Chapter 5 explores the reasons why the Sheffield area settlement (as well as those located by marriage records for other British towns) has remained largely unnoticed by historians and questions the prior assumption that the presence of non-white immigrants in an area can always be located by remarkable instances of resistance by state institutions or by the working-class population. It also closely examines evidence and personal testimony of the everyday lived experiences of natives and newcomers who inhabited the same neighbourhoods. These individuals frequently describe integrated lives and point to a non-ideologically aligned phenomenon, here described as ‘everyday tolerance’, which existed within many working-class communities. Fostered by values of ‘getting by’ and ‘mucking in together’ and of bonds of family, work and neighbourhood, many neighbourhoods were able to accept the inward migration and intermarriage of non-white newcomers without the hostility and violence displayed during the port riots of 1919–1920. To view the period through a historical lens focused on hostility is to overlook much of the nuance and fine grain of quotidian relations between natives and newcomers.

The ’inter-racial’ or ‘mixed’ marriage should be, Chapter 4 argues, central to discussion of South Asian immigration to Britain in the first half of the twentieth century. The chapter examines evidence from the marriage records and argues that the role and widespread distribution of mixed marriages across Britain have been neglected by historians. It explores the backgrounds and social position of women who entered into relationships with South Asian men and questions J. B. Priestley’s assertion that mixed working-class couples were formed from ‘the riff-raff of the stokeholds and the slatterns of the slums’. Couples in mixed marriages have also been presented by historians as isolated from the neighbourhoods they inhabited. This chapter, however, argues that these couples were often thoroughly integrated into their neighbourhoods and maintained frequent contact not just with close friends, but also with blood relations, in-laws and neighbours. Additionally, these marriages, and the families and households they formed, played a significant, if not crucial, role in acting as anchor points in enduring chains of migration spanning the inter-war period and into post-Partition era.

Where in the nineteenth century the representation of Aboriginal characters and things was occasional and marginal in the Australian novel, the twentieth century saw a new attention to Aboriginal characters. The twentieth century saw Australia’s foundation in 1901 marred by the emergence of the White Australia policy, which excluded migrants of colour and indirectly affected Aboriginal policy. So would begin a vexed erotics of miscegenation. In her short fiction, Katharine Susannah Prichard would deal with cross-race relations in northern Australia before producing her influential novel Coonardoo in 1929. Nearly a decade later, Xavier Herbert published Capricornia (1938), an epic northern Australian novel concerned with assimilation. Each of these novels is concerned with the field of discursive Aboriginality as a fantasy space for negotiations of appropriate whiteness and identity, as is Eleanor Dark’s Timeless Land trilogy (1941–53) and even works by Patrick White such as Voss (1957) and A Fringe of Leaves (1976), to finally mark the beginning of what has been called post-Mabo fiction in David Malouf’s Remembering Babylon (1993). This chapter tracks these examples of Aboriginal as represented in Australian novels and more ‘minor’ ones along the way.

The chapter offers an analysis of an understudied episode in British and American popular fiction. Inspired by Greenland’s vanished settlers, a number of tales imagine isolation as a means to preserve the virtues and primordial purity of a white, ancestral past. These ‘lost colony’ stories are examined as partly compensatory fantasies that would offset contemporary concerns about cultural and racial decay for a culture under stress. They are narratives about communities – modelled on the idea of a lost European colony – that have been shielded from the corruption visited upon the Western world. Thus, the stories are often concerned with ethnic purity and eugenics. The last part of the chapter unravels the early twentieth-century press sensation that disrupted fantasies of ring-fenced whiteness in the Arctic. This was the discovery of the so-called Blond Eskimos in Victoria Island, who were purportedly the result of the old Greenland colonists having intermixed with the Indigenous population. The chapter concludes with an examination of how this new imagining of the fate of Greenland’s vanished settlers also impacted the writing of adventure tales for the popular market.

This chapter explores the legality of unions between racially heterodox people. It asks readers to consider miscegenation suits decided in the 1860s and 1870s solely in the context of Reconstruction-era efforts to achieve abolition. Observing the suits from this perspective reveals an important moment of flux in the history of American abolition and reveals the central arguments that would be used to undermine equal citizenship.

This chapter examines the way two related genres, science fiction (SF) and the weird, deploy horror to critique the sources and expressions of “American horror” – namely, the dark side of American exceptionalism and the social and environmental consequences of its imperialist projects. The two genres share similar generic genealogies, but they diverge teleologically. SF is built on the assumptions of scientific rationalism and therefore follows an identifiable internal logic, relying on our implicit or explicit belief in the plausibility of the story. The weird, by contrast, is resolutely committed to the inexplicable. Both, however, use horror to disrupt our reliance on realist modes of representation that flatter our epistemological certainties. As such, both SF and the weird have been platforms for colonialist and nationalist imaginations, but both have also been potent vehicles for revealing, resisting, and repairing the brutalities of such imaginations.

Chapter Five, ‘Behind the Lines’, explores the men’s encounters with civilians. Focusing on spaces, like cafes, estaminets and domestic homes, in both Britain and France, the chapter begins with some of the youngest participants in colonial encounters - children. The chapter then explores how these more domestic contact zones were accessed, through entitlement or earning the right to connection with civilian women and the maternal, emotional, sexual and romantic support they might offer. In these spaces, we can see the beginnings of wartime encounter seeping beyond the boundaries of the conflict, especially through marriage. While camp and leave created memories of encounters that shaped veteran culture, civilian contact zones fostered in these liminal, overlapping spaces of living alongside the war had an impact on post-war life.

This chapter considers how literary representations of interracial relationships between Asians and other US racial groups underwent a major transition in the 1920s, in response to shifting geopolitics in Asia. In Mae Munro Watkins Franking’s My Chinese Marriage (1921) and W. E. B. Du Bois’s Dark Princess (1928), miscegenation plots serve to expand the possibilities for transnational alliances and to register American anxieties about social upheaval in Asia. Franking’s memoir provides an intimate look at the romance between a white American woman and a Chinese man in the USA and in China. Du Bois’s Dark Princess highlights the international revolutionary potential represented by the union of an African American man and an Asian Indian woman. These plots reject a binary choice between American or Asian identities. And yet, despite their progressive or revisionist energies, these works reveal a reliance on patriarchal, reproductive models of gender and sexuality and an erotic excess that serves both as justification for miscegenation and as fodder for critics. This chapter argues that these early twentieth-century discourses of reproductive heterosexuality and transnational, coalitional politics should be understood as an example of what Colleen Lye refers to as a distinctive Asian American “racial form.”

Brief epilogue summing up the major themes of the book through the analysis of an advertising campaign of the early 1930s.

This chapter reveals the ways in which race is not incidental to tragedy’s moral and aesthetic claims, but rather central to the genre’s attention to social forces and philosophical concerns. Shakespeare’s tragedies reveal how the premodern imaginary considers race as both a mimetic, ephemeral enactment and proof of an essential, inherent difference. As opposed to being hampered by this contradiction, depictions of race often move between fluid, malleable, and unstable expressions of identity, providing a lexicon for the epistemological crisis of tragedy’s formation of subjectivity. In the genre’s epistemological exploration of subjectivity as a publicly scripted experience and a fundamentally separate, and at times inaccessible, essence, Shakespeare’s tragedies engage the multilayered, contradictory template of racial impersonation. Thus, attention to regimes and categories of race animates some of the most fundamental issues of inclusion and exclusion that the English looked to tragedy to illuminate.

This chapter explores how slave insurrections in the Caribbean and West Indies throughout the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries impacted upon British and American Gothic writing. In particular, it argues that the Gothic mode became, and remains still, haunted by an ever-present racialised discourse, one which reveals the horror of modernity’s constructions and their inheritances. From the nineteenth century onwards, Gothic texts not only ask what it means to be a (wo)man among the human race, but anxiously investigate the lie of racial difference. Examining texts by Charlotte Dacre, Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë, Herman Melville and Florence Marryat, the chapter explores how the Gothic depicts acts of black rebellion in unequivocal tones of horror, and the extent to which their black (enslaved) characters assume the place of the utterly monstrous while also betraying anxiety over the blurry line separating blacks from whites. Such fictions, the argument holds, debate the justice of violent black revolution and express the concern that, while slavery itself may be responsible for the violence of the enslaved, slavery may in fact debase white subjects too.

In a landmark lecture of 1951, Borges maintained that Argentine writers have legitimate access to a multiplicity of cultural traditions, rejecting as parochial the view that an authentic Argentine literary expression should adhere to the stylistic and thematic norms of Gauchesque literature. Regarding the Western tradition, he reorganized its canon by subverting the hierarchical conventions of literary history, as well as bringing to the forefront a number of non-Western traditions both secular and religious. His approach to questions of language changes over the decades. ’Death and the Compass’ arguably captures a moment of tension between the past and the present in which a new artistic expression comes to life.

Faulkner’s tragic masterpiece is, in essence, a novel of encounter, one in which different, even irreconcilable worlds collide most explicitly through their opposed understanding of race. New Orleans, in this novel, represents the radically cosmopolitan, a loose and ever-changing mix of Spain and France, Virginia and Kentucky, Haiti and Cuba, as well as many ethnicities and nationalities of Africa. In contrast, the world of Mississippi is organized according to the brutal simplicity of only two kinds of people: white masters and black slaves. Out of this conflict between New Orleans and Mississippi, Faulkner showcases the potential of New Orleans to lead the United States toward a progressive racial politics.