Chapter 5 offers a new reading of Cuba’s most famous enslaved writer, Juan Francisco Manzano, who started publishing in 1821 and became legally free in 1836. While it engages with his well-known autobiography, the chapter focuses on his poetry. To the degree that slavery was justified through race, Manzano’s emergence as an author produced racial doubt among those who believed that poetry and literary skills were the exclusive domain of white people. At the same time, he explicitly disidentified from blackness, prompting many generations of critics to discuss how Black he was. As new generations return to his texts, the palimpsest of conflicting ideas about his Blackness or lack thereof keeps changing. The chapter examines some of these layers by focusing on the paradox of enslaved authorship – of a writer who built his authority on the basis of his deauthorization. Poems, the chapter shows, were Manzano’s most elaborate literary form of back talk, as they allowed him to evade the abolitionist pressure to write about slavery.

Insofar as his poems generally take the mimetic form of a monologue unfolding in the present, Pindaric poetry is the Pindaric speaking voice. Far more of the corpus, furthermore, is directly concerned with the speaking subject than with any other individual. But the identity and functions of this prominent and indeed all-encompassing voice have been a persistent source of fascination and puzzlement, not least in their relationship to Pindar of Thebes as a historical individual. Better understanding the scare quotes around the ‘I’ in the title of this chapter can help us to better understand Pindar’s poetry. Scholars have formulated various ways to refer to the speaking voice, and the accumulation of terminology reflects the complexity of the topic. This chapter offers a taxonomy of voices and then criticises that taxonym. It discusses the ‘bardic I’, the ‘first-person indefinite’, the authorial voice, and the choral voice and then argues that the victor never speaks in epinicians. A conclusion briefly ties these threads together.

Chapter 6 compares the work of the enslaved poet Ambrosio Echemendía with that of several free authors of African descent, including Juana Pastor (often considered the first woman poet in Cuba), Plácido (Gabriel de la Concepción Valdés, probably the most popular Cuban writer of the century), and África Céspedes (one of the collaborators of Minerva (1888–1889), the first periodical by Black women). Black Cuban writing, the chapter argues, does not begin with Juan Francisco Manzano or Plácido, as most scholars have generally assumed; neither of them reclaimed Blackness in their texts. It makes more sense to argue that it begins with the poetry collection that Echemendía published in 1865 – the first book published in Cuba in which an author self-fashioned as racially stigmatized and questioned this stigma. Through this panoramic view, the chapter traces how a long history of public disidentifications with blackness began to make room for a distinctively Black literature – one that foregrounded and problematized racialized subject positions.

Chapter 2 offers a discussion of the ways religious scholars, government administrators and litterateurs transmitted communal knowledge. The chapter focuses in particular on ideas about oral and written transmission of knowledge, the production of books and understandings of authorship in the early Islamic world. The chapter ends with a discussion of some of the complicated ways in which some surviving early Islamic local histories were transmitted to their extant versions.

The introduction situates political writing and publishing as vital tools in articulating, disseminating, and shaping political movements and ideas in modern Britain. It explores the diversity of political genres, from elite forms such as parliamentary novels and newspaper obituaries to grassroots expressions such as punk fanzines and coalfield women’s writing. It highlights how ‘high political’ and subaltern voices respectively engaged with political writing, sometimes to reinforce dominant narratives and at other times to challenge or subvert them. It examines the gendered politics of authorship, particularly how women and marginalised groups used writing to claim authority and reshape the boundaries of political discourse. Attention is given to the role of literature and publishing in mediating the intersections of culture and politics, from fascist propaganda and socialist poetry to the intellectual infrastructure of devolved Scotland and Northern Ireland. By contextualizing political writing within broader historical and cultural transformations, the introduction positions the chapters of the book as a series of ‘core samples’ that reveal the relationships between genre, ideology, and activism.

Traditional language histories have often focused narrowly on formal printed texts, produced by educated elite men from urban social elites, largely neglecting the everyday language practices of ordinary people. This chapter introduces the perspective of language history from below, where we shift our focus to these often-overlooked voices, in order to arrive at a fuller and more complete understanding of historical language variation and change. We discuss the challenges faced by investigations of the everyday language of ordinary people, including difficulties in determining actual authorship and interpreting texts produced through delegated writing. Based on case studies and examples from a range of different historical and linguistic contexts, we show how examining ego-documents such as private letters and diaries from lower social ranks can reveal valuable insights and complement and at times even correct our existing view of language histories.

This chapter establishes that the Gospel and Epistles of John do not share a common author, highlighting differences in their reception histories, linguistic features, and ideas.

This chapter demonstrates that although the Johannine texts do not share a real author, they all share a common implied author. All four purport to be works by an invented figure: a supposed eyewitness to the life of Jesus.

The introduction sets up the book’s exploration of the complex relationship between contemporary North American fiction and self-help culture over the past 25 years, arguing that recent writers stage encounters between diverse self-help practices to interrogate changing conceptions of authorship, selfhood, and society. Specifically, I position literary engagements with self-help as a way for writers to negotiate anxieties around individual, social, and writerly agency in a moment when traditional sovereign accounts of selfhood are under pressure from poststructuralist critiques of subjecthood and the shaping forces of systemic power, new technologies, and planetary crisis. I begin with an analysis of Deb Olin Unferth’s graphic novel, I, Parrot, then provide context on self-help in America, from long-standing advice, conduct, and wisdom traditions to today’s diversified, commercialized landscape of guidance literature and practices across the three central themes of the book: authority and public address, time management and productivity, and body and brain improvement. I argue that fiction writers can capture the nuanced sociopolitical paradoxes and multiplicities within self-help culture by bringing critical and creative energies to bear on deconstructing and reimaging its tropes and practices.

Juliette J. Day explores the profound meaning that texts have for liturgy. It is crucial, however, that texts are not considered as a narrow or equivocal category. To the contrary, texts provide an extraordinarily rich palette of genres, languages, and discourses, each of which deserves respect in its own right and which, moreover, has always to be seen in context.

This chapter considers Michael Field’s collaborative authorship, focusing on the tension between singularity and plurality in their shared authorial identity. It explores Michael Field’s pseudonymous collaboration as a constant negotiation between multiple voices that radically revises conceptions of both life-writing and verse in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The chapter surveys Katharine Bradley and Edith Cooper’s shared diary Works and Days and their poems, such as ‘A girl’ to show how they generate a sense of unison in their work, in the process achieving a fluid negotiation between different voices.

This chapter draws all the threads together, highlighting the profound impact that artificial intelligence is likely to have on the landscape of intellectual property. It summarizes the core arguments of the book and sets out the author’s proposed strategies for adapting intellectual property law to the age of AI. By embracing these approaches, the chapter argues, one can ensure that intellectual property law continues to protect human creativity and innovation in the digital age.

Chapter 2 introduces readers to the three interconnected concepts which are key to speechwriters’ practices: 1) frontstage and backstage; 2) participation framework; and 3) production format (Goffman 1959, 1981). Next, Mapes maps the profession of speechwriting, using descriptive analysis to document practitioners’ education and career trajectories, production of deliverables, and day-to-day practices. This is followed by a second analytical section which outlines the rhetorical strategies of invisibility, craft, and virtue. First, Mapes uses interview data to unpack the specifics of invisibility as a point of professional pride and skill, demonstrating how speechwriters understand and even embrace the erasure of their authorship. Second, she documents the constructions of expertise and skill which characterize speechwriters’ craft, and which allow them to claim status as “creatives.” Lastly, Mapes details how virtue features across the dataset, arguing that it is necessarily tied to the cultural indexicalities associated with “impact.” In sum, this chapter sets the groundwork for understanding how speechwriters engage in the status competition characteristic of contemporary capitalism.