Terza Rima is a series of threes, the two outer lines of each riming with each other, the inner line riming with the two outer lines of the next three; in homely terms, like a pile of paper cones set into each other. The first rime in a canto and the last therefore occur only twice, but all the rest three times; none is dropped before a new rime is begun, or, except at the beginning and end of a canto, is confined to a single terzina. A consequence of this structure is that, while (if the sense permits) one or more terzine may be cut off at the beginning or end of a canto without detection of the loss, this is impossible anywhere else; the alternation of rimes and the linking with the preceding and following terzine would be upset. Accordingly omission of lines or passages occurs in the manuscripts with notable rarity.1 This result of the verse form no doubt is well known to some, but, so far as I find, it has never been mentioned in print.

Although a good deal has been written about L'Etranger in the light of Camus's philosophic insights in Le Mythe de Sisyphe, the verbal similarities between these two works have been used only sporadically in interpreting the novel. Carl Viggiani, whose essay on L'Etranger appears to have dealt most fully with the symbolic undercurrent of the novel and Meursault's relation to Sisyphus has concentrated almost solely on detached archetypal motifs while largely neglecting any sort of progressive or “novelistic” development of the protagonist as he moves from his mother's funeral to his final jail cell. I propose to demonstrate such a consistent development by viewing Meursault's adventure as a parable of mental awakening or coming to consciousness which corresponds in detailed thematic and imagistic ways to the adventure of the mind in Le Mythe de Sisyphe.

That preciosity is only a relative term will be readily endorsed by anyone who has studied the critical literature devoted to Jean Giraudoux. Some critics hurl the word as a reproach and condemnation, while others give themselves pains to plead or explain Giraudoux's case. Each, as well as the author himself, feels certain that preciosity is the word which will label and pigeon-hole him exactly; but alas, each proceeds to suggest a different nuance until the subject becomes quite confusing. The word preciosity itself suffers as many interpretations as classicism or romanticism, so a precise definition is out of the question. Originally associated with the seventeenth century arbiters of taste in language and etiquette, the term has since broadened its scope considerably. Literary historians have found it a convenient label for subtlety and refinement wherever these qualities may appear. Hence they do not mean an isolated phenomenon, but a fundamental characteristic of some minds, adapting and transforming itself according to time and place. Words such as gongorism, euphuism, concettism, conceptualism, or marivaudage are mutations or varieties of preciosity. According to popular usage, however, précieux means only précieux ridicule, synonymous with artificial or affected. In analyzing the preciosity of Jean Giraudoux from our own point of view, we shall find occasion to examine a great variety of critical opinions.

The construction of Degrés is based on a series of texts taken from Western literature and ranging from Homer to Keats. These are grouped in different ways around a brief sequence of events, and it is the responsibility of each reader to elaborate on the scanty story by using the information offered by these texts, to the extent of his knowledge, awareness, and willingness to participate in the creation of the novel. An analysis of the texts extracts the information each contains, then correlates relevant fact and possible interpretation in order to show clearly the two major themes of the novel: the relationship of Vernier to his nephew Eller, and the vast possibilities open to man in the world; and the three styles of presentation: as a structure, a personal experience, and a retrospective fact. Butor teaches his readers to understand his work by attempting to break down mental barriers between different fields of experience and force people to draw on the full range of their knowledge at all times.

In the discussion we must start with two really striking facts, both very little known even among scholars close to Modern Hebrew; at least these scholars are not aware of their importance. In the first place you may have heard that Hebrew is a revived language, the language of the Bible come to life again in Israel. This is only partly true. Modern Hebrew—I know of no parallel in this respect—is a recreated language, a new Hebrew dialect, made of several ingredients. Most of them go back to the various layers of Hebrew in the past. Still, it is—and I am exaggerating deliberately—a kind of invented language, a kind of Hebrew Esperanto.

Ruskin is no longer a controversial figure. Most contemporary critics, of art, of society, of literature, ignore him.

Ruskin's own weaknesses are responsible for much of this neglect—not least the flood of words which overflows the thirty-nine volumes of Cook and Wedderburn. No single volume, not even Unto This Last nor Praeterita, can be recommended without qualification, nor any single phase of Ruskin's work. His art judgments are often arrogantly inept, as toward Claude and Whistler and Renaissance architecture; his aesthetics is contradictory, homiletic; his social criticism is sometimes antiquarian, proposing quixotic reforms. The fervors of Ruskin's style offend current taste, with our preference for tight, flat, and uncommitted exposition.

From a Middle-English poem narrating the events of the Trojan war, we learn that formerly in England, when folk gathered “at mangeres and at grete festes,” they listened gladly after meat to the “fair romance” of Horn, which “gestours” were then wont to recite; and, having this romance before us, we can readily understand the reason of its popularity: it interests us, as it did our forefathers, not only because it tells a tale of an ever-pleasing type, but also because it purports to record native English tradition.

Es gibt meines Wissens noch keine zusammenfassende historische oder theoretische Untersuchung über die dichterische Namengebung. Mir sind ausser kleineren Aufsätzen, die das Thema mehr plaudernd und feuilletonistisch behandeln, nur wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen über die Namen bei einzelnen Dichtern bekannt, z.B. bei Aristophanes, Shakespeare, Dickens, Raabe, Fontane. Gelegentliche Bemerkungen und Beobachtungen zu dem Thema finden sich natürlich überall verstreut. Es wäre sicher eine dankbare, wenn auch schwierige Aufgabe, die Frage, nach welchen Rücksichten und Prinzipien die Dichter ihre erfundenen Personen getauft haben, einmal im weitesten zeitlichen und räumlichen Umfange zu beantworten; die Unterschiede der Zeiten, der Völker, der Sprachen würden sich in diesem Spiegel klar auffangen lassen.

How could American students of intermediate French be the catalysts for a work of avant-garde French literature? This article centers on Le rendez-vous, an intermediate French-language textbook that combined a novel written by the French New Novelist Alain Robbe-Grillet with grammatical exercises written by Yvone Lenard, a prominent textbook author and instructor of French in the United States. Focusing on previously unexamined archives of this publication, from its release in America to the publication of Robbe-Grillet's novel in France under the title Djinn, the essay reveals an unknown literary history of transnational collaboration and exchange and places new emphasis on Robbe-Grillet's formative involvement with American higher education during his literary career. Through close reading of manuscript drafts and publishers' papers, the essay demonstrates how the dynamics of global publishing and shifting trends in language pedagogy aligned to condition the production of what would become Robbe-Grillet's most commercially successful novel.

In Speculum, xvi (1941), pp. 149–166, A.C. Krey devoted to William, archbishop of Tyre, an article most welcome to students of French medieval romance. Rousing our interest in the work of this great chronicler of the crusades, he makes us read it, and reading it we find what we least expected: a historical background for Chrétien's Conte del Graal.

In October 2006, the Harvard University task force on general education issued a preliminary report describing and justifying a new program of general education for Harvard College. Contending that “[g]eneral education is the public face of liberal education,” the task force enumerated what a person liberally educated in the twenty-first-century United States should know—or, perhaps better, know how to think about in reasoned and nuanced ways (Preliminary Report 3). The report called for seven semester-long courses in “five broad areas of inquiry and experience”: Cultural Traditions and Cultural Change, The Ethical Life, The United States and the World, Reason and Faith, and Science and Technology. In addition, the task force suggested that students be required to take three semester-long courses that “develop critical skills”: writing and oral communication, foreign language, and analytic reasoning (6). Not surprisingly, “Reason and Faith” generated some of the most heated discussion—and it was the first suggested requirement dropped by the task force, replaced in December 2006 by a new category, “What It Means to Be a Human Being.” By the time of the final report, this too was gone, replaced by “Culture and Belief,” an area of inquiry that may include the study of religion but is broader in scope than what was initially proposed (Report of the Task Force 11–12).

In 1940 Djuna Barnes, author of the notorious but weak-selling Nightwood (1936), received a commission from Harry A. Bull, editor of the New York-based society magazine Town & Country, to write a short reminiscence of Paris in the 1920s. The Nazi occupation of the erstwhile world capital of the avant-garde gave Town & Country's well-heeled readership reason to be nostalgic for Paris's glamorous recent past. As for Barnes, despite her dwindling book sales, she still had some celebrity—especially among those American readers who remembered her risqué onetime best seller Ryder (1928)—as an artist, journalist, and character of the Paris scene. Struggling with alcoholism and illness, and fiercely private, but desperate for money, she accepted the commission (Herring 242-50). Drawing on material in a notebook she had carried while working as a journalist in the 1920s (Caselli 116), as well as an unpublished 1939 essay, “Farewell Paris,” Barnes took her miniature memoir through several drafts over the course of 1940 and 1941.

As Roland Barthes's epoch-making essay Empire of Signs suggests, in a slightly orientalist tone itself, modern japanese culture is a fascinating kaleidoscope of Eastern and Western cultures, but at the same time a strong purism is inherent in its aestheticized nationalism. In this essay, I offer a comparative literary analysis of select travel writings that emerge out of Japanese-European encounters in the Meiji era (1868–1912) to show the cultural dynamism of the time, after the Edo period (1603–1852), when Japan first opened its borders to the West. My analysis of Japan of that time as an Eastern-Western contact zone is based on Homi Bhabha's notion of cultural hybridity and Mary Louise Pratt's understanding of a cultural encounter in an asymmetrical power constellation. Japan has never been a colony, escaping Western imperialism through the (sakoku; “closed country”) policy of the shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu, who banned all Christian missionaries and Western foreigners from the insular empire. In the Meiji modernization in 1868, the old samurai elites imported select reforms from Western Europe, notably from England, France, and Germany, to Japan. This is why Yōichi Komori claimed that Japan is a “self-colonized” () culture (Posutokoroniaru 8). Through the Meiji elite's adoption of certain modern ways from Germany, France, England, and the United States, an “imitative modernity” came into being.

Scholars and critics are wont to say that not even the editors of the First Folio knew what to make of Troilus and Cressida. Although the assertion has almost no validity, it is a comforting, protective one to repeat: comforting, for no play by Shakespeare has received such diverse interpretation; protective, for the statement absolves one from re-examining the basic bibliographical facts of the play. Diversity in Shakespearean interpretation is certainly desirable, yet that which surrounds Troilus and Cressida has become confusing and contradictory1 because the play is approached from assumptions of historical fact which are themselves widely diverse. Without a firm knowledge of origins, no critic—scholarly, literary, historical, or “new”—can generate the kind of imaginative assurance that is necessary in order to say something significant and lasting about the form and content of a Shakespearean play. Since so very little is known about Troilus and Cressida in its contemporary setting, an attempt to reconstruct the facts of its origins is all the more important. In this article, then, I shall initially review the known facts of the play on stage and in print, then propose that new facts be accepted along with the old in an account of origins which is conservative yet comprehensive. Generally I hope to establish a firm basis for further historical investigation and deeper critical understanding of Troilus and Cressida; specifically I hope in the last three sections to dispel three widely-held misconceptions: that the play failed or was not played publicly, that one of the Inns of Court commissioned the play, and that the editors of the First Folio were aesthetically uncertain concerning its place in that work.

The Satyre of the Thrie Estaitis has come down to us in complete form only in the quarto edition printed by Robert Charteris at Edinburgh in 1602. There is no manuscript of the complete play. Several of the “interludes” were copied by George Bannatyne and are to be found in the Bannatyne Manuscript (1568), preceded by a proclamation of the play which does not appear in the early printed edition.

This yeats Centennial Year will witness the publication of widespread comment and encomium, “as though,” in Yeats's own words, “it were firmly established that the dead delight in anniversaries.” Now, as his first century joins its circle, Yeats is securely one of the “passionate dead,” who are, in his version of Ben Jonson's line, “So rammed with life they can but grow in life with being.” “Under Ben Bulben,” the elegiac poem which ends with Yeats's epitaph, written only a few months before he died in 1939, says of grave diggers

They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

When the grave diggers had thrust Yeats back in the human mind, T. S. Eliot in a memorial lecture in 1940 called him “the greatest poet of our time—certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.” Few have contradicted this evaluation. The mass of biography, criticism, exegesis in the years since Yeats died has grown so enormously that his poetry has at times seemed to face the fate he thought the human imagination had suffered in the nineteenth century, that of being “laid in a great tomb of criticism.” In his Centennial Year scholars might most profitably concern themselves not with the mounting tomb of criticism but rather with the texts of Yeats's works and the tools for study which the quarter century since his death has produced.

George Walker, a London bookseller and publisher, author of several Gothic tales, printed in 1799 a satirical novel, The Vagabond, directed against the Jacobins and their philosophic forerunners. The author's purpose was a serious one, to refute and counteract the works that had poured from the Jacobin presses. As a result the novel, though amusing and fanciful in the manner of the Anti-Jacobin, represents a consistent view-point and an earnest desire to show the beauties of society as then organized. In its way, it is a summary of the reactionary position, and, by giving the opinions of the opponents of Rousseau, Hume, Mary Wollstonecraft, Holcroft, Paine, William Godwin, and others, illustrates a large section of late eighteenth-century thought.

Quoique l'influence de Pierre Bayle sur l'esprit philosophique et critique de Voltaire soit généralement reconnue et consacrée par la critique, elle n'a pas encore subi l'examen qu'elle comporte, et il reste à la démontrer et à la préciser. Sans doute, au premier abord, l'atmosphère baylienne règne suprême dans les œuvres de Voltaire. Voltaire lui-même, tout le premier, dans de nombreux passages, rend hommage à celui qu'il nomme complaisamment “son père spirituel.” Les épithètes élogieuses que Voltaire adresse au philosophe de Rotterdam abondent, mais elles ne sont souvent qu'un mot d'ordre et de ralliement et ne doivent être acceptées qu'avec réserve et caution. De plus, il se peut que la ressemblance de pensée et de méthode entre deux auteurs tels que Pierre Bayle et Voltaire soit purement accidentelle et ne relève d'aucune influence directe. Un écrivain du caractère de Voltaire, toujours en éveil, curieux de tout savoir, doué d'une mémoire remarquable, prêt à assimiler et à transformer tout ce qui l'intéresse, se joue à dérouter l‘étude la plus minutieuse. Les influences françaises ou anglaises qui ont pu agir sur le développement intellectuel de Voltaire sont multiples et complexes: elles s'entremêlent et s'entrecroisent. Comment donc les définir et en tracer la source? Si Voltaire loue Pierre Bayle jusqu’ aux nues, il ne loue pas moins l'Angleterre, “l‘île barbare des Cassitérides, ”Locke et Newton. La part exacte de l'influence du milieu français et de celle de l'Angleterre sur Voltaire est encore à établir d'une façon définitive. La présente étude ne s'intéresse qu‘à la période de Voltaire qui précède la publication des Lettres philosophiques. Elle se borne à préciser la pensée philosophique et critique de Voltaire à cette époque et à en suggérer les sources probables; elle cherche surtout à découvrir quelques indices de l'influence de Pierre Bayle sur l'esprit du jeune Voltaire et à indiquer certains rapports de pensée et de méthode entre ces deux écrivains.

Friedrich Rochlitz, who as editor of the Leipsic Musikalische Zeitung first introduced E. T. A. Hoffmann to the German reading public, relates an interesting interview with the author soon after the appearance of the first volume of the Fantasiestücke in Callot's Manier. In reviewing the work for his paper, Rochlitz had declared, “was,” to quote his words, “kein Mensch verkennen konnte—er (Hoffmann) ahme im Stile und einigermaszen in der Form überhaupt, dem Jean Paul nach.” Hoffman was enraged, and poured out his feelings in the vigorous and excited fashion, so well known to those who had in any way excited his ill will.