Magere Ergebnisse fördert zutage, wer die echten Schelme in der deutschen Dichtung aufspüren will and dazu die üblichen bibliographischen Handbücher, die zusammenfassenden Darstellungen motiv- und stoffgeschichtlicher Art und die nach Gattungen geordneten Sachbücher befragt. Josef Körner nennt in seinem Bibliographisches Handbuch des deutschen Schrifttums nur eine geringe Anzahl von wissenschaftlichen Untersuchungen unter dem Stichwort “Schelmenroman”, wovon die meisten sich auch noch auf das 16. und 17. Jahrhundert und die Lazarillo- und Don Quichote-Nachahmungen beschränken. In seiner durch ungeheuren Fleiß ausgezeichneten Anhäufung von Material, The Literature of Roguery (1907), teilt Frank W. Chandler der deutschen Schelmenliteratur nur neun Seiten zu, wobei sie sich diesen Platz auch noch mit der Diskussion des Genres in Holland teilen muß. Außer kurzen Hinweisen auf die deutsche Schwankliteratur, Meier Helmbrecht, Wittenweilers Der Ring, das Liber Vagatorum, Sebastian Brants Das Narrenschijf und auf einige Barocksatiren werden nur Grimmelshausens Der abenteuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch und seine späteren Simplicianische Schriften einer knappen Besprechung für würdig erachtet. Chandler schließt mit der Erwähnung mehrerer Robinsonaden und dem bezeichnenden Satz: “as elsewhere in letters, the ideal and the sentimental replaced picaresque realism. And so for a time the spirit of Rousseau and Richardson ruled.” Gero von Wilperts Sachwörterbuch der Literatur zählt einige der deutschen Übersetzungen und Nachdichtungen der Gattung im Barockzeitalter auf und nennt au der neueren deutschen Literatur Wincklers Der tolle Bomberg, Thelens Die Insel des zweiten Gesichts und Thomas Manns Bekenntnisse des Hochstaplers Felix Krull. Das klassische Werkzeug aller Germanisten, der Merker-Stammler, räumt dem Schelmenroman auch nur verhältnismäßig wenig Platz ein. Es wird hingewiesen auf den Bayern Ägidius Albertinus, den “Vater des deutschen Schelmenromans” und seine Bearbeitung des “Gusman von Alfarache” und auf einige obskure Verfasser und Bearbeiter. Man beeilt sich jedoch hinzuzufügen: “Von einem deutschen Schelmenroman kann …kaum gesprochen werden.” Und weiter unten heißt es: “Sowohl die Schelmenromane wie die Romane Grimmelshausens haben … wenig Nachahmung gefunden.”

Browning is one of Shelley's main heirs in the nineteenth century. As a boy he had worshipped Shelley, who is the most obvious single influence in both Pauline (pub. 1833) and Paracelsus (pub. 1835), his earliest published works. He grew uneasy about the relationship later, but he never stopped being in important ways a poet in the tradition of Shelley. One of the enduring likenesses between them is the way both use their strong sense of the weakness of language in developing the meaning of poems. Shelley uses it most fully in Epipsyckidion, where it serves a vision of the inadequacy of all human satisfactions. His solution is to set up a number of more or less satisfactory terms, calling attention to the fact that no one of them will do, and that they all together “do” only in special ways. This corresponds in language to the tendency to resist restrictions on personal relationships that appears in the Shelleyan “harem.” The solution in both cases can be awkward, but in the case of language, at any rate, the awkwardness is part of the meaning.

There is a hint of Minerva's owl in medieval philosophy's relation to the apparently mundane formal question of analogy. The problem is everywhere in scholastic thought, inherited from Aristotle and Averroës, then adapted as one of the basic formal mechanisms through which Thomistic logic both transposes its own theological categories onto an older classical framework and apprehends metaphysical relations of being, of identity and difference. Classically, it is by analogy that one conceives the likeness of the unlike, extracting a concept from the individual instances and scattered genera in which it otherwise resides: the quality of wisdom that characterizes God, say, but might differently characterize humans; the property of animation that attaches to humans but differently qualifies beasts. Hegel notes this problem of scholastic analogy in his Lectures on the History of Philosophy, when he comments of Aquinas that the category of “substance (forma substantialis) is, for instance, analogous to” Aristotle's notion of entelechy (3: 71) or when he dismisses medieval Latin more generally as “a quite unsuitable instrument” for the consideration of older philosophical forms—in effect, an imprecise exercise in analogy (38).

Perhaps no other French poem of recent times has been so much discussed, commented on, and analyzed as Arthur Rimbaud's Le Bateau Ivre. Hence it may seem presumptuous on my part to propose to the reader another lengthy discussion of a work about which “everything has been said.” If I do so, it is because of a conviction that much remains still to be said. For whereas there have been proposals for the total reading of the poem which seem to be generally acceptable, these usually fail to do more than suggest the broad general meaning; they do not provide insights into specific passages or solutions to the many difficulties of detail. Moreover, they tend to concentrate on the problem of meaning to the exclusion of the problem of structure, and it is in the problem of structure that I am especially interested. I should wish to discover, in the following pages, not only a more nearly complete reading of Le Bateau Ivre but also the answer (or part of the answer) to a theoretical question that constantly arises in the analysis of symbolist poetry. The problem simply stated is this: How much of a symbolist poem is actually involved in the central symbol about which the poem is built, and what purpose is served by such parts of the poem as are not involved in that symbol? Hence my subtitle, “The Limits of Symbolism,” which does not mean to impose limits upon the poet or to suggest that any such exist in the nature of things, but merely to inquire into the operation of these limits in the case of Le Bateau Ivre.

Shakespeare's selectivity in adapting a novella from Giraldi Cinthio's De Gli Hecatommithi into his own Othello has long been apparent; students of Shakespeare's play have stressed his transformation of the source by speeding up the action, condensing the plot, reassessing the characterization, and transfiguring the commonplace attitudes toward an interracial marriage presented in the source into a tragedy of love. But no one has demonstrated how a close comparison of single words and phrases in Othello and in the novella can help us to understand how the transformation took place, how words and phrases such as vedere cogl' occhi, vendetta, satio, and la giustizia divina are translated imaginatively into the thematic imagery of ocular proof, the configuration of revenge, satisfaction, and satiation, and the movement from justice to mercy which Desdemona offers to Othello. Clearly, such a comparison of the play and its source affords a critical perspective upon the verbal drama especially. But studies of the imagery in Othello neglect its source entirely, and source studies, merely footnoting the verbal parallels as they appear, seem to maintain the critical view that marvels how Shakespeare could have created so much out of so little. It is as if Shakespeare's characteristic ingredient, the poetic interplay of words and images in the verbal fund of his drama, had no parallel in the verbal fund of his source.

This study calls for globalizing recognitions and for writing less exclusionary histories. In introductory remarks, it relates two undermined cultures to current globalization and to “Western civilization” as a complex constructed from selected ancient Greek, Roman, and Judeo-Christian elements. Seven sections illustrate various contradictions in scholarship, in literary history, and in practice and attempt to reinsert Canaanite, Etruscan, and other suppressed civilizations into the Western and monotheistic self-valuation. The sections are titled “Etruscology,” “Recognition Politics and Paradigmatic Omissions,” “A Few Scholars,” “Recognition Textbooks,” “Canaan, Ugarit, and Biblical Scholarship,” “Demonologies,” and “Writing Writing.” The last section suggests that the original development and transmission of the alphabet could be used as another model for human commonality and for altering frameworks of interaction, knowledge, and recognition.

By way of caution a sub-title should be added: “A Set of Questions”—questions, that is, to which I do not presume to return a positive answer.

The classical parallels (Vergil, Homer) of Beowulf's obsequies as well as the Jordanes parallel are well known to students of Old English literature (cf. Klaeber's edition, pp. 209, 213, 216). It is especially the latter which has commonly been considered of very great value as illustrating the authentic character of the notable closing scene of Beowulf. “The accuracy [of the Beowulfian funeral],” says Chadwick1—to cite an English authority—“is confirmed in every point by archeological or contemporary literary evidence. We may refer especially to the account of Attila's funeral given by Jordanes.” Again, “the agreement between the two versions could not possibly be greater; here [i.e., in the recital of Attila's obsequies] everything is Germanic”—this was the verdict of Kögel,2 who regarded that 49th chapter of Jordanes' history3 as a most precious source of information on ancient Germanic poetry. It is true, certain differences between the sixth century and the eighth century version did not escape observation, as may be seen from Chambers' Introduction to Beowulf, p. 124, or from Klaeber's Edition, p. 216. But it remained for Edward Schröder's incisive article (ZfdA. LIX, 240-44) to aim a deadly blow at the famous account of Attila's funeral as currently interpreted.

“The American Scholar” (1837) grew organically out of Emerson's thinking about his own vocation after he left the pulpit and began secular lecturing in 1833. The scholar described first in his journal is like Emerson himself at the time, an inactive observer or “Watcher” preparing himself for some still-undefined public service. Later, Emerson developed his ideal figure of “the true scholar” as a writer and teacher who actively guides and inspires mankind, just as he hoped to do when composing his first book, Nature, in 1836. The scholar as Emerson draws him is successively the “intellectual” or “spiritual” man, “the great Thinker” who “thinks for all,” and finally the type of Emerson's Universal Man. As “Man Thinking” the scholar is neither a narrow specialist nor the parrot of other men's thoughts; he exemplifies “the active soul” by creatively transforming temporal events into timeless truth. It is self-reliant originality and creativity, the objects of Emerson's own dedication, that became the central themes of the oration as he shaped it during July and August of 1837.

Die bemühungen des jungen Opitz um die metrische und sprachliche Erneuerung der deutschen Dichtung aus dem Geist der Renaissance sind zu wohl bekannt, um dariiber viel Worte zu verlieren. Mit dem Buck von der Deutschen Poeterey und den beiden Poemata-Sammlungen waren allerdings nur die zwei ersten, wenn auch wichtigsten Schritte auf dem Wege dichterischer Reform getan. Opitz hatte seine Theorien, die natürlich weder ganz original waren, noch es sein konnten, zuerst 1617 im Aristarchus ausgesprochen, sie dann im Buck von der Deutschen Poeterey 1624 ausgebaut. Die wichtige erste Anwendung auf die Lyrik legte er in Buchform schon 1624, bzw. 1625, dem Publikum vor. Zum allergrößten Teil enthielten dièse Sammlungen Übersetzungen aus dem Holländischen, Französischen, Italienischen, aus dem Lateinischen und Griechischen. Trotzdem war genug Eigenes vorhanden, um den in dieser Hinsicht nicht verwöhnten Zeitgenossen zu beweisen, daß ursprüngliche Lyrik in deutscher Sprache und in den neuern Versmaßen sehr wohl möglich sei.

In the last weeks of World War II when the battle front swayed to and fro around Vienna, Ida Orloff died practically forgotten, in the nearby hamlet of Tullnerbach, in the fifty-seventh year of her life. Few among the villagers knew her as a once-famous star of the foremost theaters in Berlin and Vienna. In the confusion of those climactic days of the war when all newspapers had suspended publication, no notice was taken of her death and her biography has remained unwritten. Inasmuch as Gerhart Hauptmann patterned the heroines of a number of his works after the youthful actress, a brief documented account of her most unconventional life and of her relations with the great Silesian poet may be of some interest to students of the German theater of the first half of the twentieth century.

Paradise lost, in spite of all the critical and scholarly acknowledgements that it is a “typical” seventeenth-century epic, has not often enough been seriously considered in the context of the Restoration, when, of course, it appeared. The audience that read it was also reading Dryden. And while it was obviously not a “party poem” in the way that Absalom and Achitophel was, it certainly was not detached from its age. In his own way, Milton was responding to contemporary events and issues with something of Dryden's hardness of mind and spirit. Indeed, certain aspects of Paradise Lost may appear in an altogether new perspective when we consider how closely Dryden used Milton's epical material in his own small epic. We may, to pursue one aspect in detail, even turn up a plausible model for Satan.

Critical discourse today locates an antagonism between globalization and citizenship. The deepening of globalizing processes strips citizens of power, this position maintains. As economic processes become globalized, the nation-state loses its ability to protect its population. Citizens lose their ability to elect a leadership that effectively pursues their interests. When production facilities are dispersed beyond the nation, jobs are lost to foreigners, labor markets are affected by conditions in countries with diverse living standards, and capital flows, at the speed of light, to places of optimum returns. Consumption is also planetary in scope, bringing across borders alien cultural assumptions as embodied in commodities. The popular need no longer be the local. Although foreign goods are inflected with community values and easily adapted to local conditions, they remain indexes of otherness. What is more dramatic still than the changes in production and consumption, nation-states are losing their cultural coherence by dint of planetary communications systems. Much of contemporary music is global music or at least a fusion of diverse musical cultures. Satellite technology and the Internet bring all media across national boundaries as if those borders did not exist. Global processes run deep and wide, rendering problematic the figure of the citizen as a member of a national community.

Before Walt Whitman became the self-celebrating poet of Leaves of Grass, he was a professional journalist. This paper examines the journalism Whitman produced from 1840 to 1842 in the context of an emerging celebrity culture, and it considers celebrity's effects on the public sphere. It traces the penny press's personal style of journalism to both its artisan-republican politics and the formation of celebrity culture, in which celebrities assume status parallel to that of traditional representatives of authority. As editor of the Aurora, Whitman adopts the first-person, polemical style of the penny press and singles out prominent people for criticism. In other pieces, he presents himself as the ever-observant flâneur. As editor and as flâneur, he is a participant in and observer of the life of his community, and he assumes unassailable interpretive power. But he also regards his readers as fellow participants-observers who make judgments about the public figures he reports on. The tension between these positions is never resolved: Whitman's dialogic addresses to readers aim to extend the public sphere of critical debate even as Whitman holds steadfastly to his own social and political authority. Encouraging and modeling readers' negotiations over the meaning of public figures, he extends the features of celebrity culture to the public at large. His early journalism shows how and why it is so difficult to reconcile political and social community in the era of mass culture, and it highlights the complexities of the coexistence of celebrity and critical discourse in the personal public sphere.

The Cuban Revolution Generated a New Communist Paranoia in the United States. Interest in Latin America Grew Dramatically after Castro's rise to power in 1959 and was partly responsible for the explosive growth in the number of scholars specializing in hemispheric issues during the 1960s. Latin Americans, in turn, saw this phase of the Cold War as a furthering of imperial aggression by the United States. The Eisenhower administration's authoritarian diplomatic maneuvers to isolate Guatemala by accusing the country's democratically elected president, Jacobo Arbenz (1950-54), of being a communist and by pressuring members of the Organization of American States to do likewise had already alarmed intellectuals and artists in Latin America five years before. On 17 June 1954, Carlos Castillo Armas and a band of a few hundred mercenaries invaded the country from Honduras with logistical support from the Central Intelligence Agency in an operation code-named PBSUCCESS, authorized by President Eisenhower in August 1953. By 1 July 1954 the so-called Movement of National Liberation had taken over Guatemala. Angela Fillingim's research evidences how the United States officially viewed Guatemala as “Pre-Western,” according to “pre-established criteria,” because the Latin American country had failed to eliminate its indigenous population (5-6). Implicitly, the model was that of the nineteenth-century American West. As a solution, the State Department proposed “finishing the Conquest.”

My Sense of gratitude—of indebtedness—has often propelled me into difficult situations but none more difficult than the one in which I find myself tonight. I accepted the invitation of your Executive Secretary, Mr. George Winchester Stone, Jr., to address this formidable assemblage because such knowledge of foreign languages as I possess has been and still is one of the most formative influences on my whole life and my concept of the meaning of life.

A bibliography of restoration drama is much needed, and it is to be hoped that either Professor Allardyce Nicoli or Mr. Montague Summers will fulfil his promise to give us one. The advertisements in newspapers concerning the publication of plays are invaluable raw material for such a bibliography. Writers on, and editors of, individual dramatists have occasionally made use of them, but the great mass of advertisements has remained uncollected and unsought after. I have thoroughly searched the Burney Collection of newspapers in the British Museum and extracted therefrom announcements of the publication of plays. I have confined myself to plays or songs from individual plays, leaving out of account books on the drama or collections of songs in which no specific play is mentioned.

Recent criticism of the eighteenth-century English novel points to a providential world view as the “proper conceptual context” for these fictions, but it would be an error to see the fictions of Defoe, Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett as uniformly or unhesitatingly committed to the providential order. These authors constructed fictions, characters, and structures in response to the historical actuality of the age, in transition from the Christian to the secular world view. It is this transition and its effect on the providential world view that provide the conceptual context for the fiction of this period. Critics, having recognized the novel as the fictional form of a secular age, must also recognize the significance of the romance as that fictional form best depicting the providential order. In eighteenth-century English fiction the romance is gingerly displaced from the theoretical center of narrative by elements of form now identified with the novel.

Les lecteurs de ces passionnants ouvrages publiés périodiquement sous le titre de listes bibliographiques n'ont pu manquer d’être frappés par le nombre des livres qui viennent d’étre consacrés ces dernières années à Racine. Ce poète classique jouirait-il d'un regain de faveur auprès de nos contemporains qu'on nous dépeint tous les jours si matérialistes? Il convient certes d’être prudent en ces matières et de ne point parler trop vite de la popularité d'un poète qui n'a jamais été et ne sera jamais que le régal des délicats; et c'est avec quelque défiance que l'on aborde cette récente littérature racinienne. Que peut-on apporter de nouveau sur un sujet où à chaque pas, nous rencontrons l'inévitable et merveilleux Sainte-Beuve? Le Bidois, dans la première année de ce siècle, dans un livre non sans valeur, mais déjà oublié, plus tard André Suarès, en antiracinien épris de littérature russe et scandivave, Jules Lemaitre et Anatole France qui ont tant aimé leur cher Racine, n'ont pas réussi à renouveler le sujet. Masson-Forestier, qui avait prétendu le faire, n'a pu écrire qu'un livre curieux, mais plein d'hypothèses gratuites, reposant sur de prétendus faits depuis controuvés. N'attendons donc pas de nos contemporains des révélations raciniennes. Recherchons plus humblement ce que notre génération trouve et aime dans Racine. Si ce n'est là un problème proprement racinien, c'est du moins un point curieux de psychologie contemporaine.