When our Secretary, George Winchester Stone, asked me last July to address this meeting on the general topic of language teaching and linguistics, it was only with considerable hesitation that I finally agreed to accept. There has been far too much loose talk recently about the application of linguistics to language teaching, and I did not wish to add to it. In some circles linguistics has turned into a sort of fad. There are those who talk of the “linguistic method” of language teaching, as if to oppose it to some hypothetical “non-linguistic method” used in the benighted past. And at meetings of language teachers, bright young things walk up to me and ask, apparently in all seriousness: “Excuse me, professor, but would you please tell me how linguistics handles the subjunctive?” Needless to say, I have no answers to such questions; they merely embarrass me. Linguistics is not a teaching method, but a growing body of knowledge and theory; and though it may offer helpful answers to some of the problems of language teaching, it surely does not know all the answers.

American triumphs on the sea in the War of 1812 tempered the American mind into a belief in its power to express itself in a literature independent of any foreign influence. Previously America had shown only a faltering confidence in herself as a literary nation. No great protestations of literary strength had appeared in the periodicals. But with America's victory in this second war with the mother country, a new-found note of confidence came into literature. This new confidence was not, however, a nation-wide experience. It was a political phenomenon, Democratic rather than Federal.

Since the 1960s scholars have challenged earlier assumptions concerning ritual and literature. They have seriously discredited both the “ritual theory of myth” and traditional ideas on the relation of ritual to Greek and medieval drama. Although some critics still subscribe to theories of psychoanalysis and the “Cambridge anthropological school,” current anthropology offers superior theories of ritual, particularly those of Victor Turner, with their emphasis on community. Because literature and rites have similar emotional effects we have tended to equate them, but by so doing we confuse the liminal with the “liminoid.” Modern authors influenced by Frazer often invite this comparison. Rene Girard's theories of scapegoat and civilization have provided a new, if controversial, turn to ritual criticism. Rites share their symbolic nature with art, but their peculiar satisfaction lies in the experience of community.

Accurate interpretation of Poe's three tales of “mesmerism” depends on the correct historical definition of that term. It referred not to “hypnotism,” a later concept, but to “animal magnetism.” Hypnotism is a psychological phenomenon, a function of suggestibility, demonstrating the influence of one human will upon another. “Animal magnetism” was thought to be a physical “fluid”—comparable to electricity and other “imponderables”— pervading animate and inanimate Being, and acting as the unifier, the cohesive force which organizes both matter and mind. In “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” it is this magnetic “current” which preserves Valdemar's body until the circuit between him and the magnetist is broken, and the body decomposes. In “A Tale of the Ragged Mountains” the fluid preserves Bedloe's body and his “nervous field” of identity; it also expands his consciousness into the past, which he relives as the magnetist writes his memoir. In “Mesmeric Revelation” Vankirk's consciousness is magnetized just on the verge of death; i.e., of absorption into the unparticled matter of a magnetized universe. His revelation of this universe relates animal magnetism not only to the attractionrepulsion force of Eureka, but to imagination and “ratiocination,” and the inevitable tension or “magnetism” between opposites in life. The unifying effect of animal magnetism, then, constitutes the “unity of effect” in these tales.

Uncle Tom's Cabin was one of the foremost texts of the American abolitionist movement, but its impact on politics was international. This article traces the reception of Stowe's novel in Spain, the last European empire with a slave economy, during the mid–nineteenth century. As an imperial power, Spain was the political and economic force behind the transatlantic slave trade; but as a nation of readers, it imported a narrative back across the Atlantic in order to fictionalize and contemplate the effects of its slave policies in the Caribbean. One such adaptation converted the novel into a play about a slave trader and recast Stowe's story of slavery in the Atlantic world in terms of Spain's role in the slave trade and in the imperial control of Cuba.

The thirteenth-century French text Le roman de Silence is the story of a count's daughter, Silence, brought up as a boy because the king has prohibited female inheritance. Whereas previous readings emphasize the gender politics of the heroine's success as a male and the explicit thematization of issues of textuality, I focus instead on the work's representation of the feudal institutions of marriage, lineage, and the transmission of property. Under the cover of Silence's cross-dressing and refeminization, the text renegotiates the way bodies mattered in the thirteenth-century imaginary, redefining the function of the medieval nobility as genealogical reproduction rather than military service. While the story of the protagonist's parents euphemizes this politics of lineage, by the end of the tale the king's only recourse is Silence.

Reading Franco Moretti's Graphs, Maps, Trees as a late-stage graduate student in 2008 was invigorating. Here was an approach to literary history free from the pieties of close reading, committed to empiricism, seeking to fulfill, with its “materialist conception of form,” the promise of the sociology of literature (92). And, at the time, it seemed natural that the way to follow the path laid out by Moretti in Graphs and in the essays he had published over the previous decade was to go to my computer, polish my rusty programming skills, and start making graphs. Yet reconsidering Moretti's Distant Reading now, one is struck by how nondigital the book is. In fact, the meaning of distant reading has undergone a rapid semantic transformation. In “Conjectures on World Literature,” originally published in 2000, Moretti introduces the phrase to describe “a patchwork of other people's research, without a single direct textual reading” (Distant Reading 48). Today, however, distant reading typically refers to computational studies of text. Introducing a 2016 cluster of essays called “Text Analysis at Scale,” Matthew K. Gold and Lauren Klein employ the term to speak of “using digital tools to ‘read’ large swaths of text” (Introduction); in his contribution to the cluster, Ted Underwood embraces “distant reading” as a name for applying machine-learning techniques to unstructured text. Discussions of distant reading have become discussions of computation with text, even if no section of Distant Reading features the elaborate computations found in the Stanford Literary Lab pamphlets to which Moretti has contributed.

In a Panel Entitled “American (Indian) Studies: Can the Asa be an Intellectual Home?” at the 2002 Meeting of the American Studies Association, three Native Americanists—Robert Warrior, Philip Deloria, and Jean O'Brien—addressed the relation of their field to the broader terrain of American studies. Each remarked on the tenuous place of Native American studies in the academy, manifested by the underrepresentation of Indian faculty members, the existence of only two institutions granting PhDs in the field, the small number of scholarly journals devoted to Native issues, and neglect by other scholars, even those working in American and ethnic studies. Together, these problems create an institutional situation that Warrior labeled “intellectual homelessness,” in which “Native scholars … don't really belong anywhere” (“Room” 683). Yet these problems also suggest disparities between the questions that define Native studies and those that underlie scholarship in American studies as well as in conventional disciplines. If the marginalization of American Indian studies in academia, as these scholars suggested, reflects the place of Native peoples in United States society, so too does Native politics shape intellectual work in the field.

Gloria Anzaldúa's work invites us to reach beyond the usual conventions of academic writing to make visible the relations between self and world, feeling and thinking, personal experience and theory. As a philosopher, I read her for her insights about and analyses of multiple oppression, mixed identities, and alternative epistemologies. But as another Latina trying to write theory, I read her as one dying for thirst chokes on the first gulp of water. Her fearless accounts of violence in the Chicano/a community, her unapologetic disclosures of her spiritual faith, and her belief in the theoretical value of the personal voice emboldened me to reveal parts of myself in my writing that had felt incongruous in the professional discourses of the academy, even in the supposedly anticonventional circles of feminist theory.

For the last three years, roger chartier and i have taught an undergraduate seminar called the history of print Culture in Early Modern Europe and America. Although the content of the course has changed, one feature has been persistent: at least half our classes met in the rare-book libraries of Philadelphia. While we have often held the seminar in Special Collections at the University of Pennsylvania, we have also gone to the Library Company of Philadelphia, the Free Library, and the Rosenbach Museum and Library. This would not have been possible without the extraordinary openness and generosity of the Philadelphia libraries and librarians. But the work of those librarians has not only provided an infrastructure for the course; it has also reshaped what we've worked on and how we teach it.

Entering Howard University's Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, one still passes through the “catalog room,” an antechamber filled with rows of card drawers. Inaugurated in 1930 by the librarian Dorothy Porter, this catalog of the “Negro Collection” served for much of the twentieth century as one of the only portals to African American print culture. This article reconstructs the creation of that catalog in order to chart the relation between infrastructure and racial imaginaries of reading. Porter contravened the routine misfiling of blackness in prevailing information systems by rewriting Dewey decimals, creating new taxonomies for black print, and fielding research inquiries from across the African diaspora. She built public access to books “by and about the Negro” at a moment when most black readers were barred from libraries. In so doing, she fueled a broader sense of what a black archive—or what Porter called a “literary museum”—might afford.

Edmund Burke's youthful essay on The Sublime and Beautiful, first published in 1757, sets forth a theory that the impassioned language of poetry and oratory may rouse emotion without the entry of any clear images into the mind. This proposal—audacious if read by the light of the Augustan sunset, but prophetic of romanticism—has received occasional notice from historians of criticism because it anticipates Lessing's brilliant attack upon Wortmalerei in Laokoon (1766). But the way in which Burke seems to have invented his theory from scraps of Locke and Berkeley, left on the battlefield where the contest over abstract ideas had once been waged, has gone apparently unnoticed.

Read through Lacan and such new Lacanians as Slavoj Žižek and Juliet Flower MacCannell, Josephine Hart's Damage (1991) illustrates how an ethics of jouissance founds a tragic action emblematic of postmodern narcissism. New Lacanians stress drive, jouissance, the real, the primordial father, and the femme fatale. Typically, they find these elements in film noir. Transforming noir into love story, Damage foregrounds an unnamed narrator whose sadomasochistic affair with his son's fiancée precipitates the son's death. Beginning with the narrator in the guise of the traditional oedipal father, the affair unveils the fiancée as a femme fatale who constitutes the narrator as what MacCannell would call the destructive, narcissistic brother become primordial father. Enacting an ethics of jouissance because the narrator will not abandon his drive to enjoyment beyond the pleasure principle, primordial father and femme fatale participate in a narrative that must be called Lacanian tragedy.

Milton's two epic beginnings are interrelated by a network of structural parallels and verbal echoes and by the articulation of the Father's Word with Satan's wrath. An important if unacknowledged intertext for Satan's temptations against the Word, which occur in both epics, is the Reformed reading of the Genesis exchange between the serpent and Eve. Granting it status as an intertext permits a fresh exploration of the intertextual relations of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Under a poststructuralist and Lacanian analysis, the distinctive logocentric structures and operations at work in these two epics reveal the authority and self-presence of the Father's Word systematically yet progressively being caught up in or displaced by Satan's plotting, by history, and by writing.

The engravings that appeared as frontispieces in seventeenth-century editions of Molière’s works show that the decor of his stage was not nearly so universalized and unspecific as is generally believed. Each of his plays had its own individualized setting, and he laid increasing stress on the scenic environment for his plays as his career progressed. His earliest plays were set in variations of the traditional decor of comedy: the street before two houses. In Tartuffe and Le Misanthrope he made the stage represent a private domestic interior. In plays like Le Sicilien and Le Bourgeois gentilhomme the scenic definition of stage space became more fluid and fanciful. And in his last play, Le Malade imaginaire, Molière used the most advanced scenic technology of his day to provide a decor that reflected the extravagant folly of his hero.

Philip Roth invented Nathan Zuckerman to manage the temporal dissonance between the gradual and frequently posthumous canonization associated with Roth's modernist forebears and the instantaneous and contemporaneous celebrity characterizing his own postmodern career. After the mass cultural renown precipitated by Portnoy's Complaint and the devastating attack on that text by Irving Howe, Roth decided to re-create his career on the model of his literary forebears—James, Flaubert, Proust, Malamud, Mann, and especially Kafka, who died young after having published little. The first Zuckerman trilogy and its epilogue absorb the charismatic powers of these ancestors, after which Roth kills his avatar in The Counterlife, catapulting him into a pseudo-posthumous Jamesian major phase. The entire Zuckerman cycle, then, is a unique but also historically symptomatic strategy for dealing with the problem of celebrity authorship under a postmodern dispensation.

The Renaissance idea of a great national poet, the idea on which so many defenses of poetry were implicitly or explicitly based, found its first English incarnation in the career of Edmund Spenser. But the incarnation fundamentally transformed the idea, for Spenser was caught in a literary system that defined the poet in a quite different way—not as an inspired maker of vatic images, but rather as a youth culpably distracted by passion from the real business of life. Spenser’s presentation of himself as Poet can be seen as an attempt to reconcile these two notions, neither of which he could wholly abandon. Without the heroic ideal he could not escape the repentance that prematurely cut off the literary careers of the other poets of his generation, but without some participation in the Elizabethan paradigm of the lover-poet he might not be thought a poet at all.

Dominant among the effects of some Old English meditative and elegiac poems is the paradox of simplicity. The premise might be advanced that the source of our wonder at, often mystification about, such poems as The Seafarer, The Wanderer, and The Wife's Lament is the fact that we are too far separated from the poetic consciousness which gave them being. But surely this would be a profitless premise to begin with, especially since our knowledge of Anglo-Saxon culture and society and learning is not uninformed. Yet our approach to these poems seems to be one of continual amazement and puzzlement, as the now numerous published critical, interpretive studies so well attest. And this is what I mean by the paradox: most of these poems are, in their essential statements, simple and direct; their themes of exile and transience, of resoluteness in the face of flux, of sorrow and hardship and deprivation are staple and often expressed in identical terms, such as the recurrent use of gnomic dicta and the catalogue of misfortunes or joys. Likewise, the vocabulary as vocabulary is static and conventional; the limited, insular hoard of commonplace simplices finds extension only in the native habits characteristic of bothpoetic and non-poetic composition, of affixation, derivation (e.g., anga, engu, langoð), and compounding, and the compounds themselves are more frequently than not transparent and, quite apart from their use in context, unexceptional.

Epicene, or The Silent Woman, which Jonson's own century admired perhaps more than any other of his plays, has suffered the fate of becoming more instead of less enigmatic as time passes. Recent critics, more bothered than Jonson's contemporaries over the question of what, finally, the play is all about, have drifted into debates over whether it is a comedy or a farce, whether it is moral or immoral (or amoral), whether its prevailing tone is one of gaiety or harshness. One can lump many of these questions together and rephrase them in terms of Jonson's own dramatic development by asking to what extent Epicene preserves the stern morality of the earlier plays and to what extent it shares the geniality and relaxed moral temper of the later plays as typified by Bartholomew Fair. Probably the answer is that as a transitional play it combines both, and not always in the happiest fashion. The gaiety skates uncomfortably close to sadism; the judicial sternness, rejected in the person of Morose, is rejected with such supererogatory fierceness that it attracts a strong countercurrent of sympathy to it. The victory of Truewit over Morose represents Jonson's attempt to assert the values of the world and the flesh over the consolations of philosophy. But Jonson is still too committed to the philosopher's study to abandon it casually, and still too repelled by the vanity of courts to embrace it without a shudder. The result is that what he attempts to affirm on one level he denies on another. The effort to substitute an indulgent, “realistic” account of the world in place of his more habitual and more deeply felt satirical view produces ambiguities of tone which trouble the whole structure of the play.

It may seem paradoxical to claim that critics have not sufficiently concerned themselves with Dostoevsky's attack against rationalism in Crime and Punishment; yet this aspect of the novel has frequently failed to receive adequate attention, not because it has been overlooked, but because often it has been immediately noticed, perfunctorily mentioned, and then put out of mind as something obvious. Few writers have examined the consequence of the anti-rationalistic tenor of the novel: the extent to which it is paralleled by the structural devices incorporated in the work.