The Introduction provides an overview of the history, practice, and future directions of the field. It considers the coherence and stability of the category of contemporary African American literature, examines multiple genealogies and questions of periodization, and describes varied aesthetic practices of grief and grievance, experimentation and play. Embedding African American cultural production within the fraught history of the last five decades, this chapter examines various forces shaping the creation of innovative genres, the turn to the afterlife of slavery, the pull toward protest, and the impact of new and expanded geographies and methods.

Chapter 3 explores Ratzinger’s contributions to the Second Vatican Council, especially to Dei Verbum, and the keys he offers for comprehension of conciliar documents.

This chapter traces the emergence of African American confinement literature in the contemporary African American literary tradition over the past six decades, paying careful attention to the subfield’s examination of racialized and gendered confinement in spaces that include but also extend beyond the carceral geographies of jail and prison. Highlighting the centrality of the literary work of former political prisoner and prison abolitionist Angela Y. Davis to the origins and development of this subfield, this chapter demonstrates how works of African American confinement literature fundamentally eclipse the narrow categorization of “prison writing.” These works explore confinement as both a complicated metaphor for and a recurring lived experience within socially and psychically constricting systems of anti-Black racism, gendered social control, racialized economic exploitation, political repression, and incarceration. In sum, authors of contemporary African American confinement literature draw compelling parallels between the confining racist and sexist institutions and practices from previous eras – such as slavery, the convict lease system, chain gang camps, peonage, lynching, and Jim Crow – and those that persist in the contemporary US carceral state, including racial profiling, state violence, prisoner abuse, policing, and the prison-industrial complex.

Chapter 2 discusses Ratzinger’s engagement with thinkers both as collaborators and as contenders in academic and ecclesial debates.

Reading Byron's dramas through the conceptual framework of modern play theory helps us appreciate the works of 1820–2 as a unique experimental project. If we focus on Byron’s transgressive playfulness both in terms of genre expectations and the ethos of his original sources (ranging from the Bible and the apocrypha to historical accounts and popular fictional narratives), we may disambiguate some of the more persistent critical quandaries, such as Byron's unsystematic thinking or lack of dramatic rigueur. Rather than aloof carelessness, these dramas clearly attest to Byron’s critical insight into the limits of the authoritative, be it religious or historical, and form a key part of his lifelong exploration of liberty, where the personal is inextricably linked to the political. Play, and playing, for Byron, is one of the key concepts of cultural history.

This chapter provides an overview of gender and sexuality in Byron. It situates the Byronic hero in the context of Regency understandings of masculinity and discusses Byronic sexuality in relation to the larger history of sexuality. In addition, it stresses the ways that Byron at times uses both race and disability to shape his representations of gender and sexuality. The main character of Lara provides an exemplar of the Byronic hero and is explored in terms of his ambiguity and power to draw attention to himself. Sardanapalus provides a contrasting case of a hero whose masculinity and connections to militarism prove to be self-defeating. Manfred and Don Juan reveal Byron’s interest in linking sexuality to mystery and unspeakability. In addition, The Bride of Abydos and Don Juan link sexuality to race in the figure of the African eunuch, whose behaviour is critical in protecting the hero from tyrannical rule.

This chapter examines how Byron draws attention to the material forms in which his works are mediated, beginning with Beppo, which ends because ‘My pen is at the bottom of a page’. It suggests that, in the artistic process of composition, Byron pondered questions that have concerned later critics and theorists from Walter Greg and F. W. Bateson to René Wellek and Nelson Goodman. By attending to the ways in which Byron marked his manuscript page, the chapter suggests that he thought of the literary work as having a distinctive, layered ontology. It situates his implied understanding of the nature of the literary work in relation to that of recent textual scholars such as John Bryant, Peter Shillingsburg, Jack Stillinger, and Paul Eggert. Byron wrote with a keen attention to the materiality of pens, ink, and paper, but he was also well aware that his poems could become mass-produced printed commodities. He was therefore concerned with how remediation changed the effect of a poem, and even its meaning, as effects specific to manuscript did not translate into print. Beppo provides a case in point, as it imagines itself as script, print, and voice by turns, or sometimes all at once.

Byron’s considerable body of dramatic poetry poses special challenges for literary criticism, and studies of Byron have often had little to say about the plays as plays. In part, this neglect reflects a larger failure to bring the verse drama of the Romantic poets comfortably within the standard categories of literary history. All of the canonical Romantics – Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, and Keats – wrote at least one verse play, but until the last dozen years or so these have tended to be dismissed as misguided attempts at ‘closet drama’: plays meant to be read but not performed. The counterimpulse to read at least some works of Romantic verse drama as ‘mental theatre’ (Byron’s term) – innovative and iconoclastic poetic forms rather than stage plays manqués – can work well enough for a ‘dramatic poem’ like Manfred or an intellectual drama like Cain. It tends, though, to lose sight of the productive tension between the dramatic works of the Romantic poets and the lively and politically fraught theatrical culture of their time.

The chapter looks backwards to Sterne's Tristram Shandy and forwards to Joyce's Ulysses to locate Byron's avant-garde forms of allusion. Byron's deployment of local little narratives against big inhuman systems in Mazeppa, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and Don Juan is examined as a mode of political resistance and personal poetic integrity.

In these opening lines of the third Canto of The Corsair (1814), Byron sets the mood for his narrative of the tragic death of Conrad’s faithful wife, Medora, by means of a sunset evocation of Greece, as the radiant sun of antiquity sinks over a land no longer consecrated to the antique spirit. The fact that Byron ‘borrowed’ the bravura sunset passage in its entirety (1–54) from his ‘unpublished (though printed) poem’ (CPW, iii, p. 448), The Curse of Minerva, suggests that he was particularly wedded to the sublimity of sunset as a melancholy symbol of modern Greece. In the latter poem, the same lines introduce another betrayed female, the physically abused and insulted goddess Minerva, who curses Lord Elgin for despoiling her temple, as the shades of evening lengthen over the plundered ruins of the Parthenon. Byron’s recycling of his lines suggests a conscious connection between the values of Conrad’s apolitical love for the ‘housewifely’ Medora and the philhellenic ideology flagged by Minerva.

This chapter covers major late period works, which are in many ways increasingly more twenty-first century rather than eighteenth or nineteenth century: full of contradictions and energy.

This chapter analyses the ways in which Byron’s sense of himself as a writer was gradually, often painfully, informed by the evolving discourse of addiction as it was being medicalised throughout the early nineteenth century and subsequently used to describe a troubling new category of behaviour. For Byron, the act of writing and the emerging sense of his own identity as a poet is formulated not simply through metaphors of addiction, which he himself helped to write into culture, but also through its physical expression. This was much more than a figure of speech – his need to write emerged in painful, bodily manifestations; Byron did not simply write about his writing habit – his habit, in part, wrote him.

This chapter argues that the first two cantos of Childe Harold and the Turkish Tales can be read as a sustained critique and questioning of a teleological history, or a history impelled by the acts of great men and heroes. It suggests that these poems engage with the intellectual crisis precipitated by the Napoleonic wars and a devastated Europe in different ways, representing a broad alienation from the meaningful progress of history both within and beyond European borders. Understanding Byron’s distinctive romanticism as primarily political rather than ontological, the chapter reads this group of poems as being charged with a late-enlightenment scepticism representative of a new freedom of thought in which there are no structural possibilities for history, and through which heroic acts are rendered ever more remote from civilisation’s improvement.

This chapter places Byron's career and writings in the context of Whig ideology during the French Revolution and especially in relation to post-Napoleonic Europe and the disenchantment of Byron's political aspirations by the triumph of reactionary forces.