Two Bar was a name they gave a certain view of the Paris Basin, from their side of the river looking north past the clumps of muck and stranded flood wrack which would later host St. Chappel, Notre Dame and, set just upstream, the favorably disposed citydwellings of the anciently and permanently rich of present day Paris, but seeing then, instead, the place where by the wrestlings of chance and design it would become.

coil The controversial Barry Coat of Arms

The controversial
Barry Coat of Arms

coil

January jollies

ustice is often possible among the humans.

Attempting to extend its palliative order to the other animals brings all the known difficulties.

What meet justice is there where the human greets the dog? Surely only the clique of them who are the humans among a crowd of dogs and humans would own any interest in the consequential quality at all if it should come up. However strained its effort, the given dog will poorly appercieve what falls to gently reign among the humans. Justice is not noted by the dog, however much the dog given to it may figure in its consequences.

Mercy, though, ah well, yes, the dog notes that, along with its rougher dole at times in the consequential performances of human justice.

By dint of the mercies it recieves the dog is at play in the field of human justice, and by daunt of the rougher justices it remains.

It may appear at times that those of us here at HCE who speak for the dog do take with a grain of salt the entailed mercies necessitated by our adopted position in the matter.

There is some justice in this view.

To this day the hint of all the justice and the pigs besetting the Barry Family down the millennia in the Paris Basin survives in the tropes of those of us here at HCE counted among that ilk.

When finally justice reached for its cathartic if gradually achieved unhousing of the swine forever from the abode of Barrys on reaching the southwestern shore of Ireland (not only influenced by the interactive presence of the cumulative pigs themselves as they played their consequential role among Barrys all the while, but also deriving admittedly from due deliberation on the part of Barrys of the consistently availing evaluations offered up on the matter from Barry Family neighbors and the odd visitor from afar) it is claimed by Barrys that the Barry Family did the merciful by no further extending its long established harping on the justices that had allowed for pigs in the first place.

The Barry Family surrendered all its mercies to the argument for justice and the pigs, little natural store of the substance the lot of them had left after that transaction.

Mercy spent, an evident asperity entered the Barry Family conversation, scenting even what kindlinesses its members were capable of delivering unprovoked with the dry sage odor of suggested substitutes for the lacking quality.

Certainly, as regards the dog, the quality of mercy is constained here at HCE by temperament and training.

January 31, 2005

January 31, 2005

Samuel Johnson may be justly criticized by Paul Fussell in his book Samuel Johnson and the Life of Writing (W.W. Norton & Company New York London 1971).

It is hard to say from here at HCE, where our exposure to the life and writing of Samuel Johnson has been mercifully abridged in our pursuit of other interests.

Certainly the condign view of Johnson and the lif of writing offered by Paul Fussell has had its condign praise and punishment in print by now. The book Samuel Johnson and the Life of Writing (W.W. Norton & Company New York London 1971) exists to peddle Paul Fussell's own settled and unironic perspective on the matter of Johnson and writing, which, given what we know of discourse in general and the turn it takes when things are written down, must have attracted in its time the complete written response from those with a reasonable claim to useful knowledge of the things that mention of Johnson provokes, as well a response from those who, happening to turn their craft much as a steamboat pilot headed toward the newly available channel opened by the book's publication chanced to visit the subtitular argument, "the life of writing"of the book (for whatever nominal good it might do in the imagined course of their own ongoing written excursions already in progress), with written reports of their own persuasion.

Many books, classics they've become for it, continue to encourage people to have at them. To this day people who have reason to say something about what's in a classic and people who simply have something to say as well, all line up at the stationer's provisioning themselves with the necessary fuels of their craft to have at the grand thing in its passage through time.

These classic books are lofted along the ages by attendant argument. They embody continuous expressions of literature.

It is certain that Paul Fussell's book Samuel Johnson and the Life of Writing (W.W. Norton & Company New York London 1971) is no such thing, a classic, for its continuity, expressed as a focus of attendant argument down the ages hasn't carried it even as far as the dawning of the adjacent millennium, minimal mark of any classic it is easy to believe. Somewhere the book was shelved as the talk about it subsided over the intervening decades.

It is instead the remainder, the now unattended artifact which has had its literary life and now has none.

That argument originally attended Samuel Johnson and the Life of Writing (W.W. Norton & Company New York London 1971) is assumed>. At the very least there would have been a shout out from the Times Literary Supplement: Samuel Johnson has long been your man in Britain from what we gather. It is inconceivable to those of us here at HCE who have the vaguest conception of the literature provoked down the years in London by the merest mention of Johnson (ignoring for the moment the book's more widely provocative subtitular argument on the "life" of writing) that even in the somnolent state of culture suspected of Britain at the time of the book's priniting in 1971, no one could be stirred to issue the appropriate harrumph or hurray encouraged by the book's publication.

Therefore we take as given such a body of literature as must have conveniently disposed itself around the view given by Paul Fussell at the time in his book, sounding out all the knowing compliments and caveats of those who managed to read it (not to exlude out of hand all the wording prompted by those who did no more than read of the book somewhere else and, convinced that this gave cause, contributed their own firmly held perspective to the short–lived fray) as well as those who misread the book and gave good evidence of that in writing, too.

January 29, 2005

January 29, 2005

The snore is the posited thing taken be true by its enactor absent direct knowledge of the matter.

The snore disperses a truth inerrantly denied to the experience of its initiator, who must depend on the report of its auditor (or word of others, should its fame spread as a byword for enormity in local conversation, as word of some snores will) to ameliorate the removal of uncertainty about the matter in no uncertain terms.

It is said of us, as it is of others, and hereby acknowledged, that we snore, and though we have no way of validating the statement from here, in evaluating the motive of its occasional mentioner and the circumstances surrounding the occasionally pointed declaration of its observation over time we must admit no compelling reason to dismiss the statement out of hand.

Indeed, we own the trusted truth — we snore —based solely and forever on the offered evidence of others.

January 28, 2005

January 28, 2005

In the bog the balanced hoof is but an aspiration.

Balance is a prospect rare in that equivocal clime. In the least of bogs the hefted hoof falls forever subject to the innate indeterminacies of the bogsurface. The justice of the move is quickly known, the micromanagement of the prospectively just step ever subject to the naturally selective attentions of the stepper there.

The injustice of the misspent hoof and the question of the seemly step drew the close attention of the Barry Family in the era of the Discovery of the Barry Family.

Using the crude notation then available, its new members derived the bogtrotting aesthetic of the Standard in a Step, whose discerning practices influenced the traditional motions of the Barry Family in all its ranks and ages.

In the bog the justice of many a step is indeterminate in advance, the micromanaged offering of the hoof held hostage to the failed balance of a mistaken object.

The unjustly offered step, abjured by the Barry Family in its daily bogpractices, could not fail to occasionally result from any unmanageably random evidence of bipedalism among them, such as might be offered in an unthought exercise in movement about the common point of the Discovery.

And yet, intractably human in this regard, the Barry Family could not fail to trot about, however failed an enterprise the unjustified step might prove in the event.

January 27, 2005

January 27, 2005

It is no wonder the Barry Family wandered bogward in the age of its Discovery, eventually reaching the Paris Basin and all of the many years claimed there. Coincident with its members' own recognized tendency westward the Barry Family there in Northern Europe trod a land leaking from under the receding glaciers all along the swampy periphery of the freshly departed ice. Thus when they went west, as west was their wont, they went by a boggy way.

The Paris Basin bettered the Barry Family expectations in a bog, expectations refined in the preceding millennia in the now–evacuated lowlands of the Rhine by all the practical knowledges gained in observation and experiment in the field. The Paris Basin managed to exceed the Barry Family need in every way. There was an assumed constancy of the westward, bogward movement of the newly recognized lot of them during the Discovery. Best of west was conflated with best of bog, and so they stayed.

January 24, 2005

January 24, 2005

With the weather it is hard to say.

In the city of San Francisco, we lived along the coastline where in summer a high cap of overcast forms well out to sea and, trending daily inland on the constantly freshened winds of the place, lodges itself against the mountainous hills of San Francisco, suspended, this exhalation of the very stuff of Ocean, some seven or 900 feet above the unsunned–on residents of that western side of San Francisco.

It is not simply in being hilly that they are mountainous, these mountainous hills of San Francisco (for by height they are no more than hills and not mountains at all, the least of which in the popular imagining of a mountain must overreach a thousand feet to much deserve the name). It is that these mountainous hills are mountainous for having entirely abstracted from the grander measures of a mountain all the abrupt gradients indicated by any mountain and applied them to San Francisco in a compact digest of steepness in all its forms. There is a rough clutch of such mountainous hills in the center of San Francisco. They are just the seven or nine hundred feet high enough needed to catch and detain the lower drift of cloudy fogs made daily by the oceanin those parts.

Under such summertime conditions we expected as our daily lot no sun. It was left for the other places in the world to have that, and they did have at it in summer, as confirmed by our occasional visits to such places. We had on the western side of San Francisco our foggy filtered home acres of shadowcancelling gray light instead on a daily basis.

From the vantage of the home acres at that time the nearby Farrallon Islands, some few score of miles or so offshore, when visible, were visible on the far west horizon.

It was a rare summer day when the islands could be seen, given the predelicted fogs. The simple summary phrase "You can see the Farrallons" passed among everyone who shared the view on such a day, reflexively lending popular benediction to the exceptional event. We well remember the voiced marvel of the affirming words, "You can see the Farrallons" as spoken among those of us who lived there on such a day, when it was verifiably the case and the utter justice of the phrase overruled its considerable repetition on the part of almost anyone with a view who said anything at all on that day (words whose justice was most regularly obscured by contravening clouds from early morning to late evening hours in summer).

The likihood is good of a sunless summer day in that southwest corner of the city of San Francisco. The sky of it is cloud in summer there as a firm matter of climate. There will be days when the justified phrase "You can see the Farrallons" appropriates their conversation, but in the main the talk among the lot of them is tuned to sunlessness in that fogged part in summer.

However easy it would be to record the next summer day on which the unusually voiced phrase "You can see the Farrallons" spreads out among them on that side of San Francisco, it would be unendurably difficult to chart with any confidence the next expected occurrence of its popular use there in summer.

With the weather it is hard to say.

With the climate, yes: fog along the coast extending inland early morning and late evening hours. Yes. There is justice in expecting this standard to be met by any given future day of summer on that side of San Francisco. It is the climate, the overarching trend of the meteorology of the matter there, squelcher of the regular use of the phrase "You can see the Farrallons."

Pick a day, any day of summer past or future there. A June day, say. For convenience, assume with some justice that sky means cloud.

January 20, 2005

January 20, 2005

It was never our conception of the Constitution of the United States here at HCE that the findings of its Supreme Court could be replaced locally by the contrary findings of some lesser judiciary.

Thus when Sam Waterson, as James McCoy on the television series Law & Order, explained to his assistant in last night's episode that much of the Fourth Amendment was still taken far more literally by the courts of New York than allowed for in what we had imagined by rule would be the superceding persuasions on the matter spelled out in the decisive expressions of the Supreme Court as led by Chief Justice William Rehnquist and the previous fellow Berger (the decisions of which McCoy's assistant had thought must rule in the instant case), which have over the years served to replace the literality of the Amendment's plain reading with a vigorously figurative view of the thing so favorable to the inclination of any judicial system to give in eventually to the temptation to just put everybody under protective custody of the police and have done with, we imagined we spied, with no little concern, given the time we have devoted over the years to Law & Order and its spawn, a lapsed legalism in the plot.

We did not suffer to consider the thing for long: soon enough a contravening nicety of the Amendment's interpretation swooped down on the plot and directly mooted the point, moving the episode on to the courtroom, where weekly McCoy bares the fangs of justice in the presence of the accused.

In the previous episode of Law & Order McCoy's then–assistant was fired by the District Attorney.

This week's case was handled by McCoy's new assistant. It was her procedural error in the investigation of the thing that bumped against the constraints of the Fourth Amendment. Her handling a of police raid on a warehouse containing counterfeit contraband drugs (false illicit drugs, that is, sold to the credulous under the pretense of being drugs which were impossible to otherwise obtain when in this case they were possible to obtain but not drugs at all) might easily enough have met even the strictures of the most literally construed reading of the Fourth Amendment had she attended to the usual formalities leading up to such a raid, formalities which by now have been so ingrained in the practices of the legal system of the City of New York that they are almost second nature in most cases. The case against the purveyor of these bad drugs hung briefly in the balance before the appearance of the lex ex machina discussed above, so that her miscue was not dispositive in the event. But it made for a poor entry on the part of the new assistant.

Occasionally the program advertises an episode as "ripped from the headlines," whose story is meant to be viewed as a clever analog to some actual case of law made notoriously known in our age.

But clearly last night's episode of Law & Order was ripped instead from the theater marquee, from which the issue of bad false drugs in post-WWII Vienna so famously depended in the marvelous movie The Third Man that no appeal whatsoever to the device of bad false drugs in a plot can now fail to bring that movie to mind to any who have exercised their obligation to see it.

McCoy, confronting the accused (who has taken the curiously risky opportunity to stand as a witness on his own behalf), suddenly makes explicit what the suffering cineaste has seen all along about the plot: McCoy asks if it isn't just like the movie The Third Man in a way, eh?

"Gaah!" The judge announces in our preferred continuation. "Enough with the verités of cinema, McCoy. Don't go all Roger Ebert on us here. Ask the witness a question."

But instead, no, the judge reclines comfortably back in his seat of judgement with the willing air of one encouraging what's sure to come, another real corker from McCoy (the argumental highlight of each week's episode admittedly, when McCoy's dramatic pronouncements reach their crescendo in a culminating bit of speech in the courtroom, provoking the immediate resolution of the case, which declamations, as those of us here at HCE who are familiar with the show can attest, will begin somewhere around :48 after the hour and extend, depending on the vagaries of each episode's plot, until :53 or :55 after the hour in each case).

It is simple enough in our immediate environs here at HCE to anticipate the inevitable outpouring of McCoy's weekly stem-winder by glancing at the digital clock of the VCR placed just below the television itself on the low table in the room where we watch Law & Order.

In that sense of course it was about time for McCoy to say something in last night's episode. It was about :48, the time programmed for his very words by the hugely successful program of Law & Order, as satisfyingly programmatic in its way as any program since the fabled television series of Perry Mason, which classically set the standard in television drama for the formulaic stuff, the same thing in the same form in the same order as always week after week, world without end. The Law & Order program devotes itself to its own well-favored formula, involving the apprehension and conviction of killers in New York City in the main, and by :48 we have been led to expect McCoy to have at the accused publicly in a court of law with all the cunning convictions of his crafted words bearing directly down on the intended.

This time McCoy, unleashed into absolute rhetorical liberality by the relaxed demeanor of the judge, allowed as how the defendant, pinned in the witness chair by his fatal scheme to provide false drugs to a needy population, couldn't help but be reminded of the movie The Third Man, could he now?

And, of course, the defendant, having obviously seen the movie, could not avoid being reminded of it at all by McCoy's mention. So he must then remember that scene on the Ferris Wheel, eh?

The film's bleak, and Harry Lime yet bleaker to behold in that pivotal moment, that moment in which the cruel immoralisms of the otherwise engaging Harry Lime, promoter of the same sort of scheme of fatally false drugs in the Vienna of The Third Man, are given full expression in all the bad harsh words he dislodges up there on that Ferris Wheel in the harrowingly offhand phrasing of his true indifference to humanity (spoken to the actor Joseph Cotten, as McCoy notes accurately enough in what even allowing for the broadly extra-legal latitude on the subject he's been granted by the judge amounts by now to no more than an aside to an aside in whatever argument this whole Third Man mention is meant to address in the first place, and which like the arguable infinitesimal of the calculus might in any event be excluded from the calculated future course of McCoy's argument if it weren't so exactly in a nutshell expressive of the very problem with the argument itself: what the hell is McCoy going on about here? Joseph Cotten! Have we fled so far afield we're yanking up Joseph Cotten now? Gaah!).

It's a mercy on us here at HCE that McCoy didn't go on about the music just then, how the loopy displacements of the roistering zither matched both the expressionistic displacements of the camera work and the moral displacements of that piece of work Orson Wells makes of Harry Lime in the movie.

There was really nothing to stop McCoy from going on about it. Not the judge, not the writer of the script (the third man responsible for the thing, after accounting for McCoy's evident predilections in the matter and the aforesaid insouciancies of the judge), nothing really perhaps but the near approaching end of last night's program itself, which must ever, as it does each week, conclusively end on time (by which point McCoy's, the judge's, and the writer's floridly effective allowance for the Third Man Theme has netted the accused a 240 year sentence of incarceration).

We're going off the stuff now here at HCE. Too heady for us here this metamodernistic twist of drama, where the suasive reminiscence of another drama's features is not only embedded in the script (allowably fair use since Shakespeare), but roundly noted by your main agent McCoy inside the script itself, where he literally pronounces the commensurable nature of his own drama and that of The Third Man out loud in that supposed court of law.

The extra-legal framework of the scripted drama of last night's episode having gestured knowingly all along at the Third Man parody being performed, these knowledges revealed by McCoy were best left to the witting viewer. It is otherwise an injustice done to drama. Not a criminal offense, but certainly its aesthetic equivalent, a mortal dagger to the eye of drama it is, to thrust home the point of the Third Man this way.

Long lulled we've been by the satisfying regular cadences of Law & Order, fine formulaic program of a television drama it's always seemed to us overall until last night.

Now we've wrested free from Law & Order the 10 pm slot on Wednesday previously reserved for the pleasurable task of seeing it if at all possible.

We delete it from the crowded schedule of enjoyable events we anticipate will take up so much of our time here at HCE each week.

Long has viewing Law & Order at 10 pm on Wednesday accommodated our wishes, but no more.

We see we've reached the limit of the series here at HCE.

January 4, 2005

January 4, 2005

Let's gather up all the smartest people who can stand the life in one great institution downtown, eh? An ancient impulse. There is the ancient associated tension of whether to then just let them have at it, assuming smart people are capable of taking it from there, or to require of them from time to time some measure of the imputed value of their being so smart, anyway.

For all of that, the institutions of higher learning accumulate humans everywhere around the globe in our age. The smart ones are congregated, and they do have at it, and meet in the main the requirement that something come of it eventually.

The scholar's lot is the life of "the life of the mind," chronically attractive goal "the life of the mind" is to that sort.

The life of the life of the mind is chronically attractive to the scholar, nice enough life it is in the event. The life of the mind the thing the scholar hopes to achieve in exchange for the life required of one seeking the life of the mind in the first place. Nice bearable life the scholars have for themselves in order to further their inclination to wait out, enter, and then report on their desired engagement in the life of the mind as they see fit.

(As told in a seemingly incessant strain of novels on the subject, institutions of higher learning are prone to promote a culture which misfortunately obscures by all its actively intercessionary processes the good clean shot at the life of the mind that inclined the incipient scholar that way in the first place. There are all the predictable paces from faculty lounge to brink of bedding in such novels, and, we are led to believe by extension, in such lives as well. Still, the evidence indicates a prodigious amount of thinking being done even under these trying circumstances in institutions of higher learning all around the globe, as is the desired wont of the lot of them)

Professor Graff writes in his introduction to Clueless in Academe:

To put it another way, schooling takes students who are perfectly street-smart and exposes them to the life of the mind in ways that make them feel dumb. Why is this? Why in many case do street smarts not only fail to evolve naturally into academic smarts, but end up seeming opposed to academic smarts, as if the two can't coexist inside the same head?

Professor Graff sees this as a failure of the pedagogy to successfully engage all those so savvy in their usual way as to be thought "street smart," and by doing so to lift them up into the as-yet endless discourses defining the various departments of the disciplines of higher education.

Scholars don't talk right, according the common parlances, and Professor Graff would certainly agree that the way they go on, the scholars, is offputting in the main to all the many other people who might otherwise get the point directly if delivered in an application of the heuristics of the common parlances which are so smartly part of "street smarts" instead of the inexorably arcane phrasings of the given discipline itself, which may have as a convenience over time removed the initiatory scaffolding which allowed the discipline to clamber up to its currently lofty level of discourse to begin with, leaving behind no ready way up for even those measurably adept in the common parlances of "street smarts," except perhaps by reerrecting that same scaffolding or its equivalent in their own piquant phrasings.

Professor Graff requires that the street smart in their schooling should be given a glimpse of the power of a useful argument, should in fact be confronted with its centrality and schooled in the stuff which is the fundament of discourse, discourse being the designed dignity given to long-standing useful argument everywhere.

Useful arguing is what people do in discourse, discourse being nominally the order of the day at institutions of higher learning, focus of Professor Graff's attention these institutions are, where all the many specialized departments support arguments of keen interest to those willing to attend closely enough to the inexorable advance of the drift of the thing to perpetuate by their own efforts such arguments as they may think necessary to the successful advance of the on–going discourse in question.

Professor Graff contends that this gateway to all manner of specialized discourse in higher education is closed, that a proper "ArgueSpeak" is not added to the currency of common parlances of the street smart in the course of their offered schooling. Students arrive in fabled ignorance at the hallowed halls of higher education with no fluency at all in the very stuff of discourse, argument.

Give Professor Graff his point: these students may be street smart, after all, with all the inherent inclinations toward a suitable wisdom that the given street may offer.

This is all well and good, but beside the point if Professor Graff's concerns are to be taken into account at all.

What does it profit for example a man with street smarts to believe that weapons of mass destruction were ever found in Iraq, as promised by President Bush? It is clearly not the case that such weapons were ever found, yet many people otherwise sufficiently suffused by the effects of popular culture to meet Prof.. Graff's's minimal requirements in street smarts find credulous haven in that belief to this day.

Professor Graff wonders why the two smarts, the street and the other institutionalized one of higher learning, cannot exist inside the same head. Often it is because on a given issue, the comfortable smart of the one is intractably contradicted by the well-grounded findings of the other.

In the case of the momentously non-existent WMD of Iraq it may please those smart enough to cross the street to continue to take comfort in the nimbus of reasons for war justified solely by the now discredited proposal that the things existed in the first place and were readied for instant use against Britain and the U.S. The nimbus loses whatever's ennimbling about it without that discredited claim, and all the associated justifications pale.

It is observed that holding fast to an ongoing sense of justification for one's activities is fundamentally more street smart than stopping suddenly to puzzle out the fact that there was no supporting reason for immediate action. Under the circumstances inapt inactivity may be harmfully assisted by some inept activity: contrast crossing the street with constant purpose and destination to launching the indeterminate hoof intemperately and without regard to traffic conditions into the roadway.

Which self-evaluation would the previously proposed street smart man prefer? To hold himself purposeful for the moment, or to succumb to the less favorable evaluations rising up out of a misspent hoof? The street smart man will opt for the credit of purpose rather than the blame of a bad step while in the immediate midst of maneuvering, given the usual human predilection in such circumstances.

In any self-respecting moment the self-forgiving street smart impulse might as well be to go ahead and believe, in spite of all, that there was retrievable purpose and destination in the summary moves being made, even in the face of implacably contravening evidence bearing on the good reason for setting out in the first place.

It is street smart to be focused and self-correcting in this regard, to attend directly to the immediate pedestrian arts and put aside foundational questions, even should such insights become strikingly evident during the course of the badly proposed crossing. Apprehensive attention to events moderated by a willed ignorance of provenance proves in the main to be the best way to go to the street smart.

By a similar mechanism the street smart position regarding Iraq owns a necessary inattention to foundational issues in the rush of remedial steps to be taken if any purpose and direction at all is to be rescued from the conclusively faulty reason for going to war.

A higher education in the matter, entirely at odds as its findings are with the yet-proclaimed though profoundly discredited existence of WMD as motive, could not coexist in the head of the self-same person who yet believed in their existence for practical reasons of the street smart sort.

But on the best day the desireable comforts of a justification for anything at all, even the justification supported by evident untruth, will only grudgingly be relinquished, should the comforts derived from that justification warrant. The role of higher education is to require of the street smart that they proceed on the irritating journey away from what's unwarranted after all.

January 3, 2005

Janaury 3, 2005

Recent improvements in the Chronometric Index of the Bogblog involving the long–due completion by staff of required improvements in both the conception and coding of the Bogsniffing area below have made the exploration of its offerings much more accessible to the looker there than was previously possible, given conditions.

January 1, 2005

Janaury 1, 2005

From the precís of Goffman's thoughts given by Bernard, human acts are dramaturgy, each explicable by reference to some desired or required performance entertained by the actor.

As this is a fruitful view, Goffman appears to have built up a technical language from it to describe the performed acts of humans, which is all well and good. A serviceable technical language is always handy.

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Bogsniffings:

(Should our business plan here at HCE go not too far awry, this portal to the previous year's Bogsniffings will someday be attended by the necessary machineries of commerce, erected to collect the agreeable sum on the looker's entering there — something much like the estimable Paypal system, perhaps.

At present, the Bogblog is freely entered to whatever depth the looker may choose to reach.

Use the Volume control to descend to the desired annum).

 

Volume II: 03.03.04 to —;

Collected incompletions of the current year, by monthname.

Volume I: 03.03.03 to 03.02.04

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