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.

This chapter examines the networks and institutions that fostered the production of explicitly ‘literary’ novels in Australia during the late twentieth century. It considers how economic changes to the publishing industry since 1980 affected the way that novels were produced and received. While literary novels were primarily produced by major trade publishers and university presses in the 1980s and early 1990s, they have increasingly been published by small presses. Literary novels arguably now have less influence within the larger literary field, but remain important within prestigious networks and institutions. The chapter then examines the careers of two authors – Gerald Murnane and David Malouf – who both began writing during the ‘conglomerate era’ and have continued to publish during the ‘age of Amazon’. While both authors have had national and international literary success, this success has relied on different institutions and networks. Malouf has had a broad success, in part because his works have been enthusiastically taken up in secondary and tertiary educational settings, whereas Murnane has relied on a more diffuse network of publishers and reviewers interested in experimental forms of writing.

Christos Tsiolkas’s first novel, Loaded (1995), was hailed as a profound example of the short-lived ‘grunge’ genre in Australia in the late twentieth century, but his work since that point is not typically viewed in that context, nor is that genre generally considered to have continued or evolved since the 1990s. This chapter returns to Tsiolkas’s grunge roots and demonstrates the continuation and evolution of the grunge genre across Tsiolkas’s oeuvre as well as its influence on the work of other contemporary Australian writers. Through comparative discussions of several practitioners of grunge, this chapter examines Tsiolkas’s influence on and development of a critical genre in Australian literary history, arguing that the evolution of Tsiolkas’s grunge and his influence on other grunge writers depends on a simultaneous absorption in and disruption of the myths and identities of the nation in its contemporary literature.

Critical analyses of Australian adaptations, which celebrate adaptation as a specific creative (and critical) practice, are relatively rare, but ‘literature to screen’ discussions of various sorts have been a common feature of Australian scholarship since the 1980s. Increasingly diverse adaptation choices made by Australian film and television industries since then reflect shifting assumptions about the status of literary texts in relation to screen culture, changing practices and platforms for funding, consumption and marketing, as well as an increased demand for adaptation as a category in its own right. This chapter starts from the premise that studying Australian adaptations teaches us something about narrative journeys, national culture and Australian studies in an era of wider on-demand access to productions old and new through commercial streaming services. The chapter provides a snapshot of select Australian adaptations over the last thirty years, identifying tendencies which raise important questions about the impact of adaptation in relation to the ways contemporary Australian culture is valued and assessed. It concludes that studying Australian adaptations in the streaming era affords a nuanced and challenging perspective of changing Australian self-definition, and the multiple cultural and educational uses to which Australian adaptations are put.

Port cities on the island of Singapore from the fourteenth century onwards have produced a dichotomy in literary representation. On the one hand, the city is monumental, its expanding physical infrastructure subsumed within solid historical developmental narratives in which dystopian and utopian visions of governance co-exist. On the other, the port offers the possibility of fluidity, an opening to the flows of peoples, culture, and trade. As a site of writing in many languages, Singapore exemplifies the concerns of world literature: interlinguistic practices, migration, networks of publishing and audiences in which the global continually returns.This chapter uses the concept of translocality to enable two intellectual moves. First, it moves us beyond a binarism between city and port, structure and fluidity in Singapore literary studies, in which literary texts are always seen as promoting fluidity as a critique of structure, rather than as acts of building, self-making and development. Second, the translocal experience of Singapore may offer a heuristic for the study of world literature, in which dystopian accounts of the imbrication of markets, reading publics, prizes, and creative writing programs with neoliberalism are often countered through utopian close readings of the transcendent possibilities of individual literary texts.

The nineteenth-century Australian novel has predominantly been understood in terms of the dominance of Britain, both as the place where most books were published and as the source of literary traditions. But this account presumes and maintains the status of the book as the primary vehicle for transmission of literature, whereas the vast majority of Australian novels were serialised (either before or after book publication) and a great many were only ever published in serial form. A history of the early Australian novel that recognises the vital role of serialisation, as distinct from but also in relation to book publication, brings to light new trends in authorship, publication, circulation and reception. This history also uncovers new Australian novelists as well as previously unrecognised features of their fiction. In particular, a number of literary historians argue that early Australian novelists replicated the legal lie of terra nullius in excluding Aboriginal characters from their fiction. Considering fiction serialised in Australian newspapers indicates that these characters were actually widely depicted and suggests the need for a new account of the relationship between nineteenth-century Australian novels and colonisation.

This section introduces the structure and logic of The Cambridge History of the Australian Novel. It considers the role of the Australian novel in local, national and international contexts; its engagement as a cultural technology in the major historical events of Australia’s history; its transnational positioning; and changes over time in terms of writing, publishing, readership and genre structures. The history of publishing and of criticism of the Australian novel are described. The book’s structure from the colonial period until the present is outlined while readers are invited to read across essays for ongoing and changing thematic concerns.

The Miles Franklin Literary Award has traditionally been Australia’s most prestigious prize. In the past generation, though, it had been challenged by newer awards with different rubrics, such as the Prime Minister’s Award and the Melbourne Prize; prizes of a fundamentally different nature, such as the Patrick White Literary Award given to underrated senior writers; and international awards such as the Booker and the Nobel for which Australians have become increasingly viable candidates. In response, the Miles Franklin broadened its formerly nationalist criteria and became more open to Indigenous, female and younger writers. This chapter discusses the significance of the award in the global publishing market of the twenty-first century, focusing both on how it spotlighted important writers and also made those quirky literary judgements which make literary prizes interesting.

Where in the nineteenth century the representation of Aboriginal characters and things was occasional and marginal in the Australian novel, the twentieth century saw a new attention to Aboriginal characters. The twentieth century saw Australia’s foundation in 1901 marred by the emergence of the White Australia policy, which excluded migrants of colour and indirectly affected Aboriginal policy. So would begin a vexed erotics of miscegenation. In her short fiction, Katharine Susannah Prichard would deal with cross-race relations in northern Australia before producing her influential novel Coonardoo in 1929. Nearly a decade later, Xavier Herbert published Capricornia (1938), an epic northern Australian novel concerned with assimilation. Each of these novels is concerned with the field of discursive Aboriginality as a fantasy space for negotiations of appropriate whiteness and identity, as is Eleanor Dark’s Timeless Land trilogy (1941–53) and even works by Patrick White such as Voss (1957) and A Fringe of Leaves (1976), to finally mark the beginning of what has been called post-Mabo fiction in David Malouf’s Remembering Babylon (1993). This chapter tracks these examples of Aboriginal as represented in Australian novels and more ‘minor’ ones along the way.

Expatriate women writers Henry Handel Richardson and Christina Stead produced field-defining novels of transnational scale and aesthetic ambition that engaged both the matter of Australia and the locations from which they produced and circulated their writing. For Richardson, the provocations of the ‘modern breakthrough’ in Scandinavian literature were central to her work with the realist novel. Stead’s girlhood saturation in gothic fairy-tales, the French novel and the Australian tradition expanded into restless experiments with the novel in the avant-garde circles of Paris (1929–34), before her negotiation of literary debates in France, England and America. The narrative strand of Kunstlerroman in Richardson’s The Fortunes of Richard Mahony (1917–29) and Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children (1940) introduces the developing provincial subject as crucial to the vision of familial and national development, principally in the relation between child and parents. Stead and Richardson produced groundbreaking versions of the Kunstlerroman narrative, disrupting a stable nineteenth-century structure centred on stories about young artistic men. These women writers produced narratives of talented colonial subjects – young colonial children and provincial teenage daughters – situated outside these structures of power, and foregrounded their disruptive perceptions of flawed patriarchal-imperial modes of authority.

Because the birth of the Egyptian novel came so late in the Arabic literary tradition (1914) and coincided so closely with the country’s independence from the British, it is no surprise that questions of national identity and authenticity are an overlying preoccupation. What is perhaps surprising is the extent to which these questions are enacted in the arena of courtship and marriage. In the canon—as in the capital—liminal space remains prime real estate in the economy of desire. For those in Cairo who are unwilling or unable to marry at a conventional age, traditional values and familial structures, combined with a culture of surveillance and patriarchy, results in a thorny romantic landscape. All of this is exacerbated by neoliberal policies that stretch the preexistent wealth gap, as well as the increased privatization, militarization and monetization of public space. This chapter will explore possibilities for desire through liminal spaces in a select survey of (mostly) 20thcentury Cairene novels: Tawfiq Hakim’s 1933The Return of the Soul, Naguib Mahfouz’s 1947Midaq Alley, Latifa al-Zayyat’s 1960The Open Door, Enayat al-Zayyat’s 1963Love and Silence, Gamal al-Ghitani’s 1976The Zaafarani Files, Abdel Hakeem Qassem’s 1987An Attempt to Get Out, and Alaa al-Aswany’s 2002The Yacoubian Building.

This chapter offers empirical rather than ideological explanations for two late colonial cultural phenomena: the establishment of a canon of Australian colonial novels around 1890 that was exclusively male (Geoffry Hamlyn, His Natural Life and Robbery Under Arms); and the coming into existence of a nationalist imagined community, fully formed, in the 1890s, with Henry Lawson as its typifying literary voice. A book-historical approach is taken that cuts across the grain of existing explanations. Book availability is shown to be the key to the canon question. It conditioned, without exactly determining, the literary-critical reputation-making; and the women went with less effective publishers. But tastes were also changing, with a favouring of historical storytelling and stocktaking that set some Australian novels apart. In the slow shift to forms of realism, the male novelists incorporated the leftover allure of adventure fiction in a way that the domestic realism of the women could not. Sales figures, earnings and other evidence of Lawson’s delayed reception in the post-World War II period render dubious the supposed historical basis of the Australian Legend of the 1890s – unless it is a very ‘Long 1890s’ we are talking about.

In 2007, Syrine Hout argued that the Arab Australian author Jad El Hage’s The Last Migration: A Novel of Diaspora and Love (2002) was the first Lebanese and, by extension, Arab, diaspora novel. Hout’s claim suggests that any writing by Arab Australians that preceded El Hage’s novel was beyond the bounds of diasporic literature. Her argument implies historical progression where migrant writers start as unsettled exiles and evolve into settled diasporic writers. The irony in the Australian context is that very few Arab Australian novels exist prior to 2002, meaning that if Hout’s claim is correct, the trajectory that The Last Migration benefited from must have come from its interaction with anglophone Arab writing being shaped elsewhere, where longer histories exist, and alongside other migrant writing in Australia. This chapter focuses on a range of Arab Australian novels to reveal how and in what ways this writing is deeply Australian while simultaneously embedded in a diasporic writerly milieu. It does so by contextualising these novels within diasporic and nationalist frameworks to illustrate how such texts do not easily fit the kind of literary categorisations posited by Hout.

From its earliest Viking origins, Dublin was part of a networked Atlantic geography of exchange. Throughout its history, Dublin’s place in world literature has been influenced by the shifting shapes of those networks over time.Eighteenth-century, literary Dublin, for instance, was determined by the gravitational field of London, while by the middle of the nineteenth century, Dublin would have become the point of origin for a transnational diaspora– an origin akin to a wound from which the blood is being drained: insular, entrophic, and suffering (in James Joyce’s phrase fromDubliners) from paralysis. Joyce is the pivotal figure here, insofar as he was to see how the city’s insular, embedded sense of place could co-exist with a generative sense of incompleteness, an awareness of the phantom limb of the global network of which the city was a part, capable of being sutured by imagination.That suturing effect would also, paradoxically, reposition what had become a peripheral city to the centre of modernist writing, notably in Joyce’s Ulysses. Finally, with Dublin today one of the most globalised cities in the world, literary form is being once more reconfigured as networks shift and are again radically decentred.

‘Vitalities’ describes the creative-destructive energies of the globalised harbour city with its geographically sprawling, culturally diverse suburban mosaic. Yet as ground zero of British invasion in 1788, Sydney is also ‘haunted’. Dispossessive colonisation ghosts not only its colonial archive but can be glimpsed in the city’s landforms and topography. ‘Haunted vitalities’ recur in settler, sojourner and migrant writings that thematize Sydney Harbour’s vertical sublime and the city’s horizontal suburban sprawl. Working from the interwar period to the present, this chapter reads settler texts about Sydney alongside texts by First Nations people. Beyond interwar, harbour-centric works– Christina Stead’s Seven Poor Men of Sydney (1934), Kenneth Slessor’s elegiac poem ‘Five Bells’ (1939) and Eleanor Dark’s novel Waterway (1938)– the spatial frame is widened to Greater Metropolitan Sydney, moving from Eleanor Dark’s reimagining of British invasion in The Timeless Land (1941), to Ruby Langford Ginibi’s memoir Don’t Take Your Love to Town (1988) and Julie Janson’s novel Benevolence (2020). With Gail Jones’s Five Bells (2011), the chapter returns to the harbour to consider how this contemporary novel not only reckons with Sydney’s settler-colonial past through a world literary frame but also attends to the presence and voice of First Nations people.

This chapter starts by locating Indigenous Australian science fiction, increasingly described as ‘Indigenous futurism’, within the broader framework of Australian sf and Indigenous Australian literature. Indigenous sf has had to contend with reader expectations of Indigenous writing, largely regarded by publishers, booksellers and critics as a niche market, thereby consigned within a very narrow box. Compounding this is the belief that some sf is frivolous, and thus inadequate to address Indigenous affairs. The following section traces the naissance of Indigenous sf in the writing of Sam Watson, Eric Willmot and Archie Weller. The aim is to demonstrate how these works revised mainstream sf by ‘Indigenising’ its tropes, and how the reception of these works has been changing from the 1990s onwards. The third section focuses on twenty-first-century Indigenous sf with Indigenous women authors taking over the global Indigenous sf literary scene. These women authors question traditional paradigms by fusing Indigenous systems of knowledge with the latest scientific thought. This discussion is exemplified by Alexis Wright’s, Claire G. Coleman’s and Ambelin Kwaymullina’s works. The final section demonstrates that Indigenous novelistic futurism has also been augmented by recent developments in Indigenous sci-fi television series and graphic novels.

From the nineteenth century to the present and covering a range of novelistic styles, Australians have sought imaginative possibilities in the Asia Pacific region. This chapter draws upon an extensive database of Australian writing on Asia to map the variety and range of Australian fiction set in or dealing with Asia. Main genres include invasion novels, which date from the late nineteenth century; a growing body of popular fiction, drawing at first on Asian settings and later employing Asian characters; fiction drawing on narratives of travel; and explorations of Australia’s evolving identity as a predominantly white nation in an Asian region. This chapter is structured around seven key texts which illustrate key themes and modes of writing.

This chapter focuses on how the word ‘environment’ became culturally prominent in the 1930s, and suggests that Australian novels from this period show the intrusion of the environment – as a signifier – in their basic imaginary structure. The word ‘environment’, and its attendant ideas, emerged as a refinement of the bush nationalism that preceded it, still funding a national settler identity, but now inflected with the sense of crisis that arose with the collapse of the world economy and the drift into cataclysmic global conflict. The distinctive usage of the environment that emerges in the 1930s was most explicitly expressed in the Jindyworobak valorisation of ‘Environmental Values’ and in the work of poets of that school. However, the importance of the word environment and its cluster of associations is also visible in the novelists from this time, including Xavier Herbert, Vance Palmer, Katharine Susannah Prichard, M. Barnard Eldershaw, Elyne Mitchell, J. K. Ewers, Patrick White, Peter Cowan and Randolph Stow. Drawing on the works of these writers, this chapter sketches a dialectic within mid-century Australia that figured the environment as, by turns, a vitalistic substance and a Darwinian struggle.