Narratives of Suffering and Forgiveness:Neil Gaiman’s Season of Mists as a Parable of “Hell”1

By Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, Ph.D.Philosophy Department, De La Salle University

(Manila, Philippines)

Hell, in the world of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, is a “plot of psychic real estate” (Gaiman 1992, 103). We’re all familiar with this mythical place—the underworld, Tartarus, Hades, the abyss—which, in the Christian religion, represents a state of eternal damnation. In various stories, and appropriations of stories, being condemned to hell is primarily a mode of punishment for some un-atoned-for or unforgivable moral transgression. Here, I explore what may be considered an existentialist view of this metaphorical place, or existential state, as portrayed in Season of Mists, the fourth collected volume of The Sandman comic book series.

I focus on two philosophical issues: (1) To what extent can we say that “hell” or suffering is freely chosen?, and (2) Is forgiveness a virtue? I provide preliminary answers to these using Gaiman’s text as a narrative springboard, occasionally referencing other literary works that address the subject of hell.2 I pay special attention to the work of narrative itself in the process of reconciliation and spiritual growth, which, I argue, are the ways out of our metaphorical hell.

The Sandman world and Season of Mists

1 Lecture delivered on March 17, 2011 at Yuchengco Hall, De La Salle Univesity, on the occasion of the plenary lecture for the Great Works course on the theme of damnation, taught by of Professors Natty Manauat, Dennis Apolega, and Mark Anthony Dacela. My thanks to these indefatigable colleagues for giving me the opportunity to explore one of my favorite graphic novels in a philosophical way.

2 These are the texts that comprise the triad of great works discussed in my colleagues’ course: No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre, The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, and The Marriage of Jeaven of Heaven and Hell by William Blake.

1

The Sandman is a 75-issue comic book series, first published in the 1990s, based on the hero’s journey of Dream (who also goes by the name of Morpheus), its titular character. A member of the Endless—a family of godlike siblings who represent different aspects of human experience3—he is lord of The Dreaming, and as such governs the domain of human sleep and the unconscious. He is a black-haired, slender, and pale figure, often dressing in Goth-like attire, who tends to be brooding and Byronic. His story has been read as a modern myth following the plot of the hero’s journey as described by Joseph Campbell. Rauch (2003: 11) characterizes Dream’s quest as “an inward one, in which the hero comes to some deeper realization or enlightenment.”

In Season of Mists, constituting issue numbers 21 to 28, Dream realizes that he needs to atone for an act of prideful cruelty he once committed. He has condemned a mortal lover, an African queen named Nada, to hell, after she chose to commit suicide rather than stay with him in The Dreaming. Now, thousands of years after the event, he goes to hell to try to get her back, only to discover an abandoned place. Lucifer, the lord of hell, has abdicated, weary of his obligations. It turns out that he also wants to endanger, or otherwise inconvenience, Dream for a past humiliation. Thus, the fallen angel unexpectedly gives Morpheus the key to hell, making him the de facto custodian of what Dream’s sister Death calls “the most desirable plot of psychic real estate in the whole order of created things” (Gaiman 1992, 103). Shortly thereafter, gods and other powerful beings from various mythologies descend on Dream’s realm, seeking the key to hell.4 Various threats are made and bribes offered to sway Dream, with the demon Azazel possessing the most disturbing bargaining leverage: a naked and enchained Nada.

Ultimately, Dream decides to give the key to hell to the angels Remiel and Duma, deferring to the wishes of their “Creator” (presumably the Judeo-Christian God). Enraged, Azazel tells Dream that he would devour Nada’s soul. Azazel is depicted as a black floating amorphous figure with many eyes and many sets of teeth, and Nada is trapped somewhere inside him. Dream then enters Azazel, rescues Nada, and subverts the demon’s attempt to eat him. Being the lord of The Dreaming—a place where he could do anything—Morpheus is able to entrap his adversary inside a glass jar. Cowed, the other beings unhappy with Dream’s decision decide to accept it and leave peacefully. Shortly, Dream appears to Nada in human form, humbling himself before her and apologizing. She forgives him, but refuses once more his offer

3 In order of descending age, the Endless siblings are: Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire and Despair (who are twins), and Delirium. They are said to be older than the gods.

4 Among them are the Norse deities Thor, Odin, and Loki; the Egyptian lord of the dead, Anubis and the lady of cats, Bast; a Japanese ancestor god; the demons Azazel, Choronzon, and Merkin (representing Lucifer’s displaced lieutenants); the incarnation of Order and its opposite, Chaos; a couple of faerie folk; and the angels Remiel and Duma, representing the Silver City—the latter two being there merely to observe.

2

that she stay in The Dreaming and be his queen. She is later reincarnated as a baby in modern-day Hong Kong. Season of Mists ends with Remiel and Duma taking over the governance of hell, now considered a new order based on a reforming spirit, about which a tortured being says, “But… you don’t understand… That makes it worse. That makes it so much worse....” (Gaiman 1992, 217).

A return to myth: Existential aspects of Dream’s hero’s journey

Western philosophy is thought to have begun with Thales, who lived on the island of Miletus in Asia Minor in the fifth century BC. With his idea that the world rested on water, the principal element, he was the first to employ logic and empirical observation. That is to say, he did not rely on stories about gods and goddesses to account for the cosmos. Previously, it was the oral storytelling tradition of poets such as Homer and Hesiod that helped people make sense of the world around them.

Thus, myth and philosophy have often been contrasted with each other: mythos (story) is associated with the irrational and logos (reason) with the rational. This simplistic dichotomy, however, is questioned by Morgan (2004, 30), who points to the statements of the ancient philosophers themselves as the cause of the devaluation of myth:

Their [philosophers’] polemic against the poets is virulent. It is also misleading. Centuries of scholarship have jumped on the bandwagon with characterizations of the irrationality of myth. Only recently have we recognised this polemic for what it is, part of a process of philosophical self-definition and self-presentation which need not be taken at face value.

In the 20th century, the work of the Swiss analytical psychologist Carl Gustav Jung on the collective unconscious led to a re-conceptualization of myth that recognizes its symbolic value. According to Jung (1990, 43), in addition to the personal unconscious, “there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms, the archetypes….” There are innumerable such archetypes, or psychic patterns of human characteristics and experiences, which may appear in dreams, literature, myth, and pop culture, to name a few venues. Some examples of well-known archetypes recurrent in fables, epics, and legends the world over are the hero, the wise old man or woman, the trickster, the maiden, etc.

3

Building on Jung’s theories, Joseph Campbell argued that the analysis of myth can have a personal significance. In particular, he focused on “the hero monomyth,” characterizing it primarily as a story of transformation. Just like the hero archetype, individual human beings are also engaged on a specific quest that could come to define the meaning of his or her life. The hero (who is usually male) typically has special talents or skills. He goes on a quest or adventure, aided along the way by mentors and helpers. He confronts and overcomes a nemesis in a crucial final battle, and eventually returns to the community with new powers and wisdom (Campbell 2003, 23).

The three main stages of the hero myth are departure, initiation, and return. These stages are clearly represented in the larger story arc of The Sandman, in which the episode with Nada is but one of Dream’s life-changing adventures. His overall quest, as articulated by Rauch (2003, 38-58), is one of “humanization,” that is, the process of reclaiming his emotions and developing compassion. This is shown through the climactic death and rebirth of Dream near the end of the series, in which the black-garbed Sandman called Morpheus is transformed into a white-clad one. The new Sandman goes by name of Daniel, and is a warmer and more sympathetic version of himself.

In this paper, I focus on the existential aspects of Dream’s metamorphosis, particularly as they are portrayed in Season of Mists.5 I have chosen this particular volume out of the ten that comprise the entire series, because of two reasons. The first is that Gaiman’s parable of hell falls within the theme of damnation central to the Great Works course, in which this discussion is offered as part of the plenary session. The second is that two philosophical issues with considerable existential import are addressed in/by the story, namely the relationship between freedom and suffering (with hell as a metaphor for the latter) and the moral status of forgiveness. Bringing these two issues together, I argue that even though Nada, the aggrieved party, is the one who is literally in hell for the most part of the story, Dream, the transgressor, suffers along with her. This mutual suffering is eventually overcome when the two exchange narratives of their experiences, thus changing their views of themselves with respect to each other and to the irrecoverable past. My analysis draws on Griswold’s (2007) comprehensive analysis of the conditions of “paradigmatic forgiveness” and the role of narrative and truth-telling in this moral process.

In this regard, mythos is an indispensable medium not only for the articulation of certain existential philosophical issues, but also, in a stronger

5 Also of philosophical interest is the seventh volume, Brief Lives, which is the story of Dream and Delirium’s search for their missing brother, Destruction (who is the personification of change). Here, the father-son relationship between Dream and his child Orpheus—so much a part of Dream’s hero’s quest—reaches a climax. A sacrifice is made that is not unlike Abraham’s, bringing to mind Søren Kierkegaard’s analysis of the leap of faith and the three-stage journey toward authenticity.

4

sense, their resolution. Myth reflects the underlying cyclical pattern of the existential journey toward authenticity. In existentialism, authenticity is broadly equated with the commitment to individual subjectivity. In the work of the theistic thinkers, individual subjectivity is understood as a preparatory stage for a dialogical relationship with the Other. The dialectic process of separation and communion underpins spiritual growth, based on the premise that change is always painful and always calls for some sort of engagement or confrontation with someone other than oneself. How best can this point be driven home other than through story?

To what extent can we say that “hell” or suffering is freely chosen?

In Season of Mists, Lucifer gives up his role as the lord of hell, having grown weary of the job. In a conversation with Dream, he complains that human beings often blamed him for their failings:

“They use my name as if I spend my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. ‘The devil made me do it.’ I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them. And then they come here (having transgressed against what they believed to be right), and expect us to fulfill their desire for pain and retribution. I don’t make them come here. They talk of me going around buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No. They belong to themselves…. They just have to face up to it.” (Gaiman 1992, 82)

Lucifer’s abdication, then, has forced the former denizens of hell to leave, effectively ending the business of torture and punishment. (These spirits will resurface on earth, as shown in a side story set in an English boarding school for boys.) These lost spirits are portrayed as actually reluctant to leave hell. Later when operations resume under Remiel and Dumas, they appear eager to return.

There are striking parallels between Gaiman’s parable of hell and Sartre’s portrayal of it in his famous play, “No Exit.” Sartre sees hell as less a literal place than a state of mind, something which is constructed and perpetuated by humans themselves. In his version of hell—which is symbolized by an ordinary living room—three characters discover that there are no torturers or torture devices, no fire and brimstone. Instead, as it turns out, they are to be one another’s torturers, primarily through their inability to see or perceive

5

the others as each one wants to be perceived. The competing narratives of others about ourselves6 are unbearable, so much so that we become locked in an eternal conflict with them. This leads Garcin to declare, “Hell is—other people!” (Sartre 1989, 45).

A crucial reinterpretation of the idea of hell or damnation in Sartre’s account has to do with our freely choosing it. When the door out of hell unexpectedly opens just as Garcin is banging on it, desperate to escape his companions’ presence, he does not leave. He tells Estelle, the woman who wants him, “It is because of her [Inez] I’m staying here”(Sartre 1989, 42), referring to the other woman who keeps tormenting him with her accusations that he is a coward for having deserted the French army. It seems that one is drawn toward one’s “torturer.” However, in keeping with Sartre’s freedom-oriented existentialist ontology, the torturer may well turn out to be ourselves, and the perception of other people as hell may be an expression of bad faith. That is to say, we are all too willing to blame our sufferings on something outside of ourselves, rather than face the anguish entailed by a complete realization of our freedom. Within is an abyss, and anguish is the vertigo inspired by freedom (Sartre 1969, 30-32). To cope with this unpleasant feeling, one usually denies one’s responsibility for one’s life—a chronic human condition that Sartre calls bad faith. It is easier for Garcin to blame Inez for his sufferings than for him to face his own regrets about the life he had lived, and the legacy he had left.

In Sartrean terms, Lucifer’s description of the human attitude toward hell and damnation—i.e. their tendency to blame everything on the devil and his tricks—illustrates bad faith. Gaiman’s manner of portraying Lucifer seems to be less a characterization of the devil than a statement about human responsibility and agency. In this sense, both parables of hell, “No Exit” and Season of Mists, adopt the existentialist position that a great deal of suffering is freely chosen. This idea is also one of the main themes of C.S.

6 In Sartrean phenomenology, self-consciousness arises from the look of the Other. Sartre defines consciousness in terms of the activity of nihilation or néantisation, by which consciousness “injects” its ontological lack of essence into the plenum of being—as in our ability to perceive absence. Compared to a chair (l’etre-en-soi), I (l’etre-pour-soi) am free inasmuch as I have no essence comparable to its chair-ness. By virtue of this freedom which is conceived as a lack, I project my nothingness upon an otherwise complete and “perfect” world. When I look at a chair, I evaluate it in terms of standards like comfortableness or quality of material, standards which are not essential to, or completely outside, the object itself. Whereas en-soi exhausts itself in its being, pour-soi is a constant lack, parasitic on objects outside of itself: “Nothingness lies coiled in the heart of being—like a worm” (Sartre 1969, 21). This pure nihilating activity of consciousness precedes any idea of an essential self. The latter arises from the experience of shame before the Other, i.e. the recognition that one is an object for another’s gaze (Sartre 1969, 221-23). Another way of saying this is that the limitation of our freedom is the recognition of other freedoms, which invariably leads to conflict and objectification. Garcin has no ultimate control over how Inez would perceive him, and he is tortured by the knowledge that she sees him as a coward.

6

Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, an epistolary narrative in which the devil Screwtape mentors his nephew Wormwood about the art of temptation. The fact that it requires considerable effort and ruse for the devil to succeed means that a human being always has a choice to do “good” or “bad,” however diminished his or her capacities and perception may be. In Sartrean terms, “good” and “bad” are human constructs, negotiated in an ethical community that fashions its own image after its own choices (hence our grave responsibility). This idea is echoed in Lucifer’s speech when he describes mortals as follows: “And then they come here [hell] (having transgressed against what they believed to be right), and expect us to fulfill their desire for pain and retribution” (Gaiman 1992, 82).

To claim that suffering is freely chosen is not to discount the conditions one truly has no choice about or appreciable control over, e.g. the state of one’s country’s economy, the nationality one is born into, certain natural disasters, and so forth. A view of freedom as absolute also leads to the inappropriate moral condemnation of a person by virtue of his or her unlucky situation. Even the Sartrean view of freedom is not absolute, since it refers to the nothingness between facticity (the givens) and transcendence (the possibilities). Thus, to say that suffering is freely chosen is to assert our moral agency, while qualifying the extent of this agency.

The word “suffering” implies an additional layer of torment apart from the original instance of adversity, as when a person goes through the ending of a relationship and chooses to ruminate about it for months afterward. An alternative response that would not lead to as much suffering is to process the event, attend to the negative emotions, and move on. Hence, one exerts one’s agency in the act of choosing between these two responses, even though one may have less or no control over the ending of the relationship.

Whether suffering is purposeful in a moral sense would seem to depend on the attitude of the sufferer. In “No Exit,” the characters’ self-awareness and eventual acceptance of their fate would seem to have alleviated their pain, as evidenced by their hilarity at the end of the story. Meanwhile, in Nada’s case, according to her tale, she has chosen to bear her situation in hell with equanimity: “I was very hungry for the first few thousand years. but after that I grew used to the hunger, and it ceased to concern me as it once did” (Gaiman 1992, 199). It seems that her strong sense of self has remained intact, so that during her reunion with Dream, when he once more asks that she be his queen, she sticks to her decision despite the very real threat of eternal punishment: “I said no to that offer ten thousand year back, Dream. I have not changed my mind” (Gaiman 1992, 202). In a display of righteous indignation over Dream’s actions, she even slaps him. When he expresses outrage, she taunts him, “What will you do to me, Dreamlord? Send me back to hell?”—to which he has no response (Gaiman 1992, 201). One might make the case that the overcoming of adversity, which entails some amount of

7

suffering, may have the positive effect of increasing one’s courage or self-confidence. But again, this happy outcome depends on one’s attitude toward the fact of suffering.

That there is a connection between one’s attitude and the experience of “hell” or suffering is an old idea, expressed by philosophers as diverse as the Stoics, the Buddhists, Nietzsche, and the 20th-century existentialists. A new twist to this view is the element of human design in our self-inflicted, self-constructed hells. Lucifer’s claim in Season of Mists that it is human beings who demand to be tortured. Recognizing this is a necessary step toward transforming this experience of hell toward one of liberation, or even “heaven.” That heaven is the other side of hell is suggested by Gaiman’s story, as when Remiel says,

“There must be a Hell. There must be a place for the demons; a place for the damned. Hell is Heaven’s reflection. It is Heaven’s shadow. They define each other. Reward and Punishment; hope and despair. There must be a Hell, for without Hell, Heaven has no meaning.” (Gaiman 1992, 176)7

It seems very fitting that the angels should get the key to hell.

Is forgiveness a virtue?

The second issue I would like to explore is whether forgiveness is a virtue, or whether the capacity for it could be considered a good thing to have or cultivate. Philosophical treatments of the subject are scarce due to its traditional association with theology, though for Griswold (2007, xv) “There is nothing in the concept itself that requires a religious framework, even though it may be thought through within such a framework.” In atheistic existentialist literature, Nietzsche’s psychological diagnosis of Christianity as being rooted in ressentiment has set the tone for a suspicion of certain moral values as decadent. In Nietzsche’s (2003, 19) reading of Christianity as a slave morality, forgiveness is really a sign of weakness that is elevated into a virtue by the oppressed, i.e. those who, presumably, had no choice but to turn the other cheek.

In supporting the case that forgiveness may be thought of as a virtue—one that is non-decadent in the Nietzschean sense—I hope to disassociate the concept with its religious overtones. This is in keeping with my existentialist framework, which eschews the edicts of institutionalized religion in favor of the individual’s quest for authenticity. In demonstrating that the capacity to forgive is not only compatible with self-esteem and self-

7 For an analogous idea, see William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

8

interest, but that it also fosters spiritual growth, I refer to the relationship between Dream and Nada as portrayed in Season of Mists.

As a result of Dream’s rash and ego-driven act of sending Nada to hell when their affair concluded in a way he did not like, his former lover had to endure ten thousand years of constant suffering. Gaiman (1992, 39) describes hell in this way:

Once upon a time, there was a place that wasn’t a place…. It was an inferno of pain an flame and ice, where very nightmare had come true long since… This was a bad as it got. It couldn’t get any worse.

In Nada’s own account of her ordeal to Dream, this is what she has had to endure: “I could scarcely stand in that oubliette. I burned by day, and froze by night. Glass shards cut my flesh. I starved, and hurt, and wept, and waited. All that because of you” (Gaiman 1992, 200).

During his conversation with Nada after having saved her from Azazel, the normally haughty Dream assumes a humble posture as he mostly looks down on the floor. He begins with a halting apology: “Nada. Ten thousand years ago, I… I condemned you to Hell. I now think… I think I might have acted wrongly. I think perhaps I should apologize. I should tell you that I am sorry” (Gaiman 1992, 199).

Nada reacts angrily, indicating that an apology—especially what appears to be a half-hearted one—is not enough to compensate for what she has been through. She slaps him, and though he is enraged, he does not retaliate. After sputtering and being reduced to silence, he speaks again: “I… I am sorry, Nada. You were right. What I did was foolish, and heartless, and… unfair; you hurt my pride, and I hurt you. I was wrong. There is nothing else I can say” (Gaiman 1992, 201).

A wide panel shows the two characters beholding each other in silence. In the next page, Nada kisses Dream and declares, “Very well. I accept your apology” (Gaiman 1992, 202).

This scenario fits Griswold’s (2007, xvi) paradigmatic case of forgiveness, which he defines as “a moral relation between two individuals, one of whom has wronged the other and who (at least in the ideal) are capable of communicating with each other.” Since forgiveness in this case requires reciprocity between the two, Griswold (2007, 49-51) enumerates conditions that must be fulfilled on the part of the injurer and the injured. For the injurer, the following conditions must be fulfilled: (1) the acknowledgement of the responsibility for the wrongful act, (2) the repudiation of the deed, (3) the expression of regret at having harmed the other person, (4) the

9

commitment to becoming the sort of person who does not inflict injury, (5) a demonstration of his or her understanding of the damage endured by the other as a result of the injury, and (6) a “narrative accounting” of this contrite self who is worthy of forgiveness and committed to change. This accounting should include

how she came to do wrong, how that wrong-doing does not express the totality of her person, and how she is becoming worthy of approbation. She needs to make herself intelligible by offering up an account that is neither fiction nor excuse making, and that puts the wrong-doing as well as the self that did the wrong in a context. The injured party deserves answers to questions such as “who is this person, such that she could have injured me thus? Such that she warrants forgiveness?” (Griswold 2007, 51)

Meanwhile, for the injured, the following conditions must be fulfilled: (1) the foreswearing of revenge, (2) the moderation of resentment, (3) the commitment to let resentment go, (4) revising one’s judgments about the offender, (5) seeing oneself in a new light (i.e. dropping a sense of moral superiority and of victimhood), and (6) the act of addressing the offender to declare that forgiveness is granted (Griswold 2007, 54-58). The narrative accounting on the part of the injured is accomplished through condition nos. 4 and 5.

Central to Griswold’s account of forgiveness—which, I argue, makes it an existentialist account—is the temporality that it grants to selves. This recognition that identity is a process rather than a substance necessitates the articulation and communication of meaningful narratives, or self-conscious and sympathetic stories. A story is a sequence of events whose logic rests on the metamorphosis of the persona whose story is being told. A more specific kind of story is the narrative, which “claims to represent, in some sense, how things are (or were), what happened, and why—not just causally ‘why,’ but why from the perspective of the agent” (Griswold 2007, 99).

The central role that narrative plays in the act of forgiveness entails self-examination and a commitment to truth, endeavors that are certainly not for the faint of heart. In this sense, forgiveness is an act of strength and valor, even of heroism. It represents not capitulation or resignation, but initiative: an expansion, rather than a contraction, of self. Thus, it is a non-decadent virtue.

10

One might well argue that Nada forgives Dream too quickly, which—especially in heterosexual dynamics in which the male is more powerful than the female—may lead to a pattern of abuse. In their particular context, however, their farewells are forever. In fact, it is precisely their inability to come to terms as Endless and as mortal woman that has led to the end of their relationship. In light of the impact of this encounter in Dream’s self-conception, and in his future actions, Nada has indeed scored a moral victory. I submit that the unimaginable length of her stay in hell is not an argument for the unforgivability of Dream’s act, but a testament to both their capacity to grow and move on.

The reciprocity inherent in the moral relation which is forgiveness means that both the injurer and the injured suffer from the lack of it. In Season of Mists, Dream certainly goes through a hellish time of his own dealing with the sting of his conscience and the situation that Lucifer has put him in. All these are resolved—hell is symbolically left behind (or transformed into heaven, if you will)—when forgiveness is finally sought for and achieved.

References:

Blake, William. 1994. The marriage of heaven and hell. New York: Dover Publications.

Campbell, Joseph. 2008. Hero with a thousand faces. California: New World Library.

Gaiman, Neil. 1992. The Sandman IV: Season of mists. With an Introduction by Harlan Ellison. New York: Vertigo.

Griswold, Charles. 2007. Forgiveness: A philosophical exploration. New York: Cambridge University Press.

11

Jung. Carl Gustav. 1990. The portable Jung, ed. by Joseph Campbell. Trans. by R.F.C. Hull. New York: Penguin Books.

Lewis, C.S. 2001. The Screwtape letters. New York: HarperCollins.

Morgan Kathryn. 2004. Myth and philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. 2003. The genealogy of morals. Trans. by Horace Samuel. New York: Dover Publications.

Rauch, Stephen. 2003. Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman and Joseph Campbell: In Search of the Modern Myth. Pennsylvania: Wildside Press.

Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1989. No exit and three other plays. New York: Vintage International.

----------------------------. 1969. Being and nothingness: A phenomenological essay on ontology. Trans. by Hazel Barnes. With an Introduction by Mary Warnock. Great Britain: John Dickens & Co. Ltd.

12