The term ‘Literary Fiction’ exists implicitly in contrast with the notion of ‘genre fiction’, suggesting a degree of profundity or artistic merit that is presumed to be absent from, or in short supply in, say, thrillers, romances, fantasy or science fiction novels. Of course, as the now common publishing industry label ‘Lit Fic’ suggests, it is also often little more than a marketing term, a way of characterising and selling certain types of book that will appeal to groups of people who may perceive their tastes as being in opposition to what are thought to be mainstream or even ‘low-brow’ products. From this latter perspective, ‘Literary Crime Fiction’ might not be the oxymoron it could initially seem, but a kind of branding strategy that seeks to situate a popular form within a more respectable-feeling ‘high culture’ framework. Yet surely there is something to the idea of the ‘literary’ novel. The anti-canonical drive of literary criticism since the theory boom of the later twentieth century may make the language of ‘quality’ difficult to define or maintain, but there are most certainly differences of ambition, depth or challenge that raise some works of fiction beyond the generic. And in the case of crime fiction, there are definitely degrees of departure from conventionally plot-driven stories that moot a form of writing in which something is happening that takes the reader beyond the realm of orthodox practice and into an experience of something more complex, nuanced, elusive or, indeed, more ‘literary’.

Dedicated to the memory of Dorothee Schubarth

When Margit Frenk's Nuevo corpus de la antigua lirica popular hispanica (siglos xv a xvii) was published in 2003, it provided philologers and humanists with a colossal encyclopaedia and an extraordinarily precise research tool. This allowed for a significant synthesis and enrichment of prior knowledge and a more rigorous and systematic planning of the subsequent study of the Hispanic world's oral and popular cancionero. Not only did it cover the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries as its title promised, but it also extended to more recent times, as each entry included an erudite (and open to additions) ‘Survivals’ section. This fundamentally changed and substantially extended the chronology and what was known at the time of the tradition covering both the ancient and modern repertoire.

It has perhaps not been sufficiently emphasised that the cancionero is a literary and cultural genre that possesses the merit (shared with its relatives the romancero, the folktale, the legend, the proverb, the prayer, the riddle…) of having accompanied the journeys of all Ibero-Romance speaking peoples across various continents, from the Middle Ages to the present day. Nor that it is a crucible of all conceivable forms, themes, tropes, stylistic devices, and expressions, which in many of its manifestations excel with very high and refined qualities. It is not an exaggeration to say that the cancionero, in all its languages of expression, is the genre in which both literary memory and poetic creativity are best documented.

The Sharpes had been in the trade of needle-making in Blackfriars for several generations. Henry's father Sutton Sharpe, born in 1756, ‘though brought up to trade and always engaged in business, was particularly fond of the fine arts’. He was a man of intellectual curiosity and wide reading who had from childhood been fond of drawing, and in his leisure time from business attended classes at the Royal Academy, a privilege which was then open to all. There he gained the friendship of John Flaxman, John Opie, Thomas Stothard and many other highly regarded artists. He also ‘took a lively interest in public affairs, his political interests being on the progressive side at a time when the expression of such opinions risked the restraint of personal liberty’.

In 1779, he married Catharine Purchas, by whom he had one daughter, also called Catharine, born in 1782; but her mother died when she was only nine. By that time Sutton was a man of ample means and not long afterwards gave up the needle business, which economic conditions in the City made increasingly difficult to carry on. He had lent his brother Joseph, an extravagant young man, a considerable sum of money to start a brewery, and felt it necessary to join him in this business with the idea of restraining his brother's expensive habits. He also went to live with him at his house in King Street, Golden Square, where his daughter Catharine could be cared for by his brother's wife. She became deeply attached to her uncle and his children, her cousins.

Less than a year after the Shakespeare Festival, Smetana found himself struggling with depression and self-doubt. The Interim Theater remained firmly under Maýr's control, and the jury was still deliberating on The Brandenburgers. Maýr showed no inclination to stage the work, and Smetana's chances of securing a position at the theater were slim. Amid these difficulties, an unexpected opportunity arose when the unruly Kittl resigned as the director of the Prague Conservatory due to issues with drunkenness. Encouraged by friends, Smetana decided to apply for the vacant position.On April 20, 1865, he wrote to his friend Isaac Philip Valentin in Göteborg to explain the situation:

If all remains as it is, there will be little incentive to write—especially when longheld hopes have been dashed or remain in a state of uncertainty, if not relegated to some distant future: In such circumstances, the desire to report news fades. And I am now feeling precisely that. Attacked from many directions and misunderstood by many—whether intentionally or not—I see that all my artistic endeavors must be postponed until these gloomy times have passed. But as of today, it is all about “Patience and Waiting” for me!

At the national level, the position of conductor in the Czech Theater is probably the most significant. It offers a direct connection to the public and can have the greatest influence on refining artistic taste as well as the direction of art itself, standing at the forefront. Therefore, it's understandable that this position would appeal to me the most. However, with Dr. Rieger still serving as intendant, my prospects are slim, as the present conductor seems to him to be the model of all conductors, despite his often-proven incompetence. There does seem to be a faint hope. … The vacancy for the directorship of the Conservatory, left open since Kittl's departure. My friends insist that the position suits me perfectly, offering not only first-rate prestige but also a satisfactory salary.

Throughout his career, White was always anxious about his next posting. Since Afghanistan, he relied on Roberts to a great extent to find him something. However, he rarely sat tight and passively waited, and his letters reveal that he, as well as his wife, created important networks which aided in his advancement. Immediately upon his return, he made himself available to a number of professional societies, advocating for his vision of the military's role in the empire and keeping his name in the news [160] . Senior British officers routinely found themselves on half-pay when they could not find a suitable position and White, in 1898, was not ready for the quiet life. When Lord Lansdowne, as Secretary of State for War, offered him the administrative position of Quartermaster- General, White accepted, even though he knew the work no more suited him then had serving as Lord Ripon's Military Secretary. Immediately after arriving in London, he asked Wolseley, the Commander-in-Chief, to find him alternative work. In July 1899, Wolseley offered White the Governorship of Gibraltar where General Sir Robert Biddulph's term was coming to an end. White accepted, and eagerly looked forward to the new challenges [161]. The plan, however, was soon derailed. In January 1881, while working with Ripon, White's 92nd Regiment was ordered to South Africa. White was desperate to join his comrades but his multiple requests were refused.

Adalbert Stifter, “the greatest landscape-painter in literature,” as Hannah Arendt famously described the Austrian author, is renowned for his evocative prose describing the meadows, forests, and mountains of his Central European home, which encompassed both his native Bohemian Forest and the Upper Austrian Alps that he frequented later in his adult life. Yet, glaciers, one of the most striking geological features of the Alps, are largely missing from his oeuvre. The icy masses appear prominently in only two of Stifter's works: the 1845/53 short story Bergkristall (Rock Crystal) about two children who go missing in the mountains on Christmas Eve and Der Nachsommer (Indian Summer), the 1857 three-volume Bildungsroman that follows Heinrich Drendorf up and down the Austrian peaks as part of his ideological and aesthetic development. In a third text, Das alte Siegel (The Ancient Seal, 1844/1847), a glacier is briefly mentioned in one paragraph when the titular seal is thrown into a crevasse.

This dearth of glaciers is particularly surprising in light of Stifter's otherwise deep interest in geology and “lifelong obsession” with wintery landscapes. Indeed, from contemporary reports, we know that Stifter did not ignore glaciers out of a lack of interest—he was fascinated by the frozen forms. He just never stepped foot on a glacier himself. This may explain why he never painted glaciers in his visual works and why he largely omitted them from his literary texts. It makes the instances in which glaciers do appear, however, all the more remarkable. This chapter is not interested in the narrative or symbolic role of glaciers in Stifter's stories, but rather the act of depicting the ice itself. How did Stifter manage to portray glaciers? What do they tell us about his prose and the Austrian landscape he so carefully sought to describe?