Heterotopic Proliferation in E. S. Thomson’s Jem Flockhart Series

This article explores the convergence, inversion, and collapse of heterotopic spaces in E. S. Thomson’s neo-Victorian Jem Flockhart series about a cross-dressing female apothecary in mid-nineteenth-century London. The eponymous first-person narrator becomes embroiled in the detection of horrific murder cases, with the action traversing a wide range of Michel Foucault’s exemplary Other spaces, including hospitals, graveyards, brothels, prisons, asylums, and colonies, with the series substituting the garden for Foucault’s ship as the paradigmatic heterotopia. These myriad juxtaposed sites, which facilitate divergence from societal norms while seemingly sequestering forms of alterity and resistance, repeatedly merge into one another in Thomson’s novels, destabilising distinct kinds of heterotopias and heterotopic functions. Jem’s doubled queerness as a cross-dressing lesbian beloved by their Watsonean side-kick, the junior architect William Quartermain, complicates the protagonist’s role in helping readers negotiate the re-imagined Victorian metropolis and its unequal power structures. Simultaneously defending/reaffirming and contesting/subverting the status quo, Jem’s body itself becomes a microcosmic heterotopia, problematising the elision of agency in Foucault’s conceptualisation of the term. The proliferation of heterotopias in Thomson’s series suggests that neo-Victorian fiction reconfigures the nineteenth century into a vast network of confining, contested, and liberating Other spaces.

On Style in Victorian Fiction

Some writers of the Victorian period, as well as more recent critics, have argued that the prose style of Victorian fiction aims to efface itself or that an absence of style may in itself represent the nineteenth-century ideal. This collection provides a major assessment of style in Victorian fiction and demonstrates that style - the language, techniques and artistry of prose - is inseparable from meaning and that it is through the many resources of style that the full compass of meaning makes itself known. Leading scholars in the field present an engaging assessment of major Victorian novelists, illustrating how productive and illuminating close attention to literary style can be. Collectively, they build a fresh and nuanced understanding of how style functioned in the literature of the nineteenth century, and propose that the fiction of this era demands we think about what style does, as much as what style is.

Neo-Victorian felony – Crime narratives in Graeme Macrae Burnet’s His Bloody Project and Ian McGuire’s The North Water

The neo-Victorian novel has been one of the most significant branches of contemporary British historical fiction for the past three decades. Thanks to works like A. S. Byatt’s Possession, Sarah Waters’ trilogy Tipping the Velvet, Affinity and Fingersmith and Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White, the genre has gained not only considerable popularity among readers, but also almost a canonical literary status. Although recent neo-Victorian fiction has been trying to find some new ways in which the genre could avoid stereotypical narratives, it still retains its most determining idiosyncrasies. One of them is an interest in the undersides of Victorian society, including the themes of violence and criminality, which is why these novels often resort to the genre of crime and detective fiction. This is also the case of Graeme Macrae Burnet’s His Bloody Project (2015) and Ian McGuire’s The North Water (2016), both historical novels set in Victorian Britain which were, respectively, shortlisted and longlisted for the 2016 Man Booker Prize. This paper attempts to show the different manners in which these two novels employ various forms of crime narratives so as to achieve their goal of presenting convincing and seemingly authentic insights into the more obscure aspects of the Victorian era.

Margaret Mahy and the Golden Age of Children's Literature

<p>Margaret Mahy’s novels contain numerous allusions to the classics of Victorian fiction for children. Some of these take the form of passing references; in 24 Hours, for example, protagonist Ellis thinks of himself as “Ellis in Wonderland.” But Mahy also draws on Victorian precedents for some of her settings, taking imaginary islands from Peter and Wendy and Treasure Island, and the secret garden from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s novel of the same name. She also invokes the forest of the fairy tales that (although they were not invented by the Victorians) featured so prominently in the reading of Victorian children. To date, little attention has been paid to what might be described as the “Victorian dimension” of Mahy’s work. In what follows, I examine its function in five novels. It emerges that Mahy’s response to the values embodied by her Victorian texts is critical on at least three counts. Mahy’s heroines (or, rather, female heroes) reject the passivity and silence exhibited by fairytale characters such as Jorinda in the Grimms’ ‘Jorinda and Joringel’, and the lack of emotional growth displayed by Lewis Carroll’s Alice. They are also shown in the process of leaving childhood (nostalgically idealized by Carroll, J.M. Barrie and other Victorian authors) behind. Moreover, this thesis exposes the tension between Mahy’s insistent allusion to quintessential fantasy spaces such as Wonderland on one hand, and the distinct anxiety present in her work about the dangerously isolating nature of fantasy on the other. While for Mahy’s teenage protagonists the domestic “real” wins out more often than not over the fantastic but dangerous “true”, the transformative journey of maturation that each undergoes is figuratively sparked by their belief in the Red Queen’s “six impossible things before breakfast”. Perhaps by the same token, they learn that fantasy worlds (like Barrie’s “Neverland”) can be dangerously isolating.</p>

Margaret Mahy and the Golden Age of Children's Literature

<p>Margaret Mahy’s novels contain numerous allusions to the classics of Victorian fiction for children. Some of these take the form of passing references; in 24 Hours, for example, protagonist Ellis thinks of himself as “Ellis in Wonderland.” But Mahy also draws on Victorian precedents for some of her settings, taking imaginary islands from Peter and Wendy and Treasure Island, and the secret garden from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s novel of the same name. She also invokes the forest of the fairy tales that (although they were not invented by the Victorians) featured so prominently in the reading of Victorian children. To date, little attention has been paid to what might be described as the “Victorian dimension” of Mahy’s work. In what follows, I examine its function in five novels. It emerges that Mahy’s response to the values embodied by her Victorian texts is critical on at least three counts. Mahy’s heroines (or, rather, female heroes) reject the passivity and silence exhibited by fairytale characters such as Jorinda in the Grimms’ ‘Jorinda and Joringel’, and the lack of emotional growth displayed by Lewis Carroll’s Alice. They are also shown in the process of leaving childhood (nostalgically idealized by Carroll, J.M. Barrie and other Victorian authors) behind. Moreover, this thesis exposes the tension between Mahy’s insistent allusion to quintessential fantasy spaces such as Wonderland on one hand, and the distinct anxiety present in her work about the dangerously isolating nature of fantasy on the other. While for Mahy’s teenage protagonists the domestic “real” wins out more often than not over the fantastic but dangerous “true”, the transformative journey of maturation that each undergoes is figuratively sparked by their belief in the Red Queen’s “six impossible things before breakfast”. Perhaps by the same token, they learn that fantasy worlds (like Barrie’s “Neverland”) can be dangerously isolating.</p>

Pandemic Consciousness and Narrative Perspective in Sheri Holman’s The Dress Lodger

Sheri Holman’s neo-Victorian novel The Dress Lodger (1999 ) depicts the beginning of the 1831 cholera epidemic in Britain. The novel skilfully manipulates the conventions of nineteenth-century realism and neo-Victorian fiction to test the limits of readerly empathy and its foundations in the conception of the liberal subject as disembodied and disinterested. Although the novel seems ‘faux-Victorian’ and apparently encourages immersion in the story and identification with the central characters, metaphorical uses of language and shifting points of view disrupt such comfortable ways of reading, challenging the readers’ tendency to derive pleasure from representations of working-class suffering. Through complex characterisation of the protagonists, the factory and sex worker Gustine and the doctor Henry Chiver, the narrative exposes the violence of representation through parallels with medical discourse. This essay argues that Holman’s experimentation with narrative strategies ultimately suggests the need for a pandemic consciousness that transcends the clashing responses to the cholera epidemic and cultivates an awareness of global interdependence. The possibility of such pandemic consciousness is conveyed through ‘the Great Narration’ by the novel’s unconventional intradiegetic narrator, the working-class Dead, whose bodies were stolen by doctors for the purposes of dissection.