Asylum periodicals participated in complex exchanges of medical and general print that took place in the nineteenth century. Therapeutic publishing spread in different institutions through networks of physicians, who were keen to stay abreast of the newest developments in their discipline. Asylum periodicals themselves contributed to medical communication, once they were in circulation. When launching and supporting periodical publication, however, physicians were not purely driven by self-interest and the interests of their institutions. As asylum periodicals joined the wider networks of print, they enabled patients’ continuous engagement with literary culture and public life. This function was not secondary to most of the publishing projects, but it was an effect sought by physicians for the benefit of those in their care and to support the provision of healthy recreation, which was an important aspect of the moral treatment. The inception, development, and survival of asylum periodicals depended on the exchanges they facilitated – exchanges that were themselves enabled and often encouraged by physicians.

Recognising the processes of social marginalisation to which they were subjected, some patients found rhetorical power in their disadvantaged position. They used asylum periodicals to challenge the distinction between sanity and insanity, evoke sympathy and better understanding, and foster a sense of solidarity among fellow inmates across institutions. These sentiments found their clearest expression in Excelsior (1857–1878), the publication of the James Murray Royal Asylum in Perth, Scotland. Though edited by the physician superintendent, William Lauder Lindsay, this periodical was especially militant in its attack on the misrepresentation of mental illness and keen to cultivate a sense of an existing tradition of lunatic literature and a cross-institutional imagined community of patients. This chapter assesses the successes and failures of this mission. Despite tensions and antagonism behind the scenes, it argues that Excelsior was a space where the clashing voices of different actors could be reconciled and united around the common goal of representing the asylum and its inhabitants before the outside world.

This chapter introduces the notion of the Byzantine Church and provides an overview of the chapters in The Cambridge Companion to the Byzantine Church. The Byzantine Church, while portrayed in the Nicene–Constantinopolitan Creed as ‘the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church’, was also multifaceted and multivocal. It was a canonical and conciliar entity, and yet the mystical embodiment of Christ. It was the wellspring of theology, the ark of salvation and the liturgical world of the faithful. Although Christianity was a corporate endeavour, there were ‘many different ways of being related to this one Church, and many different ways of being separated from it’ in the adventure of human freedom. The Cambridge Companion to the Byzantine Church explores these intricate dimensions of the Christian Church—its theology, art and liturgy—during its sojourn in Byzantium, as well as its afterlife in the wake of the demise of the Byzantine Empire in 1453. It focuses on how the laity encountered the mystery of God through sacred rituals and the liturgical arts, showing that the Byzantine Church was a body of people who shared a way of life in Christ.

Although not every ecclesiastical interaction between Byzantium and the Latin West was contentious, the fact remains that most East–West theological exchanges were centred on a series of debates on which the two had taken very different positions, each viewing the stance of the other as either heretical or deficient. These four issues—the filioque and its place in the creed, the primacy of Rome, the Latins’ use of azymes in the eucharist, and Purgatory—helped to shape Byzantium’s interactions with the West for over 800 years, and even today prevent the restoration of communion between the Orthodox Church and the Church of Rome. To understand Greek–Latin exchanges in the medieval period and the ecclesiastical schism that arose between Christendom’s two most important sees, one must come to grips with both the theological issues that first caused the division and the last great, but ultimately unsuccessful, attempt at resolving them at the Council of Ferrara-Florence (1438–39).

This chapter turns to the forces of unity that drove patients’ publishing projects, focusing on the role of asylum periodicals in construing and maintaining real and imagined communities within and beyond the asylum. Producing and consuming periodicals brought together various actors with distinct skill sets, enabling, to a degree, transgression of the institutional boundaries that otherwise kept different groups of patients separated. This transgression fed into the representation of the asylum community as a family on the pages of asylum periodicals, reenforcing the institutionally imposed family model, according to which patients were ascribed the role of children under the care and protection of a father-like superintendent and a motherly matron. However, asylum periodicals show not only the manifestation of this framework’s application but patients’ active engagement with these symbols. Finally, the chapter explores former inmates’ continuous involvement in asylum periodicals, suggesting that some patients formed lasting and meaningful connections during their stay in mental institutions and relied on the asylum for support during their reintegration into society.

Interrogating the early history of the Arabic novel, this chapter challenges Eurocentric and nationalist narratives that have long defined the genre through the lens of European realism and national authenticity. It critiques the exclusion of nineteenth-century Arabic works – many of which were serialized, translated, or formally hybrid – from the canon, despite their self-identification as novels. Focusing on Khalil al-Khouri’s Wayy, Idhan Lastu bi-Ifranji (1859), the chapter explores how early Arabic novels emerged through practices of translation, adaptation, and circulation, often blending Indigenous narrative forms with European influences. Rather than viewing these texts as imperfect imitations, the chapter argues for understanding the Arabic novel as a genre formed in and through translation. It ultimately offers a broader, more inclusive literary historiography that accounts for the novel’s translingual, transregional, and intertextual development within the context of the Nahda.

This chapter re-examines the concept of Maghrib literature, moving beyond the reductive binary that equates it solely with Francophone output. It underscores the Maghrib’s diverse heritage – Berber, Arab, African, Ottoman, and European – and its rich multilingual literary traditions through historical, linguistic, and literary analysis. Béchir Khraïef’s novel Barg Ellil (Barq al-Layl) (1960) serves as a central example, showcasing a creolized poetics rooted in Tunisia’s deep historical and regional connections. The novel embodies Édouard Glissant’s “poetics of relation” through its multilingualism, hybrid characters, and themes of displacement and resistance. The chapter critiques the marginalization of Arabic-language literature in favor of French-language texts, advocating for a comparative, inclusive approach that acknowledges the Maghrib’s linguistic and cultural complexity. Ultimately, it argues that Maghrib literature is defined not just by language or geography, but by its capacity to reflect and reimagine the region’s layered identities.

This chapter argues that women played significant and varied roles in the church of the Byzantine Empire. I examine the roles of women in four categories: women at church; female saints, martyrs and monastics; Empresses; and hymnographers. In the early Byzantine period, two ecclesial positions were set aside for women: deaconess and widow. Their responsibilities included some limited liturgical involvement, prayer for the church and training of other women in the faith. Throughout the life of the Empire, there were also significant and different female models of faith and piety. In discussing ‘holy’ women, I briefly explore the cult of female saints and the reality of celibate and monastic lives for women in the period, before then turning to Empresses and their varied roles as mothers of the faith, models of virginity and protectors of icons. Finally, this chapter introduces Kassia, the ninth-century abbess and hymnographer, as an example of female hymn-writers of Byzantium.