The Congressional Record is the official record of the proceedings and debates of the United States Congress. It is published daily when Congress is in session. The Congressional Record began publication in 1873. Debates for sessions prior to 1873 are recorded in The Debates and Proceedings in the Congress of the United States (1789-1824), the Register of Debates in Congress (1824-1837), and the Congressional Globe (1833-1873)

No other region in America is so fraught with projected meaning as Appalachia. Many people who have never set foot in Appalachia have very definite ideas about what the region is like. Whether these assumptions originate with movies like Deliverance (1972) and Coal Miner's Daughter (1980), from Robert F. Kennedy's widely publicized Appalachian Tour, or from tales of hiking the Appalachian Trail, chances are these suppositions serve a purpose to the person who holds them. A person's concept of Appalachia may function to reassure them that there remains an "authentic" America untouched by consumerism, to feel a sense of superiority about their lives and regions, or to confirm the notion that cultural differences must be both appreciated and managed. In Selling Appalachia: Popular Fictions, Imagined Geographies, and Imperial Projects, 1878-2003, Emily Satterwhite explores the complex relationships readers have with texts that portray Appalachia and how these varying receptions have created diverse visions of Appalachia in the national imagination. She argues that words themselves not inherently responsible for creating or destroying Appalachian stereotypes, but rather that readers and their interpretations assign those functions to them. Her study traces the changing visions of Appalachia across the decades from the Gilded Age (1865-1895) to the present and includes texts such as John Fox Jr.'s Trail of the Lonesome Pine (1908), Harriet Arnow's Hunter's Horn (1949), and Silas House's Clay's Quilt (2001), charting both the portrayals of Appalachia in fiction and readers' responses to them. Satterwhite's unique approach doesn't just explain how people view Appalachia, it explains why they think that way. This innovative book will be a noteworthy contribution to Appalachian studies, cultural and literary studies, and reception theory.

While John McPhee was working on his previous book, Rising from the Plains, he happened to walk by the engineering building at the University of Wyoming, where words etched in limestone said: "Strive on--the control of Nature is won, not given." In the morning sunlight, that central phrase--"the control of nature"--seemed to sparkle with unintended ambiguity. Bilateral, symmetrical, it could with equal speed travel in opposite directions. For some years, he had been planning a book about places in the world where people have been engaged in all-out battles with nature, about (in the words of the book itself) "any struggle against natural forces--heroic or venal, rash or well advised--when human beings conscript themselves to fight against the earth, to take what is not given, to rout the destroying enemy, to surround the base of Mt. Olympus demanding and expecting the surrender of the gods." His interest had first been sparked when he went into the Atchafalaya--the largest river swamp in North America--and had learned that virtually all of its waters were metered and rationed by a U.S. Army Corps of Engineers' project called Old River Control. In the natural cycles of the Mississippi's deltaic plain, the time had come for the Mississippi to change course, to shift its mouth more than a hundred miles and go down the Atchafalaya, one of its distributary branches. The United States could not afford that--for New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and all the industries that lie between would be cut off from river commerce with the rest of the nation. At a place called Old River, the Corps therefore had built a great fortress--part dam, part valve--to restrain the flow of the Atchafalaya and compel the Mississippi to stay where it is. In Iceland, in 1973, an island split open without warning and huge volumes of lava began moving in the direction of a harbor scarcely half a mile away. It was not only Iceland's premier fishing port (accounting for a large percentage of Iceland's export economy) but it was also the only harbor along the nation's southern coast. As the lava threatened to fill the harbor and wipe it out, a physicist named Thorbjorn Sigurgeirsson suggested a way to fight against the flowing red rock--initiating an all-out endeavor unique in human history. On the big island of Hawaii, one of the world's two must eruptive hot spots, people are not unmindful of the Icelandic example. McPhee went to Hawaii to talk with them and to walk beside the edges of a molten lake and incandescent rivers. Some of the more expensive real estate in Los Angeles is up against mountains that are rising and disintegrating as rapidly as any in the world. After a complex coincidence of natural events, boulders will flow out of these mountains like fish eggs, mixed with mud, sand, and smaller rocks in a cascading mass known as debris flow. Plucking up trees and cars, bursting through doors and windows, filling up houses to their eaves, debris flows threaten the lives of people living in and near Los Angeles' famous canyons. At extraordinary expense the city has built a hundred and fifty stadium-like basins in a daring effort to catch the debris. Taking us deep into these contested territories, McPhee details the strategies and tactics through which people attempt to control nature. Most striking in his vivid depiction of the main contestants: nature in complex and awesome guises, and those who would attempt to wrest control from her--stubborn, often ingenious, and always arresting characters.