Let it be known: The heritage of David Philip and the needs of the nation
The English Academy Commemorative Lecture 2010
Delivered at The Centre for the Book, Cape Town, on 30 July 2010
by
Stanley G M Ridge
President: English Academy of Southern Africa

Ladies and Gentlemen
The annual English Academy Commemorative Lecture honours the memory of someone associated with English who has made a large and lasting contribution to our society. It is a great pleasure to have so many people here this evening to honour David Philip, to reflect on the challenges which he faced with such courage and creative energy, and to consider what they suggest for the future.  The Academy is delighted to be presenting this lecture in partnership with New Africa Books, the custodians of the DP imprint. I shall be speaking mainly of David Philip’s publishing work. Two things need to be said about it. First, whatever business acumen was required to keep things going (and a great deal was), the driving force throughout was vision and personal engagement. Secondly, as David himself would have insisted, for David you should almost always read David and Marie. It is a special honour to have Marie Philip with us this evening, David’s vital companion in life and work.
My university has a motto, Respice. Prospice. – Look back. Look forward. In this lecture I intend to do just that. The first part will be an outline account of David Philip’s major life’s work. The second a series of reflections on the implications of his heritage.
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The story of the founding of David Philip, Publisher, is well known. In the early seventies, the mainstream publishers increasingly gave in to pressure from the apartheid state and would not publish anything controversial. No more challenging literature. No more exploratory history and potentially uncomfortable analysis of social reality. Nothing that would upset the applecart. Faced with the compliant, textbook turn in South African publishing, David and Marie Philip took the bold step of leaving their secure jobs with established firms and setting up on their own. They started David Philip Publisher in 1971. Its capital was their pension fund paybacks. Its premises the garage of the family home. Its motto: Books that Matter for Southern Africa. If important material was needed in our region, particularly in a time of oppression, they would do their utmost to “let it be known.”
1971 was a year of many unpropitious challenges and changes. An economic downturn saw the bankruptcy of Rolls Royce, the devaluation of the US dollar for only the second time in its history, and the first of a series of devaluations of the rand. Britain’s new decimal currency was launched in these unpromising circumstances. There were also the beginnings of new global economic players which have increasingly to be reckoned with.  The People’s Republic of China joined the world community in the United Nations, and six sheikhdoms joined forces as the United Arab Emirates.

Unstable time
Overall, it was a very unstable and even a vicious time. America and its allies were at war in Vietnam. 1971 was the year of the anti-war protest march of 500 000 people in Washington and another huge march in San Francisco. Pakistan and India were at war with one another after Pakistan attacked 9 Indian air bases. In an unrelated move, Bangladesh broke away from Pakistan. Northern Ireland was at flashpoint.  British security forces detained hundreds of nationalists without trial, provoking bloody rioting, a bomb exploding at the top of the Post Office Tower in London, and the rise of the militant protestant Ian Paisley and his Democratic Unionist Party. In Africa, Idi Amin deposed Milton Obote as yet another sign of liberation idealism under huge pressure. Okot p’Bitek, the Ugandan poet, wrote:
What is Uhuru
When all my thoughts
Are deep and silent rivers
Blocked up by concrete walls
Of fear and black suspicions?
Song of a Prisoner. In Two Songs (1971; Nairobi: Heinemann Kenya, 1988, 90).

There were also the beginnings of more positive, world-changing phenomena. Intel released the world’s first microprocessor, paving the way for the PC almost a decade later. Ray Tomlinson sent the world’s first email between host computers, initiating what has become the unfolding internet revolution. The Open University in the UK enrolled its first students in January, setting the pattern for a major international movement in higher education.  And perhaps I should also mention that 1971 saw the first One Day International in cricket - between Australia and England.
South Africa was a pariah in 1971, increasingly isolated and self-isolating from the larger world. The major instabilities internationally and the economic downturn resonated here, however, with particular force. The International Court and the Security Council backed the UN General Assembly’s declaration that South Africa’s mandate in South West Africa was invalid. Despite all opposition, repressive legislation was aggressively applied, and the Security Police relentlessly harried opposition. The separation policy (which Dr Connie Mulder had recently said was to ensure that there would be no black South African citizens) was doggedly pursued, and the Black Homelands Constitution Act was passed into law. Perhaps the most powerful signal of the government’s desperation was the state visit of Dr Hastings Banda of Malawi, billed as marking our acceptance by Africa.  Banda had recently been proclaimed President-for-Life. Throughout all this there were subterranean rumblings in all parts of South Africa to warn of an eruption to come. It was hard to know where things would go and how events would impact on a small business which was rowing against the current.

Second Book
II bought DPP’s second book shortly after its publication in 1972. Student Perspectives on South Africa broke the apartheid silos and included contributions from the full range of student opinion, from SASO through NUSAS to the Afrikaanse Studentebond. “Books that matter for southern Africa” was the DPP motto, and there could be little of more importance in the growing climate of suspicion and mistrust than allowing South Africans to hear one another and encouraging engagement and debate. Student Perspectives was a daring and exciting book, and it sold out in a few months. Just after it had been reprinted, two of the contributors, Steve Biko and Barney Pityana, were banned under the Suppression of Communism Act. Nothing written or said by either could then be quoted or published. No appeal was possible. It was a crime even to own the book. I suspect there may be a few criminals from that era in the audience tonight. Watch out. But Student Perspectives vanished from public view. If you Google it today, you’ll find it in the National Library of Australia. For the publisher, the banning meant that the book which had just been reprinted could not be sold or stored in South Africa. From the cynical perspective of the state, why stir up a hornet’s nest by banning a publisher when you can drive the firm into bankruptcy?
But the Philips did not go under. DPP assiduously made available the buried past and present in fascinating works of scholarship and literature and general interest. In a profoundly political act, it built a readership. I wrote this lecture with large piles of DPP books on my desk, impeding access to mouse and printer and phone. There were once even more than these on my bookshelves, but they have moved on, given - or lent and lingering in other people’s homes, testimony that the Philips had their finger on the pulse of the country.  The range and volume of the achievement, even the early achievement, is astonishing: history, politics, novels, poetry, sociology. We shall have more to say about these, but it is important to record that there was also children’s and youth literature (including Marie’s own delightful Caravan Caravel), humour (who can forget Rawbone Malong’s Ah Big Yaws) and celebrations of our natural heritage (the beautiful A Fynbos Year). The South African Yesterdays series on social and domestic history, begun in the early seventies, won warm recognition, even from the SABC – and that was no mean achievement. Major writers soon backed the new publisher. Alan Paton’s Apartheid and the Archbishop appeared in 1973,followed by Knocking on the door, edited by Colin Gardner, in 1975, a new novel, Ah, but your land is beautiful, in 1980, and the two volumes of the autobiography in 1981 and 1987. The three volumes of Guy Butler’s autobiography appeared between 1977 and 1991. And Richard Rive’s “Buckingham Palace”, District Six appeared in 1986. There was a deep interest in the range and complex perspectives of South Africans, challenging the binarisms and stereotypes of the apartheid ideologues and more broadly of the dominant culture. Jack Cope, who had been on the shortlist for the Booker Prize in 1972, wrote The adversary within: dissident writers in Afrikaans (1982), a pioneering study of the Sestigers in English, once again extending a readership. In a time of hardening opinions and the formation of the Conservative Party and the United Democratic Front, DPP published the first volume André du Toit and Hermann Giliomee’s Afrikaner political thought (1983), a collection of key historical documents from 1780 to 1850, translated into English to provide wider access to a history that was not at all simple. In press at the time was André Odendaal’s pioneering study of Black protest politics in South Africa to 1912 (1984), uncovering the rich and long-buried history of movements which led to the formation of the ANC.  That same year, the Philips’ daughter, Kate, was detained without trial for her role as a student leader. In 1987, despite insistent and ongoing attention from the Security Police, DPP published Detention and torture in South Africa by Don Foster and others, a bold move indeed. 1988 saw DPP publishing the second edition of Colin Bundy’s The rise and fall of the South African Peasantry to make this major reinterpretation of South African history available to South Africans, challenging dominant white notions of the fecklessness of African tradition. And in the same year, in Tim Keegan’s Facing the storm: Portraits of Black lives in rural South Africa, four rural South Africans were able to speak for themselves and be heard by a wider audience. 

Relationshipe
Throughout, David and Marie Philip personally, and often with exquisite discernment, sought out the growing points, and established relationships with the writers.  Anthony Delius’s Border, a remarkable novel published by DPP in 1976,  is set in the eastern Cape in the early 19th century. It rigorously explores deep aspirations to human fulfilment and the permeability and impermeability of borders of class and race and territory and culture: key questions for South Africa in 1976 and today, and rather more dangerous to ask then than now.  Delius was the best satirist of his time: David Philip gave him the opportunity to be heard in another, more nuanced and resonant voice. And then there was poetry – always a substantial risk to the bottom line for a publisher, but of huge social importance, particularly in times of oppression. The Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova, offers a moving anecdote “Instead of a Preface” to her poem “Requiem 1935-1940”:
In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad [for news of her son who was inside]. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
“Can you describe this?”
And I said: “I can.”
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.
Anna Akhmatova. Poems of Akhmatova. Transl. Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward. London: Collins, 1974, 99.
“Can you describe this?” One DPP poet, Patrick Cullinan, writes about a people which has avoided confrontation and adapted and moved out of the way of insistent intruders until it faces the horror of not knowing the place where it finds itself and how to interpret the environment to survive:
But when it did not rain we knew
That we were lost, and knew
We could not speak our own language.
Patrick Cullinan. “The first danger”. Today is not different. In Jack Cope ed., Guy Butler/Patrick Cullinan. Mantis Poets. Cape Town: David Philip, 1978, 37.
Confronted with the underground immensity of the forces that were to change South Africa, Chris Mann sees himself, articulating complex portents of revolution, as someone
who  like a miner’s caged canary
when clammy gases foul the stopes,
thought the cheep which cleared the pithead
was adequate notice of doom.
Chris Mann. “Strategies”. New shades. Cape Town: David Philip, 1982, 34.
Stephen Watson writes of being
torn between [Cape Town’s] cloud-light, pine-light, the serene nihilism of its skies,
and its unending, all-negating, word-exhausting human cries.
Stephen Watson, “Coda”. In this city. Cape Town: David Philip, 1986, 34.
Anna Akhmatova’s story resonates here. We need – and we need to value – the people who can “describe this” to enable us to get a handle on our realities. But the story also reveals the deep difference between a widely literate Russia and an alienated and predominantly non-literate South Africa. South Africans waiting outside a prison (and many did) would not generally have recognised the names of poets in their midst. The movement in publishing which David and Marie Philip pioneered from 1971 engaged with that challenge. The forces for change were strengthened by three other newcomers in close succession: Ad Donker (1972), Ravan Press (Peter Randall, Danie van Zyl and Beyers Naude) (1973) and Bateleur Press (Lionel Abrahams and Patrick Cullinan) (1974), all building a readership and a broader literary culture, changing the reading base as part of the project of transforming South Africa. When it comes to literacy, as they saw, the key issue is not so much whether people can read, but whether they do, whether it is part of their investment in making sense of their world, and whether what is available to them helps in that regard.

Projects
One of the most ambitious and influential projects which David Philip launched to help South Africans make sense of their world was Africasouth Paperbacks. Isabel Hofmeyr has written a substantial account of its significance. The bold idea behind the series was to reissue work from sub-Saharan Africa which had previously been unavailable, usually for political reasons, and to give exposure to substantial new talent, often dealing with politically unpopular themes. It both broadened the South African field of vision and placed us firmly in Africa. The trigger was the “unbanning” of a number of works by the South African government in mid-1982. Books from this list formed the basis of the Africasouth series later in the year: writers like Todd Matshikiza, Can Themba, Harold Bloom and Ngugi wa Thiong’o returned from the outer darkness of banning to fill in the information gap for South Africans. Others like Alan Paton, Es’kia Mphahlele and Richard Rive had neglected work reissued. Some prescient voices from an earlier period, like William Plomer, Ethelreda Lewis and Douglas Blackburn were retrieved. And there were new voices like Menán du Plessis, Michael Cope and Miriam Tlali. Africasouth Paperbacks said to South Africans: here is evidence writ large of a heritage far richer and more diverse and challenging than you have been induced to think.
The first new writer’s work in Africasouth Paperbacks was Menán du Plessis’s A state of fear, which appeared in 1983. It won the SANLAM Prize in 1986. I was present at the award ceremony, when Menán announced, after making a few telling points, that she was giving the prize money to the UDF. The shock of the intersection, in that room, under such circumstances, of South Africa’s establishment and the manifestly growing forces of resistance was palpable. The Nationalist press had a field day, unintentionally giving the gesture the publicity it needed for maximum effect. But, to return to that evening: with characteristic hospitality, David had invited a number of those present to move to their home for further refreshments. It was the first of a number of such visits to 3 Scott Road for me. I gave Menán a lift home afterwards. The connection I did not make that evening was with Renfrew Christie, now her husband and father of their two talented daughters, and one of my most respected colleagues and friends. He was still in Pretoria Central Prison near the end of his long sentence under the Terrorism Act for feeding secret information about South Africa’s nuclear programme to the ANC. I am not sure if David knew this, but it would have been absolutely in keeping with his steadfast resolve to keep in touch with the centrifugal forces of South Africa and bring them into critical relation to one another as far as his work allowed.

Censorhip
A critical part of that resolve is evident in David’s ongoing, dogged struggle with the state censorship apparatus, both independently, and with other parties like the Anti-Censorship Action Group  and the Independent Publishers’ Association of South Africa, which David helped to form. There is a long and edifying story of court challenges and representations to remove decidedly unedifying bannings and restrictions. These actions were sometimes successful, as in the case of titles republished in the Africasouth series. But the opposition to the Publications Control Board had a much wider effect: it revealed publicly the extent to which the state was keeping important material from the people, and kept the issue of free access on the agenda. This was much to the irritation of the authorities, who then, frequently, resorted to “dirty” tactics. As late as 1989, security agents were trying to persuade people not to publish with DPP because the firm, they said, was about to collapse.
In 1997, with democracy triumphant and memories of censorship and banning happily receding, I was in Germany as a visiting professor. At the Frankfurt Book Fair I went to greet David and Marie at their stall. What a happy meeting! Ivan Vladislavic was there with his Slavic publisher, mark of another change in the world in that decade, and the conversation flowed. I mention this incident to introduce the international dimension of David’s work. If part of the informing purpose of DPP was to give South Africans access to the range of images of themselves which they had created and to establish their links with other parts of Africa, another part was to let South African voices be heard elsewhere in the world. A glance through the relatively small number of DPP titles in my study shows cooperation or joint publication with Jonathan Cape, Heinemann, Macmillan, Faber, Harvard University Press, Scribners, Barnes and Noble, Pandora Press (Unwin),  Scarecrow Press, Humanities Press, University of California Press, Rex Collings, and most often and perhaps most fruitfully of all, with James Currey. These partnerships obviously had their business end, but it was no small achievement in the barricaded 80s to achieve such agreements and to open such significant space for South African creative work and scholarship to enter the global conversation.

Conversation
Sitting in the diningroom at 3 Scott Road on a winter’s evening, in lively conversation over a bowl of Marie’s incomparable soup, one was unavoidably distracted from time to time by the range of fascinating titles which filled the bookshelves from floor to ceiling across most of the length of the room. This was the definitive collection of DPP publications.  What a gratifying record of achievement. The part of the collection between 1971 and 1994, the year of our first democratic elections, has gone to Oxford to David’s alma mater. But both the DPP papers and a wealth of other material have gone to the National English Literary Museum in Grahamstown. It is no small measure of the significance of the David Philip Publisher project that these papers are an outstanding resource for anyone working on our intellectual history. Other publishers may well wish to follow David’s example in this. NELM is a wonderful national repository which he enthusiastically supported as a home for manuscripts, correspondence, photographs, book cover designs and printed works.
The presentation of the Philip collection to Oxford offers a moment of highly significant semiotics to conclude the “looking back” section. David and Marie, newly honoured Doctors of Letters of the University of the Western Cape, were invited to Encaenia in Oxford in 2002. They proudly joined the procession in that ancient university in their rich blue UWC doctoral gowns, later handing over the complete set of nearly 500 DPP volumes published between 1971 and 1994 to Rhodes House Library.  Happily international, yes. Unabashedly South African, always.
* * * * * *
Books that matter for Southern Africa. As we reflect on the heritage of David Philip and the needs of the nation, as we “look forward”, that motto and the ways in which it has been interpreted in practice issue a standing challenge and example to the whole of southern African publishing. I discern five key areas of challenge:

1. The publisher as vital agent

David Philip’s deep conviction made the publisher a vital agent in the process of building the nation and nurturing it to health. Without such publishing, there is a gulf between the promising intellectual growing points in the society and those who need to engage with them.  It is by building relationships with writers that those growing points can be discovered and nurtured, and it is often by taking signficant risks that the works see the light of day. Not long before David’s retirement from executive management of the firm, DPP published A writer in stone , a Festschrift by an extraordinary range of writers for Lionel Abrahams, poet, mentor, critic and publisher - and a major influence on their lives. The editors report having “lost track of the number of books and poems dedicated to him”, and one critic sees him as “the most influential person in South African literary history” (xi).  Abrahams was among the first to see the growing points in black poetry and make them known, publishing Mtshali’s Sounds of a cowhide drum (1971) and Serote’s Yakhal’inkomo (1972), which won its author the Ingrid Jonker Prize. Thirty eight years on, Mongane Wally Serote is an influential culture critic and a DPP author, whose latest volume of poetry, Quite footsteps, was published in March 2010.  Lionel Abrahams was exclusively and passionately concerned with creative writing. As we have seen, David Philip’s own scope went much further. But the same principles apply. David and Marie risked everything in 1971 to pursue those principles rather than submit to an attenuating compliance with state interpretations of the nation’s needs. Such compliance may have a different profile now but is just as much of a potential obstacle to genuine transformation. It always will be.

2. Looking one another in the eye

In a multicultural society, particularly one in an accelerated process of finding itself, it is vital that people across social boundaries come to see beyond the caricatures and enter imaginatively into other people’s lives. We need to understand where our fellow citizens of different cultural traditions are “coming from” and increasingly engage with them in a process which changes us and them and opens up new possibilities of building on one another’s strengths. One of Sepho Sepamla’s contributions to A writer in stone includes these lines:
I doesn’t care of you black
I doesn’t care of you white
I doesn’t care of you India
I doesn’t care of you kleeling
if sometimes you Saus Afrika
you gotta big terrible terrible
somewhere in yourselves
because why
for sure you doesn’t look anader man in da eye.
Sipho Sepamla, “Da same, da same”. In A writer in stone, p.71
The challenge to the publisher is to find and promote the scholarly and imaginative growing points that enable us to look one another in the eye.

3. Understanding our situation

Even if it does not always know it, the state depends on a lively, well-informed, critical citizenry to interpret policy dynamically, to challenge wrongs, and to precipitate change and adaptation. The publisher who identifies with this must seek means of putting South Africans in a way to being able to understand their country and the issues facing it and to resist the ossifications of self-serving myth.  We have already gained some sense of the astonishing range of such work which David sought out and published. For my illustration of work which affords perspective on our complex realities, I am going to turn to a non-DPP book. Earlier this evening, we awarded the Olive Schreiner Prize to Michael Cawood Green for his novel For the sake of silence (Roggebaai: Umuzi, 2008). Father Joseph Cupertino, the quiet and often ineffectual Trappist monk, whose sustained, gently reflective narration carries the story, throws into relief many of the myths and faulty assumptions that impede people from coming to terms with their reality. There is more than a little modern relevance. Marianhill is in the heart of Zulu country. The monks are German-speaking Austrians, and the leading figures have little or no English and no Zulu. Into their midst comes Benjamin, a mission-educated Mosotho from Roma. He is given the task of starting the mission school.
He began by visiting the kraals in the vicinity of the monastery to drum up scholars, and immediately met with some success. “Perhaps it is his big black face and sparkling eyes that steal the hearts of the people,” Brother Zacharias said as we watched the first catch of two little boys fearfully entering the room we had set aside for a schoolroom. Our faithful collector was visiting us after one of his fund-raising trips in Austria and Germany, and I must confess that I thought his success in playing up for Europeans the more colourful aspects of our neighbours in Africa was showing too plainly. (229)
The patronising, racist, Black Sambo myth which Brother Zacharias has appealed to in fundraising in Europe, just doesn’t fit, and perhaps reveals a snatch of jealousy. It leaves Father Joseph uncomfortable. But the whole mission enterprise is predicated on the school being a means of bringing the neighbouring Zulus progressively within the Christian fold and of their wanting to come. Here, too, there is a subversion of expectation by quite another motive:
We soon discovered that it was not so much Benjamin’s talents that drew our scholars in as a command from the mysterious Chief Manzini.... Our future relations would make it clear that he had no interest in our making his people Christians; he wished only that we should teach them to “hear”, as he put it in one of his early messages, “what the paper had to say”. (230)
And then there is the wilful refusal to come to terms with the linguistic challenges in practicable ways. 
“The boys want to receive help to get along in life,” Franz was arguing, smacking his hand into his fist with each emphasis, “which, for the ambitious boy, means going to town. To do this he needs at least a smattering of English, and this is why he has come to school. Zulu, no matter how highly developed his proficiency in it may be, will lead him nowhere. There are simply no positions in which it will be of any use.”
This familiar argument is placed in a quietly comic context. We have a mission-educated Sotho-speaker and Marianhill’s German-speaking Prior conversing in French about Zulu children whom the Prior wants taught in English, while another monk, pledged to silence, stands by as an unwilling audience. The Prior is dynamic and emphatic, and his argument has some truth in it, but there is one insuperable obstacle to his ambitions: his Mosotho school teacher is in no position to comply. “The fact of the matter, beneath all sophistry and rhetorical effects,” says Father Joseph, “was that Benjamin’s knowledge of English was extremely limited.” (231) As we wrestle as a nation with how to enable the majority of our people to “hear what the paper has to say”, this framing of the problematic issues must inform our sense of policy and of the materials needed in literacy work.

4. Mayibuye iAfrika

A major element in recovering from the colonial centuries and the apartheid era is having Africa become real to us as part of our inheritance. Kaizer Nyatsumba’s contribution to the Lionel Abrahams volume wrestles with this. The poem is written in America after he has seen the Imami Dancers. He writes of what he calls “Lost Pride”:
Back home
in Africa
we sing “civilized” songs
we sing soul-operating
jazz
heart-probing soul
and conscience-searching reggae
We sing all these things
and marry them with mbaqanga
and isicathamiya
and be happy

                They, too, sing
here in America
they sing something different
they sing traditional music
veritable African music
and African dance
and I am abashed
for I, being African
can no longer do all these things
for I am ‘civilized’.
Kaiser M Nyatsumba, “Lost Pride”. In A writer in stone, p.26.
The point is not an impossible return to a vanished past, but a re-establishing of connections with life-giving heritages. There is no doubt that publishers have a significant role in doing so.

5. Being part of the wider world

In a society which is part of a global economy, citizens need confidence to engage the wider world. In particular they need to be able to move with assurance in the global conversation. They need hard-edged knowledge to help them make sense of the world. But they also need to be secure enough to imagine beyond their present limitations. Much of this is fostered by the range and quality  and imaginative challenge of what is available to them to read.
In this time of protracted new beginnings, I have chosen some beautiful lines from outside our usual range to challenge our imaginations. In 1949, when he arrived in Beijing to proclaim the People’s Republic of China, Mao Tse-Tung dedicated an elegant and moving poem to his friend and fellow poet, Liu Ya-Tzu. Here is an extract from it:     
In this season of falling flowers I read
Your beautiful poems.
Be careful not to be torn inside.
Open your vision to the world.
Don’t say that waters of Kumming Lake are too shallow.
We can watch fish better here than in the Fuchun
River in the south.
Mao Tse-Tung. “Poem for Liu Ya-Tzu”. The Poems of Mao-Tse Tung. Translated Willis Barnstone. London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1972, 79.

What followed politically in China may not obviously accord with this, but it does not invalidate it. In Mao’s delicate evocation of loss as part of the new; in his celebration of literature as a means of reflective retreat rather than escape; in his calling his friend, who has wanted to withdraw to the traditional life of a fisherman on the Fuchun River, to join him admiring the ornamental koi in the shallow lake in the grounds of the imperial palace; in his recognition of the importance of individual composure as a condition for being open to the world, Mao evokes issues of great importance to us, now, in South Africa. These lines fittingly close a consideration of David Philip’s public heritage:
Be careful not to be torn inside.
Open your vision to the world.