This chapter considers the influence of emerging technologies of audio reproduction on literature. The phonograph, also called the gramophone, was invented in 1877 by Thomas Edison; in the form of Edison cylinders and the flat discs introduced by Emile Berliner in the 1890s, sound recording was rapidly popularized in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Camlot traces the twofold nature of the literary engagements with sound recording: On the one hand, they “suggested a direct, unmediated experience of events from the past”; on the other, in drawing attention to the material limitations of this new technology, which “worked to shape the real-time sonic events it recorded,” these engagements “revealed how indebted our sense of reality is to mediating factors.”

The wordless, often unwritable sound of the vox confusa is usually contrasted with the verbal, writeable sound of the vox articulata. The former was held to be irrational and meaningless; the latter, rational and significant. This chapter will examine the role which the vox confusa played in Augustine’s thought. It will argue that, in his later works, we encounter a wild(er) Augustine who appears to be more willing than his earlier self to recognise and exploit the vox confusa in a theological context.

Is it possible to hear marvels? Despite its deep roots in Aristotelian thought, the marvellous, or meraviglia in Italian, was a highly contested subject in early modern literary circles. It is most often associated with Giambattista Marino (1569–1625), the poet who infamously declared that the aim of poetry was, above all else, to arouse wonder. The primacy of wonderment as an artistic aim did not, however, begin with Marino. Not only does the idea permeate criticism throughout the second half of the sixteenth century, particularly in the writings of Francesco Patrizi (1529–97), but it was by no means restricted to the art of poetry alone. This chapter focuses on the origins of meraviglia in the work of classical writers, its centrality to literary debates in the sixteenth century, and its reimagining in the poetry, painting, and sculpture of the early seventeenth century.

In 1772 Joseph Banks recorded observations on the Hebridean island of Staffa. His most striking ‘discovery’ was a sea cave resembling a cathedral. Banks claimed the cave was known by the name of the mythical Irish warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill, or Fingal, to use the variant made famous by Macpherson’s Ossian poems. The publication of Banks’s findings prompted a small industry of travel writing that combined lithic observations with minstrelsy and national history. In 1797 the French geologist Barthélemy Faujas de Saint-Fond published his research on the topic, which suggested that the association with Ossian was the result of a misunderstanding: whereas the Gaelic for Fingal’s Cave would be ‘an-ua-fine’, the actual name was ‘an-ua-vine’, which translated as ‘melodious cave’. Far from settling the matter, Saint-Fond’s intervention only added to the mystique. In this chapter I argue that the cave’s fashionable status can be partly attributed to a series of re-soundings, by which printed texts and theatrical performances relayed aspects of on-site accounts to new readers and audiences. Where existing models of Romantic resonance have emphasized a correspondence between sound and thought, the fame of Fingal’s Cave emerges here as the result of almost mindless repetition.

This chapter identifies scenes of aural recognition in a number of nineteenth century texts from the 1810s and 1820s: recurrent scenes which involve a character, a narrator, or an autobiographical witness hearing something (a song, a melody, a sequence of words) which they believe they have heard at least once before. Although seemingly unimportant scenes, they are often ones which are pivotal to the plot, the development of character, or the instigation of a regime of feeling. Analysing examples of this scene in Scott’s Guy Mannering, a stage adaptation by Daniel Terry, short stories by John Galt, and a travel narrative by Reginald Heber, the chapter tracks the various ways in which hearing accrues significance as a mobile sense in the context of a newly mobile world of extreme travel and colonization.

This chapter explores the ways in which the five novels diverge in their representation of sounds. Chariton seems well aware of what can be achieved by briefly-sketched sound effects, but brief sketches are all we get: he does not suggest that the written word might find it hard to convey varieties of sound. Xenophon is apparently not concerned to communicate sound effects at all. Achilles Tatius offers elaborate rhetoric and sometimes striking imagery in compensation for the written word’s inability to render sound. Both Longus and Heliodorus push their readers (in different ways) to reflect on the problem of communicating sound, each offering a different solution. That of Heliodorus for the representation of sung poetry is a striking advance on anything in the earlier novels, apparently learning from (but also upstaging) Philostratus’ Heroicus.

Radio historians observe that Midwestern accents defined the sonic norms of broadcast speech in the United States, and that “BBC English” became a “supra-local accent” that transformed the speech patterns of a small group into an imperial standard. Does literary modernism follow the same model? This chapter takes up the theoretical writings around “broadcast modernism” to write a regionalist theory of poetic modernism in the US. I read backwards from Lorine Niedecker’s desire for “speech without practical locale,” to bring together Niedecker, Ezra Pound, Langston Hughes, and T. S. Eliot as Midwestern modernists whose compositions on, about, and for the radio produced work on speech that tune us into regional differences against the modernist ideology of radio’s “voice from nowhere”: the ambition of acoustic engineering, corporate infrastructure, and presidential speech. Anticipating the myth of the “neutral” Midwestern media voice, these poets’ work reveals the provincialism in modernism’s cosmopolitan desires.

Jazz is a music that did not merely inspire works of literature; in many cases it aspired toward the literary. Drawing from Ralph Ellison’s impulse to praise the jazz rhythms of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922) as containing a “range of allusion [that] was as mixed and varied as that of Louis Armstrong,” this chapter offers an overview of the aesthetic, thematic, and political motivations of jazz and modernist literature from blues and ragtime to the emergence of bebop. In exploring jazz as one of the “forms” of American modernism, I attend to the experimental formal variations in the poetry and prose of a wide range of authors, including Sterling Brown, T. S. Eliot, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, William Carlos Williams, and others, but also to the radical form of the blues by Louis Armstrong, W. C. Handy, and Bessie Smith.

Speech consists of sound waves that propagate in the air from talker to hearer. Sound waves consist of rapidly changing pressure within the medium, normally air in the instance of speech. If the variations of pressure are regular, then the sound has a tonal quality. Most, but not all, speech sounds have this tonal quality. Sound amplitude relates to the amount of energy and is perceived as loudness. The speed of pressure variation is called frequency and is perceived as pitch. Individual sound waves combine additively, creating complex sound waves. Acoustic analysis of speech creates spectrograms, giving a visual representation of the original sound. In certain conditions, such as the interior of the vocal tract, sound reverberates in a self-additive way, giving rise to cavity resonance. The frequencies of this resonance can be modified by adjustments in the position of the speech articulators, creating different speech sounds, which occurs through the source--filter theory.

This chapter investigates a little considered aspect of Rushdie’s work in the context of soundscapes and the auditory imagination. While ekphrasis and the way in which Rushdie works with images has been widely explored, his novels are fully realized through sound, whether it is trains, filmic soundtracks, songs, or the sounds of street life in cities such as Bombay, London, and New York. The chapter focuses particularly on music across Rushdie’s fictional oeuvre, paying closest attention to The Satanic Verses and The Ground Beneath Hear Feet. It argues that a change is perceptible in the way that music is figured across these two novels, which in turn reflects a wider shift in the author’s politics, especially with relation to Islam.

As the popularity of K-pop has grown around the globe, the number and scope of K-pop studies have also expanded. While many have provided important insights into socioeconomic aspects of K-pop, the music itself has rarely been at the center of discussion. The purpose of this chapter is to help fill the gap by examining the sound of K-pop, focusing on its musical elements such as melody, rhythm, and instrumentation. This approach involves close listening and reading of select songs covering various stylistic genres and analyzing their sound using the language of music theory. By so doing, this study will identify and offer an understanding of common musical structures used in K-pop songs. Furthermore, the chapter attempts to respond to the question asked most frequently in the author’s K-pop class: How is K-pop different from popular music of the West? To that end, a comparative analysis is conducted between K-pop songs and Western pop music. Among the styles of songs examined are bubblegum popular music, ballads, and songs that quote Korean traditional music, the types of music that are most revealing in addressing the question of distinctiveness of K-pop songs.

This chapter argues that in much poetry in English of the First World War, form is most effectively exploited in the interplay between visual and auditory images that are mimetic of the immediate sensory experience of battle and the linguistic devices which channel mimesis into argument and organise the impossibly chaotic. It looks at the soundscapes and silences of poems, the detached and the visceral.

The Introduction to this book establishes Faulkner’s interest in writing materials as both a theme in his work and in his own writing and publishing career. Faulkner began his career not as a fiction writer but as a poet and illustrator, making his own handmade books, some for sale and others for friends and love interests. He maintained this attention throughout his life to the physical forms taken by his books. The Introduction sets forth the stakes of the book as a whole. Over and against a persistent technological determinism in cultural and media studies, William Faulkner and the Materials of Writing shows how Faulkner can help us think through the way in which media can only be understood in the context of its use. The telegraph, for example, works no faster than the mail if a telegram is not delivered to the intended recipient or otherwise goes unread. The Introduction also introduces three broad sets of concerns that will be central in the chapters that follow: The relationship of the individual to media forms; the connections of media with race, gender, and intimacy; and an understanding of writing as both text and thing in the world.

Chapter three explores how Coleridge and the Wordsworth siblings responded to and engaged with larger questions surrounding birdsong, speech and poetry. While Coleridge throughout his life brooded over metaphysical arguments regarding ‘the one life within us and abroad’ (‘The Eolian Harp’, 1795), Dorothy Wordsworth’s journals are filled with close, detailed descriptions of birds and their songs that are neither assimilated to nor inhibited by any overarching theory regarding the sentience of other creatures and our human relation to them. As he responded to his sister’s lively observations and the philosophical arguments in which he found his friend so deeply embroiled, William Wordsworth was led into larger discussions about what may be going on inside the heads of various human and non-human others. Drawing on his own experiences of composing and ‘muttering’ over his poems in daily walks with his sister, Wordsworth hints at a subvocal language of thought that is patterned and shaped, though not always or exactly worded. Out of a deep personal recognition of a grave disjuncture between thinking and saying, Wordsworth throughout his writing explores the inner lives of others in ways that would prove crucial to Clare, Hardy and other poets writing in the following centuries.

Species are fundamental units used to describe and interpret nature. Molecular delimitation methods have shown that many species cannot be diagnosed using morphological traits. We suggest that cryptic species represent an opportunity to progress Linnean taxonomy,. We examine what can be learned from sympatric cryptic species pairs that occupy the same habitat. Their sympatry is possible under two conditions, 1) reproductive isolation, 2) the effects of interspecific competition on population growth must be neutralised. Understanding the mechanisms that maintain species differences and integrating this understanding into taxonomy will help to delineate species boundaries. We first examine the mechanisms of cryptic species origin. Then we review some well-documented cases of reproductive isolation between cryptic species, focusing on prezygotic isolation mechanisms mediated by premating recognition and communication. We follow with examples of co-occurring cryptic species, focusing on mechanisms of coexistence and ecological niche differentiation. Both mate recognition and niche differentiation are grounded in the sensory worlds that animals experience. Sensory ecology provides tools to explore hitherto hidden diversity and so identify, misunderstood and unprotected in this time of rapid anthropogenic global change. We argue that the field of sensory ecology has a potential for improving taxonomy

This chapter explores a set of marginal characters of topmost importance: hats. The marginality of hat study is all too apparent; it smacks of esoteric trivia. I argue that such a commonsensical assumption is at odds with Conrad’s fictional hats: their variety, number and position in the texts. From the bowler to the Bersagliere, there are more than twenty-five types of hat in his fiction. They are used for fiddling, collecting nails, catching butterflies, transporting cakes, holding strips of beef, carrying secret messages, and saving a “homeless head from the dangers of the sun.” Conrad leaves us with the idea that while we may think that we wear hats, hats are clothed in meaning and may even wear us; there is no clear boundary between object and person; an everyday material object can be a key to understanding a complex individual and vice versa.

This chapter considers the rhythms of George Eliot’s prose; it shows that George Eliot had a fine ear for the cadences of her writing and that she controlled the fluency and blockage in the progress of her sentences to variously suggestive effects. Her rhythmical prose responds to the balance her realism strikes between immediate description and reflective narration, between dreamy ideals and difficult realities. The tension that her characters experience between a willingness to struggle on and a desire to relent is also registered in the fluency and friction of her sentences.