Elizabeth Bowen’s major novels display her lifelong preoccupation with disappointment, discord, and desire between mismatched lovers. Like their author, these characters seek genuine connection to remedy abandonment by beloved figures. This chapter uses ‘love’ in its most comprehensive sense, encompassing infatuation, sexual attraction, and unconsummated desire, as well as romantic and sexual attachment. Bowen’s keen awareness of social norms and customs shapes her plotting and foregrounds the complex interplay of private desires and public expectations. Three thematic strands dominate her portrayal of lovers: unrequited love, typically involving younger female protagonists and older, more experienced partners; transgressive love, for entanglements featuring characters who break taboos through their relationships; and illicit love, featuring secretive protagonists fearing exposure to public judgement. Across Bowen’s oeuvre, past lovers or previous relationships haunt the narrative present. Unrequited, transgressive, or illicit love might be buried or repressed, but ultimately it causes emotional disturbances for lovers in the present.

This essay explores the significance of modern French writers, especially Flaubert, Maupassant, and Proust, for Bowen’s thinking and writing. It traces the influence of these figures on her short stories, essays, and novels. Across her career, she reviewed, translated, and cited these and other French authors. In Maupassant, she found a way of mapping the relation between short story and novel onto the division between poetry and prose. From Flaubert, she borrowed a close attention to pacing and rhythm, as well as an interest in the more indirect ways that history might intervene in the novel. Most obviously, perhaps, Proustian notions of memory inflected her own plots and narrative structures, as well as her prose style. Modern French fiction offered Bowen a series of models – and foils – for her own developing theories of character, style, and form. These intertextual resonances reveal how Bowen situated herself in a broader European tradition, rather than British, Irish, or English alone.

This chapter encompasses Neruda’s poetic production during his latest years, which has been divided into two sections: late and posthumous poems published in books. Neruda’s literary fame was cemented in his previous work, Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924), Residencia en la tierra (Residence on Earth, 1933, 1935, 1947), Canto general (1950), and Odas elementales (Elemental Odes, 1954–57). In general, critics and general readers have overlooked Neruda’s late body of work, which reflected a post-millennial futurity. He announced this visionary approach in both Aún (Still Another Day, 1969) and Fin de mundo (World’s End, 1969), but the best summary of his take on futurity can be found in his posthumous 2000 (1974).

In one of the celebrations of his fiftieth birthday, Neruda stated that the poet has two duties: “to leave and to return.” He later named one of his books Navigations and Returns. His life was that of a traveler who always returned, in real life and imaginatively, to his starting point: the southern territory of his childhood. This chapter examines the reasons for the journey and return in the life and work of Neruda, as well as other themes associated with his travels, such as the antipodes. He also alludes to the use of travel as a metaphor in some of his texts.

As a founding member of the Jane Austen Society in the 1940s, Bowen helped spearhead the arrangements that, as a world war raged and hundreds of thousands of other homes were destroyed, saved for the nation the Hampshire house where the Regency novelist had written her books. Through the society’s efforts, Chawton Cottage, in its new guise as Jane Austen’s House Museum, became, as it remains, a mainstay of the English heritage industry. In Bowen’s fiction and critical writing, evidence suggests that, despite the norms of periodisation, the later novelist valued her predecessor’s work not as an emblem of tradition and repository of heritage values, but for the way it supplied the formal resources for a modern or modernist future of fiction. More than a practitioner of domestic fiction and marriage plotting, the Austen to whom Bowen pays homage is a figure notable for her surgical precision and mastery of form. The restraint and ironic detachment that Bowen ascribes to Austen is not alien to Bowen’s commitment to human passion. As some of Bowen’s essays on Austen argue, the novelist made passion her study – a study that, Bowen found, could renew the novel form.

Pablo Neruda had complex relations to his multiple precursors. They belonged to various periods, from Dante’s Middle Ages to the present time, with Gabriela Mistral. They also belonged to varied cultural and linguistic spheres: early modern Spanish poets loomed large (Ercilla, Quevedo), but so did a number of French poets, especially Arthur Rimbaud, or the American Walt Whitman. This chapter aims to map out these spheres of influence and understand the various ways in which Neruda engaged with his precursors. He “negotiated his debts” (a phrase he used for Whitman) in commentaries, homages, and quotes, but also in complex intertextual operations. While he easily discussed the poets he admired, he also emulated them so as to find his place in certain traditions (especially in his love poetry) or used them for political purposes.

The servants in Elizabeth Bowen’s fiction, increasingly complex, allow her to represent, variously, Irishness (Donovan and his daughters in The Heat of the Day), the paid companion’s difficulties in living intimately with an employer (in several short stories), a housekeeper who maintains family memories with its furniture (Matchett in The Death of the Heart), and even a murderer who resents his position as a flunkey (Prothero in ‘The Disinherited’). These portrayals allow explorations of class loyalties, predicaments, and resentments, as well as subtleties of Irishness and Irish neutrality during the Second World War. This chapter examines paid companions, Irish help and their informal relationships with their employers, and morally forceful servants who contribute to the advancement of plot. Bowen’s servants often prompt their employers’ confrontation with the reality of their moral, social, or historical circumstances; by doing so, they can expose or puncture their employers’ illusions about their respective worlds.

Thirty years after his Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada, Neruda’s three books of “elemental odes” (1954–57) refocused his poetry into the everyday things and the everyday life of the common people. This new type of poetry responded to an invitation by Miguel Otero Silva, the director of the Caracas journal El Nacional, for a weekly collaboration, which the poet envisioned as an opportunity to offer a chronicle of the daily life of his time, his people, and the everyday objects that surrounded them. This anecdote led the way for Neruda’s “impure” poetry to challenge the assumed range of topics for poetic discourse, beyond his reputation as a poet of love and politics, earned from his previous poetry collections. He began to write in a simpler way, as the “invisible man” who walks the streets talking to common people about their daily experience.

Chapter 3 identifies the prominence of Mater Ecclesia (Mother Church) as a theological person and the Trinity’s first creation in John Wyclif’s Tractatus de Ecclesia (De Ecclesia). This chapter demonstrates that maternal imagery was integral to Wyclif’s presentation of the doctrine of Church antiquity and challenges perceptions of Wyclif as anti-institutionally and anti-materially predestinarian.

This chapter examines Pablo Neruda’s deep and complex relationship with the Soviet Union, as reflected in his memoirs Confieso que he vivido: Memorias (I Confess That I Have Lived: Memoirs, 1974). It explores the poet’s encounters, reflections, and evolving perceptions of the country, its people, and their connections to Chile. It analyzes Neruda’s initial fascination with Soviet socialism and communism and his gradual disillusionment with certain aspects of the regime under Stalin’s leadership. The chapter delves into the complexities of the poet’s political and personal allegiances reflected in his encounters with the prominent figures of the Soviet intelligentsia, such as Ilya Ehrenburg. The comparative analysis of Neruda’s memoirs and poetry allows us to shed light on the intertwined histories of Chile and the Soviet Union, highlighting the enduring impact of Neruda’s Soviet odyssey on his literary work and political convictions.

Just as Elizabeth Bowen’s life was shaped by monumental and international conflicts, so war fundamentally shaped her short stories and novels. The First World War haunts Bowen’s debut novel, The Hotel; the Irish War of Independence transforms the very landscape of Ireland in The Last September; and the Second World War draws up numerous conflicts of allegiance and communication in The Heat of the Day and short stories such as ‘Mysterious Kôr’. Throughout these instances, war creates complicated feelings of simultaneity, where the past and future collapse into an inarticulable present, as can be felt in the futile performance of polite society among the Anglo-Irish in The Last September. As much as that suspension of time crushes any sense of futurity, it also opens the opportunity for reimagining the existing orders of the world; hence, war can constrain expression, as with the hedged communication in the short story ‘Careless Talk’, and afford sexual liberation for characters in ‘Mysterious Kôr’ and ‘Summer Night’. For Bowen, the tensions thrown up in war offer not a dialectic but a series of ruptures that can only be experienced, not resolved.

Beginning in the 1930s, Elizabeth Bowen wrote literary criticism, book reviews, essays, and other non-fiction works for various media at a remarkably steady pace. Much of this writing centered on the novel – whether on contemporary novels that she reviewed, on classic works of English fiction for which she wrote introductions, or on the novel as a genre with an important history and an uncertain, yet vital, future. This essay traces the development of Bowen’s thinking about the novel and her gradual honing of an idiosyncratic descriptive vocabulary for the genre. It concentrates on a key set of writings that Bowen produced towards the end of, and just after, the Second World War, when she was at the height of her own fame as a novelist and when the history of what she regarded as the ‘free form’ of the novel, especially the recent history of the modernist novel, was a matter of urgent cultural discussion.