Kinship as a Counter to the Settler Gaze in Stephen Graham Jones’s The Only Good Indians

This paper describes the practical, educational, editorial and creative challenges of starting up and developing a new publishing imprint specialising in books written in Scots for young readers. It outlines the rationale behind the project, the motivations of those involved, the difficulties encountered, the outcomes achieved and lessons for the future.Keywords: Scots language, education, teacher support, marketing, translation.The creation of a new imprint with a specific remit to publish books in Scots for young readers is not something that happens every day. Over the last 250 years, publications mainly or entirely in Scots have characteristically been occasional and isolated events - which is not to say that they have been without effect. Robert Burns's Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (1786), Charles Murray's Hamewith (1900), Hugh MacDiarmid's A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle (1926), W.L. Lorimer's New Testament in Scots (1983) and Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting (1993) are all examples of books which have been great achievements in either commercial or literary terms, or both. There have also, of course, been many books successfully published, both for adults and children, with less but nevertheless substantial Scots content. But while there have been imprints in the past which have concentrated largely or exclusively on work in Scots, the establishment of Itchy Coo in 2002 was different from previous experiences for a number of reasons. This paper summarises the story of Itchy Coo from 2002 to 2011, describes some of the issues that confronted those involved, and discusses the possible future for publishing in Scots in the wake of Itchy Coo's first nine years of existence.The rationale for developing the Scots-language project which eventually became Itchy Coo originated in a series of conversations, initially between James Robertson and Matthew Fitt, and subsequently involving Susan Rennie. Robertson and Fitt were, respectively, the first (1993-95) and second (1995-97) holders of the Brownsbank Writing Fellowship, based at Brownsbank Cottage, former home of Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978). While in residence at Brownsbank, James Robertson compiled and edited A Tongue in Yer Heid (BW Fitt as a writer of poetry and fiction (his futuristic novel But n Ben A-Go-Go, which appeared in 2000, is yet another of those significant but sporadic Scots publications mentioned above), and as a qualified teacher with considerable experience of delivering in-service training on Scots; and Rennie as a lexicographer specialising in Scots dictionaries, with experience of developing print, CD and web-based materials in Scots. All three had considerable knowledge of Scots language and literature.It was their shared belief that the provision of Scots language materials in Scottish schools at this period (the late 1990s) was not only very limited in terms of quantity and quality but was also completely haphazard. …

Foreword Tamara Sonn (bio) The articles in this issue of the Georgetown Journal of International Affairs focus on civil society discourse and its implications for international affairs. The academic field of International Relations, reflecting its modernist origins, is state-centered; it focuses primarily on relations between political and military entities, with economic interests always a central focus and non-governmental institutions at the margins. Civil society discourse—whether expressed through the arts, religious, or secular organizations—have yet to find a place in the standard IR curriculum, leaving students ill-equipped to recognize social discontent and its potential political impacts. Clear examples of the analytic weakness of the traditional approach can be seen in the failure of the foreign policy establishment to recognize the long-standing social grievances that resulted in the 1979 Iranian Revolution, the 1991 implosion of the Soviet Union, and the 2010–11 Arab Spring. These weaknesses have been noticed. CIA Director Stansfield Turner wrote in 1991 of the failure to foresee that the United States would have to intervene militarily in Iran, Libya, Grenada, Panama, Lebanon and Kuwait during the previous decade.1 Regarding the Arab democracy uprisings, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton said in 2011, "We're facing an Arab awakening that nobody could have imagined and few predicted just a few years ago."2 Michael Walzer reflects on the secular bias of IR and therefore incomprehension of the rise of political Islam in his 2015 The Paradox of Liberation: Secular Revolutions and Religious Counterrevolutions. Yet portents of these and many other developments over the past century were clearly evident in the discourse of religious and other civil society actors and in the works of poets, fiction writers, playwrights, and musicians. Students trained to analyze the popular sentiments expressed in these discourses could contribute to more comprehensive intelligence gathering. They might even recognize that traditional foreign policy strategies actually contribute to destabilizing social unrest. For example, according to emeritus Georgetown Professor of Government and International Affairs Robert Lieber, "maintaining a secure supply of oil from the Middle East and the Persian Gulf" is essential to our national interest—even if it means compromising our commitment to democracy.3 Georgetown Distinguished Professor of the Practice of Diplomacy Dennis Ross recently argued in support of strengthening U.S. relations with Saudi Arabia despite the state-sanctioned murder of journalist Jamal [End Page 145] Khashoggi "and other human rights violations." In order to secure the free flow of "Saudi oil," we need to "do what we have always done:… balance values and interests."4 This approach is what drove the United States to participate in the overthrow of Iran's developing democracy in 1953, contributing to the anti-Americanism that drove the 1979 revolution and remains a potent threat today. Given the vested interests, it is unlikely that U.S. foreign policy training will change significantly in the near term. But the articles in this volume provide good examples of the kinds of analyses that would help inform more comprehensive understandings of international affairs. They include studies of the manipulation of religious conservatism by rightwing politicians in Brazil, and the political exploitation of disaffected young males radicalized online in South Korea; and the weaknesses (and, by implication, inconsistencies) of economic sanctions as a foreign policy tool in China; and the potential strengths of civil society activism in Yemen. Other articles deal with national issues that have important transnational resonances, such as the disproportionate impact of COVID-19 on indigenous communities in Latin America. Tamara Sonn Tamara Sonn is Professor Emerita at the Edmund A. Walsh School of Foreign Service, Georgetown University. Her most recent books include Islam and Democracy After the Arab Spring (with John L. Esposito and John O. Voll; Oxford, 2016), Islam: History, Religion, and Politics (Wiley Blackwell, 2016), and Is Islam an Enemy of the West? (Polity, 2016). She has published over one hundred chapters and articles, and her works have been translated into Arabic, Bengali, German, Portuguese, Korean, and Russian. She has lectured in North America, Europe, the Middle East, South Asia, and Africa. Her research has been supported by the American Council of Learned Societies, Fulbright, and the U.S. Department of State...

In 1941 Ernestine Hill published My Love Must Wait, a biographical novel based on the life of navigator Matthew Flinders. In the same year, Eleanor Dark published The Timeless Land, imagining the arrival of European settlers in the Sydney region from the perspectives of multiple historical figures. In this article we examine how each author represents the important figure of Bennelong, a man of the Wangal people who was kidnapped by Governor Phillip and who later travelled to England with him. While both works can be criticized as essentialist, paternalist or racist, there are significant differences in the ways each author portrays him. We argue that Dark’s decision to narrate some of her novel from the point of view of Bennelong and other Indigenous people enabled different understandings of Australian history for both historians and fiction writers. Dark’s “imaginative leap”, as critic Tom Griffiths has termed it, catalysed a new way of thinking about the 1788 invasion and early decades of the colonization of Australia. The unfinished cultural work undertaken by these novels continues today, as demonstrated by subsequent Australian novels which revisit encounters between Indigenous inhabitants and European colonists, including Thomas Keneally’s The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1972), Richard Flanagan’s Wanting (2008), and Rohan Wilson’s The Roving Party (2011). Like Dark, these authors situate parts of their novels within the consciousness of Indigenous figures from the historical record. We analyse the diverse challenges and possibilities presented by these literary heirs of Eleanor Dark.

Reviewed by: Women of Empire: Nineteenth-Century Army Officers' Wives in India and the U.S. West by Verity McInnis Melody M. Miyamoto Walters Women of Empire: Nineteenth-Century Army Officers' Wives in India and the U.S. West. By Verity McInnis. (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2017. Pp. 296. Illustrations, table, notes, bibliography, index.) Verity McInnis's ambitious work, Women of Empire: Nineteenth-Century Army Officers' Wives in India and the U.S. West, examines both India and the American West as targets for empire building by Britain and the United States. Although not areas of the world that are commonly compared, McInnis makes a strong argument for the roles that women played as military wives and as agents of empire in both areas. She draws parallels between the women's responsibilities and reactions, social duties, and priorities as each represented their imperialistic countries. McInnis describes notable differences between empire building in India and the U.S. West, pointing out that the United States had less prescribed military and social conventions, British women understood their roles as part of the empire, and that American women did not see themselves as imperialists, but they, too, believed that they represented a distinct superior class. With that basis, she describes the ways that both British and American women served as parts of their husbands' units, created their own identities through military commitment, used their husbands' military rank to order their communities, displayed loyalty and imperial duty, elevated their homelands by judging indigenous peoples as inferior, and constructed their homes as symbols of imperialism. She uses lengthy excerpts from the officers' wives, as well as the work of numerous scholars, to show that women, too, created and sustained "an imperial class that upheld the nations' ambitions" (12). McInnis's book focuses on two continents and spans more than one hundred years. She writes about the nineteenth century, but her samples of women's experiences range as late as 1909. By that point, the Victorian Era in Britain had ended, and the United States was undergoing great change during the Progressive Era. That leaves one to wonder about comparing women's experiences across that much time, and if more contextualization of the events in the home countries would show an effect on the women's attitudes and experiences abroad. McInnis also admits that the small sample of women that she used for some generalizations "would not [End Page 358] be representative of a complete survey of officers' wives" (184), but her effective use of the women's own words, from letters, journals, and autobiographies, paints a vivid picture of the women's own notions of superiority based on their husband's rank, their citizenship, and their whiteness, and reads much more effectively than a quantitative history would. The specific mention of Texas or the Southwest is blended into an overall generalization of experiences of the American West. McInnis notes the forts from which the women wrote, and occasionally also identifies the state or territory in which the fort resided. Still, she is able to pull specific examples from women like Teresa Viele, who wrote from Brownsville, Texas; Mary Leefe Laurence, who wrote from Ringgold Barracks near the Mexican border; and Lydia Lane, who traveled from Fort Bliss to San Antonio, Texas. Those with little familiarity of India will not be able to contextualize the locations from which the women wrote and the experiences that McInnis analyzes. As risky as it may be to judge a book by its cover, one cannot help but appreciate the Emanuel Leutze painting, Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way, adorning the jacket of McInnis's book. Though the men look to the west with their hopes and dreams, this book does not fail in showing that women, from both Britain and the United States, also saw advancing their empire as their social duty as well. Melody M. Miyamoto Walters Collin College Copyright © 2019 The Texas State Historical Association

This article reads two cetacean tales—“Entanglement” and “Requiem”—by the prominent South Asian writer of science fiction, Vandana Singh, to evaluate her portrayal of ordinary dimensions of living and existing in situations impacted by climate change. While cetaceans often function as an exotic alien other in science fiction and in cultural fantasies, Singh places her cetacean tales among Indigenous communities in the North Arctic region. Communities like the Inuits and the Iñupiat share relationships of collaborative reciprocity with cetaceans like belugas and bowhead whales. Deploying the geographer’s Chie Sakakibara’s concept of “cetaceousness”—complex, co-constitutive and quotidian relationships among humans and cetaceans in the North Arctic—this article studies Singh’s merger of realism and speculation in her representation of the impact of global warming on populations for whom climate change is not a catastrophe waiting in the future, but whose effects have seeped into the minutiae of the everyday and the ordinary.

“Australia has a fascinating yet contradictory nuclear history,” writes Jeffrey Lantis, and this ambiguity can be seen in the post-nuclear young adult fiction produced in that country. British, American and German speculative fiction for young readers set after nuclear disaster tends to suggest reasons for the disaster, and by implication, to position readers towards acting to stop the disaster happening in the real world. By contrast, Australian writers of both fantasy and speculative fiction tend to be less concerned with the cause of the disaster than with how the nuclear apocalypse can be used to explore a range of cultural issues which may appear to have little or nothing to do with nuclear disaster. Working with the notion of apocalypse as both revelation and, more popularly, as a violent “end event” (Curtis), this paper explores why young adult post-nuclear fiction produced in Australia tends to be different from that produced in Britain, the USA and Germany, and demonstrates how the nuclear disaster is used in a selection of Australian young adult post-disaster fiction to address cultural issues, particularly those dealing with Australia’s Indigenous population, and with the contemporary treatment of refugees

Animal Subjects: Literature, Zoology, and British Modernism, by Caroline Hovanec

“All This / Is Abenaki Country”Cheryl Savageau’s Poetic Awikhiganak Siobhan Senier (bio) Abenaki poet Cheryl Savageau has received considerable critical acclaim for her work. She published her first book, Home Country, with Alice James Books in 1992. Her 1995 volume, Dirt Road Home, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and was a finalist for the prestigious Poetry Prize. Individual poems have appeared in such literary magazines as The Boston Review and in anthologies including those widely circulated among Native-studies teachers, Carolyn Dunn and Carol Comfort’s Through the Eye of the Deer and Joseph Bruchac’s Returning the Gift. Savageau’s newest book, Mother/Land, appeared in 2006 in Salt Publishing’s Earthworks series, edited by Janet McAdams; this will put her even more visibly in the company of such esteemed poets as Carter Revard, Diane Glancy, and Heid Erdrich. This is, then, a good time for a scholarly and pedagogical consideration of Savageau’s work, which, to date, it has not received. The marginalization of Savageau’s poetry is part and parcel of the marginalization of Indigenous New England writers within Native American literary studies as a whole—and therefore in the broader field of American literature. Two other northeastern writers—the late-eighteenth-century Mohegan minister Samson Occom and the early-nineteenth-century Pequot minister William Apess—have achieved more visibility, thanks to LaVonne Ruoff, Barry O’Connell, and the popular Heath anthology of American Literature (edited by Paul Lauter et al.). And thanks largely to his own voluminous output, many people have at least heard of Joseph Bruchac’s poetry and [End Page 1] fiction, although, like Savageau and many other talented Abenaki writers, he receives next to no scholarly attention.1 But the Occom-Apess-Bruchac triumvirate still leaves a gaping, nearly two-centuries-long hole in literary history that, in turn, replicates some common misconceptions about Indigenous people in New England—namely, that they vanished from the region early on (either outright, as the result of disease and warfare, or more inexorably, through assimilation) and that, when they are visible nowadays, they are somehow “reconstituting” themselves after a long dormancy. As the Missisquoi band of Abenakis in Vermont know all too well, having been continually frustrated in their efforts to gain federal recognition, the United States has a vested interested in maintaining definitions of Indian-ness predicated on particular phenotypes, land bases confined to reservations, and governance structures (such as those organized around unified tribal councils, tribal courts, and tribal police) that are politically registered—and manageable—by U.S. federal and state governments.2 Abenaki writers, of whom Joseph Bruchac and Cheryl Savageau are only two, unsettle those definitions. As I will illustrate below, Savageau’s poetry comes out of a long line of Abenaki writing traceable all the way back to the precontact birchbark maps called awikhiganak. Thus her poetry challenges readers to see all of New England as fundamentally Indigenous space, and it furthers an ongoing, nation-building literary project. Looking for Indians . . . Who Are There in Plain Sight Anglo-New Englanders have religiously (in multiple senses of that word) installed themselves as the “first” Americans, as the originators of the nation. The myth of the Puritan “errand into the wilderness” has always been underwritten by the myth of Native disappearance. Colonial administrators began institutionalizing this myth early on—outlawing, for instance, the very name of the Pequots in 1638.3 Meanwhile, a range of literary, artistic, and historical genres rehearsed King Philip’s War (1675–76) as the official [End Page 2] “end” of Indigenous presence in New England—whether representing that end as the workings of Divine Providence, as in Mary Rowlandson’s famous captivity narrative (1682), or as a gruesome spectacle to be mourned, as in John Augustus Stone’s popular melodrama Metamora (1819). Non-Native local historians, for their part, favored what Ojibwe historian Jean O’Brien calls “the ‘Last of the _______’ genre.” Racing to eulogize particular “full-blood” or “pure Indian” individuals (while neatly sidestepping the continued presence of these individuals’ sons and daughters), these writers ironically “reveal[ed] a New England thickly populated by ‘last’ Indians throughout the nineteenth century” (419). The Abenakis...

Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu (b. 1814–d. 1873) was an Irish writer who worked across several genres, including historical fiction, nonfiction, sensation novels, short stories, and tales of mystery. Throughout his career, he worked as a journalist, editor, and writer, and he contributed to several newspapers and magazines. He is best remembered today, however, for his Gothic and horror stories, which were central to the development of the 19th-century ghost story. Born in Dublin in 1814 to a well-educated middle-class Protestant family of Huguenot origins, Le Fanu studied law at Trinity College, Dublin, where he became involved with the Dublin University Magazine. From January 1838 he began to publish a series of supernatural stories in the magazine under the pseudonym of the Catholic Father Francis Purcell. These early works, many of which comprised the germs of his later writings, were heavily influenced by the Romantic and Gothic movements of the time. They contain many early toposes of the ghost story tradition while exploring questions of Irish nationalism and political dissent. They were collected and published in 1880 in the anthology entitled The Purcell Papers. In 1843, Le Fanu married Susanna Bennett, and they had four children. He supported his family as a journalist, publisher, and writer of fiction, producing a series of short stories and historical novels, including The Cock and Anchor (1845) and The Fortunes of Colonel Torlogh O’Brien (1847). After Susanna’s death in 1858, Le Fanu became something of a recluse, and after the subsequent death of his mother in 1861, he devoted himself to writing and publishing. In 1869, he became editor and proprietor of the Dublin University Magazine and he was also an owner of a number of other newspapers. Among the many works he produced during this period, which emerged from his preoccupation with the supernatural and the boundaries between the living and the dead, are his 1864 Gothic novel Uncle Silas, and his 1872 novella Carmilla, which became part of his In A Glass Darkly collection and was an early work of vampire fiction in English. Le Fanu died of a heart attack in February 1873 at the age of 58. Although he had been a best-selling author for over twenty years, the body of his work fell from popular attention until the 20th-century ghost story writer M.R. James sought to reinstate Le Fanu with the publication of a collection of his stories in 1923, entitled Madam Crowl’s Ghost and Other Stories.

There are altogether three collections of children stories created by Cheng Ch'ing-wen: Yan-hsin kuo(燕心果), Tien-teng, mu-ch'in (天燈，母親) and Ts'ai-t'ao chi(採桃記). The themes of which can be characterized as from ”growth” to ”reflection on self” and finally to ”returning to nature”. In his childhood, Mr. Cheng underwent the experience of having ”two governments, two fathers, and three mothers,” and these peculiar experiences become the underpinning of his creative unconscious. The conflicts between relatives force him to precociously understand the cruelty of human world, and that realization becomes a central theme of his children stories. Writing childhood experience and impressions of native land, seeing reality and weaves them into the literary imaginative world, are therefore a way for Mr. Cheng to conduct personal therapy and heal the wounded mind. Besides personal concerns, Cheng Ch'ing-wen possesses a keen mind for social and cultural observation, and he has a strong sense of mission to inherit the tradition of Taiwan native culture. He also believes in the existence of life as the ultimate value. While writing children stories, he therefore never relies on such tricks as magic power or magic gadgets. In most cases, ”dreams” or ”dreaming” serves as the technique to achieve his goal. As for the themes, politics and ecology play an importance role in his stories. Cheng Ch'ing-wen has been widely acknowledged as an important fiction writer, his crossing boundary from fiction writing to children stories and folk tales invites much criticism that his children stories are ”not understood by children.” The cause of this criticism might be attributed to difference in defining children story, divergent cultural views or reception by children. However, Cheng tries very hard in turning female ghost stories and seeing things via dreams into a more personal and original creation. Through creation, he keeps a close link with his childhood and native land, while maintaining the child story tradition at the same time. The author of this article urges Mr. Cheng to put less emphasis on cultural and political issues and concentrate instead more on building up spiritual and imaginative world, so as to obtain the real pleasure in that world.

Old media can be scary – much scarier, ceteris paribus, than other objects of comparable antiquity. Film and television directors, as well as writers of fiction, who traffic in chills know that few things can insert a palpable sense of dread into a mise-en-scène more economically than a strategically placed daguerreotype (its dour or baleful inhabitants staring out from their world of sepia), a tinny voice issuing from an ancient radio, or the needle of a Victrola bobbing cracklingly in grooves of black vinyl. On the other hand, it is at least as much of a truism to say that new media, too, come freighted with anxieties as well as exhilarations: otherwise we would be less susceptible to narratives about being enslaved by a transpersonal Matrix, zombified by our cell phones, and so on. It should not surprise, then, that in our own media-saturated age a host of tropes and topoi derived from information technologies have tended to recur again and again in works of horror film and fiction. Many of these involve interactions between and among media: old technologies acting like new ones, and vice versa; categorial blurrings and hybridizations involving different media within a particular ecology, or the sense of an uncanny partnership or cooperation between them; and so on. Also common are tableaux of trans- or extra-medial transgression: e.g., the figure of dread escaping the representational field and entering the “real world” of the story. Then, too, there is the figure of prodigious or preternatural (and usually unasked-for) perceptual extension or augmentation, the trope of the technology that enables, or compels, one to see and/or hear more than is good for one.

In March 201 1, Science Fiction Studies published a special issue on slipstream fiction. In it, Bruce Sterling, who coined the term in his 1989 article Slipstream, wrote a follow-up piece, Slipstream 2, noting:One thing that problematic for slipstream: being based in quote, Theory, unquote, it has a very hard time taking creative effort seriously. You can see this in certain pop-culture critics, like (say) Steve Beard or Mark Dery, who are pop music people, and culture studies people. Although you can see them straining to become fiction writers, and you can sense a potential literature behind the push there, they're just not ever going to become literateurs [...] They want to be analytical; they want to understand the structure of society on some higher, abstract level. (Sterling 10)Sterling's observation here fascinating in that he views fiction based in Theory as inherently inferior. Certainly, this kind of fiction can be, at worst, unbearably contrived. Why Sterling chooses two authors who have written successful and pleasurable literary experiments unclear. Perhaps he simply wishes to prohibit Beard and Dery from entering a possible slipstream canon. If this part of the motivation, it may be well founded in the case of Steve Beard. Consider Sterling's criteria for the genre in question: slipstream is a kind of writing which simply makes you very strange; the way that living in the late twentieth century makes you feel, if you are a person of a certain (Slipstream). Sterling's conceit regarding sensibility may be what excludes Beard's fiction from being considered works of slipstream writing. That is, slipstream makes the reader feel very strange, while with Beard's fiction, though unusual, the reader made to experience the of unknowing. Beard writes fiction that characterized by a constant fleeting away of narrative referent; a cohesive narrative intimated, oddly enough, through its absence. The effect not equal to feeling strange; it is, however, both consistent with, and an intervention into, a trajectory of Lovecraftian weird fiction.That Beard's novel relatively recent situates his work among those other innovators in the genre that has come to be called Weird Fiction. Jeff VanderMeer suggests that the New Weird began to materialize in the 1980s and 1990s in the work of Jeffrey Thomas, Thomas Ligotti, Michael Cisco, Kathe Koja, Richard Calder, Jeffery Ford, K.J. Bishop, Alastair Reynolds, as well as in his own writings; however, the genre finds its first commercial success with China Mieville's Perdido Street Station (2000) (VanderMeer xixii). VanderMeer writes that Mieville had created just the right balance between pulp writing, visionary, surreal images, and literary influences to attract a wider audience (xii). Beard's work, on the other hand, difficult, and proceeds with an experimental aesthetic with little regard for accessibility. VanderMeer identifies two impulses that distinguish the New Weird from traditional Weird Fiction: first, the postmodern sensibility and genre blending of New Wave writers of the 1960s; secondly, a move away from the Lovecraftian coyness that characteristically refuses to reveal the (ixx); that is, part of the narrative momentum of the New Weird relies on transgressive horror. While Beard engages with both these impulses, there a marked emphasis on the first. Digital Leatherette shares much more in common with the formal experimentation of J.G. Ballard's The Atrocity Exhibition (1970) than with the work of Clive Barker. While there are certainly unsettling scenes of violence in Beard's work, his fiction intersects with H.P. Lovecraft's insistence on emphasizing philosophical through processes of negation; Lovecraft achieves this by making horrors unknowable, Beard does so through formal narrative experimentation.Preeminent critic of weird fiction S.T. Joshi notes a crucial paradox at the heart of in literature: horror fiction not meant to horrify The Modern Weird Tale 2). …

Authenticity is often regarded as an impediment to decolonization, particularly in contexts involving Indigenous people. Some frame authenticity as a colonialist construct, perpetuated by Indigenous people and others to contest or enforce power relations. Others dismiss authenticity altogether as an illusory, essentialist and divisive concept. Yet others marshal ‘hybridity’ and ‘Indigenous modernity’ as conceptual alternatives. While these lenses generate useful perspectives, I argue that their shared rejection of authenticity overlooks the diverse ways in which many Indigenous people make sense of it. To account for authenticity's intricate vernacular usage and functionality in contexts of Indigenous resurgence, I propose an additional framework that differentiates authenticity from accuracy and verisimilitude. I draw on ethnographic fieldwork conducted between 2014 and 2022 among urban-based and newly identifying Indigenous people in Cape Town, South Africa, whose authenticity rarely goes unquestioned. When expressing their views on authenticity, many ‘Khoisan revivalists’ assert their agency by subverting widely held expectations. Their ‘subversive authenticity’ intermittently ignores, rejects and reinforces dominant understandings of Indigenous authenticity in a seemingly disinterested manner. As its boundaries are thus made porous, authenticity emerges as a potential source of empowerment and conduit for decolonization. However, since authenticity's boundaries frequently remain contested, subversive authenticity is not meant to supplant critical approaches but to increase the analytical purchase of anthropologists’ theoretical arsenal.

S.King is a modern American writer of supernatural, horror fiction, science fiction and fantasy. His works are powerful because he integrates his life experiences and observations into idiosyncratic stories. He uses a free style of writing. Generally By the help of supernatural beings, vampire, demon, insubstantial events he mystifies and shocks readers, confuses their minds. The writer’s psycho-emotional situation, inner world rebound his works. This article is devoted to the conceptual interpretation of S.King’s creativity. In his works he tries to show the depth of his imagination. Key words: modern American literature, fantasy, horror fiction, psycho-emotional creativity, mystical elements

In this interview, horror fiction writer Lisa Tuttle traces the progress of her career as a professional writer in various forms of the fantastic, especially as a writer of horror fiction, over four decades. Speaking as a professional writer and insider of commercial publishing, Tuttle offers her views on the changing definitions of horror as a genre category, as a response to changing historical conditions, and as a form of creative expression. Tracing the earliest stages of her career back to the boom in horror fiction during the 1970s and 1980s, she reflects on the causes of this boom, the upsides and downsides of horror’s unprecedented primacy in popular fiction, and the eventual decline of horror as a viable commercial property by the beginning of the 1990s.