Lukács engaged in a series of exchanges with his contemporaries on the Left, including Bloch and Brecht, in which he defended realism as the only valid form of the novel, and they promoted modernism. This debate helps us to see the value and the limitations of the realist form and the need for other forms of fictional narrative. The representation of the future under climate change would seem to be something beyond realism’s grasp because such a radically different world is by definition far outside the quotidian. And yet, climate change is itself a reality that fiction would seem to be obliged to address. in The Great Derangement (2016), Amitav Ghosh tries to explain why fiction has failed to address the problem of climate change, and he blames the novel as a form. Ghosh wants fiction that embodies a posthumanist perspective, but the novel form is dependent on human agency. A variety of novels address climate change, and most combine realism with other narrative modes. Realism is needed in order to make these novels persuasive, though it is unlikely, given the current reach of print fiction, that a climate novel will have the inpact that Uncle Tom’s Cabin once did.

The standard trajectory of realism, modernism, and postmodernism represents a misunderstanding of the novel’s history. The innovations of modernism and postmodernism have not rendered realism obsolete, as the vast majority of novelists continued to produce in the realist mode. John Updike in his criticism explicitly placed himself in the realist tradition of American fiction he traced to William Dean Howells, and Updike’s connection to realism was widely recognized. But the Rabbit novels do not merely continue the older fictional conventions of realism. Rather, they make use of modernist techniques, such as stream of consciousness narration, and they describe aspects of life absent from earlier realism. They regard mass culture as a significant element of the world they represent, and provide an alternative to the theory of mass culture proposed by Horkheimer and Adorno. In the first two of thesde, Rabbit Run and Rabbit Redux, music is a significant part of this. What Updike’s novels suggest is not just a new way of telling a story, but that there was a new reality as electronic mass media took up an increasing amount of attention.

This chapter looks at the connection between travel and narrative fiction in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. It shows how writers of novels borrowed from, expanded on, and reimagined accounts of actual voyages and descriptions of faraway places. Authors such as Aphra Behn, Daniel Defoe, and Jonathan Swift took details and ideas from travelers such as William Dampier, Woodes Rogers, and James Cooke. Well-known novels, including Behn’s Oroonoko (1688), Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719), and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726), reflected on and reconsidered England’s relationship to the wider world beyond Europe and the creation of the British Empire – at times critically, at times enthusiastically. The purpose of travelers, for the most part, was to say what they saw and did. It was the prerogative of writers of fiction to digest these facts and reflect on what they meant.

This chapter analyzes Stages on Life’s Way as an extended thought experiment. Though it has some similarities with a literary work of art and is sometimes called a novel, I distinguish extended thought experiment narratives like Stages from literary novels. I will show how Stages, like Repetition, embodies and develops Ørsted’s core elements of variation, active constitution, and the pursuit of genuine thought. I will also contrast Stages as a “psychological experiment” with the field of empirical psychology emerging in the 1800s. Against increasing interest in empirical observation, Kierkegaard’s thought experiments direct attention to what is not outwardly observable.

This chapter takes a comparative approach to fossil fuel narratives to consider whether there are continuities between coal fiction and oil fiction in different periods of modernity and whether there are identifiable formal features that unify fossil fuel fiction. The chapter pursues these questions by examining correspondences between Helon Habila’s 2010 novel Oil on Water, which depicts the socio-environmental consequences of oil extraction in the Niger Delta, and several exemplary fictions of extraction written 100 or 150 years earlier, including Charles Dickens’s Hard Times (1854), Joseph Conrad’s ‘Youth’ (1898) and Heart of Darkness (1899), and D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers (1913). The commonalities that persist across the historical gap from coal fiction to oil fiction express distinguishing aspects of life under fossil fuels and constitutive elements of the writing of fossil fuels.

Giulia Bruna, in her chapter, offers a comparative framework for discussing the different strategies of J. M. Synge and Emily Lawless for achieving an authentic representation of the otherworldly geography of the Aran Islands, which was so much a part of the folklore of the region. Synge’s The Aran Islands, often treated as a spiritual autobiography, offers a way of reading the West of Ireland that complicates our understanding of authentic Irishness. While he derives a sense of authenticity through largely documentary and ethnographic rather than fictional means, Lawless, in Grania, captures an authentic sense of rural Ireland through the formal arrangements of the novel. Bruna is concerned with identifying, in Synge’s and Lawless’s work, modes of plural and dialogic authenticity that recognizes the “parasitic” relation of culture to nature. Bruna concludes that their versions of authenticity, though different in methodology, serve the same revivalist purpose of shaping Irish cultures for future generations.

José Rizal spearheaded an anticolonial literary movement that aimed to deepen the understanding of Filipinos’ emerging identity through critical engagement with colonial archives. Through his writings in Spanish, the Filipino anticolonial leader gathers and constructs his people’s prehistory in order to promote and comprehend the identity-political transformation his writings describe and prescribe, the consolidation of a “Filipino” identity different from the term’s previous definition of “Spaniards born in the Philippines.” Through analysis of his annotations to Antonio Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas and his novel Noli me tangere, I argue that Rizal serves as a useful prototype for Colonial Latinx studies, as both model and cautionary tale. I eventually conclude that Rizal’s literary and historiographical contributions must be understood as on the one hand, a register of colonial maladies – frustrations with powerful Spanish friars and inept and naïve colonized peoples alike – and on the other hand, a rehearsal space for future liberties, including the freedom to define one’s own identity in dialogue with and against colonial expectations and discourses.

Frances Burney’s Evelina conjures silly, embarrassing, ludicrous, and morally sunk social pitfalls that its young heroine must studiously avoid in her progress toward social legibility, political safety, and material stability. Prompted by Daniel Cottom’s “the topology of the orifice,” this book shows that an orifical reading of Evelina coaxes open what the marriage plot aims to shut down, making the novel available to unpredictable genealogical connections. This. book traces one such line of descent to Jennie Livingston’s 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning and a performance by Bob the Drag Queen from the reality show We’re Here. Contextualizing Evelina in this way exposes the eighteenth-century marriage plot’s promotion of whiteness – specifically, whiteness as a sign of the social and sexual self-discipline that promises, in advocation against collectivity and queer intimacy, to keep us “safe” from one another as we attend to individuated prospects of “well-being.”

The mock arts written by Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope and their circle touched on issues of mechanical instruction, but their satire depended on its application to incongruously non-mechanical subjects. It was in Gulliver’s Travels that Swift turned more directly to descriptions of material production and mechanical ingenuity. The framing of those descriptions in a travel narrative recalls Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Both texts reduced scenes of human ingenuity and manufacture to a proto-anthropological ground zero in distant and solitary locations. But reading Gulliver and Crusoe from a mock-technical perspective reveals a surprising reversal in their authors’ attitudes to mechanical ingenuity. Defoe, the propagandist for commerce, is sceptical about the value and cognitive significance of handicraft skill. Swift, by contrast, uses his commentary on mechanical technique to depict different richly-imagined ecologies of mind in the four parts of Gulliver’s Travels.

In Erasmus Darwin’s Zoonomia several concerns of the eighteenth-century mock artists – their didactic technologies, their investigations in the physically extended and tacit dimensions of human cognition (‘intuitive analogy’, in Darwin’s terms) – received the attention of scientific inquiry. Darwin’s friends Richard Lovell Edgeworth and Maria Edgeworth fed his ideas back into educational discourse in Practical Education and then forward again into Maria’s novel Belinda. She had written one of the last eighteenth-century mock arts, her ‘Essay on the Noble Science of Self-Justification’. Belinda represents a final convergence of Industrial Enlightenment didactic experiment with an older tradition of mock-didactic social satire. Readers have complained that Edgeworth’s writing is hampered by its didactic impulses and by their uncertain instructive ends. This concluding chapter argues that the intentions of her fiction are coherent when read as part of the Enlightenment mock-technical tradition.

Critics have tended to downplay the connections between Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy and Jane Collier’s The Art of Ingeniously Tormenting, but these two experimental, high-concept satires, with their shared Swiftian heritage, in fact have much in common. Both present – with different levels of irony – as systems of instruction, written to help people negotiate straightened social settings. The art of engineering small conversational triumphs is a common concern. The Art of Ingeniously Tormenting is a pure mock art, cut back to a sequence of instructive maxims. The pseudo-didactic component in Tristram Shandy is, by contrast, only one element in a patchwork of textual features. Both are burlesques of the conventions of early modern manuals and handbooks. They represent a retreat for the Enlightenment mock arts back into the realm of satirical fiction and print-format experimentation. They also mark a new level of subtlety in their treatment of the mock arts’ cognitive themes.

This essay examines how nineteenth-century American literature paved the way for the modern exposure of private life in such disparate venues as the gossip column, social media, and reality television. In particular, this essay examines the sketch form, a popular nineteenth-century prose genre that has often been characterized as a minor form in comparison to the novel. In examining the history of the sketch form, this essay shows how the sketch conveyed reservations about the interiority and exposures central to the novel form. As practiced by Washington Irving, the earliest popularizer of this genre, the sketch advocated respectful discretion, the avoidance of private matters, and social stasis, the latter of which positioned the sketch in opposition to the social mobility characteristic of the novel. Irving presented the sketch as the genre of literary discretion, but its latter practitioner, Nathaniel Parker Willis, used the sketch to divulge confidences and violate social decorum. Willis adapted the sketch to become a precursor of the gossip column and to mirror the novel form in exposing private life.

This essay draws upon recent developments in histories of finance and Black studies to argue for an expanded consideration of late nineteenth-century speculative fiction. In recent decades, speculation has emerged as a foundational methodology, critical framework, and literary genre in African American literary studies and Black studies. Yet, within this body of scholarship, speculative fiction is most often associated with anti-realist modes that imagine alternate futures while speculative reading and research methods double as a critique of our political and disciplinary limits. Through a close reading of Charles Chesnutt’s 1901 novel The Marrow of Tradition, this essay considers how speculation’s late nineteenth-century instruments and logics determine the novel’s political horizons and narrative structure. By attending to the financial workings of late nineteenth-century novels that might seem to strain against the bounds of either genre fiction or speculative research methods, this essay argues that we can begin to see how a work like Chesnutt’s interrogates a particularly postbellum outlook on the future, one in which the terms of financial speculation can only imagine a future that is an intensification of the past.

Via an analysis of Anthony Trollope’s Palliser series, this chapter argues that character – the notion that a person’s value is defined by attributes of character – was the dominant value form shaping novelistic poetics under the nineteenth-century industrial economy. Trollope’s novels bear witness to the growing influence of financial transactions in the British economy. Upon first glance, Trollope’s critique of finance capital is fairly well worn, embedded as it is in anti-Semitic and xenophobic tropes, but this chapter focuses on how the financial narratives in Can You Forgive Her? (1864) and The Prime Minister (1876) cast finance capital as an affront to the very logic of character as a novelistic value form. In those novels, we begin to see the unraveling of character, which opens up the possibility for another literary value form to emerge under modernism.

Critical discussions of the novel of ideas have often asked us to take seriously the ideas articulated by fictional characters, and assumed that these ideas are sincerely held by those characters. This is in fact a good description of the serious novel of ideas, whose formal dynamics can be mapped onto theories of tragedy by Hegel, Lukács, and David Scott. But often, comedy and hypocrisy disrupt the presumed continuity between public utterances and private convictions or behaviours. This also often involves disrupting essentialist conceptions of identity and group belonging. Through readings of novels by Rose Macaulay, Doris Lessing, Jonathan Coe and Jeanette Winterson, this chapter argues that comic novels of ideas thrive on such discontinuities, diffusing and deflating identity categories as well as tragic collisions, and offering a distinctive orientation towards discursive liberalism as the primary medium of politics.