This book examines the representation of penal colonies both historically and in contemporary culture, across an array of media. Exploring a range of geographies and historical instances of the penal colony, it seeks to identify how the ‘penal colony’ as a widespread phenomenon is as much ‘imagined’ and creatively instrumentalized as it pertains to real sites and populations. It concentrates on the range of ‘media’ produced in and around penal colonies both during their operation and following their closures. This approach emphasizes the role of cross-disciplinary methods and approaches to examining the history and legacy of convict transportation, prison islands and other sites of exile. It develops a range of methodological tools for engaging with cultures and representations of incarceration, detention and transportation. The chapters draw on media discourse analysis, critical cartography, museum and heritage studies, ethnography, architectural history, visual culture including film and comics studies and gaming studies. It aims to disrupt the idea of adopting linear histories or isolated geographies in order to understand the impact and legacy of penal colonies. The overall claim made by the collection is that understanding the cultural production associated with this global phenomenon is a necessary part of a wider examination of carceral imaginaries or ‘penal spectatorship’ (Brown, 2009) past, present and future. It brings together historiography, criminology, media and cultural studies.

Bridging the gap between postcolonial theory and nineteenth-century literary studies, The Colonial Comedy renews our vision of key authors of realist canon, including Balzac, Flaubert, Zola and Maupassant.

“Learn to read and write, learn all you can, learn cunning, spare nobody and stop at nothing. … Do your devilmost … for the Jago’s got you!” Dicky Perrott, growing up in the notoriously criminal enclave of the Jago, listens and learns. Compelled by his family’s circumstances to provide for his mother and siblings, he sharpens his skills as a boy thief. Along the way, he navigates the Jago’s topsy-turvy ethics, vacillating between the rival messages of his mentors, a devious local fence and a righteous slum priest. Relentless in its bleakness and violence, A Child of the Jago captures the desperate struggle for survival in 1890s East London. This Broadview Edition provides the literary, socio-historical, and philosophical contexts vital to readers’ understanding and appreciation of the novel. Historical appendices include materials on eugenics, hooliganism, women’s sweated labor, cultural philanthropy, and the debate over the novel’s accuracy.

Closer to Antarctica than to Buenos Aires, the port town of Ushuaia, Argentina is home to a national park as well as a museum that is housed in the world’s southernmost prison. Ushuaia’s radial panopticon operated as an experimental hybrid penal colony and penitentiary from 1902 to 1947, designed to revolutionize modern prisons globally. A Carceral Ecology offers the first comprehensive study of this notorious prison and its afterlife, documenting how the Patagonian frontier and timber economy became central to ideas about labor, rehabilitation, and resource management. Mining the records of penologists, naturalists, and inmates, Ryan C. Edwards shows how discipline was tied to forest management, but also how inmates gained situated geographical knowledge and reframed debates on the regeneration of the land and the self. Bringing a new imperative to global prison studies, Edwards asks us to rethink the role of the environment in carceral practices as well as the impact of incarceration on the natural world.

What do Russian prisons look like? Who is sent to prison in Russia? How is punishment allocated and administered? This pioneering book aims to answer these and other questions by embarking on a journey that begins by exploring how the prisons have survived the collapse of the USSR, and ends with a discussion of global penal politics. It is the first book to have been written in English on penal practices in the contemporary Russian prison system. Surviving Russian Prisons focuses in particular on the reality of work and labour within Russian prisons, exploring its changing function. From being for much of the twentieth century a major activity as well as an ideological justification for prison regimes, its main function now has been to enable prisoners to survive through participating in a barter economy. In exploring the microworlds of the Russian prison this book at the same time presents new evidence and offers fresh insight into how prisons are governed in societies undergoing turbulent social and political transformation; it explores how current practices in relation to prisoners' work comply with international regulations designed to promote humane containment and positive custody; and debates the nature of knowledge on penal discourse in transitional states.

Biblical Limits is a new series which brings to the traditional field of Biblical Studies literary criticism, anthropology and gender-based approaches, thus reaching new ways of understanding Biblical texts. Jesus Framed is a collection of essays on reading the gospel of Mark. It uses literary theory, most notably the writings of Roland Barthes, to examine some of the difficulties in the text of Mark. A series of close readings of the gospel of Mark is compared to similar texts, both biblical and otherwise. Drawing on Mark's famous phrase that "to those who are outside all comes through parables" (Mark 4:11-12), Jesus Framed explores the boundaries between insiders and outsiders, those who can and those who cannot find a meaning in the text.

In this book, available at last in paperback, Kauppi develops a structural constructivist theory of the European Union and critically analyses, through French and Finnish empirical cases, the political practices that maintain the Union's 'democratic deficit'. Kauppi conceptualises the European Union as both an arena for political contention and a nascent political order. In this evolving, multi-levelled European political field, individuals and groups construct material and symbolic structures of political power, grounded in a variety of social resources such as nationality, culture, and gender. The author shows how the dominance of both executive political resources and domestic political cultures has prevented the development of European democracy. Supranational executive networks have become more autonomous, reinforcing the dominance of the resources they control. At the same time, national political cultures condition the political status of elected institutions such as the European parliament. The book is particularly suited for undergraduate and graduate students in the fields of European Politics, European Union Studies and International Relations.

Enjoy this humorous outer space mystery adventure with uniform lieutenant Sylvia Stryker and a supporting cast of quirky aliens by national bestselling author Diane Vallere… Veronica Mars meets Star Trek! Amateur space sleuth Sylvia Stryker is at it again as she confronts corruption, greed, and space spiders on a new space trek. It's not easy being purple... All space sleuth Sylvia Stryker ever wanted was gainful employment in the space travel sector, but job security is the least of her concerns now that mentor-and-maybe-more, Neptune, is serving time for a crime he didn’t commit. Between her full time Moon Unit work and her side gig selling uniforms, Sylvia goes all in on getting Neptune out. But when a space pirate is murdered behind bars and Neptune is assumed guilty, Sylvia stands to lose him for more than the duration of his sentence. Proving Neptune’s innocence is more challenging than Sylvia expects thanks to his lifetime of accruing enemies. With the clock ticking down on Neptune’s freedom, Sylvia shifts decides to find the real killer. Faced with a corrupt galactic government and an overly-demanding boss, she turns to a shady team of freelancers for help, but the truth she unearths is a threat to the whole galaxy. With her faith in the system shaken to its core, Sylvia’s on her own for her most dangerous moon trek yet. Framed on a Moon Trek is the fourth quirky adventure in the Outer Space mystery series. If you like resourceful characters, unique settings, and outer space fun or read favorites like Charlaine Harris or Dakota Cassidy, then you’ll love Diane Vallere’s entertaining interstellar series. FRAMED ON A MOON TREK is a gripping fusion of cosmic mystery, thrilling adventure, and a touch of otherworldly romance. Don't miss your chance to join Sylvia Stryker on her most perilous and captivating mission yet. With breathtaking settings, heart-stopping action, and a cast of unforgettable characters, this page-turner will transport you to the farthest reaches of the up for a cosmic adventure that will ignite your imagination and leave you craving the next Outer Space mystery! Previously published as SPIDERS FROM MARS. “The book's mystery is well done with many twists and turns, and it succeeds at keeping the reader guessing.” – Reader “I raced to the end and loved every minute of the book. Now I'm going to read the whole series again! So much fun!” – Reader CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT: The first thing I did was have Neptune declared legally dead. It was an unlikely start to a rescue mission, but it was my first one, and Neptune’s incarceration made it difficult to ask him for advice. Neptune, of course, wasn’t dead. He was serving time in a minimum-security prison on Colony 1 after helping me hijack a privately owned spaceship. It was all in a day’s work for high-level security agents like us, but to the Federation Council, it was a violation of law, and somebody had to pay. Okay, fine, Neptune is a high-level security agent. I’m a lieutenant for an outer-space cruise ship. But I trained to be a security agent before a whole lot of crap changed the course of my life, and when Neptune gets out, I’m going to hit him up with a proposal he won’t be able to turn down. Partners. The best-dressed security team in the galaxy. (Not that Neptune cares all that much about uniforms, but I figure I should play to my strengths.) But that’s later, and this is now. Neptune’s been in prison for the past four months, and no doubt anything I say now you’ll miss because you’ll be comparing “the first thing I did” with “four months” and asking yourself, “Geez, Sylvia. The man is in prison. What took you so long?” I’ll tell you what took me so long. No matter how many intergalactic libraries you hack into, you’ll be hard-pressed to find an article titled “Tips for Busting Your Mentor Out of Jail.” What you will find are stories of corruption. Of people locked up for crimes they claim they haven’t committed. Stories about prisoner abuse, confessions from inmates on their death beds, and if you’re lucky, when your eyes are blurry in the middle of the night after weeks of combing through the Galaxy News archives, you’ll find an interview by a former warden with the information you need. If you have any ideas about breaking someone out of jail, forget it. It’s far easier to get a dead body out of prison than a live one. That’s where I got the idea. Drafting a prison break is easy-peasy once you have step one. I had step one. I didn’t waste time studying the language needed to write a suitable legal notice. I hacked an example from the local mortuary database, forged a signature, and filled in the blanks like a Mad Libs game. I carried my paperwork on board Moon Unit: Mars, the cruise ship where I work as the uniform manager, and kept it under my pillow until today, when a twenty-four-hour layover left me a window to file it at Federation Bureau of Affairs before continuing our journey. See? Easy-peasy. In the past, a Moon Unit would leave the space station and fly directly to our destination. Planets farther away required a combination of thrusters, propellant, wormholes, and gravity assists to get to their destinations. That created an environment where anyone on a Moon Unit couldn’t get off a Moon Unit until it got to where it was going, which would be fine under normal circumstances but not so much when there’s a murderer on board the ship. (You might think that’s an odd extreme, but the outer-space cruise industry is relatively new and unregulated, and a surprising number of incidents involving murder and cruises illustrated a hole in the legislation that defines such things.) After more than one such situation, Federation Council, started requiring all passenger-carrying ships to stop at Colony 1. The idea was to receive an inspection and clearance before embarking to be sure there were no side missions on anybody’s agenda. Colony 1 was where the Federation Council congress was located. It was also where politicians, rich folks who did bad things, and temporarily detained convicts were incarcerated. It was where Neptune had been taken after his arrest on Saturn, and after hacking into the prison system, I’d confirmed there were no plans to move him anytime soon. It was a warm day. Temperatures lingered over eighty degrees. The dry climate, combined with a uniform that regulated my body temperature, made it bearable. The uniform in question was a white Stealthyester® jumpsuit with blue trim. It covered everything but my head, which was protected by a bubble helmet that ensured I got breathable air. Lines of people filled the interior of the Federation Bureau of Affairs. Nobody actually liked making trips to the agency, but certain actions required the effort. I doubted my supervisors at the Moon Unit Corporation expected me to spend my day off filing paperwork, but that was just as well. While other members enjoyed the local tourist attractions, I had a window of relative anonymity to complete my covert business. A person with less to lose would look for the shortest line or the most efficient teller. I looked for the least threatening. The teller at the last window on the end was a petite, girl with a sweet disposition. She wore blue lipstick that matched her blue hair, both of which made her standard Federation uniform appear trendy. Her line was several people deep, but for what I was about to do, I considered her an easier mark than the curmudgeons behind windows three, four, and five. (Window six had a sign that said, “On Break.) For the next twenty minutes, the room was filled with little more than, “I’ll be assisting you today,” which must have been the tellers’ version of “May I help you?” in a department store. The responses were either inaudible or ridiculously boring. After four missing person cases, a name change, and a requisition for early retirement payment, I tuned them out. Eventually, I reached the front of the line. “Name?” the blue-haired young woman asked. “Sylvia Stryker.” “I’m Tulsa. I’ll be assisting you today.” She pushed her blue bangs away from her forehead. “If I get hit on by one more guy pretending to file a missing person report for his ex-girlfriend, I’m going to start wearing a fake wedding band.” She grinned. “Whatcha got?” “Death notification.” I passed my signed (forged) and notarized (official) (-ish) documents under the phaser-proof glass while the woman checked my credentials. She held my ID card over a scanner and turned her head away while a bright light pulsed underneath the surface. She handed the ID card back, glanced over my paperwork, and made a sympathetic sound. “Your friend had quite an accident,” Tulsa said. It hadn’t been easy to come up with a plausible method for Neptune to have died while in prison, and I’d discounted any of the more gruesome ways so I wouldn’t have nightmares picturing them. Reality dictated that I needed some details to sell the fib, so I fabricated a story involving his trademark military attire and a cargo-net malfunction. “It’s sad. If only he’d been wearing his regulation uniform, none of this would have happened.” (Neptune never did give my job as uniform manager the proper respect.) Tulsa smiled what I guessed was one of many pitiful looks she passed off during the day. I studied her face—mouth turned down, blue lips pursed, chin dropped—and thought about how often I’d seen that expression in my life. I learned at an early age that people were generous when it came to pity, but pity didn’t pay the bills. Sometimes, when the circumstances were right, lying, cheating, and bartering did. (Pity helped make it easier to fool people, though, so it wasn’t a hundred percent unwelcome.) Tulsa’s expression changed from pitying to judgmental. “You’re taking his death very well,” she said suspiciously. Yes. Right. I inhaled deeply, exhaled, and pretended to choke back tears before raising my eyes to meet hers. “It hasn’t been easy,” I said. “When I first heard, I lost my mind. I couldn’t function.” I glanced to either side and dropped my voice. “My doctor prescribed an antianxiety drug to help me cope. I probably shouldn’t still be taking it after four months, but it hurts so much, knowing he’s gone.” “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” She stretched her hand out from behind the phaser-proof glass and tapped the back of mine. A small blue lightning bolt that matched her hair and lipstick was tattooed on the back of her wrist. “You’ll get over him in time,” she said. “When my husband died, I was on medication for a year. It got so bad, I—” She seemed to realize she was on the verge of confessing deep, dark secrets to a stranger, and she cut herself off. “If you need help getting off the medication, let me know. I entered a recovery program on Mars. It was effective until—well, if you need assistance, I can help you find it.” I forced a smile and squeezed the tips of her fingers in solidarity. Truth? I wasn’t on any drug. I was on a mission, and that meant every person I encountered was either an enemy or an ally. I learned that at Space Academy before dropping out, and experience had only illustrated the lesson in real time. Most people go through life exchanging pleasantries and being polite, never stopping to listen to what others are saying. This isn’t one of those learn-to-listen lectures that promises you can improve your marriage or gain trust from your employees. It’s a fact: Let people tell you more than you ask. File it all away for later. You never know what you’ll need when you initiate a mission. The only thing you can control is knowing who to go to when you come up against something unexpected. I finished at the window. Now to wait out the natural news cycle. In the next couple of minutes, my paperwork would be fed into a scanner. Words would be extracted, plugged into a news template, and dumped into a database of stories. At the same time the stories were streamed onto computer screens, they would appear on a marquee that wrapped around the perimeter of Federation Council. Somewhere between “Space Pirate Sabotage on Saturn” and “Vandalism on Venus” would be Neptune’s death: “Blacklisted Commander Turned Security Expert Deceased After Cargo-Net Accident in Prison Storage Unit.” Once the information found its way into the prison computers, Neptune’s name and history would be extinguished. It would be as though he spontaneously combusted. If Neptune had made friends on the inside, they might be a complication, but Neptune wasn’t the friend-making type. I guess that’s why loners are loners; they like the simple life. I wasn’t without experience when it came to arrest protocol. When my dad was arrested, the news traveled so fast our dry ice farm went from being a respected supplier to a wasteland of rubbish almost overnight. We were social pariahs. After the council threatened to shut us down, we were left with a fate even worse: invisibility. If I could render Neptune invisible inside the prison, I’d have a shot at getting him out. A steady stream of visitors flowed to and from the building. Efforts had been made to make the air and surface quality of Colony 1 hospitable to the largest majority of those visitors, and in addition to the synthetic oxygen mix that a local team of chemists had developed and sold to the government, there were gravity bars where people congregated and shops to fulfill travel and tchotchke needs. Culinary spots had popped up, too, and now a visit to Colony 1 could net you the best cup of coffee in the universe. On principle, I drank tea. The courtyard outside Federation Bureau of Affairs was active. Vendors with small carts sold snacks to employees on break and visitors who’d made the trip for personal reasons. I peeled off the lid to my hot tea and people-watched, letting the beverage cool. It wasn’t that people-watching was entertaining. It was training. Most people existed in their own worlds, unaware of what their actions and outfits said about them. I considered this an ongoing part of my security training, being able to assess a crowd, identify threats and allies, and build character profiles based purely on observation. It wasn’t a lesson I learned from my security training education or from Neptune during the short time he tutored me. I came up with this one myself. I tested the air quality with my portable molecule tester and, when the reading came back with a positive result, removed my helmet and set it on the bench next to me. I blew on the surface of my tea and then sipped. The beverage was flavored with a hint of zinnia, the most prevalent flower in outer space, leaving behind a lingering sweet note to counter the bitter bite of the tea. I swirled it around over my tongue then swallowed, closing my eyes while the hot liquid slid down the back of my throat. It wasn’t usual for me to indulge in the cost of a cup of brewed tea, but it also wasn’t usual for me to spend my day at Federation Bureau of Affairs having someone declared dead. It seemed this was as good a time as any to try to blend in and act like everybody else. The news banner around Federation Council Headquarters blinked three times in rapid succession, indicating a reboot of the system. This would be followed up with updated news stories and crime reports. The system was automated after Tulsa fed my forms into the computer but depended largely on the reports ahead of it. I was tense, needing to see the news of Neptune’s demise proclaimed to the world before counting my mission as complete. The banner of news started streaming. “Record-Breaking Temperatures Expected on Mars” * * * “Federation Council Vote on Proposed Law Changes in Next Twenty-Four Hours” * * * “Drug Epidemic Reaches Dangerous Levels” * * * “Prisoner Murdered while Serving Life Sentence” * * * “Animal Shelters Reach Peak Capacity” * * * The tension within me ratcheted up. Prisoner murdered while serving a life sentence? That wasn’t right. I sat my tea on the bench and checked my documents on my portable device. The language was clear. Neptune died while unloading cargo from storage. A regulation uniform could have saved his life. It was an unfortunate accident that could have been avoided. No mention of murder. No mention of anything suspicious. I’d purposely kept it as bland as possible to not attract attention. Murder attracted attention. The word “murder” was charged with everything I wanted to avoid. A freak accident could happen. It could be brushed under the rug. It wouldn’t cause anybody to do anything differently. But a murder propelled all sorts of people into action, and a report of a murder would certainly lead to a body that was very much alive. I stood and juggled my helmet, my cup of tea, and my portable document device. The tea fell and splattered by the toe of my boots. Someone called out my name and I shielded my eyes and searched for the source. “Sylvia! Over here!” I zeroed in on the source. It was Tulsa, the teller from Federation Bureau of Affairs. She was shorter than she’d appeared when she filed my paperwork. She came at me so fast her blue hair blew away from her face. “I was hoping you were still here,” she said. She put one hand on her side and bent toward it. “Side stich. Ow.” I pointed at the streaming news banner. “There’s a mistake—” “No mistake,” she said. She straightened and grabbed my arm. “Come with me.” I followed her behind the building to a small garden. The rocky surface area of the colony had been carved away, and small succulents that survived in dry climates covered the ground. There was no way they’d grow on their own, and I wasted a brief thought condemning the council for wasting resources on the beautification of their property and not improving the quality of life for residents under their government. “There was a problem with your paperwork,” Tulsa said. “It was rejected from the system because of duplicitous intel.” “There’s a mistake. Neptune wasn’t murdered. He was in an accident. An accident,” I repeated. “It’s no mistake,” Tulsa said. “Check your device.” I tapped the screen and swiped through pages of reports that had been filed that morning. My report wasn’t there, but the headline I’d seen streaming around the perimeter of Federation Council was. “Prisoner Murdered While Serving Life Sentence” read the headline. Underneath, in the body of the report, were the details, and that’s when I knew my plan to break Neptune out had gotten complicated exponentially. The murder victim wasn’t Neptune. The suspect was. For fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dune, UFO, The Orville, Galaxy Quest, Lost in Space, and The Jetsons. Diane-Fans describe “her vintage Vallere goodness,” and say she is a “great storyteller” with “a way with creating strong female characters and intrigue” who is “a superb and very humorous writer.” Her gift of creating “spunky sleuths in fun settings” take readers to Dallas, Palm Springs, Los Angeles, Pennsylvania, and outer space.

Addresses the questions: What might be the role of the artist in the 21st century? How essential is art to the psychic and political well-being of American society?