While Jacques Roumain’s classic novel Gouverneurs de la rosée foregrounds the possibility and necessity of return to Haiti, in many other literary versions of Haitian exile such a reconnection is never achieved. The returning wanderer can never just pick up where they left off, and the exile is definitive, unending. The chapter argues that exile for Haitian authors of the twentieth century is not merely a question of space or place; it has temporal dimensions that can compound the sense of separation or loss. Following a consideration of nineteenth-century exile-related poems, the chapter engages with some of the most prominent essayists, poets, and novelists whose works serve as chronicles of the multi-generational experiences of separation from Haiti before, during, and after the Duvalier dictatorships. As the examples show, experiences of exile vary widely and are determined by many factors, including personal circumstance, the place and conditions of exile, changing realities in the homeland, and evolving notions of exile itself, and of the ways in which it is written by successive generations of authors.

The new conceptualization of molk-style rites shown in Chapter 7 led to shifts in how sanctuaries were structured and in the entailments these new structures had for the communities who used them. While past studies have focused on the movement from open-air stele fields to monumental sanctuaries as evidence of “Romanization” or the creation of “Romano-African” temple-types, this chapter argues that these new built temples instead participated in wider civic-style practices of benefaction and spectacle in ways that sought to foreground sacrificer-benefector figures. At the end of the second century CE, a number of stele-sanctuaries were rebuilt in monumental forms that privileged central altars, the spectacle of animal offering, and dining. This shift in the spatial dimension of worship afforded new possibilities of practice and social ordering that closely resemble those of the wider imperial world, creating a “sacrificial compromise” where local forms of authority were predicated on being central to the pageantry of sacrifice.

Identifying a predominant focus in spatial poetics in Asian Australian poetries, this chapter suggests that diasporic self-mapping is often ambivalent as poets navigate shifting or liminal spaces. The chapter argues that geopolitical differences distinguish Asian Australian experiences from those of their Asian American counterparts. It examines the mediation of migration and understanding of past and present in the work of Ee Tiang Hong, and how transnational mobility informs the hybrid and spliced practice of Ouyang Yu and Merlinda Bobis. The chapter analyses an intergenerational feminist interest in borders and journeys in the work of Bobis and Eunice Andrada. It then examines how later-generation poets may face quite different challenges in navigating ancestral homeland and the search for connections, or, alternatively, find a freedom in travelling and uncertainty. The chapter also considers transcultural and translational strategies, and discusses Omar Sakr’s mapping of “unbelonging.” The chapter concludes by asserting that the rich heterogeneity of poetries cannot be reduced to a single term, even in such a disruptor term as “Asian Australian.”

This essay examines the work of several poets (including Langston Hughes, Kay Ulanday Barrett, Christopher Leland, Julie Gard, Heiu Minh Nguyen, Danez Smith, and Rane Arroyo) who engage the Midwest as a resonant source for writing about a host of topics pertaining to queer self-awareness, belonging, and memory. Not unlike the work of recent scholars aiming to dislodge the rural in particular and the Midwest more broadly as a site of unbridled anti-LGBT sentiment and politics, the essay illustrates how these poets refuse essentialist beliefs about the Midwest to instead register the myriad queer histories, cultures, and experiences stemming from America’s heartland. Furthermore, as it considers the inextricable bond between “the Midwest” and “the rural,” the essay illustrates how the urban Midwest additionally requires consideration for the way that cities like Minneapolis, Detroit, and Chicago are indeed part and parcel of the heartland yet frequently eclipsed by the customary association of gay liberation with major metropolitan coastal cities like San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York.

This chapter considers techniques of musical development through the lens of solo monodic (i.e. single line) musical works. It explores a range of approaches to melody, development, vertical-horizontal relationships, and expression, suggesting ways to unfold and expand musical ideas that are rooted in sonority and dramaturgy.

This chapter gives an overview of the relation between indexicality, deixis, and space in gesture from a semiotic and a linguistic point of view. Directive pointing gestures are not the only type of cospeech gestures that contributes to deixis. Iconic gestures that form part of the multimodal utterance may instantiate the targets to be pointed at and function as the deictic object of the deictic relation. In turn they may be interpreted as signs that stand for something else. A Peircean approach combined with a Bühlerian one, as suggested in this chapter, not only allows for a tertium comparationis with respect to the modality of the deictic and indexical signs under investigation. It also provides us with tools for representing semiotic processes like complex sign concatenation (e.g. deixis at signs vs. deixis at non-signs; deixis at metonymies or metaphors) as well as the collaborative creation of deictic space (sphere-like, map-like, screen-like; separated or shared) in multimodal interaction. The proposed schema of four semiotic subfields of space substantiates the view that space has to be thought of as a dynamic process of semiosis, not as a static entity.

This chapter considers how and why the societies resisted women even after their admission to the Inns in 1919 and the strategies women law students and barristers deployed to navigate the resolutely masculine culture of the Inns. It argues that beyond their gender, women’s political commitments and social networks mitigated the degree of acceptance or resistance they faced from members of the societies. The chapter also examines the Inns’ fraught reconciliation of the societies’ concerns about overseas students with the new presence of women in their common rooms, gardens, and halls. It considers the complicated mapping of intersectional identities onto the existing culture of the Inns and traces how members of the Inns manipulated space to privilege, protect, include, or exclude female members, colonial members, or female colonial members.

The final two Metaphysical Expositions argue that our original representation of space must be intuitive. I draw some surprising connections between Kant’s discussion and Leibniz’s account of the continuum. These connections indicate that the point of Kant’s analysis of <space> is to show that our original representation of space is infinitely complex in content. Since no discursive representation can be infinitely complex, our concept <space> cannot derive its content from discursive spontaneity. Its content must rather be given to the mind in order to be thought at all and thus originates in receptive intuition. Kant’s argument does not hinge on the singularity or holistic structure of space, as many hold, but on its infinite complexity and consequent givenness. I develop a novel account of the discursivity of conceptual representation that preserves the validity of Kant’s argument, defend Kant’s account of the infinity of space against prominent objections, and finally indicate how Kant’s argument entails the singularity of intuition (rather than presupposing it).

A spiritually enveloping, time-consuming, and value-creating set of activities, Aztecs centered their religion on powerful spiritual beings. Ceremony and time were fundamental parts of everyday life. From the smallest household to the largest city, rituals of offering to the gods took place every day as Aztecs sought water, food, the survival of human life, and balance in what they perceived to be a chaotic spiritual and material world. In their dynamic universe, deities and their human embodiments and priests and priestesses manifested great power. Ceremonies conducted for those beings, the offerings presented to them, and exchanged or distributed provide examples of the power and energy that offerings, including living humans, provided. Time-keeping focused on the notion of progressive ages, the idea of cyclical time, and two calendar systems. Their calendars used two ways of keeping track of days and months for ceremonies, agriculture, and war. Aztecs drew blood for human and plant fertility, purification, and to nourish and repay their debt to the creator deities. Yet the greatest offering human beings could give was to provide human lives, offering hearts and blood, though they did not do so in the numbers often suggested.

The Introduction argues that Faulkner discovered an epistemology for networked systems in the creation of his own imagined landscape. I present two major stages in which Faulkner’s discovery took place: (1) an earlier vision portraying how networks scale, circulate information, centralize, and produce potentially tyrannical paradigms of top-down vertical power; and (2) another view of dynamical networks that are constantly adapting to produce novel forms of movement and behavior. The Faulkner that this study evokes is at once the modernist developing a spatial narrative practice describing the emergence of complex social networks and the Romantic for whom the immanent life was paramount and even sacrosanct. That these two trajectories of inquiry and spiritual belief are not easily reconcilable gives philosophical and moral weight to the landscape and characters that Faulkner invented. They also provide a striking meditation on what it means for human beings to find themselves in systems so vast and ubiquitous that they can no longer remember what it was like to live outside them and, thus, to think outside of their ideological dicta.

This chapter introduces the micro-sociological lenses to the study of peace talks. The chapter discusses how bodily and facial interaction shapes peace diplomacy and its potential for generating social bonds between participants. The chapter maps six different spaces in peace diplomacy: formal negotiations, informal space, formalized informal space, shuttle diplomacy space, press conferences, and virtual space; and how these make the character and dynamics of interaction possible in peace talks. The chapter shows that under the right spatial and interactional circumstances, peace talks can generate social bonds between the involved parties. However, the leaders of the respective parties often do not take part in peace talks and thus they are not the ones generating social bonds. The chapter further discusses the importance of interpersonal trust versus trust in the process, as well as how the social bonding being generated at the peace table is transferred to the society at large.

This is the first of three chapters to unpack Baeck’s confrontation with the rise of Nazism. It details the Nazi ideology as grounded in race and space, and the idea of a national community (Volksgemeinschaft) in which the Jews had no place. Baeck needed to respond to it as a thinker and community leader, having been chosen to lead the efforts of the Central Association of Jews in Germany. His political activities and writings show an insistence on Judaism’s lasting value, for Jews and the world. The chapter offers a close reading of a pastoral letter Baeck sent for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, which in 1935 fell shortly after Nuremberg Laws. In his search for explanations of antisemitism in the mid-1930, Baeck returned to earlier ideas of Jewish existence as precarious, turning to surprising sources such as Martin Heidegger, at the time already affiliated with the Nazi party, and Karl Barth’s commentary on the scene of the crucifixion in Matthias Grünewald’s magnificent Isenheim altar.

Educationally, we are in an exciting time in terms of geometrical investigations in the classroom. While the manipulation of concrete materials to enable student construction of two-dimensional figures and three-dimensional objects has been readily available for many years, there are a growing number of mathematics classrooms that have access to dynamic geometry software and interactive sites that enable real-time creation and exploration of geometric figures and their properties. In fact, in some pockets of society, students’ access to a mobile device is in a similar manner to how classrooms of the 1980s used pen and paper as a resource. While, in jest, mobile devices may be referred to ‘an extension of the brain’, in its regular use as an instant source of information and exploration there is an element of this use that can be exploited for positive gain in the mathematics classroom. This chapter explores the development of geometrical concepts and the manner in which we can facilitate exploratory experiences to assist students in their development.

How might attention to the mechanisms of stage licensing help us to think specifically about the politics and aesthetics of on- and off-stage space in eighteenth-century drama? This essay addresses this question by looking at John St. John’s The Island of St. Marguerite, a musical afterpiece first staged at Drury Lane in November 1789. Using a spectacular retelling of the ‘Man in the Iron Mask’ story to mount a barely coded staging of the storming of the Bastille, this play was the first attempt by one of London’s royal playhouses to respond directly to the early events of the French Revolution. But the two Larpent manuscripts for Island show just how much had to be expunged and changed before the examiner of plays would license it. In particular, this essay argues, the cuts and annotations of the examiner (and possibly also John Philip Kemble, Drury Lane’s acting managing) disclose an institutional discomfort with the off-stage spaces – besieged walls, subterranean prison cells, sites of execution – that the audience are never taken to and yet must picture for themselves if what is actually unfolding before them is to make sense. Attention to these manuscripts thus takes us towards a deeper understanding of the play of visibility, of the texture of sensory and extra-sensory experience, in the Georgian theatre.

This chapter explore the dynamic relationship between two distinct forms of representing urban space. These more or less follow the path of the subject or that of the object, as the more subjective itinerary (i.e., an image of space that emerges from the individual subject’s perception or experience of places) necessarily elides much of what the abstract, apparently objective map (a “God’s-eye view” or “view from nowhere” that established as non-subjective overview) can reveal. Finding one’s way through urban spaces involves something more like an itinerary than a map, the latter involving some sort of supra-subjective perspective, and yet both forms are essential to the experience of metropolitan space. In situating oneself in a given place, and in moving from place to place, one traces out an itinerary that may be more or less useful, but one also must have some more abstract sense of the overall spatial array of which that itinerary is merely one part. Cognitive mapping, in this sense, combines the two at all times. I argue that every literary cartography—every work of creative writing, in fact—of the city must also put into play both modes to create a more dynamic mapping project.

The chapter engages 21stcentury Johannesburg through the motif of the migrant. Colonial and apartheid discourses of the city asserted worldliness by insisting on its Eurocentricism, but from its inception it has been physically and psychically shaped by African migrants. The chapter reads the migrant city across three lenses: indeterminacy, hostility and the speculative. The experimental turn in Johannesburg fictions of the 2000s, represented here by Phaswane Mpe and Ivan Vladislavic, imagine a transnational, if contested, city. However, by the 2010s, spatial and formal ambiguity yield to a realism that bears witness to the xenophobic attacks of 2008 and 2015. The writing of diasporic authors such as Novuyo Rose Tshuma and Sue Nyathi, prompts us to imagine Johannesburg from the perspective of the imperilled migrant, for whom the city is often unliveable. In turn, depictions of the city as threat have been complicated by the rise of speculative fiction in whichthe ‘alien’ migrant points towards configurations that are resolutely global. In Lauren Beukes’s and Masande Ntshanga’s work, Johannesburg is a nodal point for imagining affiliations that exceed the boundaries of the human, and the frontiers of the world itself.

Chapter 2 focuses on the migration stories of two generations of Kenyans, situating them within wider family and social histories. Although only one person in a family typically moved, I argue that their migration is better understood as family migration, rather than economic migration. While economic gain and social possibilities are related, they are not the same. Rather, these migration projects marked the convergence of individual and familial aspirations, thereby re-centring kinship as a means of realising the futures of both those who moved and those who stayed. The imaginings of migrant and non-migrant kin are important to this discussion and reveal how the United Kingdom was a largely imagined place at the time of migration, though not an arbitrary migration destination. Alongside this focus on place and space, the chapter begins to explore the role of time and temporality in the self- and life-making projects of migrants and their families.