Critical Inquiry Critical Inquiry

Since 2015, two influential American authors and military consultants have sought to leverage imaginative literature for the cause of national security. On the basis of concepts such as useful fiction and FICINT, a shorthand for fictional intelligence, they have sought to develop a new genre—the national security novel—which blends nonfictional research and predictive threat scenarios with the creative inventions and emotional appeal of fiction. In this article, I trace how the national security novel developed through a process of securitization, which has gradually merged the realm of literature with that of policy and military strategy, and I assess the genre’s current and future impact on national and global security.

By disentangling the history of free indirect style from the history of the novel, we can see the narratorial complexity of prose fiction at a revealingly early stage, when the channeling of other minds and other experiences seemed less like a generic affordance than a problem of etiquette, moral judgment, and simple intelligibility. Lacking novelistic conventions (for example, quotation marks), the Elizabethan writer George Gascoigne experimented with a range of techniques for representing the voices and thoughts of his characters. In The Adventures of Master F.J. (1573), he does not consistently or clearly mark particular expressions as belonging to either character or narrator. The effect of this is a wandering or mobile point of view, a protoform of free indirect style—not as a deliberate aesthetic effect but rather as the product of experimentation with a not yet fully articulated set of formal conventions. Gascoigne’s use of this emergent free indirect style centers on a key scene of sexual assault and its aftermath. This, I argue, is no accident as sexual consent foregrounds with particular urgency the moral stakes of attributing thoughts, desires, and motives to other people. In the early days of prose fiction, Master F.J. thus shows us the potentially disturbing entanglement between sexual nonconsent and one of the central tools and methods of literary narrative: its practice of channeling the voices of others.

This article puts forth a theory and history of the experiential moment of romance, traced from Homer’s Odyssey to Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Differing from other forms of the moment that have been bequeathed by Western tradition—such as kairos, conversio, the Aristotelian pair peripeteia and anagnorisis, or the Romantic Augenblick—the experiential moment foregrounds experientiality within a self-enclosed and atelic temporality: a time that goes nowhere. Building on previous theories of epic and romance that see them as conflicting temporal forms, the first part of the article demonstrates how the experiential moment in traditional romance always exists in tension with the temporality of the epic project of the collective. The second part proposes a new reading of Rousseau by showing how his three works, Julie, ou La Nouvelle Héloïse, Les Confessions, and Les Rêveries du promeneur solitaire not only continue this conflict into the modern period but also begin to reverse the old hierarchical relationship between epic and romance or the temporality of the collective and that of the experiencing individual in her individual consciousness. It is argued that Rousseau in his final work the Rêveries strives to liberate the experiential moment from epic temporality altogether and thereby lays the foundation for a wholly new way of approaching the moment in literary modernity.

The Czech-Brazilian philosopher Vilém Flusser was best known for his technical image trilogy, Towards a Philosophy of Photography (1983), Into the Universe of Technical Images (1985), and Does Writing Have a Future? (1987), which expanded photography theory into a radically inclusive philosophy of still and moving images for the digital age. However, he was also fascinated by concurrent developments in biology and biotechnology that were changing notions of nature, materialism, and humans. This essay will look at Flusser’s writing around these ideas, particularly his para-biological fable Vampyroteuthis Infernalis (1987), his “Curie’s Children” column for Artforum (1986–1992), and his collaborations and correspondences with artists impacted by his ideas.

Might design education be, at its heart, a form of occupational therapy? This is the question that this article grapples with, taking László Moholy-Nagy’s repurposing of the Bauhaus pedagogy for use with disabled veterans as its starting point. In exploring his work at the School of Design in Chicago (as well as an uncharacteristically activist period at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, which instituted a Veterans Art Center), this article seeks out the shared foundations of rehabilitory thought and the underpinnings of the Bauhaus Vorkurs by taking stock of Moholy-Nagy’s long-standing engagement with the field of psychotechnics.

This article explores the phenomenon of object performance in the US and France in the late 1970s and early 1980s, variously described as tabletop spectacles, ready-made puppetry, and théâtre d’objets. It focuses on the late-1970s work of three artists: Stuart Sherman, Paul Zaloom, and Christian Carrignon (of Théâtre de Cuisine), whose work in this “minor genre” has been widely influential. Examining the shared and diverging formal aspects of their object work, this article argues that their performances are marked by an implied or explicit ecological consciousness and a connection to childhood and play. Situating the emergence of tabletop object performance within the end of the postwar economic boom, the article claims that these artists working in affluent economies invented a playful and incisive response to the growing crisis of the accumulation of waste. Drawing on Michael Marder’s Dump Philosophy, the essay argues that these object performances intervene in the epistemological and material dump of postwar consumer capitalism, offering playful strategies of navigating a world of refuse. The article suggests that these performances continue to resonate in the present day, with object play remaining a viable mode of grappling with the material and psychological overwhelm of our current ecological crises.

Music, literature, history. These things are not quite alike. But in Europe, before the advent of recording machines that made it possible for sounds to be recorded and played back, the three activities relied on the same technology of preservation. They were kept in/as books. Bookishness, in European and colonial imaginaries, was an often-idealized, powerful means of keeping things from slipping away. An understanding of bookish things as a repository can be evinced in laws that required preserving a copy of newly published literary works and music for the benefit of posterity; or in popular novels where a book featured as the chronicler (both recorder and narrator) of its own adventures, beyond the lifespans of individual users. Scholars have paid specialist attention to the ontological differences among music, literature, and history when they are kept as books. Discipline-specific trainings and conversations tend to emphasize how different these objects and practices are. Yet focusing on their shared mode of bookish preservation offers other rewards. Our multi-authored article is a creative experiment in bringing together musicologists, literary scholars, and historians to test the potential, for our own fields and with implications for other humanities disciplines, of foregrounding this technological convergence. We propose the more capacious categories of bookkeepers (people who keep things as books) and cultures of note-taking (whether glossing a textbook or notating music) as fruitful avenues to avoid writing the artificially separate histories of creation versus consumption, public versus personal, authoritative versus amateurish, or artistic versus documentary practices. Music, broadly conceived, and the nineteenth-century album (a book of blank pages to keep verses, music, memories, and many more things) serve as the starting point for our reflections. Both exhibit a tangential connection to the normative codes of what Roger Chartier called “the order of books.” In considering actors/artifacts/acts at the very margins of textuality, or existing in a perverse relationship with bookishness, our aim is to redraw the knowledge-making structures we use to investigate our objects of study, calling attention to the intermedial and social practices, and cultures of remembrance, in which they are historically imbricated.