Читать книгу The Pleasure of the Crown - Dara Culhane - Страница 7
ОглавлениеChapter 1: How Did the Crown Acquire Title?
The Indian elders in British Columbia question why they must subject their relationship to the land to a non-Indian court’s strict scrutiny: why they must explain their use of the land to obtain ‘rights’ abstractly defined by others.
They believe that the Indians have rights to their land because their people go back with the land for thousands of years. What they do not understand is how the Crown acquired its ‘rights’ to their land.
—Lawyer Louise Mandell, 1987, Native Culture on Trial.
The Long and the Short of It
Law, we are taught to believe by our educational institutions, embodies justice. Our courts’ formal rules of evidence, and their procedures, enable the discovery of truth through the application of reason. “Judicial neutrality”—the absence of bias among judges—guarantees that fair and equitable resolutions to disputes between any and all people(s) will be arrived at. Equality before the law, we are told, is the linchpin of the Canadian judicial system; and justice, we are assured, is the outcome of legal processes. It follows from these official premises, and by this reasoning, that if contemporary Canadian sovereignty and Crown title and rights to land are confirmed by law, they must have been justly acquired.
Of course, in these cynical times, few claim the Canadian legal system is infallible. Charges that interests other than the pursuit of justice may be at play in legal processes do not usually generate widespread alarm. Increasingly, we understand that what we call “facts” are frequently matters of interpretation that reflect particular points of view rather than unequivocal certainty. We have come to appreciate that something called “culture,” and more specifically, “cultural differences,” come between Aboriginal1 peoples and Canadian law, disrupting communication and mutual understanding. Suggestions that judges’ decisions often reflect prejudices common in contemporary society at large, rather than being strictly determined by exclusively legal concerns, are hardly shocking revelations.
However, periodically a particular judicial decision comes to public attention that shocks even the most complacent or embittered cynic. Allan McEachern, the former Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of British Columbia, created just such a controversy when he handed down his 1991 judgment against the Aboriginal claimants in the high profile Gitksan2 and Wet’suwet’en3 land rights case, also known as the case of Delgamuukw v. The Queen. Judge McEachern ruled that, before Europeans arrived in the late eighteenth century, the First Nations had been too “primitive” to have had property laws or institutions of governance. Today, he declared, they have no Aboriginal rights whatsoever. Charges of racism were hurled at the judge. He was accused of shamelessly favouring the interests of big forestry companies and non-Aboriginal elites against the rights of First Nations. The Chief Justice defended himself, using the letter of the law as his shield. He protested that he was compelled by historical precedents to repeat the rulings of previous judges that dated back hundreds of years. Chief Justice McEachern admitted that his decision might not be just, but he was convinced that it was definitely legal.
Indeed, law and justice have not always walked hand in hand through British Columbia’s history, and nowhere is the distance between them greater than on the question of Aboriginal title and rights. How did the British Crown acquire its rights to the territory we now call British Columbia? Many Canadians would respond, with pride, that unlike Americans, we gained sovereignty over the lands we live on, and established political jurisdiction over its Indigenous inhabitants, through the rule of law, rather than by military force.
In fact, the Crown acquired its title to First Nations’ lands and resources by simply asserting sovereignty and ignoring Aboriginal title in contravention of British colonial law. British and then Euro-Canadian rule was enacted by sheer force of numbers as settlers overwhelmed fragments of Aboriginal populations who had survived the first waves of epidemic diseases brought by European fur traders during the eighteenth century. Aboriginal peoples were simply deemed, by law, not to exist. The colonists then established their own legal regime that validated their self-proclaimed sovereignty and jurisdiction. For over 100 years, the governments and the courts of the Province of British Columbia have defended their predecessors’ initial trespass on Aboriginal lands, and their transgression of British law, by whatever means necessary: coercion, deceit, compromise, seduction, force. Law.
Aboriginal peoples have steadfastly insisted that they surrendered neither ownership of their lands, nor their political autonomy. Nor did they cease to exist. However, it was not until the late 1960s that First Nations—after over a century of petitioning—succeeded in compelling Canadian courts to begin adjudicating their disputes with the governments about who owns the land in British Columbia.
When called upon to justify its actions in law, the Province of British Columbia retreats to a legal fortress, the cornerstone of which is the mystical “original moment” when Britain asserted sovereignty over First Nations in British Columbia, often without their knowledge, and always without their consent. The Crown’s defense begins by giving legal sanction to this crude act of aggression, and then proceeds from this starting point to call upon a range of social theories, historical fictions, and popular “common sense” ignorance and prejudice to justify its actions. Crown lawyers present as evidence stereotypical caricatures of Aboriginal peoples as “backward” and “primitive” when Europeans arrived. Grisly tales of “war-like savages” are juxtaposed with an heroic epic of “advanced” and “civilized” white settlers who, it is claimed, brought Christianity, reason, and the rule of law to the untamed wilderness of British Columbia. The stark contrast in “development” between the two “races,” the Crown argues, made the superimposition of British sovereignty over Aboriginal sovereignty a “natural” outcome of the “progress” of history, and rendered inevitable the subordination of Aboriginal peoples to non-Aboriginal governance. A short answer to the Aboriginal elders’ question is that the Crown acquired its ‘rights’ to their land by simply seizing it: through the force of law.
How could this have happened in this way? Here, in British Columbia, in Canada? More importantly, how can this violation of values that many Canadians hold dear—like respect for the rule of law, a belief in equality, and a commitment to human rights—continue to be legitimized in the 1990s? These are the questions that shape this book. By looking behind, around, and through the interconnections between law, history, culture, and power, I offer a long answer to the elders’ question.
Human Being, Citizen, Anthropologist
The landmark case of Delgamuukw v. The Queen heard in British Columbia during 1987-1991 represented a crystallizing moment in the history of Aboriginal peoples and the law in British Columbia. All the variously interested parties to the dispute came together in one forum to present their positions, their arguments, and their supporting evidence. History followed them into the courtroom, and they carried the future out with them when they left.
I wrote this book as a contribution to the ongoing discussions that are taking place in British Columbia and Canada about the possibilities for justice in Aboriginal/non-Aboriginal relations; as a commentary on a particular dispute in one corner of the globe that is linked to more general struggles for social justice around the world; and, as an intervention in debates in the academic fields of anthropology and law. I write as a human being, a citizen, and an anthropologist. I present an explanation of issues and events that is necessarily one interpretation among many possibilities. Like any account, mine arises from and is shaped by some fundamental assumptions, principles, experiences and positions that I will set out as honestly as I can.
My inquiry begins and ends with the basic claim that all human beings are fundamentally equal and worthy of respect, and the simple assertion that Canadian law should reflect these principles, both in theory and in practice. My argument is that, in relation to Aboriginal peoples, this has not historically been, nor is it now, the case. I have come to this conclusion by way of a number of different paths.
Long before I began this study of the Delgamuukw v. R. case, (and former Chief Justice Allan McEachern’s Reasons for Judgment); and long before I had ever heard of the Gitksan or Wet’suwet’en First Nations, I was imbued as a child with certain understandings of both the danger of the law when it is abused as a weapon of terror, and of the promise of the law when it is employed to achieve and protect justice. Members of my Irish father’s family were assassinated by English soldiers in the early years of this century: I was raised with few illusions about British justice. My mother’s Jewish family fled pogroms in Czarist Russia and witnessed the Holocaust: I was taught to respect law as an alternative to brutality, and to value scholarship in the service of justice. These general understandings represent, to me, who I am and, as such, they shape how I interpret the world I live in.
I began thinking seriously about the particular questions that constitute the subject matter of this book in the early 1970s, when I married a First Nations man, lived in his reserve community on the Central Coast of British Columbia, and became involved in the movement for recognition of Aboriginal title.4 I cannot remember when I first began to “believe” the simple truth that British Columbia First Nations hold unsurrendered Aboriginal title to their lands. If I ever thought differently, and there indeed was such a “moment of revelation” when I changed my mind, it happened so long ago that I cannot recall it now. For as long as Is can remember, this position has appeared to me as simple common sense: Aboriginal peoples were here, Europeans arrived. No wars of conquest were fought, no treaties were entered into. Hence, no Aboriginal title or rights were surrendered. These issues remain unresolved, so mutually-respectful negotiations should begin. These fundamental factual and moral “truths” are, to me, obvious. Nothing I have heard, seen, read, learned or experienced in the last twenty-five years has caused me to think or feel differently.
I have brought up two Aboriginal children in contemporary British Columbia. I know something of the depths of racism in this province and in this country. I recognize, in the erudite language of the law, the same cruelty I have seen and heard directed to Aboriginal people in Canadian schools, hospitals, legislatures and many other “public” spaces. As a human being, I consider racism a violation of human rights. This is the first premise from which I write.
Sometime during the last twenty or so years, I also began to understand how the denial of Aboriginal title and rights in this context was simultaneously a denial of human equality. This understanding emerged first from learning how British and Canadian property law differentiates between categories of citizens according to their relationship to private property: fully “matured” citizens may own land, and others may not. These legal classifications mirror, and are mirrored by, cultural beliefs that accord greater value and worth to persons with property, than to those without. Ownership of private property stands as both criteria for, and evidence of, successful citizenship. Knowing this, when I hear Aboriginal people say that they are deeply hurt when governments and courts repeatedly refuse to recognize Aboriginal title and acknowledge Aboriginal rights, I interpret the injury they express as reflecting their very perceptive understanding of the meaning and value of property in the dominant Canadian culture, and the law’s reflection of these meanings. That is to say, regardless of how diverse Aboriginal peoples may feel about property, they know how Canadian law feels about it, and they therefore rightly ascertain that they are being insulted—treated as second class citizens—by the law.
As a citizen, I wish to live in a just and democratic nation, and I object to the fact that Canadian sovereignty relies for its legitimacy on assumptions of human inequality: of European superiority and Aboriginal inferiority. The second premise I write from takes the form of an assertion of the democratic authority of a citizen to critique the law, and to insist that its practices accord with its avowed principles in ways that are comprehensible and transparent to the average person. I am neither a lawyer nor a legal scholar. I am, in this professional way, an “outsider” looking at the law. But as a citizen I am inevitably and irrevocably “inside” the law. The law claims to speak in the name of all people, and therefore the people should be able to discern the law’s reasoning and the factual foundation it claims to rest on. All this I learned from my parents and other wise people. I brought these understandings and points of view with me when I began studying anthropology in 1982.
Anthropology, historically, has been about western intellectuals investigating the ways of life—the “cultures”—of those classified as “others” in dominant European social theory: non-western, non-industrial, Indigenous peoples; and, to a lesser extent, marginalized groups within the borders of western nations. One of the central tasks of this traditional anthropology was identified as that of cross-cultural translation. Anthropologists sought to immerse themselves in the lives of the people they studied and, in this way, to achieve an “insider’s” point of view. The next step in the anthropological enterprise was then to describe and explain—to translate and represent—these “Native points of view,” and their different cultural perspectives on the human condition, to western audiences.
Contemporary anthropology questions many of the foundations of this academic discipline. Most importantly, classical anthropology is undergoing a thorough re-examination by those “subjects” who were constituted as “objects” of study by earlier generations of ethnographers. Formerly colonized peoples, members of minority communities in the west, women, and other “Others” who were historically written about and analyzed by anthropologists, are turning the microscope around and scrutinizing those who originally examined them. They are reading and critiquing traditional ethnographic representations of themselves; conducting their own research into the cultures of both colonizers and colonized, oppressors and oppressed; producing a critical “anthropology of anthropology.” More and more, western and non-western anthropologists are studying their own societies: exploring the cultures they are always already immersed in, re-examining the histories that have produced them, and questioning their own taken-for-granted assumptions about the past, the present, and the future. This process is exciting and profoundly challenging. Errors in fact are being corrected. Alternative explanations of world history are being considered. Diverse visions of possible futures are being contemplated. We now struggle to read the “great works” of the European intellectual tradition through the eyes of these “Others.” It is now marginalized peoples’ analyses of the centres, as well as of the margins, that we must try to grasp.
Traditionally, an anthropologist might be expected to study the cultural beliefs and practices that First Nations draw on to support their appeals for legal recognition of Aboriginal title. I recognize and respect the fact that it is a consequence of persistent Aboriginal resistance that these issues are before the courts at all. Aboriginal litigants perpetually challenge the law, and occasionally jurists acknowledge some legitimacy to their claims. In these ways, First Nations have influenced Canadian law significantly. But I did not undertake this study for the purpose of learning what the evidence and testimony presented in Delgamuukw v. R. might tell us about Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en cultures and histories, or to unravel how legal strategies have shaped the representation of such issues in the courtroom. These are interesting questions, of course. But they are not the questions that have guided my inquiry. Rather, I take as given—as “common sense”—that the Gitksan’s and Wet’suwet’en’s fundamental position is valid. That is, I take for granted that regardless of what forms their social structures and cultural beliefs took at the time, they owned the territory in dispute when the British arrived in the eighteenth century, and they have not ceded, sold, lost or surrendered their title or rights to these lands and their resources under the terms of either Aboriginal, British or Canadian law. The Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en, and other First Nations in British Columbia, have sought recognition by Canadian courts of these facts in order that provincial and federal governments could be compelled to negotiate a mutually respectful relationship with them. First Nations have sought peaceful co-existence with newcomers who, like my own predecessors, came from many parts of the world—for myriad reasons—to live here, in Canada. I believe this is a just goal, and it is one I share. I take this position to constitute “good sense.”5
What I consider not readily accessible to common sense, and not a reflection of good sense, and therefore in need of explanation and criticism, are the Crown’s positions and the evidence and theories relied upon to support them. This book is therefore a project in the anthropology of European colonialism: a study of power and of the powerful. I turn my anthropologist’s spyglass on the law, an institution that quintessentially embodies and reproduces Western power. This is the third premise from which I write.
As an anthropologist, I have tried to make sense of the law on Aboriginal title in British Columbia by placing the Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en case within the historical and contemporary political context of British and Canadian relations with First Nations, and considering the ways that law reflects and reinforces Euro-Canadian cultural beliefs, practices and diverse interests. I have explored how law shapes relations between people outside the courtroom as well as inside. Contrary to the image law holds of itself as a world unto itself, I understand law as inextricably enmeshed in society.
The first obligation of any responsible critic is to thoroughly investigate the object of critique, and I have tried to do so. In order to understand the story of Delgamuukw v. R., I read, watched, listened to and discussed commentaries on the case by a wide range of people. I conducted a “close reading” of the various texts of this case: expert witness reports; transcripts of the trial; Reasons for Judgment; academic and popular commentaries on the case itself and the issues it raised. By “close reading,” I mean studying the texts not only for their literal or “factual” content, but also to understand the various ways they communicate meanings directly and subtly, by using language in particular ways; by writing and speaking in rhetorical styles; by deploying metaphor and evoking certain images and emotions; by using grammar, and constructing each text as a whole along specific lines. That is to say, I read these documents as cultural texts, using the tools of anthropological and cultural criticism. And, since particular texts do not make sense outside the broader context in which they are written and read, I have also studied related work in the fields of anthropology, history, law, and northwest coast ethnography.
However, Chief Justice Allan McEachern’s Reasons for Judgment in Delgamuukw v. R., was not written as a work of fiction or ethnography. Judicial rulings carry with them a great deal of power and authority, based largely on assumptions that they represent reasonable and coherent conclusions drawn from a basis in empirical fact. I therefore considered it important to try to understand and critique this text on its own terms first. I began by analyzing the judge’s ruling within its own context: the law on Aboriginal title in British Columbia. I considered it as a recent link in a long historical chain of Aboriginal title and rights cases that began when the British Empire began, and gave rise to the legal precedents that continue to shape contemporary judgments. My first task, then, was to trace the history of the law that Chief Justice McEachern claimed forced him to arrive at the ruling that he did.
I conducted my critique from three positions, or points of view. First, I tried to step inside the law to understand it. I asked whether the law has followed its own rules and met its own criteria. As an anthropologist, the question that I sought to answer was whether or not the judge’s rulings that relied on history and anthropology reflected reliable findings based on reputable research in these fields. Second, I stepped back outside the law, and read these texts from a position informed by a conventional anthropological critique of ethnocentrism that argues that all of humanity’s cultures are worthy of equal respect, and should be understood on their own terms. The rules or values of one culture should not be applied to the evaluation of another. From this perspective, the dominant western culture is but one among many, neither universal nor superior. I asked, “What cultural beliefs and practices did the Crown rely on to make sense of their arguments in Delgamuukw v. R.?” Interpreted from this position, the Crown’s arguments and the Chief Justice’s Reasons for Judgment read like archaic, eurocentric, colonial texts, with a uniquely local, British Columbian flavour. Finally, I read and wrote from a third position, that of a critic of the dominant order. From this position, I argue that a critique of ethnocentrism must necessarily be the beginning, but should not be the conclusion, of a project aimed at re-imagining law and justice, and re-thinking how Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people may live together. From this location on the political margins, I asked questions that address the future, as well as the past: regardless of the cultural traditions these texts emerge from, what are the cultural prescriptions embedded in the Crown’s legal position and Chief Justice McEachern’s law. Particularly, what visions of nature and society, what models of human relationships, did the Crown’s defense of their position reflect, assert and defend? How are their images represented in the world they would create? What is the way of life they are empowered to command an army to defend? What kind of world/country/ province will we all, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, live in if desires like his continue to govern?
My interpretation and analysis therefore emerged from this critical “ethnographic reading” of the texts through which the law, and Delgamuukw v. R., has made itself known to the public. I did not observe the trial, and I have not interviewed or consulted with any of the participants. My writing has been a solitary project, not carried out in collaboration with any representatives of any parties to the dispute. I claim to represent no one but myself. I retell the story of the Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en case, from my point of view, as a detailed account of an important moment in our recent history: a snapshot that artificially freezes time and records the instant so that we may return to it and re-view it, see it from different perspectives, read it in different ways, and learn different lessons from it. Many people have engaged in similar studies and arrived at similar—and different—conclusions, and I have learned a great deal from their work. Believing that what people say is inseparable from how they say—or write—it, I have tried to bring some of these other observers and commentators into conversation with each other on the pages of my text. Of course, it is I who have chosen which of their words to select, and directed at what moments they should speak and to whom. In so doing, I have interrupted, interpreted and appropriated their meanings to my own ends. My sources are not responsible for the uses I have made of their words. Believing too that humour is one of the strongest forms of cultural criticism, when particular moments in this story have struck me as funny or ironic, satirical or sardonic, I have presented them as such. Learning to laugh at ourselves and with others must surely be a worthy goal in the pursuit of justice.
Any account of a process like the trial of Delgamuukw v. R. enacted over four years, that involved many people presenting complex evidence, debating obscure points of law, contradicting each other’s interpretations of history, disputing understandings of esoteric cross-cultural translations, must necessarily be selective and partial. I have tried to provide enough detail and sufficient references that interested readers may take my account as an entry into, rather than the final word on, or an exit from, the many complex issues this story brings up.
This is not, however, a “dialogue with texts.” This is a “dispute with texts,” particularly with the texts of the Province of British Columbia’s legal arguments in Delgamuukw v. R., and with Chief Justice McEachern’s Reasons for Judgment. At the same time, this book is not intended to be a polemic expressing an idiosyncratic or unique perspective. I have tried to present a meticulously documented, well-supported, and passionately reasoned, argument. I hope to persuade readers of the soundness of my position, and the weakness of the Crown’s; of the injustices of the Crown’s actions; and, of the desirability of an alternative vision for the future.
The story of litigation on Aboriginal title and rights in Canada, and particularly in British Columbia, is at one and the same time as remarkably simple as it is extraordinarily complex, as obtuse as it is simple-minded, and as familiar as it is strange. Truth and lies, fact and fiction, noble intentions and shameful motivations crisscross, undercut, and override each other as they dance across the pages of legal texts and treatises, creating a bewildering maze of claims and counter claims, accusations and denials. But when all is said and done, and many possible interpretations have been explored, the important questions remain: Has truth, by anyone’s criteria, been told? Has justice, by anyone’s measure, been done? Most importantly: how can justice be achieved in the present and protected in the future?
Stories like that of Delgamuukw v. R. illustrate how complex, and often contradictory, our feelings about law are. On the one hand, there is widespread cynicism in the public at large about the tenuous relationship between law and justice in Canada, especially in relation to Aboriginal peoples. And, there are hundreds of government reports, and volumes of academic research that support these criticisms. On the other hand, we continue to believe in the possibility that the law will be just. Most importantly, we continue to demand that the law should be just, in both its theories and its practices. We can never cease to insist on this. How could we? Law, after all, is supposed to represent the principles and rules by which we have all agreed to live together in this nation-state, to constitute our particular social and cultural world. To cease trying to hold the law accountable to justice, no less than to condone law answering only to itself, would be to surrender to nihilism, despair and totalitarianism. The consequences of legal rulings are complex and far-reaching. Law’s decisions are accompanied by powers of enforcement, including the exclusive right to legitimately use weapons and violence to resolve disputes. None of us can ignore the force of the law: it insists itself upon us in myriad ways every day. When it comes to law, then, critical skepticism, passionate outrage, perpetual hope, sardonic amusement, sheer terror, and utopian dreams of a moral social order are inevitably interwoven in our thinking, feeling, writing and conversation.
My initial goal was to make sense of the law. My next goal was to critique it. My long term goal is to help make the law sensible, and the society it reflects, just. I hope this book will challenge how you think about Aboriginal title and Canadian law, and how you choose to participate in shaping our collective future.
1. Language is important. Throughout this text I use a variety of terms to refer to the peoples whose ancestors lived on the North American continent before Europeans. Each term has diverse connotations. “Indigenous” is the most all-encompassing and is the term of global representation chosen by the United Nations. Some people feel it erases the specificity of particular Nations, and suffers from an imprecise time frame, i.e. some people who others consider “settlers” identify themselves as “indigenous” because their families have lived in a region for many generations. “Indian” began with Christopher Columbus’ error: landing in the Caribbean, he believed he had reached his destination of India, and so he called the people he encountered “Indians.” “Indian” is a term used in many legal documents, and in historical records. Some people find it offensive and feel its continued use reproduces its colonial legacy. “First Nation” is a term of recent emergence that is particularly popular in British Columbia. It is the language used in the Constitution Act 1982. Some people, particularly Metis representatives, interpret the “first” in “First Nation” as an implicitly hierarchical term that renders them “Second Nations.” “Aboriginal” is also a recent term that encompasses First Nations, Metis, Inuit, and Non-Status people. It is also used in legal documents, including the Constitution Act 1982. Some people feel that it is too broad and general and blurs important differences and erases diversity. I use all these various terms either because they are appropriate to the topic or time frame being discussed, or to the particular context. In unselfconscious contemporary everyday language, I hear all these terms deployed by Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people and I use all these terms. I have reproduced this normal usage in the text. I regret if any readers are offended by any of these words.
2. In recent years, many Aboriginal nations have adopted spellings of their names that more accurately reflect their own correct pronunciation, replacing those spellings previously developed by Anglophone and Francophone colonial officials to facilitate English or French language and accent versions of Indigenous names. The Gixsan First Nation has adopted a new spelling of their name since this court case. I use the spelling as it appears in documents concerning the case.
3. Similarly, the Witsuwit’en have changed the spelling of their name.
4. The Indian Act, as it was when I was married in 1975, conferred “Indian status” on non-Indian women when they married Indian men holding legal status. Conversely, when Indian women married non-Indian men, or Indian men who did not hold legal status, they and their children were dispossessed of their legal status as Indians. According to Canadian law, my marriage transformed me, in the eyes of the law, from a Canadian citizen of Jewish and Irish descent into a “Registered Indian,” member of the Nimpkish Band, and ward of the Crown. (The law was changed in 1985 so that today, marriage can neither confer nor take away legal Indian status.)
I understand that, on the basis of my legal classification, some legal analysts would consider me an “interested party” to Aboriginal title and rights litigation. My children would hold entitlements under any treaty or settlement that might result. I do not consider myself an “interested party” in the manner of a potential beneficiary, nor do I think this legalistic aspect of my position significantly influences my analysis of the issues at stake. However, I offer this detailed explanation by way of respecting an obligation to “put all my cards on the table” when engaging in critique and arguments about morality and “interests.”
5. The late Antonio Gramsci, an Italian theorist, differentiated between “common sense” and “good sense.” “Common sense,” he said, consists of widely-held assumptions that are seen as “natural,” or in some other sense immutable, and taken for granted. There appears to be no need to question or challenge “common sense” since its “facts” are considered “as obvious as the nose on my face.” “Good sense,” on the other hand, refers to systematic reflection and conscientious planning based on practical and moral values: the best ideas of an era or populace. I am indebted to Richard Daly for bringing Gramsci’s work on this to my attention. See Gramsci 1971.
