In From the Wreck (2017), Australian author and environmentalist Jane Rawson imagines that her great-great-grandfather George Hills, one of the survivors of the shipwreck of the SS Admella, is rescued by a more-than-human shapeshifting being, who subsequently destabilizes his identity as a settler living in colonial South Australia. In this essay, I argue for the importance of bringing together speculative histories, the New Weird, and critical ocean studies, whose intersections are embodied in the more-than-human being as a character in Rawson’s novel. I suggest that this constitutes an important critical tool for interrogating the ways in which we remember settler colonial history in Australia, especially a history that is depicted as independent of the environment and one that marginalizes the relationship between the human and the more-than-human. In this way, I demonstrate how the New Oceanic Weird as a genre can highlight reciprocity on an individual and a collective level to emphasize the entangled and reciprocal histories between the human and the more-than-human alongside those of settler colonialism and environmental destruction.

While M. NourbeSe Philip is often regarded as a black-feminist language poet, her concern about place is equally significant and deserves more critical attention. This essay reads Philip as an Afro-Caribbean poet of place and ponders the geographical implications of her abstract, black-feminism-inspired poetry. Specifically, I focus on her reasoning about “center” and how it engenders formal or verbal matrices in her poems. For Philip, “center” denotes not only the metropole dominating the periphery, but also a place of sufficient being, wholeness, and self-becoming. The second sense of “center” marks the telos of her poetics of place, which, I argue, consists in prevalent and ambiguous uses of the preposition “in” in works like She Tries and Zong!. Center entails an inwardness in response to colonialism-begotten displacement, and Philip’s choreography of “in” affords possibilities for conceptualizing the “placedness” of the Caribbean as well as blackness and black femininity in place.

Teju Cole’s Open City is one of several recent postcolonial novels that narrate the refugee crisis and the threats to nonhuman species in a way that takes seriously the parallels and interspecies relationships. I am interested in the extent to which novels that explore kinships across boundaries of kind manage to make a space for the nonhuman in the anthropocentric form of the novel. In the case of Open City, I argue that Cole’s figural approach offers a means of formalizing the human representation of nonhuman others as a problem and allows readers to make connections across species boundaries even as the novel raises the specter of moral stasis through the cosmopolitan narrator’s failure to take an ethical stance with respect to those in search of refuge, human or not. This failure is a human one, and in offering an anatomy of such a failure, Cole invites scrutiny of cosmopolitanism as much as of the novel form’s anthropocentrism.

In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, 3000–8000 Africans and African descendants from Brazil relocated to the Bight of Benin and developed a very successful settlement system in what is today Benin, Ghana, Nigeria, and Togo. Kangni Alem’s Les Enfants du Brésil (2017) and Florent Couao-Zotti’s Les Fantômes du Brésil (2006) portray these Brazilian returnee communities, also known as Aguda, who wielded considerable economic and political power. The analysis mobilizes Christin Hess’s concept of reverse diaspora to reveal the complexity of returnee identity and the ambiguous notion of home. Both novels mediate the diasporic returnee experience using specific writing strategies, such as diversity of narrative voices, intertextuality, and a nonlinear structure. Moreover, Alem and Couao-Zotti infuse their novels with historical and ethnological elements that are transformed by literature through what Alem calls “material imagination.” This approach showcases the power of fiction to recover history and reconstruct collective narratives.

The letters exchanged between Ignatius Sancho and Laurence Sterne in 1766 have encountered considerable attention, as have those passages in Sterne’s works that seemingly engage with antislavery discourse. Some critics suggest these passages fail to address slavery directly; Sterne, in turn, has been viewed as readily capitalizing on his connection with Sancho to promote a philanthropic image that his writings do not support, and even to exploit it for financial gain. This article suggests a recalibration, partly based on the chronology of this exchange and its first public appearance in 1775. It argues that a richer understanding of Sancho’s and Sterne’s reception histories, and especially the role played by the eighteenth-century press in recirculating reviews of and excerpts from this exchange, helps to establish a more nuanced approach toward how the public image and the texts of both writers were subsequently incorporated into antislavery and Abolitionist debates.

This essay explains how Junot Díaz’s stories show the lasting impact of colonialism and dictatorship on everyday life, especially for immigrants and their children living between cultures. I argue that struggles over belonging, love, and identity are shaped by history and power even when characters do not name those forces directly. I interpret Junot Díaz’s fiction as an account of “the other side”: a peripheral perspective produced by migration, racialization, and the enduring afterlife of colonial violence. Dominican and U.S. histories, especially dictatorship, imperial entanglements, and postindustrial economic restructuring, shape the motives, relationships, and moral horizons of Díaz’s characters. Methodologically, the essay combines close reading with interdisciplinary framing: using diaspora theory to parse displacement, decolonial theory (via the concept of coloniality) to track the persistence of power/knowledge hierarchies, and comparative literary analysis to set Díaz alongside Gloria Anzaldúa and Rudolfo Anaya. Díaz’s “third place,” language, and genre play (fabulism, fantasy/science fiction) render colonial history as lived structure. Díaz shows how coloniality distorts intimacy, masculinity, and community through both material constraint and epistemic domination, and that “decolonial love” names a fragile but real form of resistance and healing. I conclude that colonialism is first a material enterprise whose cultural residues persist, and that reading the “carnality of knowledge” in Díaz clarifies how agency can emerge, even in exile, as a world-making practice.

This essay offers an ecocritical reading of decolonial love. It traces how, in Díaz’s fiction, people introject (post)colonial violence, redeploying its misogynist, masculinist, and sometimes violently hypersexual and racialized dynamics in their most intimate relationships. Díaz shows the connection between this kind of toxicity and the historical and economic forces that are laying waste to the planet.

In this essay, “Writing Gone Wao,” I begin by reiterating my own sense of the book’s (Junot Díaz: On the Half-Life of Love, Duke UP, 2022) priorities. I then turn to the probing and generous responses by Glenda Carpio, Mónica González García, Gerald Torres, Marina De Chiara, and Ato Quayson to my work. I conclude by examining Díaz’s recent writings published after my book appeared, including his complex, erudite Substack series “StoryWorlds with Junot Díaz,” and his short story, “The Ghosts of Gloria Lara” (The New Yorker, 2023), where he explores dramatic issues of decolonial love and the political unconscious.