Available:*
Format | Library | Call Number | Status |
---|---|---|---|
Book | Searching... Main Library | 956.7044 Wes | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
J. Kael Weston spent seven years on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan working for the State Department. The U.S. government sent him to some of the most dangerous frontline locations. Upon his return home, traveling the country to pay respect to the killed and wounded, he asked himself- How and when will these wars end? How will they be remembered and memorialized? What lessons can we learn from them? Questions with no quick answers, but perhaps ones that might lead to a shared reckoning worthy of the sacrifices of those, troops and civilians alike, whose lives have been changed by more than a decade and a half of war. With a novelist's eye, Weston takes us from Twenty Nine Palms in California to Fallujah in Iraq, Khost to Helmand in Afghanistan, Maryland to Colorado, Wyoming to New York City, as well as to out-of-the-way places in Iowa and Texas. We meet generals, corporals and captains, senators and ambassadors, NATO allies, Iraqi truck drivers, city councils, imams and mullahs, Afghan schoolteachers, madrassa and college students, former Taliban fighters and ex-Guantanamo Prison detainees, a torture victim, SEAL and Delta Force teams, and many Marines. The overall frame for the book, from which the title is taken, centers on soldiers who have received a grievous wound to the face. There is a moment during their recovery when they must look upon their reconstructed appearance for the first time. This is known as "the mirror test." Here, like grains of sand, Weston gathers these voices and stories--Iraqi, Afghan, and American--and polishes them into a sheet of glass, one he offers to us as a national mirror. What Neil Sheehan's A Bright Shining Lie did for Vietnam, The Mirror Test does for Iraq and Afghanistan. An unflinching and deep examination of the interplay between warfare and diplomacy, it is an essential book--a crucial look at America now, how it is viewed in the world, and how the nation views itself.
Author Notes
JOHN KAEL WESTON represented the United States for more than a decade as a State Department official. Washington acknowledged his multi-year work in Fallujah with Marines by awarding him one of its highest honors, the Secretary of State's Medal for Heroism.
www.jkweston.com
Reviews (3)
New York Review of Books Review
AS THE WARS in Afghanistan and Iraq have begun to dwindle, however fitfully, in the national rearview mirror, they have come to be regarded not as, respectively, "the war of necessity" and "the war of choice," or "the right war" and "the wrong war," but rather as the two leading specimens of a catastrophically mistaken era of intervention. Realist scholars like Michael Mandelbaum and critics of American power like Andrew Bacevich tell us that the failure of such "nation building" efforts was foreordained - and richly deserved. If that's right, perhaps the time has finally come to abandon our reformist mission civilisatrice. J. Kael Weston may be better suited to answer this question than any man alive. He spent seven harrowing years on the front lines of both wars as a State Department official serving as a political adviser to American troops. Some readers may recognize his name, for Weston is the civilian hero of "Little America," Rajiv Chandrasekaran's book about Obama's counterinsurgency effort in Afghanistan - a diplomat of great bravery, erudition and heart who befriended Afghans and stood up to his own superiors. The author of "The Mirror Test" is recognizably that figure. Weston chose to spend three years in the Mad Max inferno of Falluja, much of it in a tiny post where he was the only civilian embedded with two dozen Marines. He had a front-row seat for the slaughter that ensued when American forces were ordered, in 2004, to retake the city from insurgents, obliterating much of it in the process. Weston essentially assigned himself the job of finding local partners willing to work with Americans to rebuild Falluja in exchange for endless stacks of American money, and, even more urgently, to function as the city's informal government. That, as Weston knew, is how counterinsurgency wars are won - not by killing bad guys but by defeating their cause in the minds of ordinary citizens. Counterinsurgency is a battle for political legitimacy - and the insurgents fought back remorselessly. Virtually every Iraqi courageous or crazy enough to join Weston's cause was murdered. But Weston also describes America's unwitting connivance with its enemies. In the fall of 2005, United States special forces troops in their ubiquitous Black Hawk helicopters swooped in to kidnap a young Falluja woman, Sara al-Jumaili, thought to be the girlfriend of an insurgent kingpin. They had not, of course, asked anyone about the political consequences of doing so. All Falluja assumed Sara had been seized in order to be raped at an American base. The city was up in arms. In a desperate act that he describes as insubordination, Weston wrote to George Casey, the commanding officer in Iraq: "It is 1651 [4:51 p.m.] on Thursday. If Sara al-Jumaili is not released before Friday prayers, Marines and civilians will die." Sara was released, but too late to prevent a disaster. Sheikh Hamza, Falluja's revered grand mufti and Weston's most prized recruit to local governance, had refused to publicly denounce the Americans, knowing that doing so would unleash a spasm of violence. One month later, Sheikh Hamza was gunned down outside his mosque. All of Weston's efforts had been for naught. He was enraged - at political leaders in Washington, diplomats in Baghdad, special forces commanders in Tampa Although counterinsurgency strategy in Iraq - the surge - is widely considered a success, Weston shows us, in miniature, how the military imperative of killing terrorists consistently trumped the political one of empowering local actors. Today, of course, Iraq has a dysfunctional Shia-dominated government threatened by the Sunni terrorists of ISIS. "The Mirror Test" is a memoir, not a policy paper. Weston writes of the consuming guilt he felt after he authorized a mission that led to the death of 31 Marines in a helicopter crash. Large portions of the book are devoted to his travels back home, visiting the grave sites in a search for expiation, or working with wounded vets. Here Weston seems to be fulfilling an obligation to himself rather than to the reader. The emotional core of "The Mirror Test" is Weston's profound love for the Marines, whose stoic warrior culture and bottomless commitment to one another he embraces. This reverence, however, blurs the book's intellectual outlines, since Weston's buddies don't share either his horror of the wars or his commitment to putting politics and diplomacy first. Like President Obama, whom he greatly admires, Weston considered the Iraq war an appalling mistake but Afghanistan the right war. Once he arrived in Khost Province, a lawless region bordering on Pakistan, Weston found, to his genuine delight, that the Afghans seemed to be open to American help in a way the Iraqis were not. Even enemies received him, if often stonily. Weston visited a madrasa run by a notoriously fundamentalist and anti-American imam. He befriended students there by speaking to them honestly, and by urging that they receive English and computer classes. He insisted, to the horror of his Marine guards, on meeting with allegedly reformed Taliban. Yet Weston could not persuade Washington, or Kabul, to turn his daring initiatives into policy. And his superior under President Obama, Richard Holbrooke, the special representative for Afghanistan and Pakistan, lost the argument for a diplomacy-first policy. In Khost, Weston learns of a "Captain Barr," a Marine commander from years earlier whom the Afghans still remembered with love. No doubt "Kael Weston" is another such name preserved among both Iraqis and Afghans. Yet what Weston built endures only in memory. The Afghan cause may have been just, unlike the Iraqi one, but the American solution has not worked in either place. Future Westons - and one hopes there will be many - will have to work on a more modest scale, with fewer Marines. LAWRENCE WRIGHT HAS reached the stage of journalistic eminence at which his magazine work is collected in an anthology. "The Terror Years" consists of 11 articles about terrorism that originally appeared in The New Yorker. In those pieces, Wright found people to talk to - relatives of Osama bin Laden or Ayman al-Zawahri - whom others had missed, and wove his research, in the New Yorker way, into a fine tapestry of personal experience and unobtrusive reflection. Whether we need to read them for a second time, however, is another matter. Wright has the good manners not to paste in contemporary reflections in order to pretend, as anthologists often do, that the parts somehow cohere into a whole. They don't; they're magazine articles. That said, while the passage of time has rendered some of the pieces old hat, others are edged with retrospective significance. In "Captured on Film," Wright offers a group portrait of the Syrian film scene. In this "stifled and paralyzed country," directors while away endless hours in Damascene cafes, surviving on measly stipends from the National Film Organization, wondering just how far they can raise their voices, just how much they can slip past the censors. But Syria is no longer stifled; it's shredded. Yesterday's genteel melancholy is today's unimaginable luxury. Maybe filmmakers still linger in the Raw da Cafe; but the truth about Syria now lies beyond the reach of satire, of allegory, of fiction itself. It is worth noting that Syria has descended into nightmare not in the aftermath of American intervention, but in its absence. Perhaps the Afghanistan and Iraq interventions really were a terrible, irremediable mistake, but it is a delusion to imagine that these profoundly damaged places will survive, much less thrive, on their own. Americans have learned all too well that they can't do everything in the Middle East; they are now also learning the dangers of doing nothing. JAMES TRAUB is the author of "John Quincy Adams: Militant Spirit." He is a columnist and contributor at foreignpolicy.com.
Kirkus Review
A former U.S. State Department official who spent seven consecutive war years in Iraq and Afghanistan debuts with a damning memoir about our lies, failures, and horrors in the region.Weston's title refers to the moment when people with severe facial injuries first look at themselves in the mirror. He believes the rest of us need to take a look, as well. This is no story told by someone residing safely in academia or in a Washington, D.C., office. The author, who worked for both the George W. Bush and Barack Obama administrations, was assigned to the Marines for much of his duty, and he had extensive experience with gunfire, explosive devices, and terrible accidents. On one occasionan event that haunts him throughout this deeply disturbing texthis actions led, indirectly, to the deaths of 31 service members, whose helicopter crashed on the way to secure polling locations for the 2005 Iraqi electionsa mission the author had urged. Weston revisits this moment continually, his guilt emerging in painful, self-recriminating sentences. Later, back in the United States, he endeavored to visit all of their graves and to meet some family members. The author spares no one. Bush and Cheney, he says, liedeven jokedabout weapons of mass destruction; politicians from both major parties supported the troops in rhetorical but not meaningful ways. In several places, Weston provides lists of fallen warriors, and readers will be struck by the youth of those killed in action: many were teenagers, most others in their 20s. And for what? he asks repeatedly. The author declares that on both frontsIraq and Afghanistanwe failed to accomplish much that's meaningful, and in Iraq, we sowed the seeds of al-Qaida, the Islamic State group, and a most horrific civil war. Weston also focuses sharply on the wounded and disfigured and on the local people, who have suffered unspeakably. Vivid pages soaked with blood, reverberating with cries of pain, loss, and regret. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Weston, who spent seven-plus years in Iraq and Afghanistan as a State Department representative with the marines and the army, reads his own long and candid work. The title comes from military terminology for what happens when a member of the armed forces who has received a serious facial wound looks at himself or herself in the mirror for the first time after reconstructive surgery. Weston applies this "mirror test" to the country and to himself, describing his own experiences in war zones and his conversations with individuals stateside. Weston's voice is clear, his pronunciation is exact, and his sincerity comes across throughout the production. However, he seems to work so hard to keep his voice even that his reading is for the most part monotonous. VERDICT For a production as long this, it may be hard for some to persevere to the end. Still, recommended for public and academic libraries.-Michael T. Fein, Central Virginia Community Coll. Lib., Lynchburg © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
part I The Wrong War Could this be my own face, I wondered. My heart pounded at the idea, and the face in the mirror grew more and more unfamiliar. masuji ibuse, Black Rain Think of the going out before you enter. arab proverb Quagmire It was a smooth flight. By summer 2003, massive and ongoing troop movements had outstripped the Pentagon's ability to fly U.S. service members to Iraq using only military aircraft. Lucrative contracts were awarded for commercial and charter airlines to fill the gap. Soon Boeing 757s helped transport battalions of Marines and soldiers to Kuwait. From there the Pentagon's workhorse C-130 flown by uniformed pilots--many National Guard units in effect federalized--made the final, corkscrew landing into Baghdad. I was age thirty-one and headed to Iraq, to war, for the first time--not as a soldier but on behalf of the State Department. I had left the U.S. Mission to the United Nations in New York after diplomacy there failed, by design. The unnecessary war a commander in chief and the neoconservatives in Washington wanted, Iraqis got . . . and would keep getting for years to come. So did all of us who went over there, year after year after year. Hearing that I worked for the State Department, the pilot guiding our flight invited me into the back part of the cockpit to observe our descent into the Middle East. The deserts below were dark, as was the sky. I did not see any stars. It was as if we were flying into a void, somewhere above us was Mars, the Red Planet, named, of course, after the Roman god of war. Compact, calm, and yet talkative, the pilot noted he was nearing retirement, but had volunteered for these special flights because he considered it to be an honor to fly troops to their last point before continuing into Baghdad, into the war. He said he was certain the U.S. needed to invade Iraq. The pilot believed Saddam Hussein was a threat and had hidden weapons of mass destruction. Toward the end of our time in the air, with the copilot now flying the plane, the chief pilot gave me one of his business cards, embossed with his special designation as American Airlines' "senior pilot." I had no idea airlines had Number One pilots, rank ordered in seniority, but what an American notion: Top Dogs, even in commercial fleets. With my first of two wars just beginning, it felt like an adventure. I was, oddly enough in retrospect, excited. I was also naive. As I left the cockpit, he said he wanted to land in Baghdad one day. At Saddam's old airport before any other commercial U.S. pilot, once civilian flights were cleared to fly beyond Kuwaiti skies. "We're American Airlines. We should be the first." I kept to myself that I doubted any passengers would be collecting frequent flier miles on their way to and from Iraq anytime soon. A few days later I arrived in Baghdad from Kuwait via a sweltering C-130, then by armored convoy into the center of Iraq's now occupied capital city. I suddenly represented the "Occupying Power" in the middle of Mesopotamia. I did not feel victorious. But I knew I wanted to show a less ugly or arrogant America, the kind that had lectured world leaders in the run-up to the war. Few civilians had yet arrived in Iraq to staff the U.S.-led Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA). Part of the first wave in--and probably the most anti-Iraq War member of the group--I recognized in myself a degree of self-congratulatory pride in that fact: being against the war, but volunteering for it. This stand had cachet tied to it, but also conviction. I was not the kind to complain about Iraq in another "March of Folly" fashion. That self-righteous phase of mine lasted about a week among friends, over many cups of coffee and a few beers. It got old fast, and they conveyed as much. Better to be in Baghdad, among Iraqis who could tell me what they thought--not what I might think they thought from thousands of safe miles away. Everything about the place, the Coalition Provisional Authority, indeed felt provisional. Only about fifty State Department personnel had been assigned to help oversee Iraq's occupation and none of us had an at-war roadmap handy. We were hugely outnumbered. Based on sheer size, the U.S. military basically ran the country despite Ambassador L. Paul Bremer III's being named by President George W. Bush as top envoy, or Iraq's "administrator." With such an anodyne-sounding title, he kept his pinstriped, dark suit attire, often adorned with red ties and white handkerchief. But Bremer also incorporated a different fashion protocol, soon mimicked by his inner circle: instead of State Department wingtips, he wore sand-colored canvas military boots. Granted, in a war zone, this sartorial combination looked odd yet seemed practical. It did not come across that way, however, to Iraqis. To them, boots were only made for stomping, not liberating. We all were in way over our heads from the very beginning--a gut truth I felt from day one lasting all the way until I departed years later. All of us confronted the same dilemma. No matter what the reasons or the partisan insider connections that had brought us to Iraq as imperialists exported from America, we were linked by ignorance, unrealistic expectations (earnest idealism in some), and growing dangers. A Mission: Impossible. I felt stir-crazy after just a week. To escape the palace intrigue and my more Machiavellian-minded colleagues, I ventured out as often and as far as I could, past towering date palm trees (a once famous Iraqi agricultural export) to explore Iraq beyond Saddam's former home--its manicured lawns and yellow flowers could be mistaken for a Palm Springs resort, alongside a deep blue Olympic-sized swimming pool with two diving boards, and a barbecue pit. Despite the "shock and awe" bombing of Baghdad by U.S. warplanes, it somehow retained its dictatorially opulent look and feel. When stuck in the palace I would seek out some of the cleaners hired to sweep the ever-present sand from our white marbled floors, who made sure our shoes did not crunch as we navigated the vast floor space. They commuted from Baghdad's poorest Shia neighborhoods into the Green Zone, the ten-square-kilometer, heavily guarded enclave inhabited by coalition officials and military personnel that served as CPA headquarters. I tried to talk with them almost daily, their elementary English far surpassing my virtually nonexistent Arabic. The cleaning crew helped provide me with insights into life beyond the gates. At first, they were wary when I asked them questions, but eventually several opened up. One of the lead custodians, never seen inside without his broom or outside without cigarettes, offered memorable advice. "Iraqis only respect and fear strength. Democracy won't work in Iraq." He probably thought I would whisper his words into Bremer's ear, but I thankfully was not part of the administrator's closed inner circle. But what he said rang true. Iraqis knew all about survival, not voting booths. The custodian asked me at one point why we had moved into Saddam's grand palace. I said because it was easiest to secure and convenient. He seemed like he wanted to say something in response, challenge me perhaps, but did not. I guessed what must have been on his mind. Just what kind of message did America intend to send to the Iraqi people as we moved into countless ex-dictator palaces virtually in the first week of our arrival? It took between two and three hours each morning for the custodian and other palace cleaning staff to pass through multiple checkpoints, barriers that said everything about our relationship with the Iraqis we professed to know and sought to help. Concrete blast walls. Rings of razor wire. Armed security contractors with black shades and big rifles. And badges. Lots of badges, different colors and codes to differentiate us from them. Haves, have-nots--those of us inside our climate-controlled bubble versus those who had to sweat out the invasion and growing insurgency. Over the next year, dozens of Iraqi day laborers would die from car bombs exploding at the front gates as they waited to enter the Green Zone for another day of work. Theirs was arguably the most deadly, daily commute in Iraq. While at night American expatriates would hold "Baghdad Idol" contests and "Pirate Day" poolside parties. That same first week, I asked my new boss what part of Iraq's imperial supervision would be mine. I did not want to have anything to do with oil. CPA life morphed into a power trip, temporarily infecting me as well. I confidently believed that I would be given a high-visibility assignment on a pressing political challenge--we had so many and all at once--given my prior work in New York in the Political Section at the U.S. Mission to the U.N. Unexpectedly, however, top CPA management informed me that my new job would be as point man on a very different set of issues and characters: Iraq's truckers. I was not excited. I was not reassured. The only truckers I knew in the U.S. were from movies, and they did not seem to be the most diplomatic of groups. Or friendly. This would prove to be the best kind of assignment. I could not have known it then, but Iraq's truckers would quickly become my first true link to the real Iraq. In many ways they comprised the lifeblood of a country in mounting disarray. If any goods needed to be transported from point A to B or all the way to Z, it was the truckers who would get them there. But they were on the verge of a starting a mini-revolt over pay levels and requested an urgent meeting with me. The truckers' argument lay in a gray area. They claimed Saddam's senior officials had promised them the funds prior to the invasion. As the new de facto government, teamster leaders argued that we were obligated to honor this commitment. So far Ambassador Bremer had vetoed any payout. Before the meeting, I did a bit of homework with our legal team and learned that our authorities under the guiding U.N. Security Council resolution were sweeping, but with limits--not all changes had to be made unilaterally by Ambassador Bremer via his signed orders. This gave me some degree of flexibility should I need it. I had been warned that the head teamster, Mr. Bassam, was one of the most charismatic and intimidating Iraqis my colleagues had so far engaged in Baghdad. I thought he could not be a harder challenge than the Russian, Chinese, or French diplomats in New York, who sat alongside me on the U.N.'s Al Qaeda and Taliban Sanctions Committee. I had negotiated Security Council resolutions with these delegations and sparred over words that were binding upon governments under international law. Bassam proved me wrong. Upon finally meeting him, I almost expected to hear a Jersey accent. He was pudgy, bearded, with thick baseball-mitt-sized hands. Tony Soprano would have found a kindred spirit. He smelled of cigarette smoke and liked eating three-foot-long Tigris River carp, the key ingredient in a traditional dish called Masgouf--a local bony delicacy also favored by Saddam--and, it was rumored, enjoyed by former French president Jacques Chirac, who had the fish flown to Paris and prepared by his personal chefs. A trained mechanic, Bassam had risen to be a chief representative of Iraq's hundred-strong teamster high command, a group that controlled massive Volvo truck fleets crucial for stability in the country. He and his men moved food--tons of it, daily. Wheat flour, rice, sugar, beans, salt, cooking oil, tea. The staples a majority of Iraqis depended on to feed their families: any breakdown in Iraq's food distribution network could lead to riots and political paralysis. And the teamsters, I realized, had the most leverage. Not us. Over that afternoon, with the staid deputy trade minister in suit and tie seated next to me, we listened to the teamsters' arguments. It turned out that Saddam functionaries had indeed promised them money. Some truckers were on the verge of revolting as a result of the lack of pay. We simply could not afford any disruption to the supply network, however brief. Finally, Bassam told me that the coalition needed more friends, not enemies, and truckers made good friends. Touché, I thought. The balding, elderly minister with his professor-like demeanor looked to me at the end of our session, but said nothing. I sat as an underdressed, decades-younger imperialist. His awkward silence signaled the decision was mine, not his. He handed me two official-looking memos in Arabic, noting one indicated approval, the other rejection. I signed the approval. Bassam reached out and shook my hand, his two-handed grip leaving indentations on my wrist. We both knew who was in charge. I began to think how I would explain this unilateral decision of my own, contrary to Bremer's guidance, back at the palace. But in a few days, growing instability across the country became the overriding focus. And Iraqi media reports that the food basket entitlement might be reduced or eliminated by the Americans had led to a growing public outcry--"introduction of free market forces" had been a CPA mantra among some hard-core capitalists while anathema to the more measured British contingent. My instinct had proved right. We needed the truckers on our side. I never heard from Ambassador Bremer on the matter. The deputy trade minister estimated my deal with Bassam would cost the Iraqi treasury, which we controlled, several million dollars. Their money spent in our, the Occupying Power's, interest--a pattern that would be replicated across other portfolios and amount to many hundreds of millions of dollars in expenditures with little oversight and even less transparency. An Australian colleague described arriving at Baghdad's Central Bank just after the invasion and withdrawing tens of millions of dollars in currency on behalf of Iraqi farmers. He received a handwritten receipt before loading the stacked bills into the back of an SUV. This first meeting with Bassam would lead to more before long. I enjoyed the truckers' company, and they seemed to enjoy getting to know an American up close. So much so, bonding with Iraq's teamsters soon morphed into the most important, and most rewarding, part of my job during Iraq's official year-long occupation under the Coalition Provisional Authority. They became my rationale for regular trips outside the Green Zone and my link to the more vibrant and gritty Iraq. I visited their mechanic shops, ministry food warehouses, even a Sadr City slum truck lot in order to ensure that food movements proceeded despite mounting insurgent attacks across the country. Excerpted from The Mirror Test: America at War in Iraq and Afghanistan by J. Kael Weston All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Preface | p. xv |
Prologue: Twentynine Palms, California | p. 3 |
Part I The Wrong War | |
Quagmire | p. 15 |
Friends and Enemies | p. 26 |
Phantom Fury or New Dawn? | p. 37 |
Happy Birthday | p. 49 |
The Potato Factory | p. 63 |
Clear, Hold, Build | p. 79 |
Helo Down | p. 92 |
Collaboration | p. 106 |
KIA in Mayberry | p. 123 |
When Senators and Generals Talk | p. 136 |
Sara al-Jumaili and the Last Grand Mufti | p. 150 |
A Farewell to Fallujah | p. 161 |
The 93 | p. 176 |
To Monument Valley | p. 195 |
Part II The Right War | |
Deeper into the Muslim World | p. 213 |
Dilawar of Yakubi | p. 228 |
Khost U. | p. 242 |
A Handshake, or Two | p. 251 |
Reformed Taliban | p. 260 |
The Ego Has Landed | p. 270 |
Life After Guantánamo | p. 279 |
The Dead of Sabari District | p. 290 |
The Commander and the Top Student | p. 303 |
Jackpots and Diyholes | p. 311 |
Motor City | p. 323 |
Escalation | p. 336 |
Our British Friends | p. 346 |
Ask and Tell | p. 357 |
A Dignified Transfer and The 91 | p. 366 |
Part III Home | |
To Cherokee, Iowa | p. 391 |
To Menard, Texas | p. 404 |
The Parade | p. 416 |
Semper Fido and the Sierras | p. 427 |
Operation Mend | p. 436 |
The Spirit of America | p. 446 |
The Library | p. 463 |
A Museum of War | p. 476 |
Nick's Home | p. 485 |
The Mall of America | p. 498 |
Epilogue: New York City | p. 513 |
After War | |
A Soldier's War Journal | p. 533 |
31 Angels | p. 543 |
Author's Note | p. 569 |
Sources | p. 573 |
Acknowledgments | p. 575 |