This chapter studies global histories that consider aspects of the material world. It exposes the – often tacit – assumptions that guide these global material histories and holds them up for careful inspection. Its particular interest is in the grounds on which global material historians associate matter and material culture with a specific scale, context or level of observation: with world-making, the global scale and ‘connectivity’, but also with the concrete, the ‘micro’ and the intimate. In that context, the chapter discusses a wide range of themes, from the risk of fetishising material things – as in, reverencing them for properties, including ‘global’ ones, merely projected onto them – to the inevitability of canvassing some forms of materiality on a global scale: the pollution of air, for instance, or, for the post–Cold War era, the issue of resource shortages. The chapter argues that, like any form of historical writing, global material histories are under the influence of their practitioners’ own times’ socioreligious texture, global imaginary and discursive habits; mindful of the telos and conceptions that pervade their work, they will be better prepared to see the world of matter and material culture in all its changeability, elusiveness and polysemy.

This chapter examines the interrelationship between “a market’s materialities and practices” (Geiger and Gross, 2018) by offering an account of how a particular source of energy – wooden biomass – became a perferred energy resource in the Danish energy system. This chapter examines how biomass is qualified, i.e., identified, measured, framed, and, thereby, known. However, the materiality of forests and wooden biomass affords multiple understandings depending on the epistemic equipment – theories, models, and measurements – used. This introduces an epistemic uncertainty in how biomass can be known, providing opportunities for expression and enactment of interests, making policymaking more complex and more contentious. Our analysis highlights the antagonism and power struggles involved in the dynamics of market framing. The chapter concludes with a discussion on how the material ‘unruliness’ of biomass calls for complex accounting methods, leaving biomass incumbents much maneuver room and jeopardizing Denmark’s reputation as ‘a frontrunner’ in energy transition. The chapter contributes to Market Studies research by demonstrating the dual role of materiality in shaping (concrete, situated) interests and valuations while simultaneouly also affecting conditions for future maneuvering/actions. Further, the analysis brings out the politics of valuation.

Chapter 1 introduces the problems to which this book responds and proposes alternative pathways for understanding the archaeology of the Roman Empire. It shows how particular colonial ways-of-knowing continue to shape the stories told of North Africa’s people and their traditions of worship under the Roman Empire, setting these within the binary of “Romanization” or “resistance.” While approaches to the archaeology of other parts of the Roman Empire have begun to embrace New Materialism as a way of moving beyond “Romanization,” this chapter argues that semiotic approaches offer a more productive means of engaging with and explaining the material dimensions of imperial hegemony.

This chapter surveys the numerous publishing formats of postwar story-manga and analyzes the way in which these formats have affected its visual and narrative structure beyond editorial choices or reader expectations. Starting from obsolete manga-centric publishing media like akahon and rental comics by minor publishers, the chapter moves on to introduce how monthly children’s magazines by major publishers changed into weekly and monthly manga magazines, which are still present in the market. I address Republishing practices and formats like pocketbooks and complete editions, each possessing different characteristics for different purposes. How digital comics have changed the way of providing and consuming manga content, giving way to new formats like webtoons is introduced. Finally, franchising, which has been raising manga sales even when the market has to battle diverse forms of rivaling entertainment and declining birth rates, is highlighted.

This chapter approaches the history of electric guitar music in sub-Saharan Africa through the perspective of the “new organology,” considering the unique imbrication of materiality and sociality within the cultural work of music. Multiple local and transnational networks impact the work of guitarists, including the movement of musicians, economic systems that circulate instruments, and the circulation of musical knowledge, genre, and instrumental technique. Networks are both embedded in the landscape—such as electrical infrastructure—and lay atop the physical, such as mobile data and social media applications. The author draws upon ethnographic interviews with guitarists from Ghana and Congo to show how these networks of circulation and the materiality of instruments can provide new ways of thinking about guitar music in Africa and the African diaspora.

A locus desperatus is, in text-critical terminology, a passage which we deem irremediably corrupt. In these instances, we use cruces and keep hoping for a salvific stroke of genius. It is one of the paradoxes of the Roman Empire that, along with its borders, it kept shifting the criteria for their perception. To the more sensitive minds of the age, the expansionary drive of the Romans opened up many a locus desperatus, where hitherto the simple formats of order, coherence and accessibility obtained. The Augustans do not simply mend the sore spots on the imperial map that have become illegible. Rather, they point to them and, at times, even indicate the way that this drive into vague infinity could be steered: through concentration and the creation of spaces which, in their concrete and sensual materiality, seem to counteract the vacuous phrases of a propagandist territorial politics. If we believe Suetonius, one man cannot be blamed for the vacuity of such an ideology: Augustus himself. Not only does he prove to be a careful reader and interpreter of his own destiny, intent on every single letter; in his last days, we also see him operating according to the improvised rules of a topopoetics whose phantasmagorical productivity is adumbrated in the famous deathbed words: ‘Life: a mime!’ This begs the question: how Augustus-like were the Augustans, and how Augustan was Augustus?

This chapter draws together the book’s overarching narrative by examining the regional transformations inscribed in the social and material architecture of the Italian care home, the Casa di Riposo, in Alexandria, Egypt. The institution was founded in 1928, at the height of the community’s importance in regional politics. Designed to house over 250 individuals, its inhabitants were fewer than 20 at the time of writing. Within its halls, it contains a locked and abandoned museum, aptly named ’The Time Machine’, which displays the accumulated objects of departed Italians. Walls grew around the building in proportion to Alexandria’s expanding population. During moments of political revolt since 2011, demonstrators’ calls for new futures reverberated in the Casa di Riposo’s emptying halls. Using the Casa di Riposo as an analytical lens, this conclusion suggests that imperial afterlives, even in states of absence and entropy, demonstrate the contested nature of historical temporalities in shaping migration, empire, and decolonisation in the modern Mediterranean.

Through close analyses of a wide range of Minoan animalian things, we have explored the specificity of their involvements in the experiences of people, and how those engagements contributed to the unique character of sociocultural life in the Aegean, on various levels. Here we draw out key points from across the foregoing analyses. Special attention has come to the objects’ inter-corporeal relationships with living humans and the connections that would have been realized through the objects’ particular qualities—connections with other animals, things, and spaces. Such relations were afforded through different dynamics, including bodily juxtaposition, cultivation of formal assonance, the sharing of specific features (e.g., a forward gaze), and embodiment with the same substances, as well as through similarities in size, composition (e.g., in friezes), and contextualization. Moreover, by working beyond an implicit focus on the design of the objects, to instead emphasize people’s actual experiences with them, we have opened the space for appreciating how both intended and unintended associations involving these complex things were in play together. We should view these not as alternative lenses on the objects, but as forces working concurrently, and upon one another, in the creative realizations that the animalian objects were.

The sociocultural spaces of the “Minoan” Aegean were teeming with animal bodies. Many of these animals were alive, but many were not—and never had been; the latter are our focus here. Realized across a range of media, such as zoomorphic vessels, frescoes, and seal stones, animals’ bodies took on a rich diversity of material and spatial qualities that could afford distinctive interactive experiences that the notion of “representations” fails to capture. By recognizing both biological and fabricated entities as real embodiments of animals, which could coexist and interact in Aegean spaces, the nature of our discussion changes. We see that the dynamics of representation were caught up in a much wider field of relationships involving these crafted bodies, which characterized their engagements with people. Doing so moves us beyond questions of signification and intentional design, and toward a fuller recognition of people’s actual experiences of animalian bodies. Looking closely at a variety of venues, ranging from palatial courts to a modest house bench, our focus thus can turn to how the world of animalian things was a crucial part of social life in Aegean spaces, and how direct interactions with these other animal bodies were central, yet often overlooked and minimized, components of human relations with nonhuman beasts.

This chapter looks at the legal consequences of the demise of the molecular gene within science with the rise of postgenomics in the later part of the twentieth century. It also looks at the apparent dematerialisation of subject matter that occurred as a result of the Myriad decision, when biological subject matter came to be seen in terms of instructions or information rather than as a material chemical compound. It ends by showing that despite this apparent dematerialisation that materiality has continued to play an important role in the way that patent law interacts with biological subject matter.

This chapter builds upon the previous chapter to look at the way that plant-based subject matter changed across the twentieth century as science began to look below the surface of plants at the molecular or cellular level. It also traces the shift from plant to biological subject matter which, over time, changed to become a molecular subject matter. It ends by looking at the role that materiality played in helping the law to deal with a molecularised subject matter.

This chapter begins by highlighting the notable characteristics of plant-based subject matter and the problems this posed for patent law. It then looks at the way that patent law responded to these problems. Specifically, it looks at how the process of invention was reconfigured to take account of the peculiarities of plant-based subject matter; the role that materiality played in helping the law to draw boundaries around the subject matter; and finally the role that the informed nature of the subject matter played in allowing patent law to deal with plant-based subject matter.

This chapter explores the contours of illness and embodiment in medical lexicography. From the early modern period, dictionaries subjected sexual deviance to medical as well as legal and moral regulation, as abominable acts were linked with aberrant anatomies. While hard-word and general dictionaries offered cautionary tales of hypospadians committing bestiality and sodomites afflicted with anal disfigurements, specialist medical lexicons were far more preoccupied with women who had sex with women. Lexicographers endowed these tribades or confricatrices with preternaturally large clitorises which they used to have penetrative sex—though whether clitoral enlargement was the cause of tribadism or its consequence was a question whose answer varied from one author to the next. That dictionaries aimed at physicians were able to dissect women’s sexuality with such candour prompts us to consider the exclusivity of medical lexicography in both social and material terms: with respect to the barring of women from the elite medical professions until the late nineteenth century, and to the escalating price of specialist works compared to the cost of dictionaries aimed at lay users.