Griffith Review was the most serious incursion undertaken by a university into publishing a literary magazine in decades. The University of Melbourne had supported Meanjin for many years after Clem Christesen moved it to Melbourne from Brisbane; the University of Sydney had consistently helped out Southerly; and more recently, Victoria University has been giving Overland in-kind and facility support. But overall, the universities had retreated from involvement.

Informing and seemingly fertilising these developments was a ‘republic’ of new writers, some published in traditional terms, many of whom only frequented certain writers’ festivals. If of a certain demographic, they went to the Emerging Writers’ Festival, begun in Melbourne, and the Newcastlebased National Young Writers’ Festival. Many of them published zines — small magazines of usually only 10-20 copies at the most, which were distributed among friends and the odd stranger. Zines were retro-moments in effect, and were even less ambitious in terms of preferred circulation than the more peripatetic publications of the late 1960s and early 1970s. Even in a time of reduced and reconfigured idealism, these writers, in terms of the festival in Newcastle, were participating in revitalising public spaces. They clearly realised that much of what was being published was for a middle-class, middle-aged, largely female readership of cultural consumers. Large numbers of them had also been initiated into notions of free cultural products through widespread downloading of musical products (for example, CDs) on the internet. Such free products undermined future income for musicians and creative writers under the guise of the democratisation of culture.

These young writers did not attend mainstream literary festivals on the whole, and were conspicuous by their absence from writers’ centres and probably did not read the literary pages of the major newspapers, knowing full well that what they produced would not be noticed in those pages because as a certain kind of writer they (with a few, mainly non-fiction exceptions) had marginal potential for commodification. They participated in events other than the Newcastle Young Writers’ Festival, including Fringe Festivals even though the notion of ‘the fringe’ was increasingly problematic as Fringe events were becoming more mainstream, and in a series of launches/parties. Whether this tendency was a sign of resignation about the fact that the means of literary production were unassailable, or a realisation that there was no need for change (and therefore no need to assemble an audience of readers), would be interesting to watch.

There were some similarities with the 1970s, in that writers will always congregate together, and the decade was noted for its readings. But during the 1970s, performance poetry had an edge to it in that middle-class readers were still able to be shocked, as even the more intellectual fraction of the class was relatively homogeneous.

Meanjin was founded in 1940 in Brisbane as Meanjin Papers by Clem Christesen, the name (pronounced as Mee-An-Jin) derived from the Aboriginal word for the land where the city of Brisbane is located. From 1947 to 1960 it was called Meanjin, from 1961 to 1976 Meanjin Quarterly, and again Meanjin from 1976 to the present day. Christesen pursued a nationalist agenda, an attempt at claiming a space for Australian literature in an environment where there were no courses in Australian literature in universities and the great majority of books published and sold came from the United Kingdom. He assembled around him a group of like-minded intellectuals such as Geoffrey Searle, Vance Palmer and AA Phillips. Phillips's famous essay, ‘The Cultural Cringe’, first published in Meanjin in 1950, persuasively argued that ‘we’ were still cringing in the face of our British forebears: that the centre of culture is ingrained in our psyche as being somewhere else. Meanjin's relationship with the University of Melbourne was often fraught, yet Christesen forged on, as detailed by Lynne Strahan in Just City and the Mirrors: Meanjin Quarterly and the Intellectual Front, 1940-1965. Christesen established the magazine as Australia's pre-eminent literary publication by the close of the 1960s.

The Realist Writer, a cultural offshoot of the Communist Party of Australia, was the precursor to Overland. From 1954 it was titled Overland: Incorporating the Realist Writer, but after 1956, Murray-Smith, along with other intellectuals such as Ian Turner, resigned from the party after Khrushchev exposed the crimes of Stalin, and it became purely Overland in 1956, attracting artists and designers such as Vane Lindesay and Noel Counihan (who designed the first cover, depicting gold-diggers). Overland, then, grew out of a strong left-wing and working-class tradition of economic and cultural mobilisation prior to, and including, the Great Depression of the 1930s and the Second World War through organisations such as the Australasian Book Society, Worker's Educational Associations and radical newspapers, establishing as it were the magazine's ongoing agenda to develop a radical community of ideas.

That first issue in Spring 1954 (Overland: Incorporating the Realist Writer) published a rollcall of left-wing writers, among others Nettie Palmer, the shortstory writer, John Morrison, Katharine Susannah Prichard, John Manifold, David Martin, the historian Brian Fitzpatrick and Eric Lambert.

Often new little magazines would start out through a perceived dissatisfaction with existing publications. The establishment of Heat in 1996 by Ivor Indyk was a case in point, and its history would demonstrate the pressures I have already alluded to with the established journals and the threat posed by the internet. According to Miriam Cosic, Indyk had been editing Southerly and ‘was tired of the dry academic tone of the literary magazines of the day, including Meanjin and Overland’ (9). He decided to make a statement: ‘I wanted something that was much more engaging and would gain a larger readership. I wanted to take literary writing out into the marketplace’ (qtd. in Cosic 9).

Cosic claimed that ‘multinational companies were beginning to dominate and they were looking for product: marketable, bestselling novels’, and that Indyk wanted to reintroduce the traditional role of the magazine by publishing new work by people before they went on to longer works, in the way that Carey, Moorhouse and Grenville had years before. He was fired up, in that his first editorial described ‘the destruction of universities as sites of intellectual and artistic controversy, [and] the devaluation of literary ideals in the marketplace’ (9). According to Ommundsen and Jacklin,

For a brief period the magazine did not publish, but the first series of fifteen issues began in 2001 with two issues a year, increasing to three in 2007, ending in 2011. It had contributors such as Roberto Bolaño, Brian Castro, Helen Garner, Gail Jones, David Malouf, Dorothy Porter, Charles Simic and Susan Sontag. Heat became an excellent serious literary magazine, with an emphasis on criticism and the blending of local and international authors, not unlike the ambitious Scripsi during the 1980s. Heat stood out from other Australian literary journals as it was international in outlook. The magazine certainly concentrated on publishing a number of ‘writer's writers’, to use the term.

In terms of poetry, John Tranter's response to the upsurge in the late 1990s was to establish Jacket, an online literary magazine that is published two or three times a year. According to its website on 20 May 2011, the magazine is

Between 1997 and 2010, Tranter and Pam Brown (who joined in 2004 as associate editor) put out forty issues of Jacket, containing 7000 pages on the internet and featuring special issues on Polish, Turkish, Mexican and Canadian poetry, among others. There have been co-productions with Salt in the UK and Verse magazine in the US. The website added, ‘The homepage has recorded more than three-quarters of a million visits overall’ — a statement replete with a note of glorious relief that poetry, via the internet, was presumably out of its ghetto. But the number of hits does not always tell the full story, as many people surf the net and do not stay for long on any one site.

From anecdotal net evidence, though, Jacket appears to have been referred to and quoted on very regularly between 1997 and 2010. Yet despite its presumed internet reach, ‘in the thirteen years of its existence, Jacket never had a grant from the Literature Board, and was never the subject of a paper presented at an Association for the Study of Australian Literature Conference’ (Tranter, ‘The elephant’ n.p.). Tranter attributed that to its international focus and the parochialism of arts bureaucrats in Australia. As from the first issue in 2011, Jacket was to be published out of the University of Pennsylvania in the US, hosted by the Kelly Writers House and PennSound. Subsequent evidence suggests that since then the amount of original poetry published has declined as ‘it needs to fit into the US university system and become a peer-reviewed journal of research and review’ (n.p.).

Leaving Jacket's excellence or otherwise aside, an understated question would always be: How are value and hierarchy inscribed and calculated in the literary magazine?

In 1982 Jim Davidson resigned as editor of Meanjin, and he wrote to Clem Christesen on 31 March expressing his gratitude for the opportunity of taking over during the 1970s, but spoke of rising cost pressures and cost cutting. ‘There is now half the office staff we had in 1974’, he wrote, but there had been in his estimation ‘the cultivation of the concept of a cluster of constituencies’ (qtd. in Lee, Mead & Murnane 295). The new editor became Judith Brett, previously a Lecturer in Politics at the University of Melbourne. According to Lee, Mead and Murnane, she ‘was committed to maintaining the magazine as a broad review of ideas with a strong contemporary focus — as a journal of Australian writing rather than a literary magazine in the narrowest sense’ (298). A feature of Brett's editorship was the publication of an emerging group of women and migrant writers. In 1983, there was a special issue on immigration and culture reflecting the kind of diversification during the 1980s; and, ‘there was a strong sense that the centre of gravity was shifting as new, heterogeneous creative movements rose to challenge the earlier nationalist project, with its promotion of a unitary, “mainstream” Australian culture’ (298).

The academic Sneja Gunew was one such promoter of difference and multiculturalism in her essay published in 1983, ‘Migrant Women Writers — Who's on Whose Margins’. This offered an argument about alternative canons and a reformation of critical language from a Deleuzian perspective (invoking Said, Foucault et al.), privileging authors such as Zeny Giles, Antigone Kefala, Ania Walwicz and Anna Couani. Brett articulated as much: ‘Meanjin is now concerned with cultural politics and with what can be called the politics of representation, and both these challenge the possibility of keeping political and literary questions apart just as surely as did the earlier conjunction’ (Brett 320). In a joist at the past, she added: ‘until recently in Australia, the domain of the “literary” has been predominately the domain of middle-class white Anglo-Celtic men’. The challenge then for ‘the other’ had been sent out.

Implicit in such changes was the reassessment of the legacy of Australian radical nationalism. Such a deconstructive fermentation would inadvertently ally itself with the forces of economic rationalism and globalisation and would be played out over the 1990s and the early years of the new millennium.

The 1980s were also a period of intense political and social upheaval. The 1970s had seen the onset of a New Left, opposition to the Vietnam War, women's liberation and so forth, but the extent to which such changes were and became mainstream has been open to debate ever since. Prior to the dismissal of the Whitlam Labor Government, though, notions that the state could play a proactive role in social engineering were relatively common. With the advent of the conservative Fraser Liberal Government there was a growing belief that welfare and income maintenance by governments was an intrusion into the body politic. If generalisations can be made about the decade, one would be that a social climate developed which was becoming intolerant of ideological alternatives to the marketplace. Globalisation started to become the buzz word in popular discourse; in the economic substructure, it meant the onset of free trade across the world, which became shorthand for the triumph of the transnational corporations. Locally, the workplace was beginning to be restructured, and casualisation became commonplace across sectors other than retail and agricultural production.

The 1970s had seen an expansion of state promotion of the arts through the creation of The Australia Council by the then Government, modelled on the structure of the Canada Council. Whether support for the arts would achieve bipartisanship into the 1980s would be fascinating to watch. Needless to say, the arts became an industry of sorts during this decade after the experiments of the 1970s. Of the 1980s, Paul Kelly has suggested:

Kelly was of course acknowledging capitalism's ability to revolutionise the means of production and the extent to which such changes infiltrate the prevailing culture. Even so, state intervention often has modernised shifts in the means of production. In this case the social engineering encouraged by Whitlam in the 1970s became bolder and more respectable in the 1980s in Australia as markets grew larger and more heterogeneous. Some writers such as David Malouf and Peter Carey were on their way to establishing international reputations.

Broadly speaking, there had been a move away from university involvement in supporting literary magazines in the 1980s and 1990s. In terms of support for book publishing, university presses were declining in number as the text-book market (particularly in the humanities) was undercut by course readers for students, and the corporatisation of the universities meant that idealism was not cost-effective. There had been upsurges in activity, such as the University of Queensland Press's program of local-fiction publishing in the 1970s under the management of Frank Thompson, but university presses largely abandoned local fiction until Heat magazine, through Ivor Indyk and Giramondo Publishing, was conceived in 1996 in the Writing and Society Research Group at the University of Western Sydney. In 2005, UWA Publishing announced a plan to publish a new series of literary fiction from post-graduate students in Australian creative writing courses, and also in the mid-2000s, Central Queensland University Press published a range of fiction and non-fiction titles (largely regional histories) under the idiosyncratic guidance of David Myers.

Sam Martin has claimed that this is evidence of active involvement by universities (‘Publish or perish’ n.p.). In my view, however, the reality is one of declining responsibility for community involvement despite the examples Martin cites, as they are stories of wilful individuals such as Thompson and Indyk pushing particular agendas. In terms of the literary magazines, the University of Melbourne was still involved with Meanjin, but by the early 2000s its publishing arrangement had changed. At the same time, Westerly was publishing less and less at the University of Western Australia; Southerly was still at the University of Sydney; Island was loosely associated with the University of Tasmania; Victoria University was involved with Overland with in-kind support; and Griffith University made a bold move with the Griffith Review. Other than that, the trade conditions in book publishing had changed and idealism was confined to groups outside universities. The rise of marketing departments resulted in the general view of ‘what was in it for us?’ and number-crunching over enrolment levels. Looking closely, none of the newer universities apart from Griffith University (which was started in the late 1960s) were involved with any of the new magazines, even though they were enrolling thousands of creative writing students.

As in the 1970s, associations would develop such as Small Press Underground Networking Community (SPUNC), started in 2006, with remarkably similar aims to the Australasian Small Magazines Association and the Australian Independent Publishers Association during the 1970s. This was evidence that the major problems for literary magazines (and small presses) were different in the 2000s, but with similarities, and further evidence that the 2000s represented a second upsurge of activity. Interestingly, Nathan Hollier, a past editor of Overland, was a major driving force behind the formation of SPUNC, suggesting that during difficult times some people have more of a collective consciousness than others.

In 2007 SPUNC commissioned a report, A Lovely Kind of Madness: Small and Independent Publishing in Australia (the title based on a quote from Ian Syson, of Vulgar Press and formerly of Overland), on the state of smallpress publication. The report was written by Kate Freeth, and identified a number of key issues for the sector, including literary magazines. Forty-six presses were surveyed, of which nineteen were members of SPUNC. While acknowledging the diversity and important cultural role played by the presses and the magazines, Freeth identified that members had two major concerns:

Of the major difficulties identified by those surveyed, unprompted, 39 per cent cited distribution as their major problem, followed by publicity and marketing. Freeth noted that

My working definition of ‘literary magazine’, then, for this study, is a publication that devotes a significant proportion of its pages to original fiction, poetry, essays, creative non-fiction, interviews and reviews, and is a periodical that publishes up to six times a year. I have not included little magazines that only publish socio-political content, commentary and articles, of which there were many in Australia between 1968-2012. In saying that, I am aware that some magazines — in particular Meanjin, the Griffith Review and Overland — have, and have had, a good proportion of their pages devoted to political issues. Even so, they have been constructed as literary publications in cultural discourse and have published a considerable amount of original creative writing over that period.

The story of the literary magazine in Australia, in particular, is one of persistence, obsession and — at times — cultural opportunity. Unlike in Europe or the United States, the potential for mass distribution is limited by a smallish population, and there has been little tradition of serious publications of substantial circulation, such as the New York Review of Books, the New Yorker, Esquire, or indeed the lesser circulations of the Paris Review or Granta, to nourish endangered literary genres such as poetry, the short story or the lengthy essay.

Unlike in the United States, journalism in Australia has not been sufficiently diversified and resourced to support the early careers of fiction writers. Laurenson has suggested that in the United States, ‘throughout the nineteenth century the consolidation of the reading public by journals slowly enabled the writer to become more self-supporting’ (162). As she has further suggested,

In the United States, she claims, ‘there was little leisure time for book-reading and so the periodical press became dominant, supplemented by the public library’. The magazine became ‘the characteristic expression of American Democracy’ (162). Australia has had few examples of such active commercial support in the literary arts, apart from the brief flowering of the Bulletin in Sydney during the 1890s, which made household names of Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson.

Up until the late 1960s the story of Australian literary magazines was one of continuing struggle against the odds, and of the efforts of individuals, such as Clem Christesen, Stephen Murray-Smith and Max Harris. During that time, the magazines played the role of ‘enfant terrible’, creating a space where unpopular opinions and writers were allowed a voice. The magazines have very often been ahead of their time and some of the agendas they have pursued have become central to representations, where once they were marginal. Broadly, ‘little’ magazines have often been more influential than their small circulations would first indicate, and my argument here is that they have played a valuable role in the promotion of Australian literature.

After I completed this study, Robyn Annear, writing in the Monthly, suggested that the

But after examining ten magazines, she was not convinced of the argument, and concluded:

While raising good points such as a lack of readers and uneven quality, she misses the central point that hatcheries are necessary — something I will demonstrate here.

So as to make this as multifaceted as possible, I intend a history informed by political economy because often discussions of cultural moments and movements have been marked by a largely individualistic story. This, I believe, has at times prepared the very ground for the eventual fragility of the literary magazines I will be discussing. By this I mean that the scholarly and public reaction to the journals has tended to float across a fault line of ideological difference in the cases of Meanjin and Overland (a Left perspective), and Quadrant (a Right oppositional stance).

By contrast, Quadrant only prided itself on not needing to change with the times. In fact the basic cover design of its April 2011 issue used the same typeface, and was printed on similar paper stock (a type of newsprint), as that it used in the 1970s. Yet it has maintained widespread newsagent distribution in an effort to reach a non-coterie audience — ‘so it does make literature and literary discussion available to a casual, browsing public’ in contrast to the other magazines, according to Michael Wilding (‘Letter to the author’).

Quadrant had always prided itself on being Australia's only conservative literary magazine, so in a sense it has seen no reason to update itself, unlike Meanjin and Overland, on the so-called Left. Its raison d’être has been to resist trends and fashions. Largely, it has been a magazine of politics and opinion with relatively marginal adherence to original literary work, something which the Literature Board of the Australia Council had questioned in the past. To a lesser degree, the same could be said for Meanjin and Overland; even so, they have consistently dedicated a greater proportion of their pages to original creative writing. As discussed previously in Chapter Six, Quadrant has, on occasions, made political representations whenever it has felt that its interests have been under attack — confident, it seems, in the belief that it is on sure ground in an Australia that has largely resisted radical ideas, and ideas in general. But it must be said that the great majority of little magazines in this country are (and have not been) political in the strict sense. A rollcall, particularly of the 1970s, reveals a list of publications that were broadly libertarian, individualistic in the extreme, and concerned only in publishing new writers, irrespective of any ideological framing. A similar pattern of magazines largely eschewing overt political positions would develop during the 1980s, 1990s and into the new millennium.

Quadrant still describes itself as ‘Australia's leading journal of ideas, essays, literature, poetry, and political and historical debate’ (Quadrant Magazine n.p.). In 2011 it was published ten times a year, with double editions in January-February and July-August, so it has never been backward in coming forward, charting out a territory for itself that is adversarial and, in earlier times, anti-communist.

The little magazine blossomed in Australia during the 1970s. In the checklist of the special 1977 issue of Australian Literary Studies entitled ‘New Writing in Australia’, there were over forty magazines of one variety or another. Peter Pierce has noted of the period that ‘[one of] many of the magazine's reasons for being is the notion that they are part of a decisive moment of change within Australian literature and publishing’ (219); and he identified that much of the upsurge was driven by a militant attitude among poets towards recognition. But poetry was only a part of a larger story of increasing cultural confidence and experimentation. The early 1970s, in particular, were a period where the belief in an effective ‘avant-garde’ became evident.

Despite such idealism and passion, it needs to be said that the elements already existed to make the upsurge a bubble rather than a long-term tangential shift, in that (unlike the established magazines) the great majority of the forty publications were initially under-resourced and lacked sustainable organisational structures. To establish a new magazine of ambition requires waiting for receipts from the distributor for ninety days (in the first instance), and setting up a subscriber base from scratch, let alone dealing with the realisation that advertisers generally do not see promotional potential because of low circulation. It has always been difficult placing such products before potential readers, unlike pop culture publications which have been (since then) increasingly backed by large media organisations.

In contrast, little magazines have traditionally been the idealistic passions of key individuals, and in the 1970s many considered themselves as part of an ‘alternative’ scene, where marketing was seen as capitalist. Furthermore, as Debray suggested of the changing nature of publishing in France after the ‘revolution’ of the 1960s (in a situation which became relatively typical of other Western countries such as Australia), one inheritance was the growth of a mass market for cultural products where ‘the distributors of thought become separated from the producers, [and] the distributors now determined not only the volume but the nature of production’ (91).