As the shadow of the colossal american prison lengthens amid the encroaching nightfall of our twenty-first-century security state, it is pierced by a brilliant though flickering illumination: the literature created by those who have endured the terrors of America's walls and cells, with their unremitting surveillance, relentless brutality, and overpowering hopelessness. When I began teaching American prison literature back in 1975, there were 360,000 people incarcerated in the nation's jails and prisons. Today there are more than 2.4 million—almost twenty-five percent of all the prisoners in the world. During these thirty-three years, this country has constructed on average one new prison every week. Many states annually spend more on prisons than they do on higher education. More than five million Americans have been permanently disenfranchised because of felony convictions. More than seven million are under the direct control of the criminal-justice system. And the experience of these millions of prisoners and ex-prisoners becomes ever more integral to American culture, not just to the culture of the devastated neighborhoods where most prisoners grew up and to which they return but also to the culture of an entire society grown accustomed to omnipresent surveillance cameras, routine body and car searches, and police patrolling the corridors of high schools.