See discussions, stats, and author profiles for this publication at: https://www.researchgate.

net/publication/338751828

‘King, Warrior, Magician, Lover’: Understanding expressions of care among

male prisoners

Article  in  European Journal of Criminology · January 2020

DOI: 10.1177/1477370819896207

CITATIONS READS

0 3,080

2 authors:

Ben Laws Elinor Lieber

University of Cambridge University of Cambridge
12 PUBLICATIONS   33 CITATIONS    2 PUBLICATIONS   7 CITATIONS   

SEE PROFILE SEE PROFILE

Some of the authors of this publication are also working on these related projects:

Emotions in Prison View project

All content following this page was uploaded by Ben Laws on 28 January 2020.

The user has requested enhancement of the downloaded file.

896207
research-article2020
EUC0010.1177/1477370819896207European Journal of CriminologyLaws and Lieber

Article

European Journal of Criminology

‘King, Warrior, Magician,

1­–19
© The Author(s) 2020
Article reuse guidelines:
Lover’: Understanding sagepub.com/journals-permissions
DOI: 10.1177/1477370819896207
https://doi.org/10.1177/1477370819896207
expressions of care among journals.sagepub.com/home/euc

male prisoners

Ben Laws and Elinor Lieber

University of Cambridge, UK

Abstract
Typologies of prison life in men’s establishments have tended to emphasize the most desolate
features of prison life such as aggression, violence, exploitation, and stark displays of individualism.
Without seeking to contradict these positions, we suggest that competing narratives of care
are also operating in male establishments in England and Wales. Through combining data from
two recent, but separate, semi-ethnographic studies of prison life in two prisons (total n =
43), we present a completely different kind of typology based around Moore and Gillette’s
(1990) archetypes of masculinity, called: ‘King’, ‘Warrior’, ‘Magician’, and ‘Lover’. This archetypal
framework foregrounds the role of care in prison and the different manifestations of communal
relations among prisoners. Building on recent developments in prison sociology that have
explored the nexus between imprisonment, interpersonal relations and masculinity (see Crewe,
2014), this article argues that care is a fundamental feature of prison life that takes on a wide
range of forms, including: paternal roles, intellectual expertise, information sharing and close
physical bonds. This complicates linear depictions of prison life that are emotionally stolid.

Keywords
Care, emotions, prison typology, archetypes

Introduction
In their landmark essay ‘Thieves, convicts and the inmate culture’, Irwin and Cressey
(1962) describe the social organization of prisoner subgroups. A particular strength of
this essay is the observation that ‘much of the inmate behaviour classified as part of the
prison culture is not peculiar to the prison at all’ and that it is the ‘fine distinction between

Corresponding author:
Ben Laws, Institute of Criminology, University of Cambridge, Sidgwick Avenue, Cambridge, CB3 9DA, UK.
Email: bwrl2@cam.ac.uk
2 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

“prison culture” and “criminal subculture” which seems to make understandable the fine
distinction between behaviour patterns of various categories of inmates’ (1962: 142). In
spite of this admirable balancing act between indigenous and imported factors, the lan-
guage and terminology used by the authors to describe these ‘types’ often essentialize the
most pejorative aspects of prisoner masculinity. For example, the authors speak of
‘hoods’, ‘toughs’, ‘gorillas’, and emasculate particular subgroups of prisoners who are
termed ‘fags’ and ‘queens’ (1962: 149). Although some of this work is a product of its
time, the linguistic register still appears in more recent accounts of prison life. Though
not a typology, Carceral’s (2006) autobiographical book includes chapters titled
‘Guerrilla Warfare’, ‘Wild West’, ‘Beat Down Crew’ and ‘The Zoo’. A recent typology
by Dirga, Lochmannová and Juříček (2015) in a Czech prison argues that prisoner rela-
tions revolve around power and control, and the authors categorize prisoners as ‘Kings’,
‘Fools’ and ‘Workhorses’. All of this language invokes images of imprisonment as unwa-
veringly barren, lawless and absent of care. That such categorizations still hold currency,
relatively unmodulated by the passage of time, suggests that they must accurately
describe some features of the prison environment. Indeed, prisons in England and Wales
have seen increases in violence in recent years (Ministry of Justice, 2019). Recent high-
profile disturbances in a number of prisons in England – including HMP Birmingham
and HMP Bedford – have signalled a far deeper problem of entrenched instability and
disorder (HMIP, 2018a, 2018b).
Though we do not seek to disavow such operational realities and challenges, we intro-
duce a different kind of typology in this article that seeks to complement pre-existing
accounts. This is necessary because most prisoners do not live in a perpetual state of fear.
And, even within the most Spartan accounts of prison life, alternative feeling scripts are
expressed. Indeed, a number of prisoner biographies convey textured and emotionally
differentiated reflections of prison life – even where the general tone remains decidedly
bleak (Boyle, 1977; James, 2003; Wyner, 2003). For example, Wyner (2003), writing in
the context of a women’s prison, relates the importance of joy and humour, which func-
tion as a kind of emotional catharsis: ‘we find ourselves in fits and giggles over the least
humorous thing as the tension we are holding in is released’ (2003: 114). Similarly,
Erwin James (2003) describes feeling tenderness and empathy towards a fellow prisoner
who was allegedly abused in a care home: ‘Toby sat with his head bowed as he told me
this. He started to tell me more, and then his upper body began to shudder, and I realized
he was crying. I understood that those tears had been a long time coming. I placed my
hand lightly on his shoulder, and I cried too’ (2003: 62).
Two existing typologies in the literature form an important context for this study and
warrant further discussion. The first typology, by Gresham Sykes (1958), is apposite
because it sets out to describe ‘the structure of social relationships’ rather than personal-
ity traits and individual characteristics (1958: 106). Sykes distinguishes between 11 dif-
ferent categories, or ‘argot roles’, in The Society of Captives. They are: ‘the rat’, ‘the
center man’, ‘the wolf’, ‘the punk’, ‘the fag’, ‘the gorilla’, ‘the merchant’, ‘the ball
buster’, ‘the tough’, ‘the hipster’ and ‘the real man’. Many of these roles include various
kinds of aggressive masculinity, involving ‘the employment of violence or the threat of
violence’ (1958: 102), that subsequent prisons research has examined in detail (Edgar
et al., 2003; Scraton et al., 1991; Sim, 1994; Toch, 1998). In all but one of Sykes’
Laws and Lieber 3

categories (the ‘real man’) social relations are exploitative or taut. In Sykes’ words, ‘the
inmate attempts to reduce the rigors of prison life at the expense of fellow prisoners and
the individual pursues his own interests, his own needs, without regard for the needs,
rights, and opinions of others’ (1958: 106–7). By contrast, the ‘real man’ covers a range
of social roles and ‘admired behaviour patterns’, including ‘loyalty, generosity, sexual
restraint, and the minimizing of frictions among inmates’ (1958: 107). This clustering of
positive behaviour patterns attributed to the real man is rather understated and invites
further elaboration. One aim of our argument, then, is to further develop what is under-
stated in previous accounts of prosocial behaviours among and between prisoners.
The second, and most complete, typology of prison life to date is described by Crewe
(2009). Crewe’s framework resembles, but also upgrades, the balanced approach
advanced by Irwin and Cressey. For example, Crewe argues that ‘the idea is not to pre-
sume the primacy of either biography or social structure, but to show their interaction’
(2009: 154). Crewe’s account also foregrounds dignity in both its description of the
prisoner experience and through the categories introduced (‘Enthusiasts’, ‘Pragmatists’,
‘Stoics’, ‘Retreatists’ and ‘Players’). Crewe acknowledges that ‘typologies are always
approximations of social life and always present distinctions that are more marked and
rigid than the messy realities’ (2009: 220), but argues that in the final calculation ‘types
are more than just caricatures’ (2009: 221). Crewe’s model focuses on ‘compliance with
institutional means and goals’ (2009: 156) as the primary basis of classification. The
various categories in the typology represent ‘a different form of engagement with the
system’s demands for self-government and active engagement’ (2009: 156). To supple-
ment this approach, Crewe fuses prisoners’ orientations with biographical experiences
and future expectations, and examines how the different categories of the typology can
be seen through prisoners’ ‘relationships with staff, involvement in prison activities, and
modes of resistance’ (2009: 157). Crewe’s typology stands alone, presenting a rigorous
account of various adaptations to the social world of a particular men’s prison, which we
do not seek to challenge. Rather, this article sets out to shift the focus from adaptation
and levels of institutional compliance to interpersonal relations, foregrounding the prev-
alence of care and communion among male prisoners. This orientation opens a discus-
sion of prosocial and generative forms of care in men’s prison, in contrast to accounts of
prison life that have only sharp edges.
Although living alongside other prisoners has been described as ‘the worst thing
about prison’ (Sykes, 1958: 77), some form of ‘consultation’ is not only necessary
(Sparks et al., 1996: 176) but also beneficial. There are some important precedents here
in the wider literature. For example, Van der Laan and Eichelsheim (2013) find that posi-
tive interactions with peers were associated with stronger feelings of well-being, auton-
omy and safety. Other studies have highlighted the importance of how men’s peer
relationships can alleviate prisoners’ distress (Biggam and Power, 1997; Cesaroni and
Peterson-Badali, 2010). Similarly, Kerley and Copes (2008) found that, by associating
with like-minded individuals and sharing experiences, prisoners were able to avoid nega-
tive influences or temptations and ‘keep their mind right’ (2008: 5). Even Sykes’ asser-
tion that ‘as a population of prisoners moves in the direction of solidarity, as demanded
by the inmate code, the pains of imprisonment become less severe’ (Sykes and Messinger,
1960: 16) implies that some interactions between men in prison are supportive in nature,
4 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

protecting prisoners from the psychological harms of imprisonment. Some accounts of

masculinity in prison note that not all men accept or internalize notions of hegemonic
masculinity – instead conceiving of a ‘real man’ as someone who expresses emotions,
who ‘reaches out to others’ and ‘upholds morals and principles’ (Nandi, 2002: 101; see
also Evans and Wallace, 2008). In line with this sentiment, De Viggiani (2012) claims
that, beneath ‘public’ shows of banter, intimidation and exploitation, deeper friendships
are sometimes forged, providing emotional support and a space in which to ‘unmask’.
Further, Jewkes (2005) describes how some prisoners establish alternative masculine
scripts such as student or tradesman – this point is highly salient for our argument.
However, the emphasis in Jewkes’ argument is about how such identities aid individual
prisoners by providing ways to ‘nourish the self’ (2005: 37). But far less is said about
how such alternative scripts interact with and impact prisoners’ social relations.
Taken as a whole, then, although existing studies are hardly blind to the existence of
more constructive relationships, they do not fully articulate what characterizes these
bonds. Nor do they explore in depth how care is regulated, understood and expressed
among and between men. In short, where care is introduced it is typically cursory or
marginal to the main argument, rather than central to it. It is precisely these aspects of
men’s interpersonal relationships in prison that we wish to explicate in detail by using a
typography that places care at the centre. Shifting the discussion from violence and
aggression involves formulating a different kind of framework. We have selected a well-
established Jungian typology (Moore and Gillette, 1990) with four parts (called ‘King’,
‘Warrior’, ‘Magician’, ‘Lover’) because it priorities prosocial aspects of masculinity and
helps to theoretically develop prisoners’ narratives of care. After describing the meth-
odological approach for our study, we introduce and engage with this Jungian typology
in some detail.

Methods
The data presented in this article are drawn from two places. First, a doctoral study of
emotions in prisons undertaken by the first author. And, second, a recent MPhil disserta-
tion on ‘The Invisible Culture of Care’ in men’s prisons (the second author). The presen-
tation of data from two different studies was based upon the surprising comparisons we
found in our research across the men’s establishments. Our respective studies reflected a
broader aim of this study to explore research questions about care among a general pris-
oner population, as opposed to within a particular sub-set. The studies were undertaken
in a category-C prison and a category-B prison during the same year. In the jurisdiction
of England and Wales, category-B and category-C prisons are closed facilities that serve
different functions. The category-B establishment is a local prison with a high number of
remand prisoners from the local area and higher turnover of prisoners. The category-C
prison serves as a working prison and has a more open regime. In the category-C prison
more of the men are, in theory, engaged in work-based training programmes and educa-
tion, though in reality the provision of jobs was inconsistent. The higher security classi-
fication of category-B prisons implies they often hold prisoners earlier in their sentences
than category-C prisons. Again, in practice, progression through the prison categories is
non-linear. In general, then, the prisons felt like relatively similar research environments:
Laws and Lieber 5

both had a comparable regime timetable, occasional freezes to prisoner movement, and
a population of around 1000 prisoners at the time of the study. These different establish-
ments were selected because they were considered to be likely to provide a broad spec-
trum of interpersonal relations among men that might not be captured in one prison.
A total of 43 men were interviewed, 18 from the category-B prison and 25 from the
category-C prison. The participants were recruited using a combination of random and
purposeful sampling (in the case of the first author), and using opportunistic and snow-
balling approaches (second author). Across our sample, the oldest prisoner was 68 and
the youngest was 18. The average age of our sample was 35, which is slightly higher than
the average age in both prisons (31). Around three-quarters of the sample identified as
White British, and the final quarter identified as Black and Minority Ethnic, mainly
black British and Asian British. This ethnic composition was very representative of the
relative homogeneity found in the wider prisoner population in both establishments.
Both samples included a strong representation of prisoners in mentor roles (around 30
percent). Perspectives on social relations would be quite different for prisoners who are
not involved, either formally or informally, in these positions. In short, by slightly over-
sampling older prisoners and mentors we might have inadvertently over-selected for
accounts of care. We return to this point in the discussion below.
It is important to provide some more details on the nature of the collaboration that has
formed this article. Although both projects took an interest in ‘care’ and emerged from
the same research institution, these studies were not integrated at the outset, and there-
fore our schedules of interview questions were not systematically implemented across all
the participants. In the first author’s study, care was explored as an important subtheme
in a broader study of emotions in prison. In contrast, for the second author, care was the
primary focus of the research. However, by coincidence rather than by design, both stud-
ies asked very similar questions about interpersonal relations (for example, Could you
tell me about your relationships with other prisoners?); positive emotions (for example,
Is there anyone here you can share positive events or emotions with?); giving and receiv-
ing advice (for example, Could you tell me about a time when other prisoners turned to
you for support or advice?), which made this collaboration possible. In both studies, the
interviews were undertaken in private rooms on the prison wings; were recorded on a
digital Dictaphone; and were guided by a semi-structured and appreciative approach that
allowed freedom to explore the schedule of questions in a free-flowing manner. The
length of our interviews ranged from 25 minutes to 2 hours, with an average length of 1
hour 15 minutes.
Asking men questions about care during the interviews was challenging. Given the
strong narratives in men’s prison about the importance of not wanting to look ‘soft’ or
‘weak’, there is always the risk that such processes can re-emerge in the interview room.
The difficulty in broaching questions of emotions has previously been noted by several
prison researchers (for example, Evans and Wallace, 2008; Greer, 2002; Laws and
Crewe, 2016). Initially, several interviewees denied the existence of friendship in prison,
or adamantly stated that they never shared their emotions with others. However, we
found that, as interviews went on, these opening postures softened dramatically; we
attribute this to the use of a non-judgemental and appreciative approach in our line of
questioning (for example, asking questions such as Can you tell me something you are
6 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

proud of?). After leaving our respective research sites, we wondered whether there were
gendered dimensions at play in our interviews. For example, would participants be more
or less open about their expressions of care when talking to a woman? Or would the
reverse be true? We find solace in Crewe’s (2006) discussion of male prisoners’ interac-
tions and perceptions of female officers, which indicates that there is not a set rule per se
but that prisoners respond in different ways to female staff. We feel this work is strength-
ened rather than compromised by the collaboration, because it is likely to yield a broader
range of responses and perspectives. Though it is hard to know for certain, we did note
the increased discussions of gym workouts, physicality and fighting with the first author
(male). A more difficult question is understanding whether such differences are shaped
instead by the personal interests of researcher and interviewees rather than by gender per
se.

King, Warrior, Lover, Magician: The archetypes of care in

prison
Developing the ideas of Carl Jung, Moore and Gillette (1990) invoked a completely dif-
ferent kind of typology that attempted to outline generative forms of masculinity. Their
four-part model – called King, Warrior, Lover, Magician – emerged out of the authors’
therapeutic work with individual clients and groups, and was first published as a series
of audio tapes by Robert Moore at C.G. Jung Institute of Chicago. Their model adapts
and refines the Jungian study of masculine archetypes of the self. According to Jung and
his followers, archetypes are the universal recurring themes and symbols existing across
cultures (Tallman, 2003). Moore and Gillette attempted to shift the focus to mature mas-
culine psychology, as opposed to forms characterized only by ‘the struggle for domi-
nance of others, in some form or another . . . caught up in the wounding of self, as well
as others’ (1990: 5–6). The mature masculine is, by contrast, ‘nurturing and generative,
not wounding and destructive’ (1990: 6). Arguably, the prisons research literature has
spent more time documenting the destructive, and less attention has been paid to genera-
tivity and care. Moore and Gillette describe a broader cultural focus on negative aspects
of male behaviour as ‘a veritable blitzkrieg on the male gender’. On the other hand, the
authors do not understate the ‘shadow’ side to their discussion of masculinity either, not-
ing that positive expressions should not blind us to negative manifestations. This latter
point is particularly germane to our discussion, and we are careful not to glide over the
bleak realties of prison life that many prisoners face. The following analysis seeks to
establish firm connections between the four archetypes outlined by Moore and Gillette
and our own interviews with prisoners.

‘King’
Lads in prison, we don’t just sit there putting arms around each other’s backs. We give advice.
(Karl)

At the vanguard of Moore and Gillette’s framework is the figure of the ‘King’. According
to the authors, the King is defined by a broad repertoire of behaviours, which include
Laws and Lieber 7

being ‘immensely organising, ordering, and creatively healing’ (1990: 51). Based on the
wisdom of age and life experience, the King’s energy brings stability, centredness and
calmness to the environments they reside in. Maruna, LeBel and Lanier (2004) argue that
prisoners frequently form informal mentoring networks, whereby more experienced
prisoners act as parental figures to new or young prisoners. Some interactions between
male prisoners in our studies strongly illustrated these types of pseudo-familial relations.
There were a number of instances where older prisoners were observed nurturing younger
prisoners on the wings or through private discussions in their cells. These relationships
were enduring and deep, and were often forged quickly. For instance, Tyler recounted
seeing a ‘quite vulnerable’ prisoner called Colin, and taking him ‘straight under my
wing’. There was a clear protective element to these relationships that sounded parental
rather than fraternal: ‘I look after him. I won’t let no one hurt him’ (Tyler).
Older prisoners offered their younger friends advice and encouragement. This
included general advice to avoid certain prisoners: ‘I try and say, “look, don’t look up to
these wrong type of people, all those gangsters or ‘wise boys’ or fast cash”’ (Tyler). They
also tried to affirm those around them and encourage prosocial choices. For example,
Jacob explained:

He’s a young lad, but he’s up against it with peer-pressure, he’s a big lad and he seems to think
he’s got to have some sort of reputation, and I’ve pulled him to one side and I’ve told him it’s
not the way forward. And I heard him saying to these lads that he’s not getting involved
anymore. He don’t want to be that same person anymore. I think he needed that someone a bit
older to have a little word with him. (Jacob)

Older mentors felt responsible for their mentees and attempted to ensure that they were
coping with the tribulations of prison life. They encouraged them to foster a more posi-
tive life outlook. These relationships had a kind of ripple effect. As Jewkes puts it (2002:
153), the role of ‘paternalistic mentor is passed down through a chain of relationships’.
Tommy explained:

Even being in prison when I was 21, and you know, I had the older guys giving me advice and
stuff like that. And I took their advice on board. As you get older you sort of, subconsciously
doing it yourself, helping the younger lads. And sometimes you’re not even realizing that. Sort
of passing it down.

In some places prisoners defined their relationships in familial terms: ‘Sometimes I

think, that’s something my son would do . . . you know, it strikes me that way’ (Tyler);
‘He reminds me a bit of me son’ (Oliver). Being a part of these chains of masculine stew-
ardship was grounding for these mentored prisoners: they could imagine pathways to a
more promising future in prison through following the directives of their mentors.
However, there were some clear moral grey areas that problematize a simple understand-
ing of mentors. For example, sometimes these figures offered mentees advice about their
criminal conduct: ‘He asks, “how did that [robbery] go wrong?”, and I give him advice,
so he won’t make the same mistakes’ (Oliver). Nevertheless, in general we observed far
more evidence of prosocial, non-criminal dynamics in these associations. An important
8 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

line of Moore and Gillette’s argument is that: ‘Young men today are starving for blessing
from older men.’ Indeed, a notable feature of the communities from which prisoners are
often drawn is the absence of father figures and supportive male mentors (Corneau,
[1991] 2018). In some small way, mentors filled these paternal voids in prison.

‘Warrior’
Knowing that a guy is going to sleep at night and not feeling scared, that’s a good feeling.
Knowing that I helped with it, I can go to sleep with a smile on me face. (Nathan)

In their second archetype, Moore and Gillette introduce the figure of the ‘Warrior’, who
embodies a charged ‘stance towards life that rouses, energizes and motivates’, and who
firmly rejects notions of passivity or defensive solutions to problems (1990: 79). Moore
and Gillette go to great lengths to explain that the Warrior ‘should not be identified with
human rage in any simply way’ (1990: 76) but, rather, that this figure hinges on courage,
asceticism, discipline and a ‘capacity to endure great pain and hardship’ (1990: 78) –
although we revisit the complexities of this point in our discussion below.
Of the four archetypes discussed in this article, the Warrior figure is the most salient
among male prisoner populations. It is seen in the role of active physical and emotional
protection. A number of participants explained that they hated seeing others being
extorted or victimized (‘I don’t like bullies myself’; ‘No one likes a bully in jail’), and
related stories where they had actively responded to forms of exploitation. This some-
times involved returning stolen property (for example, trainers) to prisoners or ensuring
that they received all their provisions (for example, fresh laundry). Nathan explained that
his cell acted as a kind of sanctuary for vulnerable prisoners:

It’s a place where people can come if they’ve got trouble. I’ll help nearly anybody out if they’ve
got trouble. If they’re not a fighter, and they don’t want to fight someone and someone is
picking on them, that’s what I don’t like.

An important feature of these accounts is the sense of ‘transpersonal commitment’

(Moore and Gillette, 1990: 84), where there is loyalty and a sense of duty to something
‘beyond and other than himself and his own concerns’ (1990: 85). This was often com-
municated through a language of expectations and rights: ‘the man is entitled to have a
clean sheet on his bed’ (Noah, emphasis added). As Nathan states, an important feature
of being a protector is creating a safe environment and seeing oneself as an enforcer of
justice: ‘To actually help someone else, that makes me feel better. Knowing that a guy is
going to sleep at night and not feel scared, that’s a good feeling.’
Other dimensions of the Warrior were more ‘horizontal’, occurring through displays
of bounded physicality and competition between prisoners. This was especially apparent
in the fraternity of prisoners who went to the gym together, developing particular exer-
cise programmes and rituals – emphasizing plyometric, calisthenics or bodybuilding for
example – which raised the ceiling of their physical potentialities. These prisoners were
helping each other to establish discipline, developing ‘control and mastery’ over their
body-minds and a ‘capacity to withstand pain’ (Moore and Gillette, 1990: 84). Association
Laws and Lieber 9

periods in particular were awash with competitive rituals, including table tennis tourna-
ments, pool and snooker matches, PlayStation games, and play fighting (which some-
times escalated into real fighting). Some of these activities were risky but important
ways of establishing mutual respect and relational solidarity: ‘You’re not true mates till
you’ve had a fight .  .  . You know that each of you ain’t gonna back down, you know that
what you’re made of inside’ (Nathan). More broadly, competition and displays of skill
among prisoners provided a setting where displays of care could take place – but flows
of emotion here were the ‘background noise’ rather than the primary focus of these
interactions.
Finally, the embodied and non-verbal nature of these relationships was significant.
That is, in the gym prisoners communicated through a language of fist-bumps, bicep
squeezing and high fives. Great levels of feeling and care were being related through
these exchanges, as Karl explains:

When I shake their hand or put a palm on their shoulder and say ‘you’re good stuff you’, that
sends them a subconscious message . . . that he likes me and he is there for me, he’s got my
back and I can chat to him. That shows them enough. It doesn’t have to be said, it is known
(emphasis added).

In line with this, Crewe (2014: 401) argues that male prisoners typically express their
feelings in ‘camouflaged forms’. Translated through Moore and Gillette’s register, the
Warrior ‘doesn’t talk too much’ (1990: 83). Freddy reflected on the indirect, sub-verbal
nature of these interactions:

It’s good to care and be nice, but you wouldn’t necessarily show it. You can tell it’s there. It’s
that subconscious thing isn’t it, it’s like unspoken words . . . It’s just like a feeling, but a more
in-depth feeling you just know. If I care, you just feel it.

The Warrior emphasizes the importance of activity and breaking forms of inertia that
could be toxic in prison. Prisoners were sharpening their attributes through these tests of
strength and skill. Unlike the mentorship of the King, Warriors were more energized, in
closer proximity to the body, and spoke a language of embodied ‘action’.

‘Magician’
You ask somebody and he might not know, but he’ll know who to ask. He’d say, ‘oh go ask
Ryan, he’ll know’. (Noah)

The third architype presented by Moore and Gillette is the ‘Magician’. This character, the
authors explain, is the ‘initiate of secret and hidden knowledge of all kinds’ (1990: 98)
and a figure who consciously applies their distinctive wisdom and proficiency ‘for the
benefit of others as well as themselves’ (1990: 107). They are far less ‘embodied’ than
the Warrior and more specialized than the King. When prompted, most participants in
our studies were able to identify particular prisoners who were known for their unique
knowledge. These individuals used specialist skills to offer guidance and advice on a
10 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

wide range of prison and non-prison related topics. This included prisoners who had
either held formal peer-supporter roles for a number of years; were often exceptionally
educated or intelligent prisoners in bounded domains; or those who had accumulated
substantial knowledge of institutional rules and protocols through their time in the
system.
Moore and Gillette note that ‘all knowledge that takes special training to acquire is the
province of the Magician energy’ (1990: 98). These figures were rare in prison, yet their
presence and contribution were substantial. We observed this archetype among prisoners
who taught peers how to read and write, or helped others gain access to education: ‘he
has to start on access models and things like that, and I told him, “we’ll work toward it”’
(Alex). One prisoner used his legal training to help prisoners disentangle and navigate
their sentencing restrictions – this was particularly apposite for prisoners convicted of
sex offences. In a similar vein, Tyler assisted prisoners to write court letters to support
cases of his peers (‘the last five I’ve done, they’ve all got out’). Another prisoner was a
voracious reader who dedicated poems for his peers to send on to their partners. A suc-
cessful entrepreneur reviewed his peers’ business plans: ‘he gave [the plan] back to me
the next day. He’d looked through it like a teacher and put all these marks on’ (Dan).
Jacob, a seasoned PID1 worker, used his detailed ‘insider’ knowledge of staff to help
prisoners on wings fill out applications:

Yesterday we filled out a form. But we’re holding the form back until next week, until the right
officer’s on who can deal with it. I know he’s the sort of officer that won’t hold any vendetta
against him for things he’s done three or four months ago, he will see that he’s moving forward
and will give him a chance. (Jacob)

These prisoners did not necessarily share close or ongoing relations, and such encounters
could be more transactional. According to Moore and Gillette, the Magician energy often
‘comes on line in a crisis’ (1990: 108). Prisoners with expert knowledge were highly
esteemed by their peers, and this gave them a kind of capital through which their care
could be professionally funnelled.

Lover
I believe I helped build that bridge for them, helped them connect. And that was nice. (Alex)

According to Moore and Gillette, the Lover embodies a sensitive energy that is ‘related,
connected, alive, enthusiastic, compassionate, empathic, and energized’ (1990: 140).
Given that prisons are often described as climates of fear or gulags of pain, writing about
‘love’ represents a clear departure. But Thomas Moore (2005) argues that the experience
of existential and physical pain creates portals for deep forms of introspection and love.
The testimonies of prisoners align with Rose’s commentary that love is a raw kind of
‘work’, involving ‘ordinary hurt, mundane maladies and disappointments’ ([1995] 2011:
8–9). To some extent, this final archetype is a kind of archetypal ‘master key’, in that all
forms of care are arguably also expressions of love – albeit in more indirect forms.
Laws and Lieber 11

However, we found explicit displays of the ‘Lover’ that align more closely to Moore and
Gillette’s description above.
Indeed, there were many situations where prisoners expressed love through empathy
and connectivity. For example, prisoners who distanced themselves when they were feel-
ing low explained how their friends brought them back to the group: ‘It’s like a search
party, they’ll come to the cell and say, “come on, what’s wrong with you?”, and then it’ll
all come out’ (Daniel). Close friends and even cellmates soon became ‘attuned to each
other’s moods and emotional rhythm’ (Crewe, 2009: 333) and were able to recognize
subtle changes in each other’s behaviour or emotional state: ‘Even though I’ve only been
here for a week, he can notice when I’m upset, when something’s worrying me . . . and
I’m doing the same with him’ (Henry); ‘he said to me, “Chris, you’ve changed so much
as a person. You’re a much better person now”’ (Chris).
During challenging moments, these relationships were particularly important: ‘To me
friendship is [having someone there] when you’re feeling low .  .  . and your head is about
to fall off’ (Chris). In these delicate moments, supportive prisoners did not belittle one
another: ‘He’s not laughed at me, he’s not said, “oh why you’re crying, why you’re being
a little baby?” Or anything like that. He’s always been there for me, supported me’
(Troy). Similarly, during his most difficult phase in prison, when his father was dying,
Karl explained how he was met with sensitivity and a complete absence of judgement:

I’ve been in seven years and my close friend has been in 13 years. So when I told him that my
Dad had cancer and there’s nothing we can do, he says he was in a bad situation a few years
ago. He’s saying ‘I went through it and this is what happened’. And then you know that he
knows how you’re feeling. He’s not just sat there listening. He’s thinking. He knows how
you’re feeling. So then he’s saying ‘this is what I did, and this is how I dealt with it, I spoke to
this person and then I did this’. (Karl)

These intimate interactions involved a meeting of hearts as well as of minds, but this
involved a carefully balancing between openness and restraint. In these moments, pris-
oners reflected Rose’s ([1995] 2011: 105) argument that to grow in love meant accepting
‘the boundaries of oneself and others, while remaining vulnerable, woundable, around
the bounds’. Showing love in prison involved experiencing, and making sense of, a
fusion of powerful emotions, and an acceptance that captivity was often bittersweet.

[His partner] had a baby. And we got the pictures, and the joy initially on his face. . . he was
speechless, man. But then . . . sadness set in, and the longing to be home . . . It was a very
emotional moment, just from watching that, you know. And I’ve gone through this myself, so I
think that’s why the empathy was there, I could put myself in his shoes, tenfold. So yeah that
was quite a nice moment, and a sad moment. (Alex)

By way of contrast, prisoners who hugged one another communicated their loving
affection even more directly: ‘when someone is a bit upset, someone will say “come here
mate, give me a hug”, and it makes a difference’ (Billy). Similarly, during an outside
workshop when a prisoner told his friend he was cold, the friend put the back of his hand
on his face. Not all men exercised verbal restraint either: ‘With my close mates in here
12 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

. . . I can have a good chat with them’ (Jerry).2 Other prisoners felt comfortable enough
to say ‘I love you, man’ (Bernie) to their close friends. Although such explicit displays
were relatively isolated and atypical, they do serve as an important counterweight to
descriptions of men’s prisons as emotionally bereft environments.
Displays of empathy were not only evident between friends. Several participants
recounted events where other prisoners – even relative strangers – approached them and
offered their support. Matthew recalled a particularly difficult day when a fellow pris-
oner ‘offered to make me a cup of tea and sit with me until I felt better, and that meant a
lot’. Noah was highly conscious of not mentioning his upcoming release date to his
cellmate: ‘he’s there thinking, “well I’ve got 10 years left” . . . I’ve got to think of him.’
Although exploitation remains a prominent feature of social life on the wing (see Cope,
2000; Crewe, 2006), some prisoners described instances where valuable goods were
shared or gifted, instead of sold or loaned with interest: ‘Somebody on the wing said,
“come on, I’ll buy your shower gel and soap, you put some phone credit on because it’s
more important to speak to your family”. That meant a lot to me, that one’ (Chris).
It was repeatedly stated that small acts of kindness carried significant meaning (‘In
prison little tiny things like that mean a lot’ – Oliver; ‘It’s the small things in life, when
you’re in prison’ – Alex). For Adam, such gestures were fundamental in establishing a
sense of community.

Some people, not everyone, but some people will approach others who might be sat alone or
they might be a bit gloomy or their demeanour has changed. And they will approach and ask
them how they doing, and all that. For me, that’s leading towards a community, caring for other
people. (Adam)

Discussion
We are not the first to argue that relationships between male prisoners are rarely docu-
mented and understood (see Stevens, 2013). Crewe’s (2014) article specifically calls for
researchers to ‘look harder’ to uncover the ‘emotional flows between men in prison’
(2014: 396) and notes that it is surprising that little attention has been paid to ‘the interior
emotional worlds of male prisoners or to the underlying affective dynamics between
them’ (2014: 397). Even rarer are studies that directly examine prisoners’ friendships and
positive relationships, and their impact on the experience of imprisonment (Wulf-
Ludden, 2013). By introducing Moore and Gillette’s framework we have attempted to
respond directly to this call: foregrounding the different facets of care in prison as the
central axis of our analysis. The use of the four archetypes helps to orientate and disen-
tangle different aspects of care and prosocial behaviours that have previously been
described in only a cursory manner. We think these categories reflect real differences in
how care is actually ‘achieved’ among men in prison.
Studies of men’s prisons have at times rested on, or generated, some quite contentious
ideas concerning so-called ‘toxic’ or ‘hegemonic’ masculinities. For example, in his arti-
cle on ‘Hypermasculinity and prison violence’, Hans Toch (1998: 168) claims that ‘male
inmates subscribe to a normative system that holds that under certain circumstances a
prisoner must respond with physical force’. Similarly, Kupers (2005: 714) states that
Laws and Lieber 13

‘toxic masculinity is the constellation of socially regressive male traits that serve to fos-
ter domination, the devaluation of women, homophobia, and wanton violence’. At their
best, the use of such terminology is reductive and does not clearly advance the psycho-
logical and sociological understanding of prison environments.
At their worst, these are correlative approaches that problematize maleness as causa
sui, overlooking the situational and systemic conditions that produce damaging behav-
iour. More pointedly, it is not clear whether specific traits ‘belong’ to men, as opposed to
being the outcome of social structures; living in tight groups; or as perennial features of
hierarchal structures with limited resources. Evidence for this claim is supported by com-
parative research on men and women in the community and in prison. In her study of
anger and aggression, Campbell (1993: 132–3) uncovers ‘remarkably similar’ stories
from both men and women in gangs, including accounts of ‘threat and counterthreat, the
bravado, and the pride in scaring the opponent into submission’. In the context of prison
settings, the first author (Laws, 2019) found that cycles of emotional suppression and
exploitative violence occur in both men’s and women’s prisons. ‘That these narratives
existed in the women’s prison too hint that they are not the sole province of “masculine”
conditioning, and are perhaps indicative of a more universal prisoner experience’ (Laws,
2019: 10). It may be more fruitful, then, to explain the formation and perpetuation of
specific behaviour patterns – such as domination, violence, pain – rather than focus
solely on gender-as-cause, while also panning out the lens to consider the full spectrum
of behaviours displayed by men in prison. Indeed, Crewe argues (2014: 397) that ‘mas-
culinity flows in all kinds of ways in prison, and it is incumbent on researchers to look
beyond its surface expressions if they are to understand the prison experience, prison
masculinities, and the prison social world’.
There is a tendency in the prisons literature to prioritize events and incidents (riots,
fights and deaths) over the quotidian prison routine. Although this emphasis is under-
standable given the political and moral significance of these events, the spaces ‘in
between’ acute incidents are also important to establish a more complete understanding
of the total prisoner experience. There are some notable exceptions, however (see Sparks
et al., 1996; Liebling, 2004). Indeed, in their illuminating study, Sparks et al. (1996) set
out to understand how order is negotiated in different prisons, and how the use of power
and authority facilitates or impedes the social organization of these institutions. But their
account includes no explicit analysis of the role of emotions and care in this process,
even though in a number of places they are indirectly introduced into their analysis.
Although prisons can be extremely volatile places, their day-to-day feel is, for many,
marked by routine and at least a modicum of care. The general ‘baseline’ level of interac-
tions in both prisons in our studies was characterized by a steady flow of relational emo-
tions that drew groups of prisoners together. There was a predictable rhythm to these
exchanges in which it was common to observe the displays of care and affection that we
have reported above. This is consistent with what Fischer and Manstead (2008: 459)
describe as a kind of ‘emotional convergence’ achieved through the patterned expression
and experience of emotion in communal relations. Though there are few existing inter-
national studies of care in prison to widen our comparative frame, O’Donnell’s (2019)
study of an Ethiopian prison indicates that there is fertile ground for such analysis. For
example, O’Donnell notes that the prison regime embodied an ‘ethos of cooperation
14 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

rather than coercion’ (2019: 3); that relations between staff and prisoners were ‘cordial
and sometimes close’ (2019: 9); and that prisoner friendships were extensive because of
the relatively relaxed atmosphere: ‘Friendship groups could take meals together, sit and
talk, walk around the compound and, depending on the nature of their employment, per-
haps even work side by side’ (2019: 12).
In our studies we found direct evidence to suggest care was an end in itself among
prisoners and an integral feature of their social worlds. Recall that although the typogra-
phy introduced by Sykes (1958) set out to describe social relations between men in
prison, only one of these categories was non-exploitative. Furthermore, the single excep-
tion, the ‘real man’, was more like a cluster of positive attributes rather than a detailed
elaboration of them. Our findings reveal layers of social relationships that are far less
instrumental and individualist. Prisoners who signposted others to available resources, or
steered them with their advice, received no tangible rewards. Prisoners who offered com-
fort and empathy to recently bereaved peers did not appear to have pragmatic goals or
ulterior motives. Moore and Gillette’s framework focuses on the prosocial and genera-
tive aspects of masculinity, and the King, Warrior, Magician and Lover categories fore-
ground the importance of social relationships in ways that previous typographies do not.
That is to say, Kings dispensed advice to mentees, Warriors were formed by fraternal
groups of men working together, and Magicians put their expertise to the service of oth-
ers. We see clear resonances here with Phillips and Taylor’s (2009: 58) argument that
‘Caring about others .  .  . is what makes us fully human. We depend on each other not just
for our survival but for our very being.’ This contrasts with previous accounts that
describe alternative expressions of masculinity only at the level of the individual rather
than as a social lubricant.
But the social world of prisoners is not without interpretive complexity. Jewkes
(2005) complicates the debate somewhat by acknowledging, on the one hand, that
‘adherence to an inmate code’ helps to provide prisoners with ‘ontological security based
on mutual support and camaraderie’ (2005: 50). On the other hand, she argues that the
cohesion among disadvantaged men effectively ‘weakens the hegemonic notion of mas-
culinity to which disadvantaged men are culturally encouraged to aspire and that ensures
the social reproduction of deprivation and marginalization’ (2005: 50). Though it is hard
to test what might happen to the men in our study as they go ‘through the gate’, we did
not find evidence for the reproduction of marginalization. Indeed, prisoners who taught
their peers to read and write, or helped draft business plans, were seemingly helping to
empower rather than disadvantage their peers in cycles of deprivation. In short, in our
research it appeared that social bonds were generally prosocial and affirmative rather
than destructive.
By shifting the focus to the shape and forms of care in prison, the framework intro-
duced here may appear to glide over the stark realities of violence in prisons in England
and Wales. We are careful to avoid such conclusions. Invoking the image of a ‘Warrior’
as a positive prison prototype, as we have, is not without interpretive complexity. There
are instances in which physicality in prison entails violence, bullying and instilling fear
in other prisoners: building muscle mass in the gym can be seen purely as an intimidation
tactic. Jewkes (2005: 48) argues that entering into the prison ‘fraternity’ is possible when
the prisoner first succeeds in ‘defending himself and asserting his autonomy’, and that it
Laws and Lieber 15

is only those who pass ‘barbaric tests of manliness who gain the advantage of solidarity’.
In this formulation, bonding is achievable only through evidencing capable aggression
and force. We noted, too, how ‘father figures’ could sometimes be exploitative or dis-
pense advice that entrenches, rather than challenges, patterns of criminality – by giving
advice on how to ‘do it better’ next time. Prisoners who were in legal proceedings who
assisted sex offenders in fighting their cases could arguably perpetuate patterns of denial
and rationalization. Clearly, then, these discussions are non-linear. There are connections
here with the claim by Hannah-Moffat and Klassen (2015: 188) that many prison prac-
tices constitute ‘an uneasy assemblage of care and control’. Jung explains the importance
of seeing the balance of opposites and holding them together, since we are essentially
creatures of contrast:

How else could it have occurred to man to divide the cosmos, on the analogy of day and night,
summer and winter, into a bright day-world and a dark night-world peopled with fabulous
monsters, unless he had the prototype of such a division in himself. (Jung, [1972] 2014: 38)

In line with Jung, although there is always the potential for particular expressions of care
to shift into more destructive patterns, we have documented a range of instances when
they do not. So, although prison gyms have been described as zones of untrammelled
aggression, we saw confluence and collaboration. The broader political climate of mis-
trust perhaps makes it harder to ‘see’ care. For example, the blanket ban on boxing and
martial arts in men’s prisons by the Ministry of Justice, in spite of compelling findings
from a recent report they themselves commissioned (Meek, 2018), evidences risk-based
thinking. Meek explains that:

Where they [boxing programmes] are offered (in some Secure Children’s Homes and Secure
Training Centres), they are well received and highly valued, both as a behaviour management
tool and as a vehicle through which to facilitate education, discipline and communication.

Further benefits of these programmes include a sense of communion and friendship with
others:

Although competitive boxing may involve competing individually, the ethos of boxing training
is team-based and community initiatives highlight the unique way in which, because it is
physically demanding, it offers a credible alternative to anti-social behaviour for the most
disengaged groups. (Meek, 2018: 58)

I used to fight a lot and I never used to control my anger, but Fight for Peace and boxing has
helped me control my anger and control my strength. I never used to control anything. My
boxing coach has inspired me a lot and my mentor is like a coach and a best friend. (Fight for
Peace member, London)3

It might seem like a diversion from our subject area, but we see important parallels here
with research on developmental psychology. Peterson and Flanders (2005) note that
rough and tumble play is an essential step for young children, as they learn the limits of
their bodies. For adults, too, it is important to enable the body to channel physicality,
16 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

learning to understand the limits of aggression and boundaries over time, rather than
completely inhibiting its manifestations. A notable drawback of some clinical interven-
tions in prison is the attention given to ‘thought processes’, often divorced from prison-
ers’ subculture (see Laursen and Laws, 2017), and a kind of institutional denial of the
body as a site of knowledge and learning. In his book The Body Keeps the Score, Bassel
Van der Kolk (2014: 265) explains how trauma and pain are held in the body: ‘One of the
ways the memory of helplessness is stored is as muscle tension or feelings of disintegra-
tion in the affected body areas: head, back, and limbs in accident victims, vagina and
rectum in victims of sexual abuse.’ Providing prisoners with appropriate outlets and
channels to re-connect with their bodies could help allay rather than escalate cycles of
frustration and aggression.
Our findings could be explained, in part, by the relative older age of our participants
and the slight oversampling of prisoners in mentor roles. More generally, older prisoners
may be ageing out of criminal careers and more likely to offer prosocial perspectives.
Further, prisoners working as mentors are, by definition, selected to assist other prison-
ers. But the strong representation of these groups in our studies does not negate the
importance or substance of their perspectives. Further, given the changing composition
of prisoners in England and Wales, where over-fifties are the fastest-growing group
(MOJ, 2015), we may be capturing part of an important emerging narrative.

Conclusion
Care is a difficult subject to investigate, especially in prison – often being hidden behind
scripts of denial, suppression and a general environment that tends to diminish open
displays of emotion (see Laws, 2019; Wright et al., 2017). It was reassuring that we both
heard and observed similar displays of care in two different prisons. But we are con-
vinced that future research could go to greater lengths to investigate the different forms
and functions of care in men’s prisons. Our framework can perhaps provide a guide, or
reference point, for future work. In this article, we have tried not to disavow manifesta-
tions of violence and aggression in prison, but rather to present another side to the socio-
logical world of this environment that is less documented.
Moore and Gillette (1990) conclude their book by noting the decline in ‘ritual’ experi-
ences that would help to induce great levels of masculine maturity, but also that individu-
als and institutions need to take control and seek integration. A growing prison
intervention in England and Wales, ‘Learning Together’, bridges these different ideas
together with great effect. Learning Together is ‘an initiative whereby students in univer-
sities and prisons learn degree-level material alongside one another in the prison envi-
ronment’ (Armstrong and Ludlow, 2016: 10). The course culminates with a formal
graduation ceremony, which serves as an important ‘re-entry ritual’. Armstrong and
Ludlow (2016: 16) explain that the course creates a ‘sense of individual, social and insti-
tutional connected and togetherness’ that can help to increasing belonging and ‘a shared
responsibility’ to create a prosocial society. Surely, this kind of intervention is well
placed to help stimulate and spread the different manifestations of care and community
that we have tried to describe above.
Laws and Lieber 17

Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this
article.

ORCID iD
Ben Laws https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1126-2236

Notes
1. Prisoner Information Desk (PID) workers provide support for prisoners on the wings and
house blocks with ‘signposting’ a range of services in prison.
2. A ‘good chat’ was understood here to mean a conversation that included openly exploring
feelings.
3. Fight for Peace trains ex-offenders in community-based gyms.

References
Armstrong R and Ludlow A (2016) Educational partnerships between universities and prisons:
How learning together can be individually, socially and institutionally transformative. Prison
Service Journal 225: 9–17.
Biggam FH and Power KG (1997) Social support and psychological distress in a group of incar-
cerated young offenders. International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative
Criminology 41(3): 213–230.
Boyle J (1977) A Sense of Freedom. London: Canongate.
Campbell A (1993) Out of Control: Men, Women and Aggression. London: Pandora.
Carceral KC (2006) Prison, Inc: A Convict Exposes Life inside a Private Prison. New York: NYU
Press.
Cesaroni C and Peterson-Badali M (2010) Understanding the adjustment of incarcerated young
offenders: A Canadian example. Youth Justice 10(2): 107–125.
Cope N (2000) Drug use in prison: The experience of young offenders. Drugs: Education,
Prevention and Policy 7(4): 355–366.
Corneau G ([1991] 2018) Absent Fathers, Lost Sons: The Search for Masculine Identity. Boulder,
CO: Shambhala Publications.
Crewe B (2006) Male prisoners’ orientations towards female officers in an English prison.
Punishment & Society 8(4): 395–421.
Crewe B (2009) The Prisoner Society: Power, Adaptation and Social Life in an English Prison.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Crewe B (2014) Not looking hard enough: Masculinity, emotion, and prison research. Qualitative
Inquiry 20(4): 392–403. http://doi.org/10.1177/1077800413515829.
De Viggiani N (2012) Trying to be something you are not: Masculine performances within a prison
setting. Men and Masculinities 15(3): 271–291. https://doi.org/10.1177/1097184X12448464.
Dirga L, Lochmannová A and Juříček P (2015) The structure of the inmate population in Czech
prisons. Sociológia 47(6): 559–578.
Edgar K, O’Donnell I and Martin C (2003) Prison Violence: The Dynamics of Conflict, Fear and
Power. Cullompton: Willan Publishing.
Evans T and Wallace P (2008) A prison within a prison? The masculinity narratives of male pris-
oners. Men and Masculinities 10(4): 484–507. https://doi.org/10.1177/1097184X06291903.
Fischer AH and Manstead AS (2008) Social functions of emotion. Handbook of Emotions 3: 456–
468.
18 European Journal of Criminology 00(0)

Greer KR (2002) The changing nature of interpersonal relationships in a women’s prison. The
Prison Journal 80(4): 442–468.
Hannah-Moffat K and Klassen A (2015) Normalizing exceptions: Solitary confinement and the
micro-politics of risk/need in Canada. In: Reiter K and Koenig A (eds) Extreme Punishment:
Comparative Studies in Detention, Incarceration and Solitary Confinement. London:
Palgrave Macmillan.
HMIP (2018a) Urgent Notification: HM Prison Birmingham. HM Inspectorate of Prisons, 16
August.
HMIP (2018b) Urgent Notification: HM Prison Bedford. HM Inspectorate of Prisons, 12
September.
Irwin J and Cressey DR (1962) Thieves, convicts and the inmate culture. Social Problems 10(2):
142–155.
James E (2003) A Life Inside: A Prisoner’s Notebook. London: Atlantic.
Jewkes Y (2002) Captive Audience: Media, Masculinity and Power in Prisons. Cullompton:
Willan Publishing.
Jewkes Y (2005) Men behind bars: ‘Doing’ masculinity as an adaptation to imprisonment. Men
and Masculinities 8(1): 44–63.
Jung CG ([1972] 2014) Four Archetypes. London: Routledge.
Kerley KR and Copes H (2008) ‘Keepin’ my mind right’: Identity maintenance and religious social
support in the prison context. International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative
Criminology 53(2): 228–244.
Kupers TA (2005) Toxic masculinity as a barrier to mental health treatment in prison. Journal of
Clinical Psychology 61(6): 713–724.
Laursen J and Laws B (2017) Honour and respect in Danish prisons: Contesting ‘cognitive distor-
tions’ in cognitive-behavioural programmes. Punishment & Society 19(1): 74–95.
Laws B (2019) The return of the suppressed: Exploring how emotional suppression reappears as
violence and pain among male and female prisoners. Punishment & Society 21(5): 560–577.
Laws B and Crewe B (2016) Emotion regulation among male prisoners. Theoretical Criminology
20(4): 529–547.
Liebling A, assisted by Arnold H (2004) Prisons and Their Moral Performance: A Study of Values,
Quality and Prison Life. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Maruna S, LeBel P and Lanier CS (2004) Generativity behind bars: Some ‘redemptive truth’ about
prison society. In: St Aubin E, McAdams DP and Kim T (eds) Generative Society. New York:
American Psychological Association, 131–152.
Meek R (2018) A Sporting Chance: An Independent Review of Sport in Youth and Adult Prisons.
London: Ministry of Justice.
Ministry of Justice (2015) Prison Population: 31 March 2015. Offender Management Statistics
Quarterly, October to December 2014 and Annual. Ministry of Justice.
Ministry of Justice (2019) Safety in Custody Statistics, England and Wales: Deaths in Prison
Custody to December 2018. Assaults and Self-harm to September 2018. URL (accessed
27 December 2019): https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/
uploads/attachment_data/file/774880/safety-in-custody-bulletin-2018-Q3.pdf.
Moore RL and Gillette D (1990) King, Warrior, Magician, Lover: Rediscovering the Archetypes
of the Mature Masculine. San Francisco: Harper.
Moore T (2005) Dark Nights of the Soul: A Guide to Finding Your Way Through Life’s Ordeals.
London: Penguin.
Nandi M (2002) Re/constructing black masculinity in prison. Journal of Men’s Studies 11(1):
91–107. https://doi.org/10.3149/jms.1101.91.
O’Donnell I (2019) The society of captives in an Ethiopian prison. Prison Journal 99(3): 267–284.
Laws and Lieber 19

Peterson JB and Flanders JL (2005) Play and the regulation of aggression. In: Tremblay RE, Hartup
WW and Archer J (eds) Developmental Origins of Aggression. New York: Guilford Press.
Phillips A and Taylor B (2009) On Kindness. London: Macmillan.
Rose G ([1995] 2011) Love’s Work. New York: New York Review of Books.
Scraton P, Sim J and Skidmore P (1991) Prisons Under Protest. Milton Keynes: Open University
Press.
Sim J (1994) Tougher than the rest? Men in prison. In: Newburn T and Stanko AE (eds) Just Boys
Doing Business? Men, Masculinities and Crime. London: Routledge, 100–117.
Sparks R, Bottoms A and Hay W (1996) Prisons and the Problem of Order. Oxford: Clarendon
Press.
Stevens A (2013) Offender Rehabilitation and Therapeutic Communities: Enabling Change the
TC Way. London and New York: Routledge.
Sykes G (1958) The Society of Captives. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Sykes GM and Messinger SL (1960) The inmate social system. In: Cressey D, Grosser G, McCleery
R, Ohlin L, Sykes GM and Messinger S (eds) Theoretical Studies in Social Organization of
the Prison. New York: Social Science Research Council, 5–19.
Tallman B (2003) The organization leader as king, warrior, magician and lover: How Jungian
archetypes affect the way men lead organizations. Organization Development Journal 21(3):
19–30.
Toch H (1998) Hypermasculinity and prison violence. In: Bowker HL (ed.) Masculinities and
Violence. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 168–178).
Van der Kolk BA (2014) The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of
Trauma. London: Penguin Books.
Van der Laan A and Eichelsheim V (2013) Juvenile adaptation to imprisonment: Feelings of
safety, autonomy and well-being, and behaviour in prison. European Journal of Criminology
10(4): 424–443.
Wright S, Crewe B and Hulley S (2017) Suppression, denial, sublimation: Defending against the
initial pains of very long life sentences. Theoretical Criminology 21(2): 225–246.
Wulf-Ludden T (2013) Interpersonal relationships among inmates and prison violence. Journal of
Crime and Justice 36(1): 116–136.
Wyner R (2003) From the Inside: Dispatches from a Women’s Prison. London: Aurum Press.

View publication stats