Originating as a private joke between Robert Glück and Bruce Boone (Jackson 26), the term ‘New Narrative’ is as capacious as it is specific: as concerned with coterie poetics as with movement-building, with gossip as with political discourse, with sex as with death. For Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian, New Narrative is more “sensibility” than “genre” (482). For Steve Abbott, meanwhile, New Narrative “ar[ose] out of specific social and political concerns of specific communities” (“Soup Intro” 1). Such communities refer, firstly, to the specific groupings of writers who socialized, shared intimate relationships, referenced each other in their work, and described themselves or were described by others as being practitioners of New Narrative. These writers were predominantly, though not exclusively, gay white men based in San Francisco. But Abbott’s definition extended beyond this group. Abbott conceived of New Narrative as a descriptor of what was already happening across as well as within multiple communities politicized by their variously marginalized experiences. New Narrative thus existed as both a writing practice and an organizational imperative: from the ambitious 1981 Left/Write conference organized by Abbott, Boone, and Glück, to the smaller-scale workshops held at Small Press Traffic bookstore, which in turn intersected with workshops held by Gloria Anzaldúa and the activities of the Women Writers Union (WWU).2 Boone’s important theoretical work of the period, including the pamphlet
{"title":"New Narratives in Gabrielle Daniels and Ishmael Houston-Jones","authors":"D. Grundy","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0014","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0014","url":null,"abstract":"Originating as a private joke between Robert Glück and Bruce Boone (Jackson 26), the term ‘New Narrative’ is as capacious as it is specific: as concerned with coterie poetics as with movement-building, with gossip as with political discourse, with sex as with death. For Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian, New Narrative is more “sensibility” than “genre” (482). For Steve Abbott, meanwhile, New Narrative “ar[ose] out of specific social and political concerns of specific communities” (“Soup Intro” 1). Such communities refer, firstly, to the specific groupings of writers who socialized, shared intimate relationships, referenced each other in their work, and described themselves or were described by others as being practitioners of New Narrative. These writers were predominantly, though not exclusively, gay white men based in San Francisco. But Abbott’s definition extended beyond this group. Abbott conceived of New Narrative as a descriptor of what was already happening across as well as within multiple communities politicized by their variously marginalized experiences. New Narrative thus existed as both a writing practice and an organizational imperative: from the ambitious 1981 Left/Write conference organized by Abbott, Boone, and Glück, to the smaller-scale workshops held at Small Press Traffic bookstore, which in turn intersected with workshops held by Gloria Anzaldúa and the activities of the Women Writers Union (WWU).2 Boone’s important theoretical work of the period, including the pamphlet","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"40 1","pages":"296 - 325"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"85878308","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Ultravioleta names two complex objects made of paper. One is an impossible vessel composed of texts that both facilitate and undermine the voyage/narrative it attempts. The other is the novel that envisions and only partially contains that ship and other open structures in the universe that unfolds across its pages. The novel navigates multiple discursive phase spaces between its signifying principles and the categories of its alignments. This essay will consider three of those affiliations: science fiction, a genre; atonalism, a speculative poetics; and New Narrative, a literary movement beginning in the late 1970s that generated experiments subsequently counter-canonized into a variably accessible legacy (Bellamy and Killian ii–vii). This reading of the novel will concern itself with the ways in which the subject is affected by each of these three alignments as well as Moriarty’s deployment of intertextuality. It is at once ironic and fitting that New Narrative, a movement that insisted on story, has become a story immensely worth revisiting. Robert Glück describes the beginnings of New Narrative in terms of his friendship with Bruce Boone, their response to the Language Poets, and the writing that emerged from their workshops (“Long Note” 13–15). Glück emphasizes that, in spite of the tensions, the New Narrative writers were “fellow travelers of Language poetry,” as well as of “the innovative feminist poetry of that time,” and that they “are still fellow travelers of the po-
{"title":"Reading the Writing \"I\": Intertextual Subjectivity and Textual Intersubjectivity in Laura Moriarty's Ultravioleta","authors":"E. Jackson","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0016","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0016","url":null,"abstract":"Ultravioleta names two complex objects made of paper. One is an impossible vessel composed of texts that both facilitate and undermine the voyage/narrative it attempts. The other is the novel that envisions and only partially contains that ship and other open structures in the universe that unfolds across its pages. The novel navigates multiple discursive phase spaces between its signifying principles and the categories of its alignments. This essay will consider three of those affiliations: science fiction, a genre; atonalism, a speculative poetics; and New Narrative, a literary movement beginning in the late 1970s that generated experiments subsequently counter-canonized into a variably accessible legacy (Bellamy and Killian ii–vii). This reading of the novel will concern itself with the ways in which the subject is affected by each of these three alignments as well as Moriarty’s deployment of intertextuality. It is at once ironic and fitting that New Narrative, a movement that insisted on story, has become a story immensely worth revisiting. Robert Glück describes the beginnings of New Narrative in terms of his friendship with Bruce Boone, their response to the Language Poets, and the writing that emerged from their workshops (“Long Note” 13–15). Glück emphasizes that, in spite of the tensions, the New Narrative writers were “fellow travelers of Language poetry,” as well as of “the innovative feminist poetry of that time,” and that they “are still fellow travelers of the po-","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"3 1","pages":"355 - 386"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"74390585","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
In the early seventies Nathaniel Mackey was a doctoral student at Stanford University working on his dissertation Call Me Tantra: Open Field Poetics as Muse, his poetics developing temporally and geographically within the San Francisco Bay Area during the emergence of Language writing and New Narrative. Mackey has described his relationship to the Bay thusly: “It was in the larger Bay Area that my earliest bondings with people on the basis of being an aspiring writer took any significant form. [. . .] It was really my trips to San Francisco and the East Bay that were most formative” (qtd. in Rosenthal 164), introducing Mackey not only to numerous writers but also to musicians such as Cecil Taylor. Language Writer Ron Silliman included Mackey in his selection of eight experimental poets in the Socialist Review in 1988, a group Silliman introduced by asserting that these writers have distinct audiences and readers while also suggesting that, for some, their relationship to literary experimentation, particularly vis-à-vis formal innovations and the construction or deconstruction of the subject, is “more conventional.” Silliman did this by setting up a dichotomy between the “subjects of history” who are largely white, heterosexual males
{"title":"Sounding Out: Nathaniel Mackey's Ontological Archive in Fugitive Run","authors":"R. Tremblay-McGaw","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0015","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0015","url":null,"abstract":"In the early seventies Nathaniel Mackey was a doctoral student at Stanford University working on his dissertation Call Me Tantra: Open Field Poetics as Muse, his poetics developing temporally and geographically within the San Francisco Bay Area during the emergence of Language writing and New Narrative. Mackey has described his relationship to the Bay thusly: “It was in the larger Bay Area that my earliest bondings with people on the basis of being an aspiring writer took any significant form. [. . .] It was really my trips to San Francisco and the East Bay that were most formative” (qtd. in Rosenthal 164), introducing Mackey not only to numerous writers but also to musicians such as Cecil Taylor. Language Writer Ron Silliman included Mackey in his selection of eight experimental poets in the Socialist Review in 1988, a group Silliman introduced by asserting that these writers have distinct audiences and readers while also suggesting that, for some, their relationship to literary experimentation, particularly vis-à-vis formal innovations and the construction or deconstruction of the subject, is “more conventional.” Silliman did this by setting up a dichotomy between the “subjects of history” who are largely white, heterosexual males","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"14 1","pages":"326 - 354"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"76758739","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
On June 15, 2019, the poetry community received the heartbreaking news that Kevin Killian had passed away. Shortly after, there was an immense public outpouring of grief, as members of the community reminisced about their friendships with Killian, his generosity as a mentor to younger writers, and his virtuosic gifts as a poet and a writer of fiction. In some ways, these public acts of mourning by the community reflect one of the most significant aspects of Killian’s work: his engagement with the place of loss in the composition of communities and the role that public acts of mourning play in not only remembering the dead but also in archiving communal histories. The preservation of queer and literary histories is characteristic of much of Killian’s writing, from his 1988 memoir Bedrooms Have Windows and its memorialization of a pre-AIDS era of gay sexuality to his work with Lew Ellingham on a biography of Jack Spicer, a founding member of the Berkeley Renaissance, an influential coterie of gay, postwar Bay area poets which included Robert Duncan and Robin Blaser. As a member of the New Narrative movement, Killian combines community gossip and personal disclosure with formal experimentation and self-reflexivity, and uses a camp style of pastiche, appropriation, and a leveling of the high/low binary that is as indebted to the drag show as it is to the art gallery. That Killian’s death produced a flood of memorialization is poignant and fitting, given how central the role of loss in the construction of communal memory was to his work, especially in his 2001 book
{"title":"Elegiac Citationality in Kevin Killian's \"The Inn of the Red Leaf\"","authors":"Adam Mitts","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0013","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0013","url":null,"abstract":"On June 15, 2019, the poetry community received the heartbreaking news that Kevin Killian had passed away. Shortly after, there was an immense public outpouring of grief, as members of the community reminisced about their friendships with Killian, his generosity as a mentor to younger writers, and his virtuosic gifts as a poet and a writer of fiction. In some ways, these public acts of mourning by the community reflect one of the most significant aspects of Killian’s work: his engagement with the place of loss in the composition of communities and the role that public acts of mourning play in not only remembering the dead but also in archiving communal histories. The preservation of queer and literary histories is characteristic of much of Killian’s writing, from his 1988 memoir Bedrooms Have Windows and its memorialization of a pre-AIDS era of gay sexuality to his work with Lew Ellingham on a biography of Jack Spicer, a founding member of the Berkeley Renaissance, an influential coterie of gay, postwar Bay area poets which included Robert Duncan and Robin Blaser. As a member of the New Narrative movement, Killian combines community gossip and personal disclosure with formal experimentation and self-reflexivity, and uses a camp style of pastiche, appropriation, and a leveling of the high/low binary that is as indebted to the drag show as it is to the art gallery. That Killian’s death produced a flood of memorialization is poignant and fitting, given how central the role of loss in the construction of communal memory was to his work, especially in his 2001 book","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"31 1","pages":"269 - 295"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"84373182","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Dennis Cooper’s Frisk only gradually discloses the device that structures its narration. It’s a novel in the first person singular, proceeding from a character identical in name and overlapping in biography with the author, “Dennis.” And because it’s a novel largely about extravagant desire, the nominalism that tempts identification between author and narrator—Dennis the poet and Dennis the pilgrim—Frisk opens, and leaves unresolved, a series of questions about the reality or fictiveness of those desires. Questions like, to what degree is Dennis the narrator authentically or deceptively narrating events that are ‘true’ to the actual, which is to say the fictive, events of the novel? To what degree do these events index real events in the social world of Cooper the author? If we really listen to them, we’ll discover that questions about the relative authenticity and fictiveness of the nested representations of desire turn out to be questions of trust, willingness to be deceived, and receptiveness to certain forms of sentences and dramatic turns of event. That is to say, questions about the reality of narration turn out to be questions about the willingness to be seduced into reading a work of fiction, and narration appears as a form of topping in which the top seems to be in control, until he isn’t. Decidedly after the fact, Cooper’s novel appears easily consigned to the continually expanding, still kind of sexy and decidedly overtheorized category of autofiction.1 But this isn’t quite right, at least by comparison to the most obvious examples of that genre. In a forthcoming essay in Jules Joanne Gleeson and Elle O’Rourke’s Transgender Marxism, Jordy Rosenberg suggests that autofiction testifies, recursively, to the authenticity of a
丹尼斯·库珀(Dennis Cooper)的《搜身》(Frisk)只是逐渐揭示了构建叙事的装置。这是一本以第一人称单数的小说，从一个名字相同、传记与作者“丹尼斯”重叠的人物开始。因为这是一部很大程度上关于奢侈欲望的小说，这种唯名论让作者和叙述者——诗人丹尼斯和朝圣者丹尼斯——之间产生了共鸣，弗里斯克开启了一系列关于这些欲望的现实或虚构的问题，并留下了未解决的问题。比如，作为叙述者的丹尼斯在多大程度上是真实地或欺骗性地叙述了真实的事件，也就是小说中虚构的事件?这些事件在多大程度上反映了作者库珀的社会世界中的真实事件?如果我们真的倾听他们，我们会发现关于嵌套的欲望表征的相对真实性和虚构性的问题，最终会变成信任、愿意被欺骗、接受某些句子形式和戏剧性事件转变的问题。也就是说，关于叙述的真实性的问题变成了关于是否愿意被引诱去阅读一部虚构作品的问题，叙述似乎是一种顶部的形式，顶部似乎在控制，直到他不是。库珀的小说显然是在事实之后才出现的，它似乎很容易被归入不断扩张的、仍然有点性感的、显然过于理论化的自传体小说的范畴但这并不完全正确，至少与该类型中最明显的例子相比是如此。在Jules Joanne Gleeson和Elle O 'Rourke即将发表的一篇关于跨性别马克思主义的文章中，Jordy Rosenberg认为自传体小说递归地证明了一个人的真实性
{"title":"A Xerox of Feeling: Dennis Cooper's Frisk","authors":"K. Gabriel","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0018","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0018","url":null,"abstract":"Dennis Cooper’s Frisk only gradually discloses the device that structures its narration. It’s a novel in the first person singular, proceeding from a character identical in name and overlapping in biography with the author, “Dennis.” And because it’s a novel largely about extravagant desire, the nominalism that tempts identification between author and narrator—Dennis the poet and Dennis the pilgrim—Frisk opens, and leaves unresolved, a series of questions about the reality or fictiveness of those desires. Questions like, to what degree is Dennis the narrator authentically or deceptively narrating events that are ‘true’ to the actual, which is to say the fictive, events of the novel? To what degree do these events index real events in the social world of Cooper the author? If we really listen to them, we’ll discover that questions about the relative authenticity and fictiveness of the nested representations of desire turn out to be questions of trust, willingness to be deceived, and receptiveness to certain forms of sentences and dramatic turns of event. That is to say, questions about the reality of narration turn out to be questions about the willingness to be seduced into reading a work of fiction, and narration appears as a form of topping in which the top seems to be in control, until he isn’t. Decidedly after the fact, Cooper’s novel appears easily consigned to the continually expanding, still kind of sexy and decidedly overtheorized category of autofiction.1 But this isn’t quite right, at least by comparison to the most obvious examples of that genre. In a forthcoming essay in Jules Joanne Gleeson and Elle O’Rourke’s Transgender Marxism, Jordy Rosenberg suggests that autofiction testifies, recursively, to the authenticity of a","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"105 1","pages":"399 - 405"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"84609641","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
I learned about The Book of Margery Kempe—the autobiography of a 15thcentury mystic and the first known autobiography in English—sometime in the early 1990s. Kempe was in love with Jesus. Her book documents her visions, erotic and obsessive. Her language captivated me. Our Lord said, “Kiss my mouth, my head, and my feet as sweetly as thou wilt.” I began collaging her lines into poems, alongside other overwrought declarations, like Stephen succumbing to heartbreak in The Well of Loneliness and Michael Jackson protesting his innocence against accusations of child sexual abuse. I didn’t distinguish between the exquisite and the grotesque—it was the pitch of obsession that compelled me. When Robert Glück’s novel Margery Kempe came out in 1994 from High Risk Books/Serpent’s Tail, I thought I was having a vision. I’ve been trying to divine that vision ever since—to infer the kind of reading that could encompass this work. In 2020, New York Review Books re-released Margery Kempe, with an introduction by novelist Colm Tóibín and an afterword in the form of Glück’s essay “My Margery, Margery’s Bob,” first published in 2000. With this new manifestation, my divination was rekindled. Margery Kempe interweaves two love affairs, of Margery and Jesus, and of the narrator Bob and his boyfriend L. The two stories orbit one another, collapse into one another, merge together and separate again with pieces of each still clinging to the other—mirroring the movements of the two lovers within each pair. Margery is Bob, L. is Jesus. In his translucent
{"title":"\"A Failed Saint Turns to Autobiography\": Robert Glück's Margery Kempe","authors":"M. Burger","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0021","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0021","url":null,"abstract":"I learned about The Book of Margery Kempe—the autobiography of a 15thcentury mystic and the first known autobiography in English—sometime in the early 1990s. Kempe was in love with Jesus. Her book documents her visions, erotic and obsessive. Her language captivated me. Our Lord said, “Kiss my mouth, my head, and my feet as sweetly as thou wilt.” I began collaging her lines into poems, alongside other overwrought declarations, like Stephen succumbing to heartbreak in The Well of Loneliness and Michael Jackson protesting his innocence against accusations of child sexual abuse. I didn’t distinguish between the exquisite and the grotesque—it was the pitch of obsession that compelled me. When Robert Glück’s novel Margery Kempe came out in 1994 from High Risk Books/Serpent’s Tail, I thought I was having a vision. I’ve been trying to divine that vision ever since—to infer the kind of reading that could encompass this work. In 2020, New York Review Books re-released Margery Kempe, with an introduction by novelist Colm Tóibín and an afterword in the form of Glück’s essay “My Margery, Margery’s Bob,” first published in 2000. With this new manifestation, my divination was rekindled. Margery Kempe interweaves two love affairs, of Margery and Jesus, and of the narrator Bob and his boyfriend L. The two stories orbit one another, collapse into one another, merge together and separate again with pieces of each still clinging to the other—mirroring the movements of the two lovers within each pair. Margery is Bob, L. is Jesus. In his translucent","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"24 1","pages":"387 - 392"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"91347419","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Why doesn’t pleasure matter more? This question came to mind as I slowly read (the better to savor) Gail Scott’s re-issued novel Heroine (2019). Set in the late 1970s but read in 2021, in a time of pandemic and lockdown, the social and erotic life of this brilliant feminist novel was almost deliriously engrossing: “The air smells of people, her perfume and the earth swelling due to irrigation from spring runoff. I feel euphoric. My nose moves closer to her wall of silk” (Scott 69). Pleasure is often contextualized with theory in order to be something other than dumb; bodily sensation undermines intellectual credibility. How wrong this is. It also forestalls attention to questions of interest related to narrative and narrative structure. For example, how does one construct a sentence (which has political aims) with pleasure as one of its rationales? What is the argument, implicit or otherwise, of a book which proceeds through time via pleasure? Doing and undoing are different projects. If pleasure can be an organizing force in life, what occurs as a result? Let’s begin with the pleasure of foraging through the world, with curiosity, seeking delight. Begin with Montreal itself. The city is capacious and present throughout Heroine, in every physical and social sense. Sex workers, lesbians, communists, cafés, political meetings, actions, and their arguments all have their fire. The present time of the text has a particular gleam:
{"title":"Pleasure and Purpose in Gail Scott's Heroine","authors":"Camille Roy","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0017","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0017","url":null,"abstract":"Why doesn’t pleasure matter more? This question came to mind as I slowly read (the better to savor) Gail Scott’s re-issued novel Heroine (2019). Set in the late 1970s but read in 2021, in a time of pandemic and lockdown, the social and erotic life of this brilliant feminist novel was almost deliriously engrossing: “The air smells of people, her perfume and the earth swelling due to irrigation from spring runoff. I feel euphoric. My nose moves closer to her wall of silk” (Scott 69). Pleasure is often contextualized with theory in order to be something other than dumb; bodily sensation undermines intellectual credibility. How wrong this is. It also forestalls attention to questions of interest related to narrative and narrative structure. For example, how does one construct a sentence (which has political aims) with pleasure as one of its rationales? What is the argument, implicit or otherwise, of a book which proceeds through time via pleasure? Doing and undoing are different projects. If pleasure can be an organizing force in life, what occurs as a result? Let’s begin with the pleasure of foraging through the world, with curiosity, seeking delight. Begin with Montreal itself. The city is capacious and present throughout Heroine, in every physical and social sense. Sex workers, lesbians, communists, cafés, political meetings, actions, and their arguments all have their fire. The present time of the text has a particular gleam:","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"35 1","pages":"393 - 398"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"82704193","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Introduction: New Narrative","authors":"R. Halpern, R. Tremblay-McGaw","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0020","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0020","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"7 1","pages":"263 - 268"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-12-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"78576228","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Feminine Charms and Horrors in J.G. Ballard’s “The Smile” and Iain Sinclair’s Downriver","authors":"A. Tso","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0007","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0007","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"61 1","pages":"154 - 178"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"78742790","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Truth and Reconciliation and Narrative Ethics, Form, and Politics","authors":"Sarah Copland","doi":"10.1353/jnt.2021.0010","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/jnt.2021.0010","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":42787,"journal":{"name":"JNT-JOURNAL OF NARRATIVE THEORY","volume":"2015 1","pages":"229 - 260"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2021-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"87864349","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":3,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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