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A Hollywood Love Story (as Written by James Baldwin)
D. Quentin Miller

Baldwin’s The Devil Finds Work (1976) has proven challenging since its publication because readers and critics have trouble classifying it. The challenge may be related to a common feature of Baldwin criticism, namely a tendency to compare late career works to early ones and to find them lacking: the experimental nature of later works of nonfiction like No Name in the Street (1972), The Devil Finds Work, and The Evidence of Things Not Seen (1985) does not square easily with the more conventional essays that made Baldwin famous in his early years. I attempt to reframe The Devil Finds Work not through a comparison to other Baldwin essays, but rather through a comparison to his fiction, specifically the novel Giovanni’s Room. I posit that a greater appreciation for Devil can result from thinking of it as a story, specifically the story of a failed love affair.

James Baldwin Review
D. Quentin Miller

The author travels to St.-Paul-de-Vence, the site of Baldwin’s final decades, with the intention of understanding expatriation and/or exile more deeply. The intention of this visit is to fill in some of the gaps in Baldwin’s official biographies, which do not tend to dwell on his time spent in Provence as much as his time in Paris, Turkey, New York, and elsewhere. By interviewing a woman who knew Baldwin well during those years, the author manages to add new layers to his understanding of Baldwin’s late years, but finally arrives at the understanding that writing (rather than analyzing) is the main goal of the expatriate writer. Inspired by Baldwin’s muse, he stops contemplating his subject and gets to work, finally connecting the act of writing to expatriation by doing it.

James Baldwin Review
Open Access (free)
The adolescent girl and the nation
Elleke Boehmer

microcosm. They have dramatised her negotiated bid for selfhood and status within what might be called the national house, that is, within the inherited and correlated structures of both family and nation-state. This chapter will address how three very different postcolonial women writers, each one a ‘daughter’, if lost or prodigal, to one or other nation, have written themselves into the national family script, or redrafted the daughter’s relationship to the national father. The novels in question are: the expatriate Australian Christina Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children

in Stories of women
Abstract only

At a time when monolingualist claims for the importance of ‘speaking English’ to the national order continue louder than ever, even as language diversity is increasingly part of contemporary British life, literature becomes a space to consider the terms of linguistic belonging. Bad English examines writers including Tom Leonard, James Kelman, Suhayl Saadi, Raman Mundair, Daljit Nagra, Xiaolu Guo, Leila Aboulela, Brian Chikwava, and Caroline Bergvall, who engage multilingually, experimentally, playfully, and ambivalently with English’s power. Considering their invented vernaculars and mixed idioms, their dramatised scenes of languaging – languages learned or lost, acts of translation, scenes of speaking, the exposure and racialised visibility of accent – it argues for a growing field of contemporary literature in Britain pre-eminently concerned with language’s power dynamics, its aesthetic potentialities, and its prosthetic strangeness. Drawing on insights from applied linguistics and translation studies as well as literary scholarship, Bad English explores contemporary arguments about language in Britain – in debates about citizenship or education, in the media or on Twitter, in Home Office policy and asylum legislation – as well as the ways they are taken up in literature. It uncovers both an antagonistic and a productive interplay between language politics and literary form, tracing writers’ articulation of linguistic alienation and ambivalence, as well as the productivity and making-new of radical language practices. Doing so, it refutes the view that language difference and language politics are somehow irrelevant to contemporary Britain and instead argues for their constitutive centrality to the work of novelists and poets whose inside/outside relationship to English in its institutionalised forms is the generative force of their writing.

New interdisciplinary essays

This book establishes the basic proposals of the Origin, which constitute the opening phase. In both structural and linguistic terms, 'difficulty' becomes the dominant principle in Darwin's negotiation of the relationship in the text between self-criticism and assertion. The book explores the profound awareness on Darwin's part of the lack of a coherent genetic theory upon which to predicate the mechanism of natural selection. 'Difficulties on Theory' then initiates that process of extensive questioning which has led Fleming to speak of Darwin's unsurpassed 'instinct for truth-telling': 'has there ever been another scientist who included in his great book all the arguments against it that he could ever think of?' The book outlines these main 'difficulties' and then proceeds to confront two of them, the absence of visible transitional forms in nature and the origin and development of common organs in creatures of widely different habit. It focuses on taxonomy via the 'Mutual Affinities of Organic Beings' serves as an important reminder that the whole structure of the Origin might be viewed as a debate around human systems of classification as much as an attempt to give unmediated access to the true principles of development in organic life. The 'ingenious' Darwin, subtly aware of the linguistic balancing acts necessary for the representation of a highly speculative theory in the terms of empirical method and observation, is an important aid to our understanding of the particular form of the Origin.

Brutishness, discrimination and the lower-class wolf-man from The Wolf Man to True Blood
Victoria Amador

Whilst the vampire has experienced an enormous resurgence in film, television and fiction in recent years, the werewolf is represented rather like a familiar or loyal canine accompanying a more powerful master. Not only does this monster carry second billing, an interesting permutation is the community status of the monster, frequently placed in a subordinate social class, relegated to the equivalent of a kennel rather than a castle. This chapter explores this lesser position of the werewolf in three particular works. First, in 1941’s The Wolf Man, despite his role as a man who ‘is pure at heart and says his prayers at night’, Lon Chaney Jr’s portrayal of Larry Talbot as a lumbering, expatriated-to-America prodigal son of a Welsh grandee posits him as a poor relation clearly out of his depth. In the Twilight series, the Native American shapeshifter, Jacob Black, lives on the reservation and cannot compete with the effete Cullen family. Finally, the notion of American Southern white/trailer trash permeates Charlaine Harris’s novels, and True Blood portrays the wolf packs as crude boondocks residents. Rather like the misrepresented wolves currently being reintroduced in various wilderness locations, these filmic werewolves are equally unwanted and undermined.

in In the company of wolves
Clara Tuite

Our story starts not in the southern colonies but with a canonical scene of literary expatriation and scandalous celebrity: Lord Byron in Genoa, spending the spring of 1823 with the so-called ‘Blessington circus’, a tight little entourage of idler-adventurers who cast their web across Ireland, England, and continental Europe. The ‘circus’ was named for the Irish author and literary hostess Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington, and her second husband, Charles John Gardiner, the Earl of Blessington. It also included Blessington’s daughter, Lady Harriet

in Worlding the south
Abstract only
Bad English
Rachael Gilmour

Introduction: Bad English Language is my home, I say; not one particular language. Vahni Capildeo, ‘Five Measures of Expatriation’1 At an event at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London in early 2018, the Trinidadian British poet Vahni Capildeo was asked about their multilingual poetics. What was it, the questioner asked, that made them mix up so many different kinds of language in their poetry? Well, they were usually thinking in more than one language, Capildeo replied – and they had simply ‘stopped translating’.2 A commonplace assumption was

in Bad English
Wharton,Woolf and the nature of Modernism
Katherine Joslin

them as novelists and the literary world they both inhabited. Their indirect dialogue about the nature of the novel typifies the often loud and sometimes angry cacophony of literary opinion that clashed early in the twentieth century and has reverberated ever since. ‘Down with Henry James! Down with Edith Wharton!’ was the rallying cry of Left-Bank literary radicals in the early years of the twentieth century, according to Kay Boyle, herself a younger member of the group of American expatriate writers living in Paris. In the 1980s Boyle remarked that her

in Special relationships
T.S. Eliot and Gothic hauntings in Waugh’s A Handful of Dust and Barnes’s Nightwood
Avril Horner
Sue Zlosnik

it as a mode of articulating contemporary fear and anxiety. Also linking these two novels – one written by a male English eccentric and the other by an expatriate female American – is the transatlantic figure of T.S. Eliot. Eliot’s Introduction to the 1937 edition of Nightwood constituted an influential critical response to the novel’s unorthodoxies; in Waugh’s novel, the imprint of Eliot is there throughout the text and signalled unmistakably in the title.4 Written at what has conventionally been thought of as the tail-end of the Modernist movement, the two novels

in Special relationships