Over the last five years of the 1920s, Hemingway worked assiduously to consolidate his reputation, publishing stories in mainstream magazines and developing what would become a lifelong relationship with the Charles Scribner publishing company. He worked to balance literary experimentation and innovation in the short story and the novel (sometimes courting censorship by challenging the canons of “decency”) and to appeal to popular taste. His second collection of stories includes the classic “Hills like White Elephants,” a powerfully concise exploration of power dynamics and competing visions within a romantic relationship. In A Farewell to Arms, Hemingway brings a corrosive irony to the topoi of the wartime romance, complicating received notions of both martial heroism (the military centerpiece of the novel is a shambolic retreat) and heterosexual romance (suggested in Frederic Henry’s and Catherine Barkley’s repeated references to wanting not only to be with one another but to be one another). The novel also sees Hemingway experiment with new modes such as stream-of-consciousness narration.

Judging by rates of criminal recidivism, the very trauma that leads to American incarceration only amplifies inside facilities whose purported mission is to rehabilitate. Using psychiatric, literary, and sociological studies alongside three twentieth-century prison memoirs written by American men of color – Jarvis Jay Masters’s That Bird Has My Wings (2009), Shaka Senghor’s Writing My Wrongs: Life, Death, and Redemption in an American Prison (2013), and Ravi Shankar’s Correctional (2022) – this essay examines the use of bibliotherapy as a means of processing traumatic memory, reconnecting with community, redressing harm, and reclaiming control over one’s story to help stimulate and accelerate the process of healing and recovery. Life writing, and memoir specifically, allows for the transfiguration of generational, localized, and institutional trauma while bearing witness to the inner workings of carceral spaces, which are disproportionately populated by men of color and intentionally kept concealed from public view.

George Jackson inhabits a central position in the living archive of diasporic Black radical and global revolutionary intellectuals. This chapter examines how Jackson’s political thought emerged through his consistent self-identification as an ordinary Black person inhabiting the historical, structural antiblackness of the United States. Against the telos of many carceral/prison narratives, Jackson’s Soledad Brother reflects the developing thought of a Black liberationist, carceral insurrectionist, and diasporic revolutionary whose primary political and cultural work is not focused on achieving his personal freedom (i.e. release from prison) but rather on organizing and proliferating radical ruptures of an existing oppressive order – what Jackson famously identifies in Blood in My Eye as “perfect disorder.” To study Soledad Brother and Blood in My Eye is to meditate on the consistency and militant commitment with which Jackson exhibited characteristics that made him an influential educator, organizer, and political intellectual during and beyond his lifetime, especially among contemporaneous and subsequent generations of politically activated (Black) captives of the state.

Women’s prison zines in the 1970s represent a pivotal moment in the evolution of feminist grassroots media, marking a sustained effort by incarcerated women to create their own platforms for self-expression and political organizing. Emerging from Black Power, queer liberation, and prison abolition movements, zines challenged dominant narratives about crime, punishment, and women’s experiences of incarceration. Historically, the carceral state and its monopoly over the bodies of imprisoned individuals played crucial roles in suppressing the voices and experiences of incarcerated women, particularly women of color and LGBTQ+ individuals. Zines like Through the Looking Glass, No More Cages, and Bar None were consequential to incarcerated women’s ability to forge solidarity networks, articulate anti-carceral feminist perspectives, and imagine alternatives to incarceration. The chapter utilizes literary analysis to delineate the impact of these zines, demonstrating how these publications functioned as tools for activism, self-expression, and community-building within the constraints of the carceral system.

Susan Burton’s memoir, Becoming Ms. Burton, exposes the systemic inequalities perpetuated by the penal system on women of color. Burton cycled in and out of prison for over a decade before she demanded treatment for her addiction. Burton’s memoir shows how childhood trauma, including rape, became a catalyst for her drug addiction; how the self-perpetuating pattern of addiction, crime, and incarceration inflicts new trauma; how the transformative power of self-reflection and healing enables her to have empathy and compassion for others facing similar challenges, and how that led her to break the cycle by creating an organization to help other women getting out of prison to stay sober, address their trauma, and stay free. Burton’s story of reaching back to help women escape the system has earned her the honorific title of a modern-day Harriet Tubman.

This chapter, by incarcerated writer John J. Lennon, explores the history of prison journalism through the careers of two writers, Wilbert Rideau and Dannie M. Martin. While both became journalists in prison, their writing careers took different forms. Rideau, serving a life sentence for murder in Louisiana, wrote in the typical, detached style of print journalists and helmed one of the most successful prison newspapers of all time, The Angolite, which was nominated for seven National Magazine Awards during his tenure as editor. Martin, serving a thirty-three-year sentence for bank robbery in federal prison, published voice-driven columns and freelanced for the San Francisco Chronicle. Both exposed pressing, overlooked crises behind bars and both risked reprisals from fellow prisoners and the staff responsible for their safety. Their stories of “committing journalism” contain timely lessons for incarcerated writers and prison administrators as the current renaissance of prison journalism continues to grow.

This chapter addresses the phenomenon of incarcerated writers who self-identify as “state raised”: bound to state-sponsored spaces of involuntary confinement (including foster care, juvenile detention, jails, and prisons) from childhood. The chapter begins with Kenneth E. Hartman’s reading of the work of Jack Henry Abbott; its second half, by Doran Larson, addresses the work of Kenneth E. Hartman. The chapter presents writers for whom legal confinement has formed the majority of their lived experience and who thus bring uniquely troubled while familiar (verging on the familial) perspectives to the explication of and reflection on legal caging and the writing that emerges from it.

The TV series Orange Is the New Black(2013–2019), created by Jenji Kohan, became a site through which to contest and explore Black gender nonconformity in ways rarely seen on popular television. In its first season, the show’s depictions of Black gender-nonconforming characters – Suzanne Warren (Uzo Aduba) and Sophia Burset (Laverne Cox) – produce variable results. This chapter argues that the middle-class back story of Burset as a firefighter produces a plea for relatability, distancing her from the common experiences of transwomen of color who might typically be imprisoned in the US. By contrast, the character of Warren is depicted as anti-assimilationist and threatening to the prison system, even as her characterization draws on racial and gender prison stereotypes. The exploration of Black gender nonconformity complicates historical tropes of Black women in prison with varied results, providing insight into ideologies of criminal behavior, queerness, and blackness.

Whether it took the form of plantations in the South, penitentiaries in the North, or military camps in the West, the purpose of prison in early America was to contain the freed slave, the sinner, the indigenous, and the outlaw. Prison did not just incapacitate them but also constituted them as other. As Caleb Smith puts it, prison is “one of the primary sites through which the very idea of modern humanity is imagined and contested” in America.1 Stephen Hartnett elaborates that “debates about crime, violence, and punishment helped colonials and then Americans to focus their thinking” about “identity and character, gender and sexuality, class and capitalism, religion and modernity, race and slavery, and the Enlightenment and democracy.”2

Hemingway’s work was well received from the moment he began to publish. Some of the key ways in which his work has been read were established from the beginning, as critics identified the core elements of Hemingway’s emergent style and as they responded to his resonant themes. Later generations of academic critics, however, brought to bear on Hemingway’s stories and novels the shifting frameworks that would emerge, become dominant, and linger residually in the institutions of literary studies. Chief among the frameworks that would enrich the reading of Hemingway’s work in subsequent decades were the attention to matters of gender and sexuality made legible by feminism and queer theory in the 1980s and 1990s and the attention to race as inextricable from the construction and focalization of Hemingway’s narratives in the 1990s and 2000s. Most recently, the rise of postcolonial studies, ecocriticism, and critical disability studies has enabled fresh readings of the work, readings that keep it alive in current cultural debates. Throughout these changes, attention to Hemingway’s achievements in narrative form continues to be important, and it is as a crafter of sentences, and of narratives from carefully constructed sentences, that Hemingway continues to influence fiction writers.

Albert Woodfox was incarcerated for forty-three years and ten months in Louisiana’s prison system, almost entirely in solitary confinement. His memoir, Solitary, foregrounds an intense entanglement of antiblack captivity and carceral confinement within the prison plantation known as Louisiana State Penitentiary, Angola. This chapter articulates critical moments in Albert’s life that transcend the boundaries of narration and description in order to uncover his knowledge of social death and slavery’s carceral afterlife. From internalizing and accepting racialized abuse at the hands of the criminal legal system during his youth, to witnessing mass captivity and racial terror inside Angola’s prison plantation, to facing a lifetime of separation from kin while surviving political retaliation under the torturous conditions of prolonged solitary confinement, Albert’s narrative reveals how the logics and architectures of slavery’s past endure as the social foundations to present-day mass incarceration.

The USA as a prison where Black people are confined inside a barbed wire of stereotypes – an idea memorably articulated by Malcolm X in 1963 – is influentially explored in works by Amiri Baraka, Etheridge Knight, and Reginald Dwayne Betts, a three-man mini-tradition within prison writing. Circumstances leading to Baraka’s experience of solitary confinement (memorably chronicled in his 1979 poem “AM/TRACK”) are the subject of the first third of the chapter. Etheridge Knight, who in prison forged his own poetic path out of tools provided partly by Malcolm and Baraka, is the subject of the next third. The Knight-inspired Reginald Dwayne Betts, a lawyer-poet who was incarcerated as a teenager, is the focus of the rest of the chapter (except for a brief examination of Baraka’s son, Ras, a significant political leader). All four men articulate secrets of survival in the coils of carceral culture and model alternative ways of imagining justice.

This chapter critically engages Assata: An Autobiography by former Black Liberation Army operative and political exile Assata Shakur. The argument examines how Shakur develops psychologically and politically as both a Black revolutionary and a Black revolutionary woman. The chapter offers close readings of the political messages shared throughout Assata then contextualizes Shakur’s frameworks by turning to her experiences as a runaway teen in the Village in New York City. Her story – from childhood until her time being held as a political prisoner – compels attention to how blackness and gender collide and at times collapse. This chapter illustrates how her political communiqué “To My People,” broadcast by Shakur while incarcerated, was informed by the lessons on Black gender and sexual vulnerability she learned from Miss Shirley, a transgender woman who was her surrogate caregiver during her time living in the Village.