In 1986, Bruce Gardiner lent me his copy of Walter Benjamin’s Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. From memory, it was the 1983 Verso paperback edition, a reprint of the 1973 translation by Harry Zohn, featuring Étienne Carjat’s 1862 photographic portrait of Baudelaire on the cover. I remember that Bruce wrote my name and the title of the volume in a slim book he kept in his office drawer. It was an act that struck me with fear, as if the prospect that I might not return the book was a reality. I could see but did not recognise the names of other students written in this ledger. I assumed they were doctoral candidates, but I wasn’t sure. In any case, it felt like an initiation. Under Bruce’s supervision, I was embarking on an Honours thesis about Nancy Cunard, a notorious British-American socialite, exile and muse who was also a little-known modernist poet. Introducing me to Benjamin’s writings was a knight’s move. What I encountered was not a literary reading in the traditional sense. Rather than being anchored in the early twentieth-century Anglo-American context, which provided the background for the project I was about to start, Benjamin’s text, as is well known, offered a broad panorama of modern urban life. Centred on mid-nineteenth-century Paris and engaging Baudelaire’s poetry as a thread around which to weave observations on the city, the commodity, and the development of capitalism, the essays I read extended literary study in ways that previously had not been evident to me. In retrospect, this encounter was a formative moment.

This chapter reconstructs my experience of reading Benjamin’s texts on Baudelaire. I pay particular attention to my recollection of the pencil markings that I encountered during this reading. I cannot be sure, but my presumption is that these marks were made by Bruce. There was no underlining. The inscriptions consisted of precise delineations of sentences or clauses, marked by two dots in the margin joined with a line, exact but hand drawn. It was my first encounter with Benjamin’s writings, but my experience was marked by the knowledge that another reader had come before me. Bruce had literally sliced the text, placing, if I recall correctly, an exclamation mark next to passages that stood out. The sense I make of these marks relates not to the passages or phrases highlighted, which, lacking the book that Bruce lent me, I would now struggle to identify. Rather I take my memory of these marks as an occasion to reflect upon learning from Bruce, as I embark upon a reading of the same text. I understand the marks as indices of Bruce’s pedagogy, like a footprint is an index for Charles Sanders Peirce, a sign that Bruce had been there. But I also approach them as icons of a teaching style, marked by precision on the one hand and glee on the other, a sense that attentive reading should not destroy the pleasure of the text.

In re-reading Benjamin’s essays in the same 1983 Verso edition, I consider my own intellectual development and Bruce’s early role in setting its trajectory. The critical practice I now pursue has moved away from literary study, insofar as it deals with questions of society, culture and politics that do not necessarily elicit an engagement with literary production, history, reception or analysis. Nonetheless, I count reading, understood as an interpretive art deeply connected to the structures of power and social value that shape human life, as a crucial part of this practice. Reading again Benjamin’s writings on Baudelaire, after over thirty-five years, offers an opportunity to take stock of the course of my work. I assess the extent to which the style and ambit of Benjamin’s essays gave impetus to my own interest to extend interpretive practice beyond the literary object. My re-reading of Benjamin aims to recall and gauge the impact of an earlier reading. In so doing, it exhibits a dynamic of Nachträglichkeit or the revision of memories to accord new experiences. The situation is further complicated by the changing position of literary studies in the human sciences since the 1980s. I take Benjamin’s own reflections on memory and experience as an occasion to remember the influence of Bruce’s teaching, and to reflect on how my literary education has drifted towards the reading of social realities.

The Passer-By

At a crucial moment of the essay entitled “The Flâneur”, Benjamin takes the rare step of quoting one of Baudelaire’s poems in full. The piece in question is the sonnet “À une passant”, one of the most famous in the Fleurs du mal. Benjamin reproduces the French original and the Verso edition adds an English translation by E.F. MacIntyre. Notably, this same pattern of quotations is repeated in the expanded version of “The Flâneur”, “Some Motifs in Baudelaire”, which offers a much more truncated reading of the poem. In the original essay, Benjamin comes as near to offering a close reading of Baudelaire’s verse as he does anywhere in the pieces collected and translated in the Verso volume:

I stress the anomaly of this approach because it is not usual for Benjamin to attend closely to the workings of literary or poetic text. The focus here on phrasing, transfiguration and the relations among quatrains and tercets is not the typical mode of analysis to which Benjamin subjects Baudelaire’s poetry. More often, he is interested in how Baudelaire’s verse registers the social transformations of its day, or, to paraphrase the title of the volume in which he planned to collect his essays on the poet, how Baudelaire’s lyricism relates to Hochkapitalismus. In this regard, the emphasis on shock is pertinent as it connects this reading of “À une passant” to the wider themes of urban life that Benjamin explores by engaging with texts and objects as diverse as Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Man of the Crowd”, Georg Simmel’s essays on the metropolis, and the urban redesign program of Georges-Eugène Haussmann. Indeed, the more condensed reading of the sonnet in the later version of the essay, “Some Motifs in Baudelaire”, moves directly to these concerns. As Benjamin revised his essays on Baudelaire, the kind of close literary analysis conducted in the passage above was systematically ironed out.

As an undergraduate reading Benjamin’s text, I noticed this tendency and wondered about the possibilities it held. I was also confused. Was I allowed to write like this? Why had Bruce offered me a critical work that seemed to break one of the cardinal rules of literary study – always ground wider cultural and social analysis in close textual reading? The precision of the marks left by Bruce in the margins of the book seemed to register how his own practice at once adhered to this approach and stretched it to a breaking point. I felt preceded by a reader who had looked at Benjamin’s text through a microscope, even picking out phrases from the volume’s dense footnotes, as if preparing for a virtuoso reading. I knew from Bruce’s lectures his ability to work a reading into a crescendo, embellished with literary terms, excessive but accurate, at once erudite and exultant. My memory does not stretch to specific occasions on which Bruce displayed this aptitude, but I recall that they were common. Looking back at his writings, the following snippet from a 2011 review article captures something of this flair:

Bruce’s exuberance for the form and metre of Michael Field’s poem “The Sleeping Venus” can hardly be contained. As in Benjamin’s reading of “À une passant”, the economy of stanzas is an important factor in the poesis at play. However, Bruce finds an intricate play of rhyme and metre to exceed the break between Field’s sestets and octets, “pre-empting”, trumping and extirpating any kind of absence around which the poem might revolve. The piece is one of around forty works penned collaboratively under the pseudonym of Field by two female authors, Katherine Bradley and Edith Cooper. Field’s poem presents no “high point”, like the never in Baudelaire’s lyric, which, for Benjamin, carries the frustrated passion of the male gaze. Rather, the quatorzains engage Giorgione’s painting “The Sleeping Venus” to conjure a woman “who masturbates herself into being”.3 At stake is “an arousal that defines the literary as the essential fecundity of language”.4 And, for Bruce, it is precisely this “extravagant power” of language that Hilary Fraser misses in an interpretation of the poem that provides a foil for his own.5 Fraser’s reading gives only an “impressionistic description” of Field’s poetic technique, and, as such, fails “to face the most radical formal and substantive issues” raised by “literary and aesthetic inquiry”.6

Although written twenty-five years after I had moved on from working with Bruce, I recognise the moves of this reading. Most notably, they recall the interpretative brio Bruce displayed regularly in the Honours seminar titled “Masculine and Feminine”, which he taught with Penny Gay. The course covered works from Christina Rosetti, Oscar Wilde, Virginia Woolf and James Joyce among others. In offering readings that stayed close to text, Bruce broached issues of body, sexuality and language in ways that seemed more pressing than the theories of desire I was encountering in theory books by Julia Kristeva or Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari. In analogy to the way he describes Field’s quatorzains as anti-sonnets, I remember these interpretative acts as anti-close readings. Bruce was never content to approach a text as a staid urn. For him, literature was simply too exciting, and when he entered the classroom, there was mischief to be had. Staying close to text almost always meant showing how a literary work was bursting at its seams, crowded, moving beyond itself, extending into a network of other texts and realities, feelings and representations. To this extent, there was something Benjaminian about Bruce’s readings, even if the commitment to close analysis was constitutive and could never be abandoned.

In this period, I read several times Bruce’s Southern Review essay titled “Decadence: Its Construction and Contexts”.7 Before swerving to a history and appraisal of late nineteenth-century British literary decadence, the article rehearses theories of decadence as developed by authors such as Richard Drake, Richard Gilman and Carl E. Schorske. Bruce finds the decadent aesthetic to be characterised by “a claustrophobia of collapsed perspectives” that makes it “no longer clear what is authentic or inauthentic, actual or fanciful, moral or immoral”.8 At stake is a “stylistic overloading” that trammels over any textual economy punctuated by a punctum or single climactic point.9 Moreover, decadence attests “a massive shortcircuiting of the transmission of patriarchal power and responsibility from one generation to another”.10 Bruce’s critical and pedagogical practice reflected this concern with the “loss of the father”.11 He refused any model of pedagogy as the handing of knowledge and power down a male line. His teaching advanced an aesthetic of reading that curved towards a sweet spot, not a pivot around which to leverage anxieties of agon and misprision but the site of a pleasure reducible to neither the erotic nor the hermeneutic. This mode of literary engagement was not beyond the sugar hit, as attested by the following paragraph from the Southern Review essay, which lists entities and experiences that attract the qualification of decadence:

How many times did Bruce’s students speculate as to the location of the establishment that purveyed this cheap delight? We were spared the wondering of streets and browsing of menus by the fact that Bruce was serving up treats weekly in the classroom, of the literary rather than the culinary kind. However, the urge to stroll, to orient oneself in the world of commodities and price tags, was not disconnected from the reading experiences to which we were exposed. This is the lesson of Benjamin, for whom Baudelaire’s identification of the flâneur as the central figure of modern life provides a key for the interpretation of the lyric poet’s verse.

Benjamin understood Baudelaire’s poems to record the ambulatory gaze of the flâneur on Paris. However, this insight was not turned primarily, or even secondarily, to an analysis of Baudelaire’s poetic language. As Susan Buck-Morss writes, “Benjamin treated Baudelaire’s poetry as a social object, not a literary one.”13 He read away from the poems instead of into them, seeking not to excavate Baudelaire’s aesthetic intentions or delve into the workings of literary form, but to relate the flâneur’s vision of the city to diverse philosophical and social issues. These matters include the impact of shock on the human psyche, the transcience of fashion and modernity, the positions of the prostitute and the gambler in commodity society, the politics of urban space, the ethos of heroism, the relation of literary montage to the work of the ragpicker, the advent of photography, and the dynamics of memory, just to name a few of Benjamin’s more prominent concerns. Ultimately, for me, this mode of analysis would prove more seductive than sticking with careful readings of literary text. But I still had several rounds of grappling with the proclivities and technicalities of literary language before I was confident enough to make this break.

The Dandy

One day in 1985, Bruce walked into the Woolley Building’s N395 lecture theatre wearing a pair of high-top basketball boots. Although I can’t recall the lecture’s content, it seems to me that the shoes were red and white in colour. By the mid-1980s, the clothing preferences of university lecturers had shifted beyond the dourness of tweed, although not completely among senior members of the English department. However, Bruce’s footwear was out of the ordinary. To me, it signified Blackness, athleticism and the United States. Doubtless, it had been chosen artfully. Yet this was work attire. It was difficult to picture Bruce shooting hoops, but he was certainly no idler. The care and detail with which he crammed his lectures suggested that he was working with a zeal befitting the Presbyterian origins of the New Jersey institution from which he had recently obtained his doctorate. Dandyism, for him, was an object of professional investigation, part of his interest in the aesthetics and politics of decadence. While he flirted with the dandy’s sense of artificiality and exaggerated refinement, his engagement was professedly critical and analytical. Besides, it was not the time to be aestheticising sickliness or declaiming nature’s perversity in the manner of late nineteenth-century decadents such as Karl-Joris Huysmans, when public discourse and policy were at every turn mobilising these same tropes to pathologise same-sex desire.

By 1985, some 4,500 people had contracted HIV/AIDS in Australia, many of them homosexual men in inner-city Sydney and Melbourne. Although these were not the only communities in which the syndrome circulated, the public perception that AIDS was a gay illness was quickly entrenched. Apart from threatening lives, there were indications, and fears, that the spread of the virus would offer a pretext for a formal crackdown on recently won social freedoms, such as the decriminalisation of homosexual sex, which in New South Wales had only been achieved in 1984. As many commentators point out, the epidemic was not only a medical phenomenon but also a cultural one. Mainstream media and opinion made the illness synonymous with collective memories about pathogenic bodies – homosexuals, drug users, prostitutes – until recently perceived as deviant. With the advent of testing in 1985, the NSW government proposed legislation that would make positive results notifiable and criminalise the nondisclosure of positive status before sexual activity. Passed in December, these laws engrained the perception of so-called carriers as polluters who, by opening the floodgates of promiscuity, placed the general public at risk. On 5 September, the Sydney Morning Herald published the following letter:

Bruce’s letter, which he signs as a private citizen, gives insight into the personal and political issues that informed his professional and intellectual work. It was only a year later that I learned that Bruce and his partner Mark were giving shelter to young and otherwise homeless HIV-positive men in their Darlinghurst home. This act of solidarity and generosity was a strike against the very prejudice and hypocrisy that his letter to the Sydney Morning Herald found the public health legislation to endorse. Yet, despite Bruce putting his name on the line, this hospitality was grounded in an ethics that did not invite publicity. While the basketball boots and flashy readings were part of the mix, the politics necessitated by contagious vectors of social prejudice and homophobia were remote from the nonchalance and affectlessness of dandyism.

Doubtless, Bruce’s critical interest in decadence, fashioned in advance of the AIDS epidemic, had been inflected by the fact that this same epithet was being turned by mainstream and conservative voices against the community of which he was part. The moral panic that surrounded the circulation of HIV gave Bruce’s work new urgency. In this light, the hyperglycaemic aspects of his practice might rightly be seen as a reclamation of pleasure in the face of adversity, much as some of the first poster campaigns devised within the gay community offered messages such as “Great Sex! Don’t Let AIDS Stop It”.15 That the lens of the present refracts literary history and criticism is no revelation. This observation applies equally to Benjamin’s reading of Baudelaire as to Bruce’s recuperation of literary decadence. Yet, insofar as Baudelaire was a crucial figure in the history of modern decadence, Benjamin’s engagement with his poetry provides a sounding board against which to assess the perils and gratifications of such a retrieval.

Importantly, for Benjamin, the flâneur is not the dandy, although the two can certainly coexist in the same body. The flâneur is the observer of modern life, who prefers to view the city from the anonymity of the crowd and maintains a watchfulness analogous to that of the detective, journalist or even social scientist. The dandy, by contrast, fashions the self for public display but is simultaneously indifferent to external influences. Benjamin finds this paradoxical aspect of the dandy to register particular historical conditions. For him, Baudelaire is mistaken to see the dandy as a last hero in the face of modern destitution. Rather than being the belated heir of the classical hero, the dandy’s origins are recent and English, caught up in the contradictions of imperialism, finance, trade and the marketplace:

I can’t recall whether Bruce had marked this passage, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did so. Benjamin links the dandy’s emergence to England’s position as the world’s primary trading nation, the global reach of the London stock market, and the unpredictable tremors of imperial finance. As is well known, the 1890s were a period of financial turbulence, marked by deflationary pressures that affected the value of bonds issued to build the railways, canals, ports and steamship lines that enabled England’s global commercial dominance. In 1890, Argentinean bond defaults precipitated the Baring Bank crisis, which led to a bailout funded by London financiers. Events such as the collapse of property values in Australia, the US financial panic of 1893, and the rush on South African mining shares in the late 1890s triggered many failures on the London stock market. By understanding the dandy’s insouciance as a response to these fluctuations, Benjamin positions this figure at the heart of empire’s meshes. There is something dialectical in this image of the dandy, whose demeanour overcomes the conflicts established by an increasingly financialised capitalism. However, the dandy does not reconcile or sublate these contradictions. Rather, in signifying neither revealed surface nor concealed truth, he leaves these dissonances in suspension and comes to represent the fissure in the historical reality that gave birth to him.

Reading Benjamin as an undergraduate, this kind of analysis was dizzying and thrilling. In retrospect I realised there were gaps to fill if I was to understand or replicate the logic of this stretch from a facial expression to the tremors of world capitalism. The reading I undertook in the years immediately after working with Bruce, say before 1990, helped to fill this gap. Among the works in question were writings by Immanuel Wallerstein and Giovanni Arrighi on world systems theory, the postcolonial theory of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak and Homi Bhabha, and Fredric Jameson’s explorations of the relations between capitalism and cultural form. However, Bruce’s emphasis on the sexual and aesthetic politics of decadence provided me with another angle to make sense of Benjamin’s writings on the dandy and flâneur.

In many ways, my Honours thesis on Nancy Cunard was an attempt to come to terms with the gendered dimension of the figures of the dandy and flâneur. To what extent was it possible to apply the terms of Benjamin’s analysis to the feminist revision of modernism? If, for the flâneur, a certain visual mastery provides a means to negotiate the spectacular conditions of modernity, what of the female subject positioned as a vital, metonymic part of this spectacle? Cunard strove to control this visual field, posing for photographers such as Man Ray and Cecil Beaton as well as inspiring Constantin Brâncuşi’s sculpture La jeune fille sophistiquée. She was the paramour and patron of male literary figures. However, she also wrote her own poetry, much of which I could only obtain by writing to her biographer Hugh Ford, who generously sent copies of original publications and unpublished works. As the archetypal flapper, Cunard flouted sexual, racial and class boundaries, fashioning a subjectivity reducible to that of neither the flâneur nor the dandy. Yet she was also a privileged socialite, enmeshed by empire’s financial and infrastructural webs as the heiress of a fortune amassed by running steamships across the Atlantic. This knot of gendered, economic, literary and visual relations offered fertile ground for a critical engagement with Benjamin’s essays on Baudelaire, pointing to the limits of flânerie and dandyism as heuristic instruments for coming to terms with modernity’s plural forms.

The Commodity

What then are the limits of Benjamin’s rendering of modernism and urban modernity, and how do I see these limits now as opposed to when I first read the essays on Baudelaire? Responding to this question requires recognition of the multiple efforts of translation and commentary that have enhanced our knowledge of Benjamin’s writings since 1986. Already in 1998, Peter Osborne noted that “Benjamin’s prose breeds commentary like vaccine in a lab”.17 Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin’s translation of Rolf Tiedemann’s edited volume Das Passagen-Werk appeared in 1999, offering English language readers a vista on the wider, unfinished and fragmentary project of which the essays on Baudelaire are a part.18 By basing this chapter in a re-reading of translations that many would consider redundant, I do not mean to sideline the prodigious work that has clarified the relation of the writings in question to Benjamin’s convoluted and complexly assembled oeuvre. Nor, however, do I seek to make this commentary a primary object of investigation. My interest is more in the faded memory of a past reading than in the reclamation or updating of perspectives made on its basis.

In this sense, my approach resonates with that of Benjamin’s 1931 essay “Unpacking My Library”, which associates the encounter with forgotten books with “not thoughts but images, memories”.19 The questions of experience and memory return throughout Benjamin’s writings, beginning with his early essays on Immanuel Kant. In Charles Baudelaire, these themes are most prominent in those sections that deal with the experience of shock, drawn from Baudelaire’s account of the flâneur’s negotiation of the crowd and made to link the machine, film and the game of chance. Theoretically, Benjamin explores a series of correspondences between Proust’s “involuntary memory” and Freud’s theory of consciousness. This investigation is part of his strategy of reading Baudelaire’s portrayal of the modern symptomatically, as a way of reflecting on his own twentieth-century present and uncovering the experience of the transformation of historical time by the commodity form:

Baudelaire’s response to this intoxication was to attempt to distil the eternal or heroic within it, working primarily from a juxtaposition with the ancient and maintaining the anachronistic poetic form of the lyric. By contrast, Benjamin emphasised the shock of the new and the formal structure of sameness involved in its repetition, particularly in fashion, boredom and technical reproduction. By transforming the new into the self-same, the commodity refigures the possibilities for the experience of history. On the one hand, it de-historicises experience and breaks its relation to a successive or progressive notion of historical time. On the other, its restless sameness opens experience to something outside of time, a Messianic break, associated with the interruptive stasis of the image and the futural promise of revolution. In this double movement, the writings on Baudelaire open towards that most gnomic of Benjamin’s late fragmentary texts, “Theses on the Philosophy of History”.21

My first encounter with Benjamin’s essays on Baudelaire was shaped by an engagement with the writings of two commentators, both of whom emphasised the commodity form. The first was Marshall Berman, who in All That is Solid Melts into Air characterises Benjamin as at once drawn by the commodity’s fetishism and wrenched from its temptation by his Marxist sensibilities: “he wants to be saved, but not now”.22 The second was Terry Eagleton, whose Walter Benjamin or Towards a Revolutionary Criticism was published under the same Verso imprint as the volume Bruce had lent me. Eagleton, in particular, zeroed in on the commodity, exploring its obfuscation of “the traces of its production”, its capture in “the frozen dialectic of history”, and its relation to “the modern semiotic signifier”.23 In so doing, Eagleton found in Benjamin’s work “more than a strong echo of Georg Lukács’s History and Class Consciousness, which in similar idealist fashion sees the reduction of the proletariat to the paradigmatic commodity as the prelude to its emancipation”.24 Although these commentaries bear the marks of their time, I still think it is important to stress the role of the commodity in Benjamin’s thought. The point is not to dramatise the vacillations of the bourgeois intellectual, as does Berman, but to situate Benjamin’s focus on the commodity in a global context that accounts for uneven development and variegated forms of capitalism.

Benjamin makes no secret that his study of Baudelaire has a distinct spatial and temporal location; Paris in the age of Hochkapitalismus. But the philosophical and theological underpinnings of his thought cut through this particularism and bring it into relation with more universalising tendencies. In this regard, it is important to situate Benjamin’s thought within wider currents of historical materialism and critical theory. In broad terms, Benjamin’s work is part of Western Marxism. This name is a label given by the Soviets to distinguish their own discussions from Lukács’ History and Class Consciousness, a text that Benjamin studied assiduously during his stay on the Italian island of Capri in the mid-1920s. In the view of the Soviets, Lukács’ work embodied a shift away from concerns with labour and production to a focus on how the commodity form structures thought and culture. As Harry Harootunian suggests, this “tendency has become so hegemonic or commonsense … that it has managed to mask its own cultural and politically specific origins and run the risk of making its claims complicit with capitalism’s self-representations”.25 At stake is the assumption that the commodity relation has been achieved everywhere, leading to the realisation of what Marx termed “real subsumption” and registering the final completion of capitalism’s domination of everyday life. Continued through the work of the Frankfurt School, this line of thought is strongly upheld in Benjamin’s writings of the 1930s, which perhaps more than others produced at the time, make the commodity form central to the structuring of modern social life and, in particular, to the operations of culture.

Undoubtedly, this feature recommended Benjamin’s work to those who began to rescue and reconstruct it in the 1960s. However, in bringing the commodity form to the centre of his analysis, Benjamin is perhaps insufficiently attentive to variegations of capitalism outside Europe and the West, where the encounter with heterogeneous forms of production, social organisation and culture often entails not real subsumption but the need for capital to reckon with its outsides through continuing processes of primitive accumulation or extraction. For Benjamin, as the earlier quoted passage about the dandy sitting at the centre of world trade and financial networks attests, the tremors of empire refract back upon the metropole. But what would it mean to analyse these interruptions at their source? For Harootunian, the “capacity to situate practices from earlier modes alongside newer ones under the command of capital” constitutes “the force of temporal interruption, unevenness, fracturing, and heterogeneity” that upsets capital’s “homogenous, unitary, and linear trajectory of time”.26 Can, as this language suggests, the Benjaminian aesthetic of shock and temporal disruption be turned away from theological tropes of prophecy and towards an apprehension of how practices of solidarity and translation across different times and spaces might challenge the multiple and varied forms of capitalism? How to adapt Benjamin’s insights for a contemporary world in which the transformation of historical time folds into the problem of the unity and disjunction of social space at the global level?

I cannot pretend to answer these questions here, although they inform much of the work I have done in recent times. My writings with Sandro Mezzadra grapple with the question of how capitalism operates across the different times that constitute the contemporary and within the social spaces in which these times are embedded and articulated.27 This is not work that takes the literary as its primary object, but insofar as it traces mutations of politics and economics through modernity’s multiple forms, it is perhaps not so far from the use I made of Benjamin under Bruce’s instruction. Re-reading Benjamin’s essays on Baudelaire as a means of charting changes in my own practice has dramatised a moment in the return of the same. But the repetitions at stake are not without punctuation. Bruce’s lesson stands like an exclamation mark in the margin.

Bibliography