What is the literature of the Indigenous colonial Americas? Because Indigenous peoples remain under colonization and literary genres like the novel and poetry are settler colonial categories, answering this question is fraught. In response, this chapter considers Indigenous concepts of kinship and peoplehood as doing rather than being, and surveys Native literatures through genres of doing. Ranging across the American hemisphere from the sixteenth through early nineteenth centuries, it surveys textual examples that record, narrate, map, teach, express, and survive. These genres of doing are not comprehensive nor should texts be taken to be unifunctional. Instead, genres of doing may aid readers in identifying and exploring cross-form, cross-temporal, and cross-cultural resonances while also attending to cultural and textual specificities. This holds true for considering Native texts from multiple traditions alongside each other but also in the case of Native and non-Native texts.

When most people think of early America, they imagine a geographical region that encompasses the present-day United States. Like previous chapters in this volume, the present chapter encourages a broader conception of the region by, in this case, illuminating the importance of the Caribbean as a physical space and as an idea in early American literature. The Caribbean was a battle ground for empire. Consequently, those texts written in and about the region can tell us a great deal about European exploration and settler colonialism, transatlantic slavery, capitalism and modernity, colonial resistance, and the diasporic, migratory patterns of people, which are themes that pervade early American literature in general. This chapter, then, offers an overview of that literature, highlighting the literary contours of a Caribbean America. The discussion homes in on the anglophone Caribbean and its place within the literary imagination of English-language texts of early America and addresses three questions: How do English-language texts of early America imagine the Caribbean? How do we read those texts within the wider field of early American literature? And why does it matter?

Applying a science studies approach to early American literature means focusing on how early modern settler colonialism in the Americas, with all its violence and exploitation, was a knowledge-producing machine. Enslavers and colonizers stole the skills, labor, and resources from enslaved Africans and Indigenous peoples, and in the process forged many of the empirical practices, forms of measurement and categorization, and stratification between types of expertise that we typically recognize as constituting scientific work. Research in early American literature investigates the complexity of particular representations of natural phenomena and traces their circulation within or against powerful narratives that organized culture. This shows how contemporary scientific understandings of natural phenomena are historically and culturally determined and calls attention to the settler colonial work scientific expertise can continue to do in the present and contributing to the project of imagining alternative uses for it. This chapter argues for an approach to reading nature in early American literature that is modeled on acts of translation rather than processes of decoding. This difference is as subtle as it is essential for opening up the present to simultaneous scrutiny as critics confront an archive produced by the violent structures of the past.

Can novels change the world, or must they merely inscribe, and thereby fortify, its injustices? Throughout a range of critical approaches, including new aesthetics, sexuality studies, book history, affect theory, environmental humanities, critical slavery studies, Native American and Indigenous studies, network theory, the spatial turn, world-systems, gender studies, network theory, health humanities, and more, tensions run high in early Americanist literary scholarship between a realist conviction that worlds create books and an equally resolute commitment to the possibility that books – especially fictions – create worlds. This chapter hopes to honor, rather than quiet, this critical ferment. To explain without explaining away will be its challenge. To create a place for those early American authors, meanwhile, who have not until recently been recognized in literary studies because their textual creations do not meet normative standards for book-length imaginative prose will be its sustaining goal.

Adam Roberts identifies the opposition between plain and excessive styles as a distinguishing feature in the history of science fiction. The chapter considers the rival origins of the genre in Verne and Wells and offers a comprehensive survey of twentieth- and twenty-first-century traditions. Roberts tracks the history of a pared-down, plain style that often runs counter to the excess and scientific detail of the content and sets it alongside a competing, more ambitious, ‘literary’ prose style that has increasingly come into the ascendancy.

Michael D. Hurley’s chapter considers the many applications of the concept of style and pursues its historical fortunes across a range of writers. Although style has been variously configured and refigured, what is apparent is that the ideal of clarity, so frequently promoted by style guides and other textbooks, is not the only objective of style, especially not in literary fiction and non-fiction.

The chapter on sentences shows that the relations made possible by syntax between wording and timing, sequence and consequence, and experience and reflection create an unlimited range of possible effects at the level of the sentence. The chapter explores some of these effects, noting particularly the presence of competing impulses in single sentences, so that any sentence is a negotiation between rival forces and, in its fullest implication, a representation of the mixed conditions of human existence.

This chapter shows that the management of perspective in narrative fiction is a matter of technique at the level of the sentence, involving diction, syntax and punctuation. Ruth Bernard Yeazell distinguishes different varieties of perspective available in fiction (third person, first person, free indirect style) and shows how they work in practice. Her suggestion that the familiar but misleading concept of the ‘omniscient narrator’ emerges from ‘confusing the power theoretically open to novelists from the actual behavior of novelists’ indicates the benefits of attending to examples of prose in practice.

This chapter shows that paragraphs are themselves an ‘expressive device’ and not simply a form of segmenting prose into semantically neutral units. The chapter draws on a history of paragraphs (which are alternatively linked to oral delivery and to logical organisation) and shows how paragraphs can contribute to various effects of expression, including tonal control.

The introduction outlines the kind of attention to prose techniques that forms the basis for the chapters that follow. It claims that prose is all too infrequently granted this kind of attention. In part, this is because of the claims to ordinariness that prose writing often proposes for itself, where prose comes to seem either prosaic or prosy. Critical and philosophical traditions have reinforced the view that prose is at its best when it effaces itself, when it conceals its own wording. But this principle has tended to distract from the craft of prose. The introduction outlines the parts of prose (punctuation, words, sentences, and so on) and the various genres (realism, comedy, Gothic, science fiction, and creative non-fiction) that subsequent chapters take up for inspection as regards the techniques of prose themselves.

This chapter shows that marks of punctuation are continuous with the much larger forms of punctuation that interrupt human experiences in time and space, especially ‘larger relations of voice and body, space and absence’. The chapter shows that punctuation has ‘reciprocal and reflexive relationships’ with what it punctuates while at the same time punctuation marks can work ‘as reminders of and reflections on vocal and bodily presence’.

This chapter discusses a grammar of realism that calls upon a variety of prose effects, including the management of time effects and the presence of abundant or telling detail, to show what is at stake in realist writing and how much happens in the prose despite its alleged retreat from artifice. Although realism has found itself assailed periodically, often for its artifice, this chapter testifies to the enduring value of realist prose while offering insights into its evolution.

This chapter considers chapters themselves as a ‘form of punctuation’, and so they structure our experience of time in reading novels while also offering interventions into our understanding of time in the rest of our lives. This chapter on chapters tracks the history of this principle of narrative organisation as well as various playful attempts to test or defy its conventional limits, showing that chapter division is itself a stylistic device.

Whether in biography, the biographical novel, the memoir or various other subgenres of life writing, the writer must be responsibly committed to both truth and imagination, to both fact and fiction. Jay Parini’s chapter considers a wide range of life writing and observes the various priorities afforded to truth and imagination in the work. Whatever access to archives, testimonies and evidence life writers need, they need above all, in Parini’s phrase, ‘access to the resources of language’.

Alison Milbank’s chapter on Gothic prose, ranging from Ann Radcliffe in the late eighteenth century to contemporary Gothic, shows how often language in these works verges on the inexpressible, reminding us that our rational understanding of human experience may only be partial. Language that superanimates the natural world, the frequent use of em dashes that gesture towards the unsaid, even the unsayable, grotesque and arabesque styles, and equivocal, combinatory techniques are all mobilised to create a set of effects that test the limits of our capacity for understanding.