Laura Smith
The Monsters We Fight: An Introduction
As a part of popular culture, monsters are truly the undead. Every generation has their iconic monsters, and these cultural archetypes revitalize themselves along with the times. Recently, Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda have introduced comic book readers to Maika and Zinn in their series Monstress, an ongoing serial comic that is approaching its twenty-third issue. Not falling into the traditional monster categories (werewolf/shapeshifter, vampire, witch, ghost, etc.), Zinn is a monstrum, living inside Maika (its lifeforce tied to hers) and embodying the characteristics of many monstrous figures. Zinn vampirically feeds off the life forces of others and can take control of Maika’s body in order to do so, emerging as a mass of tentacles from the end of her left arm, which is missing at the elbow. Much like other immortal monsters, this monstrum is both a part of the past (a mysterious race of monsters of unknown origins that fed on the inhabitants of this world before being expelled) and the present, as the monstrum’s awakening in Maika might signal a reopening of the sealed portal between their worlds. At the center of this conflict is Maika’s own ancestor, the Shaman Empress, who breached the worlds to join her blood to the monstrum, passing it down through generations of descendants and dormant until now. Desperate to survive and remove the monstrum from her body and mind, Maika must discover her late mother’s secrets and uncover her own mysterious ancestry, rediscovering the past for the sake of the future.
New monsters such as Zinn often depart sharply from their predecessors, finding their own identity in order to succeed in a changed world. However, they still invoke the flavor of their predecessors, reminding readers of previous stories and characters. Scholars such as Nina Auerbach and W. Scott Poole have taken historicizing approaches to monsters, examining how they emerge to reflect the current cultural milieu, sometimes serving as metaphors, sometimes adapting more organically to the current moment, but all existing as “personifications of their age” (Auerbach 3)[1]. Auerbach in particular discusses the vampire as a manifestation of societal fears and anxieties, citing the vampire’s “supreme adaptability” as their main power (8). If this is true, what does Zinn (and perhaps more importantly, Zinn and Maika’s developing narrative) reflect about our cultural moment? In one of the early reviews for Monstress, Caitlin Rosberg comments that the liminal elements of the comic are a core part of its strength and attraction for readers: “This sense of in-between-ness—the book neither traditionally Western nor manga, paced like a novel but drawn like a comic reviews —makes for an incredibly intriguing read.” The characters, especially Zinn and Maika, are similarly complex and neither the good nor evil; the comic takes the difficult middle path of creating and addressing conflicts that—like many in our world—have no clear right answer. There are no angels or devils here.
Monstress stands out from other monstrous texts for the way that it addresses the monstrum as the center of a historical and present conflict. Due to the monstrum’s vampiric feeding needs and its ability to use and destroy her body, Maika cannot possibly romanticize this creature. However, it is also literally a part of her body, mind, and ancestry; she cannot simply reject the monstrum as evil and Other, nor can she deny her own responsibility in both historically carrying and presently addressing this problem. Instead, she must dig into their shared past and the alternative narratives that shape it, searching for answers that will help both her and the monstrum understand their relationship and the limitations and possibilities it contains. Monstress combines elements of haunting and monstrosity in order to consider how the misunderstood or neglected past materializes as uncontrolled monstrosity in the present, and how we must understand the past in order to proceed towards the future. Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda, the author and artist respectively, create a comic that refuses to follow a linear timeline: illustrations reference past and future events, a cat provides historical narration to his students, flashbacks illuminate Maika’s shrouded back-story, and a dream/memory space seems to step outside of time all together, a space where all history is now. These elements of non-linear time drive the plot and provide the key to Maika’s survival. As both she and the monstrum discover the origins of their entwined ancestral past (which foregrounds the current political situation), their ability to navigate their problematic relationship increases. Both her future/destiny and her mysterious past/ancestry are embodied within her and she must reckon with them not only as an aspect of her life, but as a literal aspect of her being, raising questions about personal responsibility. Monstress’s use of monstrosity and non-linear plot elements addresses societal anxieties about seemingly unsolvable conflicts and experiments with solutions that prioritize evaluating the past as present in order to reconceptualize the future. If monster stories are a classic space for culturally processing how we deal with conflict and difference, Monstress provides a different solution than other stories. Where other stories might rely on romanticizing or demonizing the monster, Monstress explores the non-linearity of history and the complexity of identity in order to find a path towards survival.
Haunting: The Importance of the Living Past
While vampires and other immortal figures might be timely, their potential for age also engages with elements of historical haunting, conflicts of the past that stubbornly continue to live. In her work on ghosts, Avery Gordon characterizes haunting as a “something-to-be-done” (xvi), a theoretical framework that will characterize the mobilization of the past in the developing narrative arc of the story. When we meet Maika in issue one, she is being haunted by the monstrum (it lacks a name at this point), her past of enslavement, and her lack of knowledge about her mother’s death. This haunting is particularly literalized in the text because the monstrum does not appear in its corporeal form until the beginning of issue three. For the first two issues, we see only the specter of its effects: Maika’s physical weakness after breaking the other Arcanics out of prison, the knowledge that she killed one of the boys that she saved, and rumors about an important magical mask. When the actual image of the monstrum coming out of her arm arrives, along with the response, “Demon,” the readers already have a complex view of both the monstrum and its relationship to Maika (Liu and Takeda Issue 3). It has given her the power to save others, and also demanded the power to kill the ones it just saved. Somewhat led by the fox-girl Kippa, who is something of a moral center in the book for both Maika and the readers, we are led to see Maika as both selfish and kind, dangerous and a savior. Rather than being permitted to make judgments about the nature of the monstrum or Maika, the way that the information is delivered emphasizes the notion of haunting, allowing us to bear witness to a complex reality that conveys both the necessity of “something-to-be-done” and the complexity of unraveling this tangled situation.
From the beginning of the story, it is apparent to both Maika and the readers that the key to her survival lies in finding answers in the past, where Maika and the monstrum’s ancestry intertwine. Poole, in his historicization of American monsters, argues for the study of monsters as a way to think outside of conservative models that view history as a linear sequence of dates that “[become] dead cultural weight the present must carry on its back rather than living events in conversation and debate” (xvii). For Poole, monsters in popular culture literalize the concept that history is alive—or undead—and our relationship to it evolves and must be continually re-evaluated. This theory is evident in recent popular culture monsters, such as vampire Bill Compton in True Blood and undead Delphine LaLaurie in American Horror Story: Coven, both of which engage with anxieties about continuing racism and the specter of slavery in modern day America, a modern day that often ignores systemic racism by reassuring itself that racism was put to bed with the Civil Rights Act. These immortal characters productively contort our perception of time because they are constructed both historically and as a present-day problem, leading audiences to understand the non-linear presence of the past. Monstress takes a similarly historicized approach, but the history is abstracted due to the completely fictional world of the comic, and the fact that the monstrum is not an easy metaphor or allegory for an existing cultural problem. Following in the tradition of much science fiction and fantasy, the fictional complexities of a fantastical world fulfill a visionary potential by allowing the reader to approach the text with fresh eyes and avoid the snap judgments that are inevitable in alternative universe-style fiction, such as the aforementioned Bill Compton.
In Monstress in particular, the structure of the comic becomes critical to the creation of the non-linear timeline for the reader. Rather than the structured flashbacks or memories present in much narrative fiction, the visual presentation of the story allows for smooth but sudden switches between the present day and the past, creating a story that takes place simultaneously in the past and present, an assemblage of moments throughout time that come together to create a picture of a world. Early in issue one, one half of the page shows Maika with her best friend and lover, Tuya, and the other half shows her imprisoned in her cell in the Cumaea’s dungeon, chained at the neck. (The Cumaea are the human witches who have demonized and enslaved Arcanics because they can gain power from their dead or dismembered bodies.) On the left side of the layout, the colors are light, and multiple elements convey an atmosphere of freedom: the movement of the horses, Tuya’s flying eagle, the other birds in the distant and open sky. Suddenly, she is back in her claustrophobic cage, a chain around her neck, dark corners under a harsh yellow light, and the cruel expression of the guard mirroring Tuya’s concerned gaze. We read Tuya’s last line, “And you’ll be so alone,” and suddenly she is. The juxtaposition of these scenes leads the reader to understand the complexity of Maika’s emotions while in the cell, doubting her decision but still feeling like she had to find answers, regret mingling with determination, the loss of a loving friend emphasizing the bite of her jailer’s cruelty. The juxtaposition of these and other scenes makes use of the affordances of comics as a genre to efficiently and artistically communicate complex character and narrative development. The readers viscerally and visually understand how this past moment intermingles with and characterizes Maika’s present.
The series also includes non-narrative elements that serve to both build the world and further mix past and future. Perhaps taking a cue from Poole (or perhaps from Tolkien), Liu ends many of her issues with a history lesson from “the esteemed Professor Tam Tam, former first record-keeper of the Is’hami Temple, and learned contemporary of Namron Black Claw” (Liu and Takeda Issue 2). Functioning within the story, which positions cats as the world’s historians, these one-page classroom scenes provide important contextualizing information while still remaining within the narrative. The scenes always come at the end of the issue, so each one serves to re-contextualize the events that just occurred. These scenes both require that the reader think reflectively on the past issue(s) and positions the reader as a student within the text. The classroom setting and simplified art provide a stable baseline of knowledge for the reader in this shifting and multivalent world.
Conversely, one of the most visually striking elements of the text is the beautiful and exquisitely detailed issue covers (chapter pages in the bound volumes). These one-page illustrations frequently portray imagery from the future of the comic, on one hand offering foreshadowing, and on the other hand building a library of visual themes that strengthen the imagery of the world through symbols that gradually gain meaning. This illustration, the cover for issue four, shows an etching of the Shaman Empress, Maika’s ancestor who brought Zinn back into the world and bound it to her bloodline. We also see Zinn’s eye and its reaching tentacles surrounding Maika, covered in gold etching. One of the most notable elements of this image is that none of this imagery has yet been present in the main narrative of the story. Readers do not yet know who the Shaman Empress is, or what she has to do with Zinn and Maika, and yet here we see Zinn as the all-seeing connection between Maika and her ancestor, joining and embracing both. Readers do, however, recognize the imagery from the mask, Maika’s dream world, and even the interior of the witch’s stronghold, and the proliferation of images both raises questions and points to connections that will become important as the story continues. Together with the historical lessons, these images bookend many issues, starting by pointing towards the future, and ending by looking towards the past, creating a growing library of knowledge and thematic imagery that builds a dynamic world where the past, present, and future are all simultaneously in the process of becoming.
The imagery in the comic is notable for making use of a variation of steampunk imagery, which mixes and remixes images of past and present. Traditionally, steampunk is the combination of mechanical and Victorian elements and often includes clocks, mechanical gears and simple machines, Victorian style clothing, monocles, etc. Texts that use steampunk imagery, such as the popular show Penny Dreadful, commonly engage with historical and magical plot elements, as well as issues of modernity. Monstress, of course, does not take place in any variation of our world, so the steampunk imagery has a slightly different look and effect. Like the image above, much of the imagery references both Egyptian-esque hieroglyphics and patterns that resemble computer circuitry. Though the world at first seems to be purely magical (and non-technological), elements that we would consider scientific slowly begin to enter into the story. In issue five, one of the Cumaean witches, Sophia, has been brought back to life using lilium (essentially the life force of dead Arcanics and Ancients, their animal god parents). Though the witches publicly espouse religious rhetoric that bases their power on the blessings of the Goddess Marium, Sophia disagrees: “I need to understand what the Mother Superior altered. Unlike some, I don’t believe in blessings from Marium. Something was done. Something that can be tested” (Liu and Takeda Issue 5). Sophia reveals the unexpected complexity of the magic in the world, and implies that, like what we would consider science, the witches study and test their magic and magical substances. Later, in issue sixteen, Maika and Zinn (who is now named) have gained entrance to one of the ancient homes of the Shaman Empress, Maika’s ancestor who brought Zinn back into the world. Especially since the visual connections between the Shaman Empress and ancient imagery have been strong, it comes as a shock that the home is protected by robots armed with chainsaws and guns, and contains the remains of devices that are unmistakably technological (in our terms). As they are attacked, Zinn comments, “…this is…quite…the deterioration…of your programming,” emphasizing that these are computer-based robots, not magically animated metal (Liu and Takeda Issue 16). This scene reverses what readers would expect, as we find what looks like magic in the present, and what looks like unused technology in the past. Though we do not fully understand the reasons for or the progression of knowledge in the world, the reversal asks the audience to re-evaluate what we view and value as knowledge in our own world.
Though the imagery reminds readers of steampunk, the connection ultimately becomes something of a red herring: Within the text, the imagery that combines magic and science is not just an aesthetic juxtaposition, but a reflection of the actual development of techno-magical elements in the world. In their study of Latin American graphic novels, Edward King and Joanna Page discuss the common narrative that science is “purified” from nature and culture: “By strategies such as ‘purification’, a rational, scientific modernity sought to sever itself definitively from the pre-modern condition of tradition and superstition” (45). They continue, however, that “scholars are increasingly finding that technology is shot through with spiritual and religious meaning” and discuss how Latin American graphic novels are participating in that “culture of enchantment” (46-7). Monstress similarly takes on the belief that science and technology are separate from culture, beliefs, prejudices, or history. In this universe, technology has been created, experimented with, and incorporated differently into the lives of the people as time continued, without the rejection of spirituality, magic, ancestry, or nature, which de-naturalizes the way that we view progress and technology in our own world and asks us to evaluate the unspoken assumptions that we hold. By continually remixing reader expectations of past and future, both within the narrative and through the format of the comic itself, Monstress, fantastically enacting what Poole argues for in his introduction, creates a world that argues for and demonstrates the necessity of a dynamic understanding of history, of past and future, of knowledge creation, and of memory. Reflecting on Gordon’s “something-to-be-done,” the haunting in this story contains the weight of the unknown past, and spurs Maika and Zinn on in their quest, which requires that they view the past with new eyes in order to survive in the present.
Staying with the Trouble: Survival Through Narrative
In addition to manifestations of fear and haunting, undead monsters are also fundamentally narrative figures, and their role within texts positions them in relation to society and allows other characters (often more human characters) to deal with them directly. While monsters in the past were often defeated by main characters, more recent monsters have been handled with more careful attention, perhaps reflecting changes in how society seeks to deal with cultural monsters. Several popular narratives, especially evident in the Twilight saga, have fallen back on tropes like true love as an automatic solution to complex problems (that, and a narrative change where vampires can survive on animal blood). Similarly, shows like True Blood have an imbedded solution (in this case, the ability to produce synthetic blood). However, as this generation of undead narratives have evolved, the complexity of the potential relationships between humans and the immortal undead demands to be explored. In True Blood, can Sookie forget that Bill and Eric have killed and eaten innocent people? In AHS: Coven, can LaLaurie be forgiven for her egregious crimes? At least for the latter narrative, the horrific solution of the show is one of cultural assimilation and amnesia; hence the “horror show” theme. However, for narratives less horrifically inclined, monster narratives provide a testing ground where we can explore how to handle problems that seem unsolvable, such as cultural and racial differences in an increasingly globalized world, or environmental concerns. From this angle, what we might seek to find in monstrous narratives is not just the manifestation of societal fears, but also a reflection of the way that we as a society seek to understand and address these problems. If, as Poole argues, monsters keep history undead, then the heart of the conflict in any monster narrative is how to re-evaluate historical/present problems to move towards a better future.
Monstress, again taking advantage of its form as a serial comic (with new, short installments coming out every month or so), shows not the linear progression of improvement that a shorter narrative might demonstrate, but instead has time to show the growth and decay, the trial and error, the successes and failures as Zinn and Maika attempt to learn to survive. To borrow from Donna Haraway, Maika and Zinn must “stay with the trouble,” a phrase which Haraway defines:
“staying with the trouble requires learning to be truly present, not as a vanishing pivot between awful or edenic pasts and apocalyptic or salvific futures, but as mortal critters entwined in myriad unfinished configurations of places, times, matters, meanings” (1).
Especially because they share the same body, Maika and Zinn have no choice but to be “truly present” with each other, constantly struggling to deal with their conflicting needs and desires, and the constraints of both biology and society placed on each of them. They neither worship nor vilify the past, but instead search for answers that will help them understand themselves, how to survive, and how they must respond to the looming threats that stand before them.
Returning to the theme of non-linear time, Zinn and Maika find a communal dream space that seems to be partially located in Maika’s memory, partially in Zinn’s, and partially something else altogether. This dream space is outside of time, a place where memories speak and reveal hidden truths, where an unknown past is revealed. Zinn and Maika can communicate on this different plane, learning about each other while isolated and not tempted/confused by the complications of the outside world. At first, Zinn understands this as Maika invading his mind and memories: “How dare you!” (Liu and Takeda Issue 3).
However, as the dream space continues to be used (especially in the first six issues where their relationship is most volatile), readers learn that it is as much Maika’s memory as Zinn’s, and in fact contains a young ghost of Maika, a ghost who is able to show Zinn whose body it inhabits. The Shaman Empress temple imagery both foreshadows their time in Pontus in later issues, and establishes that this is a space where their shared past/ancestry is coming alive. Seeming somewhat like a literalization of Haraway’s “staying with the trouble,” this space combines the past, present, and future, taking all into account and allowing them to be seen as they are
This dream space makes critical changes in how Zinn and Maika work together, allowing them to establish some small particles of empathy for each other, and teaching them that both their pasts and futures are inextricably intertwined. The first time Zinn appears out of Maika’s arm, he responds to the threat of attack and to his own hunger, hoping to handle both problems at once. Maika is able to stop Zinn from consuming the woman, but it argues with her, “As for you: You will let me go” (Liu and Takeda Issue 3). It thinks that she holds it captive; it does not know that she would quite readily give it up if she could. The next time that that they face what seems like certain doom, they know they must work together because of what they have learned in the dream space, which also gives them a space for communication when Maika has been placed into an artificial coma: At least for today, they can be allies. However, Maika—rightfully wary of Zinn’s choices—demands temporary but total control, in exchange for her telling it its name, which it has forgotten. This bargain that they strike may be a large improvement over the earlier lack of control or coordination, but it comes at a cost for Maika.
At the end of the battle, she has lost the other half of her left arm, evidently sacrificed in some way to feed Zinn, or as a sacrifice for wielding powers that she is not meant to control. Though her intentions are good, she tries to dominate Zinn and literally loses another part of herself. What we learn in this episode is that there is the possibility for them to work together, but it must be truly together. If she continues to lose body parts, not only will she lose her ability to survive in a dangerous world, but Zinn will lose both its host and its connection to the past, which it desperately wants to remember.
As the comic continues, their ability to work together continues to improve, especially as their common enemies continue to hunt them. However, the text continues to deny the readers the smooth progress that other narratives provide, and that we hope to see when facing real world issues. In issue twelve, they are both weakened and poisoned, and Zinn needs to feed if they are going to survive. However, Maika will not allow him to feed, even on the people who have captured them: “I know what you want and the answer is no” (Liu and Takeda Issue 12). Echoing the scene from early on, when Zinn’s uncontrollable hunger led him to eat the boy they just saved, Zinn is hungry enough that he attempts and succeeds in taking over Maika’s body, desperate to eat. As seen in the image below, Maika calls Zinn a murderer, while Zinn defends the decision, arguing that “survival is not gentle” (Issue 12). This scene makes it clear that they have fundamentally different priorities, as well as different bodily needs. Yes, here Zinn saved them, but Maika feels that she is turning into even more of a monster than she already feels she is. This scene, which seems to show so little progress after twelve issues, emphasizes to the reader that conflicting perspectives of this magnitude cannot be solved easily, simply, or quickly. Unlike other vampire and monster narratives that we encounter, Zinn cannot be either romanticized or demonized. On one hand, he is heartless, unempathetic, and cruel; a murderer. On the other hand, these are his needs, and they have no choice but to continue sharing a body.
In the following issue (thirteen), Maika and Zinn find themselves in Pontus, a coastal, refugee-friendly town where they are tasked with repairing the protection shield that will save the city from the approaching Cumaean armies. This situation, which involves Maika and Zinn working together to find a solution in the Shaman Empress’s abandoned Pontus home, seems like the moment where Zinn will be redeemed. Together, they will save this city. The moment of potential redemption is not unusual in monster stories, either in a particular narrative or over time. Speaking of another uncontrollably violent monster, Erica McCrystal historicizes the Mr. Hyde figure, tracking his evolution from a “monster villain” (the expression of societal fear) to a “monster hero” (society’s potential savior):
Instead of rejecting the Gothic monster, these works embrace Hyde and make productive use of his violence to thwart other, greater threats to humanity. The transformation of Hyde into a heroic figure rather than a villain suggests a demand and desperate need for a monster that can combat these larger evils. Because the monster hero has fewer moral qualms and enhanced physical abilities, he is an effective, strong fighter. Acting as a saviour, the monster hero also has, to some extent, humanity. The human within the monster – his compassion, sympathy, and caring – encourages him to act on behalf of others rather than for himself, propelling him to hero status. (239)
In this scene where Maika and Zinn must work together to fix the shield and save the town, the text leads readers to believe that this is the moment when Zinn will become the “monster hero,” but that does not happen. Even though Zinn and Maika are working together more effectively, it does not have the ability to suddenly dismiss its biological and uncontrollable urge to eat, and a prone, dying, and powerful life force was too much for it to resist. For Zinn and Maika, this is an enormous setback, not only to the city of Pontus, but to their tentative trust.
Now, they must accomplish an even harder task: defeating the old god that the Cumaean witch has successfully brought to destroy Pontus. In this, finally, they find a moment of unity and are able to use their combined strength to succeed:
As Maika struggles to control the magical mask, Zinn knows that she is not strong enough (and Maika does too). Instead of abandoning her as he has done before, he offers to help: “…together…maybe…” (Liu and Takeda Issue 18). And, indeed, as the next page shows, their combined efforts succeed: Each wearing one half the mask, their combined powers unite and the image of the Shaman Empress at the center of the five known realms (of which this world is only one) appears, echoing a similar chart shown to us by Professor Tam Tam, which showed the same image, but with Ubasti the cat goddess at the center. Like other images in the text, this image both signals their success in accessing their shared power, and indicates that there is far more to learn about the Shaman Empress and what she sought to accomplish by bringing Zinn back into this realm. This sequence of events also communicates that Zinn will never be the “monster hero,” because it cannot change its nature. But, together, they will continue to fight to survive.
A Conclusion to this paper, if not to the story:
Though I have highlighted the setbacks that Maika and Zinn have faced, the many harmful and devastating moments they have had to overcome, the critical drive of the comic series is that they are, in fact, surviving, and they are helping Kippa and others survive along the way. The journey that Maika and Zinn must take in order to survive demonstrates the perils and the inevitable failures of overcoming conflicts. They demonstrate the “something-to-be-done,” the need for answers and progress, but also the potential pain of “staying with the trouble.” Liu and Takeda demonstrate that real problems of conflicting perspectives and needs (even biological ones, which might reflect on current difficulties between humans and the other species we share our planet with) do not have an easy solution and cannot be simplified. As important as love and empathy are to building a world community, we must be willing to persevere through imperfect solutions and devastating failures, prioritizing the survival of everyone, not just those who fit easily into dominant ideologies.
The
conflict resolution demonstrated by both the comic itself and by Maika and
Zinn’s journey is particularly palpable when compared to the other models of
conflict resolution presented to the reader by the text: Cumaean witches
demonize the Arcanics in order to justify their exploitation and torture,
create a common enemy, and consolidate power. The Dawn and Dusk courts, which
should be able to unite to defend the Arcanics, instead are divided by
factionalism. Independent cities seek only to protect their own and independent
agents hope to use this moment to achieve personal goals. While Maika and Zinn
are certainly not saints, and have also made selfish and damaging decisions,
their shared body and—to some extent—their shared mind mandate that they find a
way to work together. As visionary fiction, this text asks us to consider our
mutual entanglements, our conflicting perspectives, and our shared
responsibility, and reflect on the necessity of staying with our trouble.
[1] Though the work is also inspired by Japanese manga and folkloric monsters, for this paper I will be placing Monstress in conversation with other popular culture monsters in the United States, since that is its main readership/distribution area.
Works Cited
Auerbach, Nina. Our Vampires, Ourselves. The University of Chicago Press, 1995.
Gordon, Avery F. Ghostly Matters. University of Minnesota Press, 1997.
Haraway, Donna J. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Cthulucene. Duke University Press, 2016.
King, Edward and Joanna Page. “Modernity and the (Re)enchantment of the World.” Posthumanism and the Graphic Novel in Latin America, UCL Press, 2017. JSTOR http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1rfzxnd.6.
Liu, Marjorie and Sana Takeda. Monstress, #1-18. Image Comics, 2015.
McCrystal, Erica. “Hyde the Hero: Changing the Role of the Modern-Day Monster.” University of Toronto Quarterly, vol. 87, no. 1, 2018, pp. 234-248. doi: 10.3138/utq.87.1.234.
Poole, W. Scott. Monsters in America: our historical obsession with the hideous and the haunting. Baylor University Press, 2011.
Rosberg, Caitlin. “Monstress captivates with its fusion of Western comics and manga.” The A.V. Club, 10 Nov. 2015,
https://aux.avclub.com/monstress-captivates-with-its-fusion-of-western-comics-1798286246. Accessed 27 April 2018.
Visionary Fiction: Fugitive World-Making and Ethnofuturisms 