Full Download PDF of (Ebook PDF) Introduction To Geography 16th Edition by Mark Bjelland All Chapter
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Illinois, and San Diego State University (SDSU), where he held the Birch
Endowed Chair of Geographical Studies. In 2002, he received the AAG
Distinguished Scholarship Award. Professor Getis is a member and an
elected fellow of the University Consortium of Geographical Information
Sciences, the Western Regional Science Association, and the Regional
Science Association International. Currently he is Distinguished Professor
of Geography Emeritus at SDSU.
page iv
BRIEF CONTENTS
Preface x
Chapter 1 Introduction 1
Appendices A-1
Glossary G-1
Index I-1
page v
CONTENTS
Preface x
Chapter 1
Introduction 1
1.1 What Is Geography? 3
1.2 Evolution of the Discipline 3
Subfields of Geography 4
Why Geography Matters 5
1.3 Some Core Geographic Concepts 6
Location, Direction, and Distance 7
Size and Scale 9
Physical and Cultural Attributes 10
Attributes of Place Are Always Changing 11
Interrelations between Places 12
Place Similarity and Regions 13
1.4 Geography’s Themes and Standards 17
1.5 Organization of This Book 18
Key Words 19
Thinking Geographically 19
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
page vi
3.5 Gradational Processes 61
Weathering 61
Mass Movement 63
Erosional Agents and Deposition 63
3.6 Landform Regions 73
Geography & Public Policy: Beaches on the Brink 74
Summary of Key Concepts 75
Key Words 75
Thinking Geographically 75
FEMA News Photo
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Ruslan Kalnitsky/Shutterstock
Chapter 6
FloridaStock/Shutterstock
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
page viii
Summary of Key Concepts 244
Key Words 244
Thinking Geographically 244
Echo/Getty Images
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Economic Geography: Manufacturing and Services 271
10.1 World Manufacturing Patterns and Trends 272
10.2 Industrial Location Theory 273
Weber’s Least-Cost Industrial Location Model 274
Other Locational Considerations 276
10.3 Innovation in Manufacturing Processes and Products 278
Flexible Production Processes 278
Geography & Public Policy: Incentives or Bribery? 279
High Technology Products 280
Factors in High Technology 280
10.4 Outsourcing and Transnational Corporations 283
10.5 Service Activities 284
Types of Service Activities 286
Consumer Services 287
Business Services 288
Summary of Key Concepts 292
Key Words 292
Thinking Geographically 292
Chapter 11
page ix
Chapter 12
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Bequest of Grégoire Tarnopol, 1979, and Gift of Alexander Tarnopol,
1980.
Chapter 13
Appendices A-1
Glossary G-1
Index I-1
page x
PREFACE
Approach
Our purpose is to convey concisely and clearly the nature of the field of geography, its
intellectual challenges, and the logical interconnections of its parts. Even if students take no
further work in geography, we are satisfied that they will have come into contact with the
richness and breadth of our discipline and have at their command new insights and
understandings for their present and future roles as informed adults. Other students may
pursue further work in geography. For them, this text introduces the content and scope of the
subfields of geography and provides the foundation for further work in their areas of interest.
A useful textbook must be flexible enough in its organization to permit
an instructor to adapt it to the time and subject matter constraints of a
particular course. Although designed with a one-quarter or one-semester
course in mind, this text may be used in a full-year introduction to
geography when employed as a point of departure for special topics and
amplifications introduced by the instructor or when supplemented by
additional readings and class projects.
Moreover, the chapters are reasonably self-contained and need not be
assigned in the sequence presented here. The chapters may be
rearranged to suit the emphases and sequences preferred by the
instructor or found to be of greatest interest to the students. The format
of the course should properly reflect the joint contribution of instructor
and book, rather than be dictated by the book alone.
One leaves Borgia reluctantly, having done so much less than justice to
it: nevertheless, it is refreshing to turn to Deirdre after an atmosphere so
charged and tropical. Not that Deirdre is set on any lower plane of emotion,
for it also deals with vast passions. But in this play we pass visibly to a
more northerly latitude, to an austerer race and a more primitive age; and it
is in an air swept clean by storm that the business of sowing the wind and
reaping the whirlwind goes forward.
Michael Field has made a noble rendering of this old Irish story which,
its subject dating from the first century, suggests a cause no less remote
than that for the ancient feud between Ulster and the rest of Ireland. The
story is well known: the birth of Deirdre and the prophecies of doom to
Ulster through her; the defiance of the doom by Conchobar the king, and
the fostering of Deirdre to be his wife; the carrying off of Deirdre on the
eve of her wedding by Naisi and their flight to Alba; the invitation to Naisi
and his brothers to return under Conchobar’s promise of forgiveness; and
the treacherous assassination of them upon their arrival. There are many
variants of the legend; and our poet has chosen the oldest of them all, that
preserved in the Book of Leinster, for the chief events of her drama. She
was compelled to alter the story at one point, for it would hardly have been
convenient to represent the Sons of Usnach slain, all three at one stroke, by
the magic sword. But in varying the manner of their death she was enabled
to adopt another form of the legend, in which Naisi and his two brothers
were overcome by a Druid’s enchantment, and, believing themselves to be
drowning, dropped their weapons and were immediately overpowered by
Conchobar’s men. There was, however, a difficulty here too; for whereas
three heads lopped off at one blow was a little too dynamic even for the
purposes of drama, an unseen spell of wizardry was altogether too static;
and the poet therefore contrived a scene in which Naisi’s comrades are
actually drowned, and he, left alone to protect Deirdre, is slain by Eogan.
Another modification, with less warrant from the documents, perhaps,
but of even greater interest, is that which introduces into this primitive
world the first gleam of Christianity. The fact might suggest that the Deirdre
play was written after the poets’ conversion, did one not know that they
were at work on the theme some time before. But it is extremely probable
that the passage in which the wise woman Lebarcham tries to turn
Conchobar from brooding on vengeance by the tale of a new god who
refused to avenge himself on his enemies was inserted after the first draft of
the play was made. It is written in prose, and, placed at the beginning of Act
III, hardly affects the subsequent action. From that point of view it might be
considered superfluous; but Michael, though not Henry, was capable of so
much over-zeal. She was, however, also capable of justifying her act
artistically. The interpolation is at least not an anachronism. It is possible,
there in Ireland, that even so early had penetrated “the story of how a god
met his death ... young, radiant ... bearing summer in his hands.” But it
might have been a menace to the unity of the drama: it might have
destroyed the satisfying wholeness which, in whatever form one finds it, the
pagan story possesses. Michael Field avoided that calamity. She threw her
glimmer of Christian light across the scene in such a way that it reveals
more strongly by contrast the dark elements of which the story is composed.
By it one instinctively measures the barbarity of the age out of which the
story came, and realizes its antiquity. The poet does not allow it to influence
action, for that would weaken the tragedy; but she uses the occasion to
humanize and make credible that which, in the Conchobar of the records,
seems almost monstrous. In those ancient tales Conchobar plans his
vengeance on Naisi and his brothers with a coldness that is diabolic and a
precision almost mechanical. He provides for his own safety, too, with
comical caution, carefully sounding one after another of his knights until he
finds one who does not immediately threaten to kill him for suggesting such
a dastardly deed as the murder of the Sons of Usnach. Yet, as our poet has
re-created Conchobar, he is a human soul driven this way and that in a
running fight with passion; pitiable in his hopeless love for Deirdre,
comprehensible in his wrath against Naisi, sinister and terrifying in his
revenge. And underneath the overt drama lies a profounder irony; for while
he is plotting in his heart the enormous treachery, Lebarcham tells of the
young god who was betrayed by his friends, and he says:
Hush, woman, for my heart is broken. Would I had been there, I who can
deal division between hosts. I would have set the Bound One free. If I could
avenge him!
The play is written in five acts and a prologue; but is not divided into
scenes. Its form is for the most part blank verse—;the iambic pentameter of
Michael Field which is so often neither iambic nor a pentameter. Her verse
is, indeed, a very variable line, changing its unit as frequently as will
consist with a regular form; and as flexible, sinewy, and nervous as will
consist with dignity, grace, and splendid colour. Prose passages occur in
Acts III and V; and a form of lyrical rhapsody is used to express the Druid
prophecies and Deirdre’s lament. The use of lyrics in her drama was not
new to Michael Field, who from the beginning could always relieve the
strain of intense emotion by a graceful song. But in this case she is
following, with her accustomed fidelity, lines laid down in older renderings
of the legend.
The most notable feature of this play is its ending. No author of the more
important modern versions of this theme has dared to take his conclusion
from the oldest one of all. Usually he has preferred the variant which tells
of Deirdre, broken-hearted at Naisi’s murder, falling dead into his grave.
This is, of course, in some respects a more ‘poetic’ passing: it lends itself to
romantic treatment, and its tragedy is more immediate and final. Moreover,
from the dramaturgic point of view the action is easier to handle and more
certain of its effect. Michael Field was not, however, attracted by mere
facility. Truth drew her with a stronger lure, and to her the more ancient
story would make a claim deeper than loyalty. For she would see Deirdre’s
survival not only as a more probable thing, but as something more
profoundly tragic; and the manner of her death, when it came, as more
clearly of a piece with the old saga and essentially of Deirdre’s wilful and
resolute character.
Deirdre is no Helen, though her legend has features so similar. The mere
outline of her which the old story gives indicates a creature who will
compel destiny rather than suffer it; and our poet has but completed,
imaginatively, what the original suggests—;a girl whose instinct of chastity
drives her away from marriage without love; whose ardour and courage
claim her proper mate; whose fidelity keeps her unalterably true; and whose
head is at least as sound as her heart is tender. For although she is a rather
tearful creature, she is also very astute; and Naisi need not have died quite
so young if he had only listened to her warning and condescended to take
her advice. Deirdre is, in short, of her race and of her time as surely as
Lucrezia Borgia is a daughter of Pope Alexander VI and a child of the
Italian Renaissance. Michael Field’s range in the creation of women
characters is very wide, and the verisimilitude with which she presents
natures so alien from herself as the courtesan and the voluptuary might be
astonishing if one thought of her simply as a Victorian lady, and not as a
great creative artist. Nevertheless, in the re-creation of Deirdre one feels
that she must have taken an especial joy, as witness the opening passage of
Act I, where Lebarcham and Medv the nurse are discussing their fosterling.
It is the morning of her sixteenth birthday, and King Conchobar is coming
to the little secluded house where Deirdre has been brought up to claim her
as his bride:
Lebarcham. Be comforted.
She loves you, she will bless you all her years:
But if she hate—;I would not be the creature
To cross her path, not if I were the chieftain
Of Ulla, or of Alba, or the world.
Again, in the same first act, when Deirdre has prevailed on Lebarcham
to bring Naisi to the hut, and the two have spoken of their love, it is she
who at once perceives where that confession must lead. Naisi would rather
kiss and part than rob the mighty Conchobar of his bride. But for Deirdre,
having kissed, there shall be no parting:
It is, however, in the last act that Michael Field again triumphantly
proves her mettle as poet and dramatist. She had stubborn material here,
harsh and crude stuff which kept the poets long at bay. For Deirdre’s end as
related by the old bard is a bit of primitive savagery matched in terms of the
plainest realism. Conchobar, after Naisi is enticed back to Ulster and
murdered, takes possession of Deirdre; and she remains in his house for a
year. But her constant reproaches and lamentation weary him; and at last, in
order to subdue her, he threatens to lend her for a year to the man she hates
most, Eogan, the slayer of Naisi. She is thereupon driven off in Eogan’s
chariot, apparently subdued, seated in shame between him and Conchobar.
At a gross taunt from Conchobar, however, she springs up, and flings
herself out upon the ground. “There was a large rock near: she hurled her
head at the stone so that she broke her skull, and killed herself.”
Our poet does not try to make this pretty or pleasing: and at one point at
least she uses the exact terminology of the translation from which she
worked. Its brutal elements are not disguised: Deirdre’s humiliation and the
animal rage of Conchobar and Eogan remain hideous even after the poet,
accepting all the material, has wrought it into a tragedy of consummate
beauty. Its beauty has, indeed, more terror than pity in it—;it is brimmed
with life’s actual bitterness—;but the depth and power of this Deirdre are
not equalled by any other.
In quoting the closing passage of the play one does not afflict the reader
by a comment on it; but there is a technical point which should be noticed.
It is the device of the Messenger by which the poet avoids the
representation of Deirdre’s death. The manner of that death was not only
too awkward to present, but its horror as a spectacle was too great for
artistic control. In causing it to be related by the charioteer Fergna, the poet
has, in classic fashion, removed it from actual vision, but has enabled the
mind to contemplate what the eyes could not have borne to look upon.
The chariot has driven off with Deirdre, Eogan, and Conchobar; and
Lebarcham watches it till it passes out of sight beyond the mound that
marks Naisi’s grave. Then she turns away, lamenting; and suddenly Fergna,
the charioteer, re-enters, scared and breathless:
Lebarcham. Fosterling,
My Deirdre! Had they cast her from the car,
That thus she lay on the sharp rocks of stone?
Conchobar [with a hoarse laugh]. Ho, they have passed the borders,
Passed from my realm.
Nay, Fergna,
Lead the great car, checking the horses’ heads
Beside yon barrow of a hero: there
Unyoke them. Dig a neighbour sepulchre.
And let the bases of each monument
Touch where they spring.
* * *
In concluding this very brief survey of Michael Field’s life and poetry,
one turns back with a sense of illumination to her sonnet called The Poet,
which has been already quoted. For therein Michael Field has indicated the
nature of her own genius and the conditions of its activity. She was not
thinking of herself, of course, but of the poetic nature in the abstract, when
she declared in the first two lines of the sestet that the poet is
Those verses apply in some degree to the whole race of poets, which is,
indeed, the test of their truth. Yet it is significant that in choosing precisely
that form of expression for the truth, Michael Field has inadvertently stated
the essential meaning of her own life, of her long service to literature, and
of the peculiar greatness and possible limitation of her poetry.
“A work of some strange passion.” Strange, indeed, and in many ways.
For, first, it is no common thing to find, in a world preoccupied with traffic
and ambition, two souls completely innocent of both. Not small souls, nor
stupid nor ignorant ones—;as clever people might aver in order to account
for the phenomenon—;but of full stature, intelligent, level-headed, and with
their sober measure of English common sense. They knew themselves, too
—;were aware that they possessed genius, that they had first-rate minds and
were artists of great accomplishment. Moreover, for the larger part of their
life they were on terms with ‘the world’; they welcomed experience as few
Victorian women dared, gathered knowledge eagerly wherever it was to be
found, and had business ability sufficient to direct prudently their own
affairs.
They would have denied that there was anything of the fanatic or the
visionary in the dedication of themselves to their art, believing fanaticism to
be incongruous with the undiluted English strain of which they boasted.
And, indeed, there is something typical of the race in this deliberate setting
of a course and dogged persistence in it. Yet there is hardly an English
precedent for their career; and it is to France one must look—;to the
Goncourts or to Erckmann-Chatrian—;to match the long collaboration, or
to find similar examples of their artistic method. And not even there, so far
as I know, will be found another such case of disinterested service.
But the lines we have noted have an application to the work as well as to
the life of Michael Field. They may be used almost literally, to summarize
in a convenient definition the nature of her poetry. For in this body of work
one sees passion as an almost over-powering element, and it is of surprising
strangeness. However fully one may recognize the truth that there is no sex
in genius, I suppose that we shall always be startled at the appearance of an
Emily Brontë or a Michael Field. They seem such slight instruments for the
primeval music that the earth-mother plays upon them. And their
vehemence mingles so oddly with tenderer and more delicate strains that it
will always be possible for a reviewer to sneer at what is “to the Greeks
foolishness”—;he having no perception of the fact that in gentleness added
to strength a larger humanity is expressed. Such an eye as Meredith’s could
perceive that, and, catching sight of some reviewing stupidity about it,
would flash lightnings of wrath in that direction, and send indignant
sympathy to the poets.
There is strangeness, too, of another kind in the passion which was the
impulse of this poetry. Under the restraint that art has put upon it, it is, as
we have seen, an elemental thing. It is a creative force akin to that of Emily
Brontë or of Byron, and is tamer than their wild genius only in appearance.
Its more ordered manner grew from two causes: that one of the
collaborators blessedly possessed a sense of form, and that both of them
lived withdrawn from the brawl of life. They were placed, perhaps, a little
too far from “Time’s harsh drill.” Their lives were, on the whole, easier and
happier ones than are given to most people. That is why the loss of their
Chow dog caused them a grief which seems exaggerated to minds not so
sensitively tuned as theirs. Until the agony of the last three years overtook
them, their share of the common lot of sorrow had been the barest
minimum: adversity did not so much as look their way: poverty laid no
finger on them, and was but vaguely apprehended, in the distance, as
something pitiful for its ugliness. Therefore, secure and leisured, they
envisaged life, in the main, through art, through philosophy, through
literature, and hardly ever through the raw stuff of life itself. And thence
comes the peculiar character which the passion of their poetry acquired, as
of some fierce creature caught and bound in golden chains.
It may be that this seclusion from life will be felt in Michael Field’s
poetry as a limitation; that the final conviction imposed upon the mind by
the authority of experience is wanting; and that the work lacks a certain dry
wisdom of which difficult living is a necessary condition. It may be so; but
I do not think the stricture a valid charge against their work, first because of
our poets’ great gift of imagination, and second because they chose so
rightly their artistic medium. Comedy may require the discipline of
experience, the observing eye constantly fixed upon the object, and a rich
knowledge of the world; but surely tragedy requires before everything else
creative imagination, sympathy, and a certain greatness of heart and mind.
Those gifts Michael Field possessed in very large degree; so large that one
often stands in amazement before the protagonists of her drama,
demanding, in the name of all things wonderful, how two Victorian women
“ever came to think of that.” A Renaissance pope, a Saxon peasant, or a
priest of Dionysos—;decadent emperors, austere Roman patriots, or a
Frankish king turned monk—;those are only a few of the surprising
creatures of her imagination, conceived not as historical figures merely, but
as living souls. And by the range of her women characters—;from the
dignity of a Julia Domna to the wild-rose sweetness of a Rosamund; from
the Scottish Mary, with her rich capacity for loving, to the fierce chastity of
an Irish Deirdre, or the soul of goodness in a courtesan; from the subtlety of
a Lucrezia Borgia to the proud singleness of a Mariamne; from the virago-
venom of an Elinor to the sensitive simplicity of a country-girl, or the
wrong-headedness of a little princess whose instincts have been perverted
by frustration—;Michael Field has greatly enriched the world’s knowledge
of womanhood.
She did not set out to do that, of course. Her sanity is evident once more
in the moderation with which she held her feminist sympathies, despite the
clamour of the time and the provocation she received from masculine
mishandling of her work. Herein too she had removed herself from “Time’s
harsh drill,” having too great a reverence for her art to use it for the
purposes of propaganda. That fact leads us again to her sonnet and the light
it throws upon herself. For in studying her work one sees that she fulfilled
completely her own conception of the poet—;as an artist withdrawn from
the common struggle to wrestle with a fiercer power, and subdue it to a
shape of recognizable beauty.
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