Populating the Novel: Literary Form and the Politics of Surplus Life

POPULATING

THE NOVEL

LITERARY FORM AND THE

POLITICS OF SURPLUS LIFE

EMILY STEINLIGHT

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS

Ithaca and London

For D.S.H.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction: The Biopolitical Imagination

1. Populating Solitude: Malthus, the Masses, and the Romantic Subject

2. Political Animals: The Victorian City, Demography, and the Politics of Creaturely Life

3. Dickens’s Supernumeraries

4. The Sensation Novel and the Redundant Woman Question

5. Because We Are Too Menny

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is the product of four cities, four universities, and a population of interlocutors, colleagues, friends, and mentors whose conversation has sharpened it and whose support has buoyed me through its completion. I am especially grateful to Jed Esty, Heather Keenleyside, Jacques Khalip, Anna Kornbluh, and Benjamin Morgan for offering invaluable feedback on chapter drafts over the past year. Each chapter is substantially stronger for their having read it. It was an immeasurable privilege to work with Nancy Armstrong, Kevin McLaughlin, and William Keach on the earliest version of this project at Brown University. I owe a great deal to the expertise, judicious guidance, and kind encouragement of all three, as well as to the example of their own scholarship. Nancy was and is both the most exacting critic and the most generous mentor possible. She will always be a decisive voice in my head.

Elements of this work developed in new directions thanks to engaging responses from audiences at the Cogut Center for the Humanities at Brown, the University of Chicago Society of Fellows Symposium and Weissbourd Conference, the Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Cultures Workshop at the University of Chicago, the Global Nineteenth Century Workshop at the University of Pennsylvania, the Rutgers British Studies Center, and various ACLA seminars. My cohort in the Society of Fellows was a consistently exhilarating source of intellectual energy and solidarity; I hope they will see signs of their combined influence throughout these pages. Along the way, some of the most thrilling moments in my working life have been spent with the students I’ve had the good fortune to teach at the University of Chicago, Trinity University, and Penn.

I benefited from material as well as intellectual support from the English Department and the Cogut Center at Brown, from the Humanities Division at the University of Chicago for a Harper-Schmidt Fellowship, from Trinity University’s English Department, and from the English Department and the School of Arts and Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania. I also thank the donors of the Roland G. D. Richardson Fellowship at Brown and of the Mr. and Mrs. Patrick H. Swearingen Faculty Fellowship at Trinity. I owe special thanks to the Stephen M. Gorn Family for their generous contribution to my research at Penn.

At Cornell University Press this book found an ideal home, and I greatly appreciate the dedication of everyone there who worked on it with me. For his confidence in the project and for guiding it so conscientiously through the review process, I am grateful to Mahinder Kingra. I am also indebted to the insight of two phenomenal readers whose illuminating and attentive reports gave me the direction I needed at the final stage. Many thanks are due to Martin Schneider for copyediting the manuscript with exceptional precision and care, to Karen Laun for deftly conducting it through the stages of publication, and to Kevin Joel Berland for preparing the index.

The good company of friends and colleagues over the years made the work of writing almost bearable. I hope Jed Esty, Paul Saint-Amour, and Michael Gamer know how thankful I am to them for giving me the very best advice at crucial moments, and I thank Nancy Bentley, Jean-Christophe Cloutier, Amy Kaplan, Josephine Park, Melissa Sanchez, and Salamishah Tillet for their conversation and support in many things. I am grateful to the entire Penn English Department for fostering such a lively and welcoming intellectual community. For indispensable suggestions and inspiration, I heartily thank David Kurnick, extraordinary critic and generous interlocutor. I am better for knowing and exchanging ideas with Katie Chenoweth, Nicholas Gaskill, Wendy Allison Lee, Rob Lehman, Ben McKean, Nasser Mufti, Sam Solomon, Audrey Wasser, and Danny Wright. Anna Kornbluh has been as brilliant an interlocutor and as faithful a friend as I could hope to find. Ritu Sen’s friendship has been one of the best things in my life for nearly twenty years.

I surely would not be where I am without my parents’ constant encouragement and love, and I’m lucky to be able to rely on the perspicacity, humor, and loyalty of my incomparable sister, Alexandra Steinlight, whose instincts I trust more than my own. I will not try to enumerate what Dave, my first and last audience and partner in all things, has contributed to my work. I owe this book, and much else, to him.

An earlier version of chapter 3 originally appeared in essay form under the title Dickens’s ‘Supernumeraries’ and the Biopolitical Imagination of Victorian Fiction, Novel 43.2, 227–50. Copyright 2010, Novel Inc. All rights reserved. Republished by permission of the copyright holder, and the publisher, Duke University Press. A version of chapter 4, Why Novels Are Redundant, was first published in ELH 79.2 (Summer 2012), 501–535. Copyright © 2012 The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reprinted by permission of The Johns Hopkins University Press. Some material from chapter 5 previously appeared in a substantially different form and context within an essay titled Hardy’s Unnecessary Lives: The Novel as Surplus, in Novel 47.2, 224–41. Copyright 2014, Novel Inc. All rights reserved. Republished by permission of the copyright holder, and the publisher, Duke University Press.

Introduction

The Biopolitical Imagination

Prefacing his life story with an apology for the excesses he is about to describe, Thomas De Quincey paraphrases Terence to explain the philosophy of an opium eater such as himself: "Humani nihil à se alienum putat (7). His transient existence in London, his friendship with a prostitute, his drug experiments and exotic visions may be unusual, he owns, but they form part of the range of human experience—and nothing that is human is alien to him. Yet his confession narrates a process quite at odds with this sentiment. He loses, by measures, the capacity to recognize anything other than the overwhelming strangeness of his species. Having once ecstatically sought out East London’s most crowded zones in order to sympathize with the English masses on as large a scale as possible, the opium eater is later consumed by fear and loathing of the multitudes that populate his nightmares of foreign continents swarming with human life (81). Solitude offers the former connoisseur of crowds no solace from what he can only describe as the tyranny of the human face (80). Echoed in hallucinatory dreams of endlessly reproducing global hordes that undercut his cosmopolitan ideals and nullify his humanist credo, De Quincey’s memories of immersing himself in the element of mass humanity are shot through with perplexities moral and intellectual" (54). To put it plainly: everything that is human becomes alien to him.

For all the solipsism of this text, the story it tells is one that connects a range of nineteenth-century narratives. Confessions of an English Opium Eaterrecounts an experiential shift that disrupts the urban spectator’s most elemental conception of his fellow creatures, making it imaginatively necessary for him to lose himself among them and yet difficult to emerge unscathed. This story finds a key precedent in William Wordsworth’s poetic recollections of London in the 1790s. Though the poet ultimately recovers his love and reverence / Of human nature in the tranquility of the Lake District, Book VII of The Prelude portrays the city’s human density as profoundly destabilizing. Individuals, reduced to a series of stimuli, lose any distinct perceptual character for the spectator; the weary throng presents merely a repetitive sequence of non-encounters, face to face / Face after face . . . (172–73). In stark contrast with Joseph Addison’s Spectator, whose journalistic persona delighted in mingling anonymously with the heterogeneous multitudes of early eighteenth-century London, or with John Stow’s cheery Elizabethan-era appraisal of that proto-panoptic city where the felt gaze of so many strangers ensures justice and good conduct, Wordsworth senses in the crowd and in himself a sudden dissolution of all stays, / All laws of acting, thinking, speaking man (605–6).¹ Friedrich Engels was compelled to begin his later diagnosis of the condition of the working class in a similar vein. He describes London’s crowds in a Wordsworthian idiom of affective alienation and sensory oppression. Amid the human turmoil of the streets, the observer experiences something repulsive, something against which human nature rebels (The Condition of the Working Class 68). What surfaces almost explicitly in such responses to the city is a contradiction within the category of the human. Human nature is repulsed by human turmoil; some qualitative human essence recoils from the sheer quantitative excess of human beings pressing against each other. Rather than dramatizing a conventionally Romantic tension between internal self and external society, these and other nineteenth-century texts radically rearticulate what it means to belong to a human aggregate.

Three related problems emerge from these representations of urban experience: first, the social meaning of masses and crowds; second, the philosophical coherence of humanity and the perceived value of human life; and third, the role of literary form itself in making a new approach to the human aggregate into the basis for imagining a habitable world. The mass assumes its unique status in cultural modernity as a paradoxical unbinding of community through its own concentration; sociality takes on a dissociative and implicitly agonistic character with the increased proximity of bodies in a common environment. A sudden destabilization or even repudiation of humanity appears to follow from writers’ encounters with this concentrated human multitude. Though the causal link between these two phenomena is less self-evident than it thus appears, the question of the masses and that of the human do share a source. Both arise not simply from the palpable pressure of human aggregation but also from a seismic shift in political thought—one that accorded new importance to population. Literature did more than document this transformation as it submerged its subject in what Wordsworth called the great tide of human life. Romantic and Victorian writing provided the aesthetic conditions that enabled an expanding reader-ship to conceive of population not only as a perceptual object but also as the horizon of all social action.

This book begins with a fairly obvious premise: that the social worlds assembled in nineteenth-century literature are phenomenally crowded, crammed far beyond their capacity with living human beings. From this premise, it draws some less obvious conclusions. What we glimpse in De Quincey’s imperial nightmares of global overpopulation—no less than in Wordsworth’s dizzying impressions of London’s overflowing streets—is not simply a reflection of demographic growth in England but a distinctive political paradigm in the making, one that centered on the natural life of the human species and that relied, paradoxically, on demographic excess. To forge that new paradigm, these and other texts animate a vast and heterogeneous human aggregate that contractual models of society could no longer govern. It stalks forth in Mary Shelley’s tale of terror, a nameless mass of miscellaneous flesh that can neither be granted the rights of an individual nor assimilated into the existing body politic. It assumes new forms in Elizabeth Gaskell’s textile mills, Charles Dickens’s teeming slums, and Mary Braddon’s curiously overcrowded genteel households, all of which create a gross quantitative imbalance between biological life and the social order newly tasked with managing it. Rather than working to restore balance, these writers’ literary techniques are organized around the formal principle of producing population in excess of material constraints. The surplus of humanity that Thomas Malthus imagined pressing against the limits of society thus unexpectedly became an enabling condition for literary narrative—and indeed, as the following chapters suggest, for modern political thought. In revealing the accumulation of life perpetually surpassing society proper, fiction gave form to what can now be called the biopolitical imagination.

To understand how Romantic and Victorian writing shapes a politics of collective human life requires some historical elaboration. Population acquires its importance as the outcome of three distinct developments: the material impact of industrial capitalism, the rise of the life sciences, and the political realignments that followed from the French Revolution. With regard to the first, the masses that pervade so many nineteenth-century narratives can be seen in an obvious sense as the demographic correlate of sweeping changes in British society, including urbanization, mass migration to cities and factory towns, proletarianization, and a complex of economic, medical, and social causes yielding a decline in mortality and, by some accounts, a series of spikes in fertility rates.² The more than tripling of England’s population over the course of the century (from about 8.9 million in 1801 to 32.5 million in 1901) appears as both a cause and an effect of the shift from a primarily agrarian to a manufacturing-centered economy. Privately owned heavy industry relied on and profited from a constant surplus of human labor power—in Karl Marx’s terms, a disposable industrial reserve army necessarily in excess of employment.

Though these demographic trends are well documented, the significance they take on from the Malthusian moment onward is not transparent in census returns. In fact, there was no general census in Great Britain before 1801; population had previously been estimated based on samplings of the local baptismal and burial records kept by parishes. And while statistical analysis had gained prestige over the course of the eighteenth century, neither aggregate data nor calculations concerning the birth rate automatically led to the conclusions Malthus reached, namely that human reproduction naturally outpaces the agricultural production of sustenance, resulting in a redundant population bound to suffer poverty and demanding checks to prevent broader casualties.³ What Zygmunt Bauman would reframe in the twentieth century as the inevitable outcome of modernization—the irony that the accumulation of wealth in capitalist societies is accompanied by the global mass production of ‘human waste,’ or more correctly, wasted humans (5)—had not seemed inevitable to economic thinkers or natural philosophers who witnessed the first fifty years of industrial expansion. The theory of redundant population in fact marks a break with classical political economy, which up to the end of the eighteenth century did not generally assume a scarcity of resources or impose limits on demographic growth.

On the contrary, increasing human numbers prior to An Essay on the Principle of Population were routinely equated with the wellbeing of the body politic.⁴ Adam Smith treats population as a measure of national strength and prosperity. In The Wealth of Nations, the triad of agriculture, industry, and population appear and flourish together as wealth’s principal sources; Smith repeatedly suggests that what is favorable to one benefits all three. Political economists throughout much of the eighteenth century, even in the midst of bread riots, did not fear the prospect of too many mouths to feed. In fact, they more often worried that mortality rates were on the rise and fertility in need of bolstering.⁵ David Hume’s Of the Populousness of Ancient Nations (1752) goes so far as to propose that a wise legislature would do well to identify and remove any constraints to the unlimited desire and power of generation he attributes to all human beings (376). Robert Wallace, while disputing Hume’s historical claim that modern nations are more populous than ancient empires, shares his basic premise that the best policies as well as the best social norms are those that promote population, and Benjamin Franklin similarly reasons in 1755 that the wisdom of any economic policy can be judged by its impact on the birth rate.⁶ These and other sources bear out Frances Ferguson’s suggestion that an eighteenth-century writer could credibly certify the virtue of any program by linking it to demographic growth and decry vice in anything that could be blamed for reducing fertility (117). This was not solely the position of empiricists and proto-utilitarians; Edmund Burke, no admirer of the calculators of his day, refused to think ill of any institution found to contain a principle favourable . . . to the increase of mankind (66, 113). Though not wishing to flatter the contrivances of man for the abundance of life he attributes principally to Providence, he held as late as 1790 that no country in which population flourishes . . . can be under a very mischievous government (112). Not until the very end of the century was it conceivable to treat population growth as anything other than a natural wellspring of capital and an obvious social good—much less to claim, in the interest of curtailing widespread misery, that restraints to procreation were needed.

If population took on new political weight at this moment, its altered status coincides not only with a shift in economic thought but also with the emergence of biological life as a key object of knowledge. The start of the nineteenth century saw the birth of a field that redirected natural history’s attention from the characteristics of organisms to the study of life, defined by the French anatomist Xavier Bichat as the set of functions that resist death and constituting the common principle of being from man to microorganism (Physiological Researches 21). Biology quickly became a master discourse of the modern era, providing a new vocabulary and new objectives for government. In concert with the quantitative social sciences, it came to anchor a political model focused on the vital functions and developmental capacities of human groups. Statistics, notably, made knowledge of vital phenomena available to far-reaching analysis; as Ian Hacking and Alain Desrosières have shown, the science of probability transformed what had once looked like random events (bad harvests, cholera outbreaks, spikes in infant mortality) into more or less predictable and thus potentially governable tendencies in bodies and environments. Demography thus emerged out of the application of statistical methods to biological and social knowledge, forming an essential technology by which changes in populations could be measured. Auguste Comte’s grandiose dream of a final Biocracy that would harness all the ecological forces of the living world and minister to the species on a global scale finds corresponding realities in governing policies concerned with public health, sanitation, and the regulation of fertility (500). Such policies, which Michel Foucault would identify as those of biopower, approach life as the purpose of social organization rather than its precondition.

The particularity of modern biopower, by Foucault’s account, is that it transforms the old sovereign right to take life and let live into a new systematic impetus to make live and to let die, thus resituating life as the strategic end rather than a tactical means of power ("Society Must Be Defended" 241). If power over life had once meant the right of the king either to impose the death penalty or to grant pardon, it took on different positive and negative meanings from the eighteenth century onward. Death no longer figured as the omnipresent specter of sovereign punishment or divine judgment. Indeed, life and death in the age of biology cease to be simple opposites. Bichat’s definition of life as the set of functions that resist death transmutes the very idea of death from life’s fated end, its annihilating antithesis, into a plurality of risks to which life is constantly exposed and against which it can be strengthened.⁷ To secure life became the goal of the modern polity, which made itself responsible on the one hand for averting famine and epidemic, increasing longevity, maximizing bodies’ capacity for labor, and improving environmental conditions, while on the other hand allowing (infamously, with the end of outdoor relief under the New Poor Law) a certain number of people to die in order to prevent widespread scarcity. What is distinctive about the political objectives of making live and letting die is, first, that they shifted focus from individual to population, and second, that they redefined the object of governance in biological terms. Epistemologically speaking, as Foucault suggests, the population as a collection of subjects is replaced by the population as a set of natural phenomena by the early nineteenth century (Security, Territory, Population 352). In a period often equated with the rise of the individual and (thanks in part to Foucault’s own work on discipline) with the institutional regulation of individual conduct, quite another set of governing strategies targeted the ecological conditions and biological functions of the human species at large.

What motivated such a recalibration of the relationship between society and species, polity and population, power and life? One familiar answer is that the natural sciences yielded a revised conception of humanity, no longer ontologically set apart from other animals or sovereign over created nature, and that this in turn necessitated a revised model of governance. In a sense, this is true. The universal man of earlier social contract theory became quite a different animal once he could no longer leave the state of nature. If Homo sapiens were subject, as Malthus surmised, to the same basic physical laws and bodily needs that determine the behavior of other species, then human society would need to understand itself as continuous with rather than opposed to the creaturely conditions of existence. Institutions would need to be designed around the newly salient problem (more accurately, the newly decisive value) of natural life. Moreover, biological crises would be imaginatively necessary to these institutions, giving sanction to a form of government that pledges to shield populations from risk and make them thrive. Such government aims at different ends than those advanced by social contract models of the state. Laws addressed to the rational individual and directed at the protection of property would be of little use against the pandemic Mary Shelley wrote into the hypothetical future of The Last Man—a novel that draws implicitly on Georges Cuvier’s discovery of the fossils of past species to raise the specter of human extinction. For the very reason that existing institutions were powerless against such a crisis, Shelley uses it to imagine a new geopolitical system. Even when, as in The Last Man, no system or state can actually ensure the survival of the species, a new basis for evaluating the success or failure of government is evident: promoting life has become the ultimate political program.

The developments in biology and geology that shape such stories are unquestionably transformative, yet they do not occur in a vacuum. They are also intensified expressions of new forms of secular historical consciousness that can likewise be seen in Constantin François de Volney’s Ruins, or Mediation on the Revolutions of Empires, which spread out a landscape on which the impermanence of every present regime could be read in the skeletal remains of the past. As such, scientific theories of the forces at work in the creation and destruction of life forms do not simply inform politics; they are themselves political. The sciences could no more avoid framing natural processes in political metaphors (as is clear in Georges Cuvier’s description of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions as revolutions or, later, Charles Darwin’s analysis of the laws governing the polity of nature or Ernst Haeckel’s image of cells as citizens of the body) than political philosophy could avoid speaking of the state as an organism or of mass uprising as an epidemic. Rather than thinking of politics as importing a biological vocabulary in order to naturalize power, we might follow Georges Canguilhem’s suggestion that politics borrows from biology what it has already lent to it (Knowledge of Life 72). Life surfaced as a paramount concern of science in part because it was already becoming a paramount concern—and the definitive authorization—of politics.

Though Foucault’s seminal 1976–78 lectures at the Collège de France do not fully explain the historical impetus behind this biopolitical turn, Malthus himself offers a hint. He opens his argument concerning the necessity of regulatory checks to human reproduction with an ambivalent reference to that tremendous phenomenon in the political horizon, the French Revolution, an event that inaugurated a period big with the most important changes . . . that would in some measure be decisive of the future fate of mankind (67). What is striking here is not just Malthus’s intimation that the revolutionary mob is a natural outgrowth of surplus population. While his concern to limit the birth rate of the poor has a definite political subtext, his rhetoric also reveals—even at the level of metaphor—a conception of governance already irreversibly altered by the Revolution. The symbolic and practical consequences of this event cannot be understood solely as the passage of absolute power out of the body of the sovereign and into the disembodied realm of modern institutions.⁸ The dramatic replacement of monarchical succession with the principle of popular sovereignty, as Eric Santner has argued, also required a substantial reformulation of the body politic. This imaginative necessity is written into the figural dimensions of Malthus’s argument, over and above the logic of his claims. As the Essay on Population suggests, implicitly equating revolutionary transformation with the image of the reproductive body (big with . . . changes), the political future could only be understood as a new incarnation of power in an insistently fleshly form.

The new importance of organic life, in other words, must be understood at least partly in terms of the necessity of investing power in an embodied populace.⁹ If it was clear even to so conservative a commentator as Thomas Carlyle that dealing with [the] masses in the wake of the Revolution and in the era of wage labor would henceforth be the sole point and problem of Government, it was equally clear that these masses were not just an inert object to be acted upon; Carlyle endows the people with sinews and indignation (French Revolution 30). Like the filthy mass of muscular flesh assembled by Frankenstein only to make demands that its creator refuses to meet, the specter of popular uprising simultaneously appears as an energetic body and as a collective subject asserting new political agency. Such imaginative incarnations of the populace shape something more substantial than the projected target of a regime of social control. To account for their impact, one might turn to Santner’s analysis of modern political theology, which provides a crucial supplement to Foucault in demonstrating that sovereignty does not disappear at the moment when discipline and biopower emerge.¹⁰ What is most urgently at stake in the intensities surrounding biopolitics, as Santner suggests, is not simply the biological life or health of populations but the ‘sublime’ life-substance of the People, who, at least in principle, become the bearers of sovereignty (Royal Remains xi–xii).¹¹ This process of creating a new popular body seems obviously connected to the rise of nationalism—and in some respects, it is. Yet, in practice, by situating the field of political action in mass life, it yielded collectivities that necessarily exceeded national identity. Rather than producing a quantity of merely human life denuded of political subjectivity, it extended the scope of political meaning beyond those who claim what Hannah Arendt would call the right to have rights (296). It is for this reason that the peculiar excessiveness of humanity came to constitute not only the essential problem on which states were founded and societies organized but also the basis for contesting their organization.

There is thus a double process at work in the politics of population. On the one hand, the social dangers attributed to surplus population promoted imperial expansion as a release valve for demographic pressures in the metro-pole, creating blank spaces on the world map where, as Bauman puts it, local congestion can be globally unloaded (35). On the other, the imaginative construction of a global mass of humanity in such texts as Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness also produced forms of transnational affect (often, affects quite incompatible with liberal-humanist sympathy) that challenged imperialism. On the one hand, the scientific analysis of populations is clearly tied to the rise of biological theories of race and to overt and covert forms of state racism. On the other, it also facilitated an evolutionary paradigm of human development through which race loses ontological permanence and, at least theoretically, becomes untethered from nationality. The accumulation of life in excess of its means indeed provided the basis for most of the theories of organic and historical transformation for which the nineteenth century is known, from natural selection to class struggle. There is a fine irony in the fact that Darwin was able to deduce the origin of new life forms and the mechanism behind their development from the very problem that, in Malthus’s view, made progress impossible. The theory of natural selection, premised on a constant disproportion between population and subsistence, identified the process by which every species gradually approaches perfection in the fatal ratio that, for Malthus, implied the imperfection of the human condition. A similar irony makes demographic pressure, for Marx and Engels, into a catalyst for new forms of political solidarity that arise dialectically out of the haphazard massing together of so many living bodies in the service of capital. In fiction, too, it provides an impetus to nearly every plot and grants the novel new political agency—so much so that the industrialist W. R. Greg, attempting to explain the pull of Chartism, socialism, and communism, was also compelled to account for a new class of novels, of which ‘Oliver Twist’ and ‘Mary Barton’ are the type, novels that turn social insufficiency and struggle into history’s conditions (Enigmas of Life 35). The ambiguously defined surplus of humanity assumed its importance—scientifically, politically, and not least aesthetically—for the very reason that it challenged both the primacy of the individual and the establishment of a coherent body politic.

It is above all through narrative and aesthetic forms that the biology of species, mass politics, and literature come together around this dual challenge. Literature, not coincidentally, acquired its current meaning—no longer a term for gentlemanly knowledge of classics but a broad descriptor for the modern art of writing, with the novel occupying a prominent position—and asserted its own social urgency at the moment when population politics came to the fore.¹² There are several reasons for turning to nineteenth-century literature, and to the novel in particular, to consider how this new biopolitical imagination took shape. For one, fiction over the course of the century takes on a dual character, both mass media and serious art. This status situates the novel as a material effect and medium of the mass population through which it circulates (disseminated more widely than ever, thanks to cheaper modes of publication and distribution, especially in the case of serial fiction) and, at the same time, as a prestigious and socially consequential form—cited by journalists and social scientists on matters concerning the organization of collective life. In fact, the simultaneous surge of state-sponsored demographic, sociological, and medical studies, as Oz Frankel has shown, relied on a notably literary supplement to the avalanche of printed numbers Ian Hacking describes; such studies borrowed fiction’s material and formal strategies, from serialization to free indirect discourse, to give numbers meaning and to cultivate a readership for the publications of a newly prolific government.¹³ Literature and criticism, in turn, announce their aims in conversation with statistics, with George Eliot famously championing art as the higher mode of social knowledge, more attuned to the forms of human aggregation indicated by such terms as the masses. Comparing the two in The Natural History of German Life, she favors realist art, wagering its legitimacy on its proximity to the the life of the people and its promise to make mass life affectively graspable.¹⁴ At the most basic level, literature’s self-definition, its claims to autonomy and to political engagement, and its concrete formal strategies can be seen as establishing and responding to the new significance of population. Moreover, in mediating population and giving the concept aesthetic force and narrative consequence, it mobilizes a new political logic strangely energized by the contradictions within it.

If population management produces the problem it has to manage, then literary form, by yielding a constant excess of life, helps make that problem into the organizing principle of political thought. And if there is, as I have been suggesting, a double process at work in the politics of population, so too is an aesthetic double process operative even in the crisis of perception dramatized in Wordsworth’s and De Quincey’s reflections on the city. On the one hand, as we saw at the outset, the representation of urban modernity produced narratives in which human aggregation brings about a collapse of distinctions. The quantity and diversity of social stimuli paradoxically yield an impression of overwhelming homogeneity: thousands upon thousands of people and things appear melted and reduced, as if by the heat of industrial blast furnaces, To one identity, by differences / That have no law, no meaning and no end (The Prelude 703–5). On the other hand, the demand to accommodate human life on an expanding scale called forth new efforts—at once poetic and political—to give constituency to the flux and heterogeneity of collective existence. If Wordsworth and De Quincey endured the difficulty of restoring the endless stream of men and moving things to their proper proportions, their very failure to do so registers a new aesthetic project. The art of writing found fresh purpose in generating a flood of human and cultural material that no existing subject, family, institution, or state—indeed, nothing other than literature itself—could contain. Reacting to a sense of aesthetic or figural excess, nineteenth-century criticism establishes an implicit association between literary and demographic surplus. (Indeed, it is worth considering how much of critical practice, then and now, has been tacitly conditioned by the axiom of redundant population.) The common complaint that novels were oversaturating their plots and their prose with unnecessary figures, trivial details, and valueless lives attests to Malthusian premises. The conception of an overpopulated world shaped fiction’s reception such that the excessive qualities of literary forms and styles effectively came to be experienced as crowding. This reaction is ideological, but it mediates something real. In overpopulating the forms on which it relied, literature not only developed alternative modes of perception and narration but also made it possible to imagine collective life in radically revised terms.

Mass Aesthetics and the Stakes of Literary Demography

The strategic overcrowding of narrative space necessarily alters literature at the level of form. The bildungsroman could no longer tell the story of an individual’s development without exposing that individual to an unending struggle for existence, beginning—as the opening of Oliver Twist suggests—at the moment of birth. Domestic fiction could no longer test the sexual morality of a character like Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and then reward her with marriage and social mobility. The sensation novels of the 1860s turned the marriage plot’s solution into a problem; as Wilkie Collins, Mary Braddon, and Ellen Wood demonstrated in their shocking tales of bigamy and multiple identities proliferating at the heart of the domestic sphere, the sexual contract and the household offered no plausible refuge from the systemic stresses of a populous world. What Malthus termed redundant population thus provided the precondition for a range of new genres, including the city novel, industrial realism, sensation fiction, and naturalism, all of which developed uniquely literary strategies for managing the novel’s own demography.

This book will show that nineteenth-century literary texts at once presuppose and challenge the principle of population. To begin with, they dynamize social existence around the pressures of aggregation and the production of human redundancy. While Gaskell earnestly laments the uneven distribution of the means of life in Mary Barton, her heroine’s story can commence only at the moment when the Barton household is no longer sufficient to sustain its inhabitants. And while Dickens mocks the father of population science in Hard Times by naming one of Gradgrind’s sons Malthus, his plots nonetheless hinge on the general problem of human reproduction outstripping its material resources. Indeed, the protagonists of virtually every Dickens novel enter the world as surplus lives: Oliver, whose birth in the workhouse represents a new burden imposed on the parish (Oliver Twist 2); Esther Summerson, raised to feel sensible of filling a place . . . which ought to have been empty (Bleak House 31); Pip, treated by his authoritarian sister as if [he] had insisted on being born and failed to join his parents and five brothers in the churchyard (Great Expectations 23). Their stories do not solve the problem by granting each character a place she or he had formerly been denied. The human surplus from which they spring continuously over-populates the novel. For every Oliver rescued from the workhouse, there is inevitably a hapless fellow orphan who dies off the page; for every Esther who finds a home, a homeless urchin Jo singled out only as a casualty of a citywide epidemic—an arbitrary instance of mass death. The absence of a ready-made solution appears at once an insurmountable dilemma and the condition for imagining the future of common existence: a social state prepared to serve unmet human demands. In setting itself this task—seeking to overcome the vast gap between the given and the possible—fiction began to plot conflicts on an entirely different scale from the routinely described antagonism between self and society.

Attending to the novel’s part in rethinking the relationship between the biological functions of the species and the organization of political communities entails some revision of critical models. In the first place, it changes fiction’s subject. Novel theory since Georg Lukács and sociological accounts of novel history since