534 College & Research Libraries May 2022 offer an interactive exchange … it makes an archival document accessible through imagined and engaged relations” (59). In Producing the Archival Body, she queers the archive in this way by introducing methods, forms of relation, and a deconstruction of time that call into question the privileging of certain archival practices over others. Lee concludes her book with hashtags such as #SayTheirNames, #BlackLivesMatter, #BlackTransLivesMatter, #BlackTransMovement, #MMIW, #MMIWG, #MMIWG2S, and #NoMoreStolenSisters (162). These hashtags follow discussions ranging from police brutal- ity against Black people in the United States and missing and murdered Indigenous women. Coincidentally, at the time of writing this review, the United States is following the case of Gabby Petito, a white woman who disappeared in the Grand Tetons of Wyoming following a dispute with her boyfriend. “Producing the Archival Body” arrives at a time where larger critical conversations are being held around the coverage of different bodies and challenge the roles archivists play not just as managers of history but as creators of history and the bodies it holds. Living in the Covid-19 pandemic and following these conversations and hashtags do not diminish the loss of Petito; rather, they bring up the uneven media coverage of miss- ing people, namely the lack of coverage of missing black, brown, and indigenous women. Producing the Archival Body will touch any archivist’s heart, as it is a well-crafted love letter to the field on how we can all do better in questioning our daily practices and reconstruct archives toward a liberatory framework. Lee holds true to her claim at the beginning of the introduction where she promises that “at the end of this book, you and I will both be differ- ent” (1).—Jade Levandofsky, University of California, Los Angeles Jeanie Austin. Library Services and Incarceration: Recognizing Barriers, Strengthening Access. Chicago, IL: ALA Neal-Schuman, 2021. 208p. Paper, $54.99 (ISBN 978-0-8389-4945-0). The ongoing crisis of mass incarceration and racialized, violent policing in the United States touches more aspects of our daily lives than many realize, and libraries are no exception. Library furniture built by exploited prison labor, book and information censorship, reference by mail requests, police presence in libraries as security, re-entry services for formerly incarcerated community members: these are just a small handful of the ways in which libraries and library workers are integrated into the carceral system in the United States. People experiencing incarceration are often marginalized or entirely omitted from discussions of censorship, both in popular and professional discourse, and library services for incarcerated people rarely make more than a brief appearance in LIS school curricula. There has never been a better time to correct these concerns. Although prison libraries and librarianship have been discussed and championed within the library profession for nearly a century now, Austin’s Library Services and Incarceration: Recognizing Barriers, Strengthening Access comes at a time of “deep introspection and critical engagement” [xi] for the LIS field; it charges us to not only rethink prison librarianship and information access, but also larger issues of incarceration in a society that imprisons more people than any other country in the world. The text is not only thorough and highly informa- tive, but powerful and reflective in its abolitionist approach. One of the greatest strengths of the book is its explicit linkage of past and present scholarship, not just in LIS, but in fields like surveillance studies, criminology, gender studies, critical carceral studies, law, and history. Book Reviews 535 This scholarship also includes, perhaps most importantly, the work and words of currently and formerly incarcerated people. Austin’s text, much like their job, is informed by the actual needs and demands of people experiencing incarceration, not just professional or academic literature. Library Services and Incarceration is structured in three parts: the first half of the book of- fers a critical and historical overview and analyses of carceral systems and library services for incarcerated people in the United States. The middle section focuses on information services technologies within carceral facilities, including an emphasis on the surveillance and punitive functions these technologies can serve. The second half of the book examines the practical implementation of programs based on the theory and historical analysis in the first half of the text. Austin looks to community groups outside of the library field that have been provid- ing information services and similar support to incarcerated people for decades, and to the informational needs as expressed by currently and formerly incarcerated people themselves. Austin’s text, as you might expect from this synopsis, is information-heavy, but it manages to be so without being dense or difficult to follow. Instead, it’s written to be accessible to both long-time LIS professionals as well as those with only a passing knowledge of library services and librarianship. Chapters are broken down into digestible sections, and each includes notes and references at the end. As someone who loves to go through citation lists to find other works to explore, this is perhaps one of my favorite formatting decisions; it encourages read- ers to seek out further research and connections to community groups. This is critical in the context of informational needs and services for people experiencing incarceration, a severely underresearched subject in LIS. Few library schools offer instruction specifically on prison librarianship, and even fewer have courses entirely about library services in carceral facilities (see the recent paper “Prison Librarianship and LIS Schools: Is There a Career Path?” by Patrick J. Raferty Jr., 2021, for a further study of this). My own introduction to this field was primarily through my program’s promotion of the SFPL Reference By Mail for incarcerated patrons internship run by Austin. Several of my classmates participated and were eager to share their experiences with it. Library Services and Incarceration gives this reader hope that a critical approach to prison librarianship and advocacy for information services in carceral facilities can become a more integrated and prominent part of LIS programs. Austin’s work serves as both a primer for understand- ing information access and service issues in the US carceral system and as a handbook for thoughtful, community-oriented, and liberatory practices and programs that can and have been implemented. Most importantly, Austin highlights the actual informational needs and issues of currently and formerly incarcerated people in their own words. As Austin dem- onstrates in their critical survey of LIS literature on these topics, these voices are frequently omitted from the discussion of information access and censorship even though they’re the voices we most need to hear. For anyone familiar with Austin’s work, Library Services and Incarceration is an excellent compendium and extension of their research. For those in LIS who are new to Austin or to prison librarianship in general, this book is a crucial resource. LIS programs should strongly consider incorporating this text into coursework, even if they don’t offer specific courses on prison librarianship. Library Services and Incarceration covers censorship, information access, and the informational needs of a frequently overlooked population. LIS professionals and practitioners owe it to themselves, their communities, and their patrons to be informed and 536 College & Research Libraries May 2022 aware of these issues, and I can think of no better text to begin that process than Library Services and Incarceration. Austin’s writing is powerful in its urgency and its liberatory promise. Their book encourages us to confront biases—both internal and external—and injustices, rather than shaming us for the sins of mass incarceration. As an abolitionist library worker and doctoral student, this book gives me hope for the future of LIS; it also reminds me that there is still so much to do.—Megan Riley, University of California, Los Angeles Jenn Shapland. My Autobiography of Carson McCullers. New York, NY: Tin House, 2020. 296p. Paper, $16.95 (ISBN: 978-1-951142-29-2). In my conversations with students interested in librarianship, I have noted a shared awe re- garding archival work and assembly. Archives and archivists’ work shimmer with frisson: the tension between the public and the personal, the privilege of accessing someone’s most private selves. And it is through the use of archives that hidden lives are made public, celebrated, or obscured. In the hands of a writer or filmmaker (see Todd Haynes’s new The Velvet Underground or Angelo Madsen Minax’s astonishing North by Current), there’s a collaborative relationship between creator and archi- vist negotiating with the past to curate and contextualize. There’s a call to create, a response, and a responsibility. Jenn Shapland’s My Autobiography of Carson McCullers is best de- scribed as a piece of braided nonfiction. Brief vignettes about Shapland’s life and research are intertwined with descriptions of letters, transcripts, photographs, and novels from the nine archival collections referenced. The narrative traverses time and location, landing the reader in the Ransom Center’s reading room and in the bathtub of McCullers’s child- hood home where Shapland spends a residency soaking, reading, and writing. The intimacy Shapland forges with the McCullers of the archives is deep, earnest, and compassionate. Conversations with librarians are not the focus of Shapland’s project, but archives are everywhere, from her own internship at the Ransom Center to her residency at the Carson McCullers Center for Writers and Musicians. The initial connection between Shapland and McCullers is sparked in an archive when Shapland uncovers a transcript of a session between McCullers and her therapist and likely lover, Dr. Mary Mercer. In it, McCullers recounted her boyfriend Reeves asking her at nineteen if she was a lesbian. She denied it, but admitted to intense relationships with women. Recognizing in Carson the queerness that shaped her own identity, Shapland set out to uncover as much as she could about McCullers’s love of women. Her McCullers was a lesbian and not, as her biographers have described her, a con- fused woman in a loving but starcrossed relationship with Reeves, the man she married twice. Shapland interrogates the erasure of queerness in the archives and in literary biography. Dr. Mercer herself “refused biographers permission to use [McCullers and Mercer’s] letters (those that existed). Her censorship was thorough” (40). Shapland recognizes Dr. Mercer’s erasure as a love letter to McCullers’s privacy, reading between the lines that Mary knew “Carson better than her biographers, better than so many of the people around her” (193). The nature of historical censorship, regardless of intent, is in sharp focus, as are intersecting representations of the writing life, chronic illness, mental health, alcoholism, self-care, and the trauma of being publicly queer when queerness in itself was considered an illness. My