Instead of ushering in an era of enduring peace and partnership, the end of the Cold War was followed by a decade of turmoil, with wars in the Persian Gulf, the Balkans, and Chechnya, political violence in Moscow, and controversy over the eastward expansion of NATO. The disappointments and turbulence stemmed in part from the personalities and political choices of top leaders, including the erratic and increasingly autocratic Boris Yeltsin, the skeptical and stingy responses of George H. W. Bush to the reform and collapse of the Soviet Union, and the way Bill Clinton unreservedly embraced Yeltsin while also antagonizing him by deciding to enlarge NATO and wage war against Serbia. As this chapter shows, though, American–Russian relations in the 1990s were also roiled by widely shared popular attitudes, including American triumphalist mythology about how the Cold War ended, unrealistic Russian expectations of massive US aid and respect despite Russian corruption, mismanagement, and weakness. The bright promise of the end of the Cold War was marred both by arrogant American unilateralism and by a Russian slide into depression and authoritarianism.

In the first years of the twenty-first century, Presidents Vladimir Putin and George W. Bush sought to develop a strategic and economic partnership. Yet by 2007 US–Russian relations were marked by friction, and after 2012 they deteriorated into bitter enmity. This chapter argues that blaming the degeneration of relations on the KGB background, paranoia, and imperial ambitions of Putin is too simple and one-sided. It shows that the United States also spurred the decline by supporting “color revolutions” in countries around Russia, promoting NATO membership for Georgia and Ukraine, pushing regime change in countries such as Syria, Libya, and Venezuela, and placing missile defense systems in Eastern Europe. Although Russia and the United States cooperated on a strategic arms reduction treaty, Russian entry into the World Trade Organization, and restrictions on Iran’s nuclear program, conflict increasingly overshadowed such collaboration. That outcome was not inevitable. Instead, unwise policy choices led to clashes, dishonest statements eroded trust, needlessly provocative rhetoric exacerbated tensions, and media sensationalism inflamed antipathies between Americans and Russians.

This chapter examines the assumptions, concepts, and narratives historians use to study US relations with the natural world: with biological and chemical agents, environmental and physical phenomena, natural resources, and plants, animals, and microbes. Looking beyond the experiences and activities of human beings, it asks how non-human actors and forces can help explain the history of foreign relations. It surveys some of the key medical, scientific, and environmental issues that have shaped the history of foreign policy and international affairs, with an eye toward the methods scholars can employ to analyze these topics most profitably. Although studying these subjects can present methodological challenges, this chapter offers tools and strategies for overcoming those potential roadblocks. Becoming more attuned to medical, scientific, and environmental topics, as the chapter shows, challenges our assumptions about foreign relations in productive ways, offering fresh perspectives on conventional narratives and novel ways of studying the past.

This chapter examines how Bloomsbury and music intersected at the figure of Edward J. Dent, the Cambridge music scholar. It offers Dent as an embodiment of which Bloomsbury and early twentieth-century musical culture in England and Europe were mutually constitutive, using him as a point for comparison to gauge Bloomsbury’s musical enthusiasm and sensibility. The chapter first surveys existing musical-literary criticism within studies of Virginia Woolf and E. M. Forster. It then explores the overlaps between Dent and Bloomsbury on issues including non-European musical cultures, sexuality, personal relationship, modernist aesthetics, music as a performing art, international politics, education, and state funding. Following a discussion of Dent’s involvement during and after the Second World War in John Maynard Keynes’ work on “national” opera, the chapter ends with Keynes by examining one of his letters to the BBC as an epitome of music’s protean role in Bloomsbury.

Chapter 7 focuses on the War Scroll, the most sustained portrait of the imagined end-time war against the Sectarian enemies. Alongside its elements of fantasy, the War Scroll simultaneously contains many prescriptive details for the eschatological war that the Sectarians believed was imminent. This chapter characterizes the War Scroll using the language of social anthropologists as a violent imaginary and argues that it functions as a propagandistic tool to prepare the Sectarians for this war.

This chapter discusses the relation of global extractivisms to global deforestation, making novel claims about the role of forests in the international system. This is a global, world-ecological analysis of why forests seem to have not mattered in the interstate system and how they are still overlooked in favor of a free flow of commodity trade and interstate competition. The impacts of the world system on forests are explored over the past 5,000 years, focusing especially on the past 550 years. “Epochal moments,” for example, wars or events like the COVID-19 pandemic, are particularly detrimental to retaining the world’s old-growth forests. One should avoid overgeneralizations of how global capitalism or humanity (as the “Anthropocene”) drive deforestation. Thus, the chapter utilizes a long-term, world-system perspective, focusing on how the current structures of the world-system drive deforestation. The chapter uncovers how the nature of the interstate system affects the efforts by global environmental governance and other means to try to curb or control deforestation. This curbing is fundamentally restricted by the lobbying and political power of RDPEs.

Chapter 4 explores how fiscal policy and questions of national security play on stage. Fiscal concerns pervade Shakespeare’s history plays. All of his sovereigns wrestle with the need to fund security in the face of ongoing domestic and international threats, and all of them have to confront ongoing fiscal discontent. This chapter shows how security dilemmas are at the heart of controversies that drive English history as Shakespeare understands it. Rulers’ ongoing efforts to cover the expenses associated with implementing security coupled with subjects’ resentment at having to pay for their sovereign’s decisions opens up the terms of security and collective wellbeing for collective scrutiny. By depicting a multiplicity of voices and perspectives on collective existence, Shakespeare foregrounds fiscal controversies and the alternative visions of security and collective life such controversies prompt. These plays immerse theatergoers in an underdetermined world defined by antagonism, conflict, geopolitical struggle, and political inventiveness.

The overview of the book’s argument provides a framework for understanding the relationship between fiscal policy, sovereignty, and Renaissance English literature. It examines the challenges of sovereign authority in the period, especially the fiscal responsibilities of rulers and the potential for political instability due to taxation. The chapter draws parallels between historical and contemporary debates on taxation, emphasizing fiscal policy’s role in shaping collective security and wellbeing. It delves into the complexities of funding sovereignty in early modern England, highlighting the tension between necessary taxation and perceived fiscal aggression. The chapter introduces the idea of a "fiscal security dilemma," in which efforts to ensure security through taxation can paradoxically create insecurity and concludes with an overview of the book’s chapters and the variety of ways literary writers engaged with the struggle over fiscal policy as central to defining political community and governance in Renaissance England.

In the mountains, guerrilleras politicized the organization of reproductive labor, as their memories of armed struggle make clear. Their efforts embodied the everyday making of a liberated territory based on feminist interpretations of revolutionary values. I focus on the two largest guerrilla groups rooted in opposite ends of the country: the Popular Liberation Forces in Chalatenango department and Revolutionary People’s Army in Morazán department. I show how women fought to collectivize food production, gain access to sanitary napkins, navigate reproductive choices, and pressure FMLN leaders to punish infidelity and sexual violence. Such efforts resisted sexism within the ranks, transformed camp norms, and challenged sexist definitions of who constituted a revolutionary. From these everyday experiences, combatant women developed a vision of women’s liberation and fought to put it into practice, using documentaries to disseminate their message. In doing so, they helped to shape the political discourse of the insurgency.

Chapter 6 situates John Milton’s major works – Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes – in relation to abiding conflicts over fiscal policy prompted by the Civil War and its aftermath. Milton was actively critical of the Commonwealth’s management of fiscal policy and voiced his fear about the fiscal impact of a restored monarchy. Though fiscal concerns are largely occluded from his poetry, Milton’s depiction of war and its effects continues this critique by dramatizing the disastrous consequences of security imaginaries organized around the violently expansive accumulation of wealth. Milton’s metasecurity dilemma arises in his poetry as a question about how to value people and circumstances correctly, about the relevant criteria to use to orient oneself ethically and politically within catastrophic realities. His poems thus highlight Milton’s deep uncertainty about how to define safety or about what kinds of collective security might be possible in such a disoriented moment.

In 1788, John Marshall made a prediction that was more prescient than he realized: The federal courts the new Constitution called for would be “the means of preventing disputes with foreign nations.” Marshall could not have known it, but for the next several decades international disputes over persons, ships, and goods caught up in maritime war would wash onto American shores, and into federal courtrooms. The courts’ decisions were essential to the United States’ emergence as a sovereign and independent nation. But preoccupation with Marshall’s famous constitutional rulings has obscured this story of judicial nation-building at sea. And while we have grown accustomed to the idea that “foreign affairs” are the domain of the legislative and executive branches, the political leaders who first tried to solve the puzzle of constitutional governance did not hew to such rigid notions of institutional responsibility. If Marshall’s legacy is the establishment of both judicial and national authority, this book shows that he and his contemporaries did so, first and foremost, at sea.

The federal courts ultimately came to the nation’s rescue. In 1794, the Supreme Court abruptly reversed course and decided that federal judges could adjudicate cases arising from captures made by French privateers operating from the United States. British officials were initially skeptical about vindicating their sovereign’s rights through the courts, but they came to embrace litigation as a useful weapon in their global struggle with revolutionary France. French diplomats resented judicial interference with privateering, and they demanded that executive branch officers intervene in proceedings to defend France’s prerogatives under treaty and international law. But the Washington administration refused. The courts, in Thomas Jefferson’s words, were “liable neither to controul nor opposition from any other branch of the Government.” Judges continued to have doubts about their role in resolving international legal disputes, but they came to accept responsibility for establishing American sovereignty. This tale of judicial ascendancy might seem at odds with our usual understanding of the courts as the “least dangerous branch” of the early federal government, but the truth is that American policymakers deliberately sought to make the courts supreme, at least at sea.

In 1793, war between France and Great Britain plunged the United States – and the federal courts – into crisis. As the French Revolution reverberated around the Atlantic, the impetuous French foreign minister, Edmond-Charles Genet, launched privateering attacks against British commerce from the United States. The Washington administration tried to prevent Americans from dragging the nation into war, but partisan rivalry and a lack of federal law enforcement power stymied its efforts. Desperate to demonstrate the nation’s sovereign bona fides in the face of British complaints, the administration turned to the courts for help. It asked federal judges to resolve difficult and highly consequential legal disputes that the political branches were unable or unwilling to address. But the judges were not the acquiescent handmaidens in foreign affairs that modern commentators imagine. They balked at violating longstanding principles of international law, and they were wary of compromising the judiciary’s own institutional integrity by intervening in the affairs of state. In the midst of an international conflict of unprecedented scope, the founders’ confidence that the federal courts would ensure the nation’s peace and security seemed to have been mistaken.

In this chapter, the contrast between two models of expatriate masculinity developed earlier is brought to a head, with a fresh twist on the history of masculine identity. In retirement William Cooper indulged his passion for global wanderlust at the expense of his family, whereas Edgar Wilson happily abandoned his expatriate frustrations for a conventional model of settled suburban domesticity with his wife in England, spurning the mobile attractions of the cosmopolitanism they had long nurtured, but with Winifred continuing to exercise her public activism and independence. Ironically, the domestic model, rather than William’s continuing mobility, was most closely associated with the lower middle class, recalling Edgar’s origins and early white-collar labours. The disparity is underlined by a tragic account of William’s last years, interned by the Nazis in wartime Paris after an ill-advised excursion across France. Wartime domesticity for Edgar and Winifred was a struggle, only relieved by a comfortable inheritance from William. Winifred’s Will reflected her long commitment to chosen causes like the Mothers’ Union, a statement of her lifetime priorities.

Mostly, Greek historians treat going to war as something that Greek states do, without there needing to be much account of why they do it. Different were epic wars – the Trojan War and then the Persian War – and Thucydides’ long treatment of the causes of the Peloponnesian War is a direct product of his insistence that this was the greatest war. What his account shows us is what he thought needed explanation, and it is as much his identification of factors as the scale of his discussion of causation that makes Thucydides’ account stand out. His is an account peculiar for the failure to point the finger at individual political leaders, something that elsewhere in his History Thucydides is not reluctant to do. Thucydides never asks whether different action by Athens might have avoided war, avoiding discussing either Athenian policies or politics. The reasons for that are best sought not in Thucydides’ politics, but in his determination that this should be seen as an epic war.