This study analyzes a series of complex, ambivalent literary responses to the decades of civil turmoil in seventeenth-century England that simultaneously demanded public commitment and prompted private withdrawal. From their various perspectives the Royalist writers raised in the humanist tradition are shown to appreciate anew the value of patient fortitude.

Professor Brett has some direct acquaintance with a Joint Honours Degree in English Literature and Philosophy: and it is therefore on the basis of his own experience that he warns us that poetry and philosophy are “difficult pursuits for any man to combine” . This book has an introductory chapter and a short epilogue which deal in a philosophical way with meaning in poetry and in imaginative literature generally and with the nature of critical interpretation.In the four middle chapters (...) the author gives his account of four well-known and much discussed poems: Lycidas, the Essay on Man, the Ancient Mariner and the Four Quartets . One could imagine these chapters presented independently as interpretations and discussions of the literary and historical background of the poems: but they certainly illustrate Mr. Brett's theory of meaning in poetry and this provides a certain unity. Parts of Chapter I were first published by the author in Philosophy . What is new is the particular application of the theory to didactic and discursive poetry. To this is now added a discussion of rival theories of interpretation: first, the view expressed by Wimsatt and Beardsley in “The Intentional Fallacy” ; and, second, the views expressed by Miss Kathleen Raine in her essay on Blake. (shrink)

In World War II, however, that lonely masculine authority of experience—the bitter authority derived from direct exposure to violence, injury, and mechanized terror—was rapidly dispersing among generally populations. Graves, notes, with some discomfort, that the Second World War soldier “cannot even feel that his rendezvous with death is more certain than that of his Aunt Fanny, the firewatcher.”5 American culture was, obviously, characterized by far greater disjunctions between male and female “experience” of war than the British blitz society Graves describes, (...) and the modern tradition of soldier poetry, with its ironic emphasis on unmendable gaps between the soldier author and the civilian reader, retained its strong influence. Still, public discussions of war and literature in the United States dwell frequently on the new conjunctions between civilians and soldiers, front and home front, and men and women, focusing on their shared morale or effort as well as on their common deprivation and vulnerability.In a war newly perceived as “total,” [Marianne] Moore’s work could exemplify the power of a representative civilian voice. It could also represent modernism provisionally embracing realist and didactic functions, coming round to correcting earlier trends toward self-referentiality. Thus Richard Eberhart, arguing in his introduction to a well-known anthology of war poetry that “the spectator, the contemplator, the opposer of war have their hours with the enemy no less than uniformed combatants,” praises Moore for abandoning the “complacencies of the peignoir” to write “In Distrust of Merits.”6 His phrasing links Moore with another civilian war poet, Wallace Stevens; by dressing Moore in Stevens’ Peignoir in order to show her doffing it, he represents her as a formerly feminine object of desire who has emerged from the coquetries of her sex into a new, superior, gender-free authority Now, Eberhart argues, “the bloodshed of which she writes has caused her to break through the decorative surface of her verse” to a “different kind of utterance.” For Eberhart, the poem’s value lies in its violation of Moore’s usual mannered aestheticism. She “breaks through” a feminine surface, as if puncturing skin, but the result is not a wound but a mouth: a “different kind of utterance,” in which “the meaning has dictated the sincerity.”7 Oscar Williams, in the preface to a comparable anthology, also reads the poem as a model of transparent earnestness, offering it as a solution to the problem of Edna St. Vincent Millay, the “bad” woman war poet who is excoriated in these discussions as often as Moore is extolled. Describing one of Millay’s war poems as “a sentimental piece of verse written by an American civilian, designed to be read by … people themselves out of danger because they are protected by a wall of living young flesh, much of which will be mangled,” Williams contrasts Moore’s “In Distrust of Merits”: But with true poets the poetry is in the pity …I ask the reader to study closely a war poem peculiarly fitted to illustrate my present thesis. It is also written by a woman, a civilian. “In Distrust of Merits,” by Marianne Moore, is the direct communication of honest feeling by one ready to search her own hear to discover the causes of war and accept her full share of responsibility for its effects.8 5. Graves, “The Poets of World War II,” p. 310.6. Richard Eberhart, “Preface: Attitudes to War,” in War and the Poet: An Anthology of Poetry Expressing Man’s Attitudes to War from Ancient Times to the Present, ed. Eberhart and Selden Rodman , pp. xv, xiii.7. Ibid., p. xiii.8. Oscar Williams, ed., The War Poets: An Anthology of the War Poetry of the Twentieth Century , p. 6. Susan Schweik is assistant professor of English at the University of California, Berkeley. She is at work on a book manuscript entitled A Word No Man Can Say for Us: American Women Poets and the Second World War. (shrink)

It is easy to overlook the fact that the kind of personalist criticism Brower, Wimsatt, and other New Critics were reacting against was a method of interpretation bequeathed by the nineteenth century which most of us would now regard as naïve, simplistic, and sometimes absurd. With the exception of a few poems such as Browning's dramatic monologues, which provided the speaker with an explicit identity as unmistakable as that of a character in a play—"I am poor brother Lippo, by your (...) leave! / You need not clap your torches to my face"—lyric and didactic poems of the first person were invariably treated as personal statements. The voice, emotions, attitudes, and state of mind of the speaker were those of the poet, and even the most symbolic details were often read as literal aspects of the poet's self or environment. Many critical studies and anthologies remain today on library shelves testifying to the persistence of these critical habits of the late 1940s and 1950s. On the assumption that Rochester's love poems describe his actual sexual experiences, Vivian de Sola Pinto was able to write a much longer biography of the poet than would have been possible if personalist criticism had not been in vogue.1 David Nichol Smith could assert that Dryden's Religio Laici "was wholly spontaneous"—the familiar Romantic criterion - and show the poet arguing out "his problems for the peace of his own mind."2 If it became unfashionable to speak in that manner of these and numerous other poems, it was because the New Critics, along with the Chicago critics, had shown convincingly that a lyric poem can be dramatic, the imitation of a fictitious speaker responding to an imagined situation, and that a didactic poem can deal with public issues instead of private agonies. · 1. See Vivian de Sola Pinto, Rochester: Portrait of a Restoration Poet .· 2. David Nichol Smith, John Dryden , p. 61. Phillip Harth is Merritt Y. Hughes Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, and is the author of Swift and Anglican Rationalism and Contexts of Dryden's Thought. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Journal of the History of Ideas 62.2 (2001) 313-333 [Access article in PDF] Vestige of the Third Force: Willem Bilderdijk, Poet, Anti-Skeptic, Millenarian Joris van Eijnatten One of the unfortunate consequences of Babel is that only the Dutch read Dutch poetry. 1 Although English-speaking historians may have heard of the seventeenth-century poet Joost van den Vondel, who generally qualifies as the greatest literary artist of the Netherlands, virtually (...) no one outside Holland knows Willem Bilderdijk (1756-1831), poet, jurist, and man of learning. Robert Southey, having met the poet at his home in Leiden in 1825, lamented several years later the fact that Bilderdijk's fame had not traversed national boundaries: "And who is Bilderdyk?" methinks thou sayest: A ready question; yet which, trust me, Allan, Would not be asked, had not the curse that came From Babel, clipt the wings of Poetry. 2When Southey sojourned in the Netherlands, Bilderdijk had already established his reputation as one of the few unconventional figures in Dutch history, comparable, in this sense, to Coornhert and Spinoza. The most outstanding poet of his age, he dominated nineteenth-century Dutch literature through his versatility, rhetorical prowess and sheer output. He is reputed to have written 300,000 lines of verse, not counting his unpublished poems. He practiced virtually all literary genres, from Pindaric odes and erotic rhyme to didactic poetry. Versed in the classics, he wrote numerous translations of, among many others, Homer, Sophocles, Anacreon, Callimachus, Horace, and Ovid. Bilderdijk was a prolific [End Page 313] writer of essays on subjects ranging from moral philosophy, epistemology, and natural law to aesthetics, architecture, and botany. He translated theological and devotional works, including Thomas Chalmers's Evidence and Authority of the Christian Revelation, Chrysostome's sermons, and books on freemasonry and pneumatology. Besides contributing to perspective drawing, he wrote the first geological study in Dutch. His History of the Fatherland appeared posthumously in thirteen volumes. He himself regarded his linguistic studies and literary essays as his main achievement. Bilderdijk filled thousands of pages with his idiosyncratic views on the gender of nouns, the alphabet, grammar, spelling, medieval manuscripts, tragedy, and drama in general.Not surprisingly, Bilderdijk's varied interests and comprehensive mind have led to different interpretations of his thought. Most are one of two kinds. Writers subscribing to the first interpretation regard him as a somewhat strange but devout apologist for Calvinist orthodoxy. They stress the fact that Bilderdijk was the only intellectual who, in the midst of the soul-destroying rationalism propounded by a complacent liberal establishment, dared to cry out against Revolution and Enlightenment, thus revivifying the religious heart of the nation. 3 Those who follow the second interpretation emphasize the Romantic nature of his thought. This group tends to look upon Bilderdijk as the only true Dutch Romantic, a Wordsworth and Coleridge combined, a metaphysical if rather erratic genius who outgrew the intellectual marshlands of his native country. Writers in this tradition stress his definition of poetry as a spontaneous overflow of feeling, his linguistic achievements, his preoccupation with geology, and his visionary view of Dutch history. 4 One major interpreter, commenting on Bilderdijk's "real position as a philosopher," has stated that "to me there can be no doubt that Bilderdijk should be placed among the post-Kantian idealists like Fichte and Schelling (cf., again, Coleridge!)." 5Such statements are largely products of wishful thinking. Bilderdijk was not a devout Calvinist. He hardly ever went to church, his theology exhibits suspiciously heterodox leanings, and his professed adherence to the doctrine of predestination had less to do with a profound knowledge of the articles of Dort than mystical resignation. Similarly, the depiction of Bilderdijk as a post-Kantian idealist is sympathetic but lacks any evidence. Some literary historians have [End Page 314] tried to salvage the "Romantic" nature of his poetry, but the result is not particularly convincing. 6"And who is Bilderdijk," to echo Southey, if he was neither a Calvinist nor a Romantic? How should one interpret his thought? What should one do... (shrink)

Since antiquity, Empedocles has been considered as an example of both successful and unsuccessful communication. Aristotle credits him with vividness of images, but blames him for failure of clarity, and eventually compares his obscureness to that of oracles. Therefore, scholars in the past came to the conclusion that Empedocles deliberately employs an opaque style, like Heraclitus and his "studied ambiguity", as means for initiation. This paper challenges this assumption and asks whether and how ambiguity can work within a didactic (...) poem. By showing how Empedocles' and Heraclitus' communicative strategies differ from one another, I shall point to the poet's role as a charismatic and spiritual guide, displaying at times a Sibyl-like attitude. Being a mediator between two separate dimensions puts Empedocles in an ambiguous position, because he delivers what the Muse and the gods made available for him to share, and so his opaqueness does not come directly from him. Ultimately, this style analysis also says something about who the ideal audience must have been. (shrink)

In this paper I shall approach Hesiod's poetry from two, rather different, directions; consequently, the paper itself falls into two parts, the argument and conclusions of which are largely independent. In I offer some observations on the vexed question of the organisation of Works and Days; that is, my concern is with the coherence of the poem's form and content. In my attention shifts to the function of this poem and of its companion, Theogony; given the form and content of (...) these two poems, what can we plausibly conjecture about the end or ends to which they were composed? In particular, I shall consider whether, and in what sense, these poems may be regarded as didactic in intent. Much of what I have to say in I say with a measure of confidence; in , by contrast, my primary aim is to undermine unwarranted confidence — although I do, even here, reach some positive conclusions. (shrink)

The "Notes of Dr. Smith's Rhetorick Lectures," discovered in 1958 by a University of Aberdeen professor, consists of lecture notes taken by two of Smith's students at the University of Glasgow in 1762-1763. There are thirty lectures in the collection, all on rhetoric and the different kinds or characteristics of style. The book is divided into "an examination of the several ways of communicating our thoughts by speech" and "an attention to the principles of those literary compositions which contribute to (...) persuasion or entertainment." The species of communication discussed include descriptive and narrative (or historical) composition, poetry, demonstrative oratory, panegyric, didactic or scientific language, deliberative oratory, and judicial or forensic oratory. The subjects addressed in his teachings include the style and genius of some of the best of the ancient writers and poets, especially the historians and the English classics. (shrink)

In their introduction to the recent excellent volume Plato & Hesiod, the editors G.R. Boys-Stones and J.H. Haubold observe that when we think about the problematic relationship between Plato and the poets, we tend to narrow this down to that between Plato and Homer. Hesiod is practically ignored. Unjustly so, the editors argue. Hesiod provides a good opportunity to start thinking more broadly about Plato's interaction with poets and poetry, not in the least because the ‘second poet’ of Greece represents (...) a different type of poetry from Homer's heroic epics, that of didactic poetry. What goes for Plato and Hesiod goes for Proclus and Hesiod. Proclus , the productive head of the Neoplatonic school in Athens, took a great interest in poetry to which he was far more positively disposed than Plato had ever been. He wrote, for example, two lengthy treatises in reaction to Socrates' devastating criticism of poetry in the Republic as part of his commentary on that work in which he tries to keep the poets within the Platonic pale. This intriguing aspect of Proclus' thought has, as one might expect, not failed to attract scholarly attention. In Proclus' case too, however, discussions tend to concentrate on his attitude towards Homer . To some extent this is only to be expected, since much of the discussion in the Commentary on the Republic centres on passages from Homer. Proclus did not, however, disregard Hesiod: we still possess his scholia on the Works and Days, now available in a recent edition by Patrizia Marzillo. (shrink)

Roughly half way through the fourthGeorgic, Virgil confronts a sad reality: on occasion the entire population of a hive can perish without warning and leave the bee-keeping farmer bee-less. In response to such a devastating loss, the poet describes an Egyptian procedure, to which modern critics have given the namebugonia, whereby the farmer acquires a new swarm of bees from the putrefying carcass of a dead ox (4.281–314). After the account ofbugonia, the poem takes a notoriously unexpected turn. Virgil asks (...) the Muses about the origins of this practice and then recounts the exploits of Aristaeus, an inhabitant of the georgic world whose own bees once succumbed to famine and disease. In the narrative that follows, Aristaeus consults his mother Cyrene and the seer Proteus, who tells him about Orpheus’ descent to the underworld. The narrative ends when Aristaeus, thanks to the teaching of his mother, performs a series of activities that culminates in a new swarm of bees bursting forth from the putrefying carcass of a dead ox (4.315–558). The aetiological character of the Aristaeus narrative is clear—Virgil promises to trace the Egyptian procedure back to its firstorigo(4.286), and when he addresses the Muses, he specifically asks what god discovered the practice and whence it took its first beginnings (4.315–16). But for what activity does the story actually offer anaition? (shrink)

That there is something not altogether honest about a didactic novel can be seen once we imagine a novel which violates our political sympathies or our moral principles, such as a novel that shows the Nazis or the American soldiers at My Lai as heroes. We certainly would not like this novel. But could we refute it because of our certain knowledge that these men, in real life, were murderers? I don't think so, since a skillful writer could easily (...) make his characters act heroically in the situation—and even make us dislike their victims. Could we say that the situation is false? Perhaps, but since the actions and the characters are fictional, what does it mean to refute them? We can say that a novel is bad or unconvincing if the characters do not resemble people in real life or if the actions do not satisfy our sense of logic or probability. But these are literary objections, not political ones. And because the writer cannot be refuted by evidence from the real world, he cannot make pronouncements about this world. For example, even if there were evidence that no slave resembled Tom and no overseer resembled Legree, such evidence could not refute the novel Uncle Tom's Cabin. And as Moody Prior points out in his essay , our disagreement with the philosophy of spiritual, rather than physical resistance to slavery cannot take away the heroism of Tom's action. His final act of forgiveness is indeed Christ-like, and no philosophy of political activism which is validated by, let us say, our admiration for Tom within the novel cannot validate Tom's kind of inward action in the real world. If it did, then our admiration for Tom, a fictional character, would prelude our support for a more active resistance to oppression. But, of course, it does not, or at least it should not, if we are to see fiction as performing a different role than politics and philosophy. Lawrence W. Hyman, professor of English at Brooklyn College of the City University of New York, is the author of The Quarrel Within: Art and Morality in Milton's Poetry. His previous contribution to Critical Inquiry, "The 'New Contextualism' Has Arrived: A Reply to Edward Wasiolek," appeared in the Winter 1975 issue. (shrink)

On alienation in 20th century Indic poetry in English.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Traditions and Tendencies:A Reply to Carine DefoortRein RaudIn 1899 William Aston, a British diplomat, published the first overall history of Japanese literature in English. In it, Japanese poetry is characterized as follows:Narrow in its scope and resources, it is chiefly remarkable for its limitations-for what it has not, rather than what it has.... Indeed, narrative poems of any kind are short and very few, the only ones which (...) I have met with being two or three ballads of a sentimental cast. Didactic, philosophical, political and satirical poems are also conspicuously absent. The Japanese muse does not meddle with such subjects, and it is doubtful whether, if it did, the native Pegasus possesses sufficient staying power for them to be dealt with adequately.([1899] 1977, p. 24)Nevertheless, Aston took it for granted that Japan had a literature and that one part of it was poetry, even if it did not quite live up to his expectations. Timothy Reiss, writing a century later, was not so generous: he argued that literature in the proper (i.e., his) sense of the word appeared in Europe in the seventeenth century "as part of a social solution to a crisis viewed explicitly at the time as at once logico-linguistic and sociopolitical" (1992, p. 5). As was fashionable at the time, Reiss' voluminous study also set out to prove that, once the crisis had been resolved, literature would also cease to exist.These two approaches can certainly be seen in the treatment of non-Western philosophical traditions as well. We might say that Aston's assessment of Japanese literature ("ingenious and inventive, but hardly capable of high intellectual achievement" [1899] 1977, p. 4) could perhaps be compared to the views of Christian missionaries and other early mediators of non-Western traditions, while the position of Reiss is similar to the position of those contemporary Western scholars who would like to reserve the right to define philosophy as narrowly as possible. In my comment earlier in this issue I tried to argue that neither of these positions, nor their derivates, is really satisfactory in the contemporary intellectual environment.In her thorough response, Carine Defoort has clarified most issues that provoked me in her initial article on this topic, particularly in emphasizing that her "family model" of philosophy is meant to be descriptive and not prescriptive. Nevertheless, I do find it a bit too pessimistic even as a description of the present situation, and I am also inclined to disagree with her certainty that "a world philosophy has not arisen and is not on the rise." Of course, a lot remains to be done in this area, but there is a clear tendency to the contrary, although this is perhaps due more to the contribution of Japanese rather than Chinese thinkers. A brief internet search reveals a considerable number of scholars who occupy professorial positions in philosophy (not Asian studies) departments at various universities around the world who list, for example, the Kyoto school philosophers or Dōgen in their research interests. Defoort as well does not have too high hopes of the Chinese tradition entering the field on a [End Page 661] more permanent setting because of the complexity of the language; on the other hand, not so many Western philosophers are proficient in Greek, either, but this is not perceived to be a major obstacle in their work. Moreover, although articles and books on Japanese thinkers sometimes appear that are on the naive side, relying on translations as they do, this situation does not necessarily have to stay the way it is.Nevertheless, Defoort is most certainly right in that the opposite number of philosophy departments, where Asian traditions are not considered to be proper philosophy, is, for the time being, much bigger. And some of them are in the most respectable institutions. However, when thinkers such as Jacques Derrida deny the status of philosophy to Chinese thought, one should remember that in many of these respectable institutions the label of "philosophy" is denied to the work of Derrida himself as well. If we refer to taijiquan not as taijiquan, period, but as "shadow-boxing," we have already granted... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Lucretian Receptions: History, The Sublime, KnowledgeWilson H. ShearinPhilip Hardie. Lucretian Receptions: History, The Sublime, Knowledge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. ix + 306 pp. 4 black-and-white ills. Cloth, $90.Students of Latin literature need no introduction to the work of Philip Hardie. Although he has written on topics across the classical canon, he is perhaps best known as an influential critic of Virgil. His 1986 book, Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos (...) and Imperium, which traces the Aeneid’s articulation of Roman imperial ideology in cosmological idiom, remains, whatever one’s position on its arguments, a central monument within recent Virgilian criticism. One achievement of that work is its demonstration of how Virgil’s epic is informed by the writing of his Epicurean precursor, Lucretius. As the volume under review shows, the last quarter-century has only deepened and expanded Hardie’s fascination with Lucretius’ relationship to later authors, above all, Virgil. Lucretian Receptions now joins Hardie’s earlier writing (and Monica Gale’s Virgil on the Nature of Things [Cambridge, 2000]) as a significant English-language resource for mapping Lucretius’ presence in the Latin literature of the late Republic and early Empire. While the work manifests some blindspots—in particular, certain theoretical questions about the shape of Hardie’s critical practice and the nature of his broader project remain unanswered for this reviewer—the strength and insight of its detailed interpretations should make it standard reading for both Lucretians and those interested in the history of Latin literature more generally.With a reach that extends from Homer to Milton, the volume is neither exclusively a treatment of didactic nor of Latin literature; taken as a whole, it tends towards the articulation of a broader strain of Lucretian tropes and themes within ancient poetry, a strain whose tradition is bounded neither by language nor genre and whose chief voices include Homer, Empedocles, Lucretius, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid (as this list makes clear, many “Lucretian” tropes and themes antedate Lucretius himself; Hardie occasionally places Lucretius within a tradition of “Empedoclean” rather than “Lucretian” epos). Not unlike Hardie’s earlier book, which locates the influence of Lucretius’ didactic, natural-scientific poem upon a narrative epic, this work finds textual traces of the Epicurean poet in places where they may be less expected and where, at least historically, some critics have denied them. Thus we find within the volume treatment of the connections between De rerum natura and Virgil’s bucolic poetry or Horace’s lyric alongside the more expected (and well-explored) indications of Lucretius’ impact on the Georgics. Further, as the work’s subtitle hints, it is organized as a collection of topical, thematic essays rather than as a sustained, sequential argument. This arrangement (which betrays the diverse origin of the chapters) allows Hardie to pursue Lucretius and his place in the ancient poetic landscape unconstrained by, if also well aware of, the traditional features—genre, natural-scientific theme, philosophical bent—that, at least occasionally, have encouraged critics to locate Lucretius outside the main currents of classical and post-classical Latin poetry.The volume consists of eight chapters, six published in some form previously, [End Page 532] which collectively treat the broad subjects “Time, history, culture,” “Sublime visions,” and “Certainties and Uncertainties.” Argument generally proceeds by close reading, or through tracking close verbal reminiscence (often visually articulated by boldface highlighting). Yet this attention to detail does not prevent Hardie from making important larger connections: his first chapter, for example, “Cultural and historical narratives in Virgil’s Eclogues and Lucretius,” begins by tracking gen- words (genetrix, genitalia, gignant, etc.) in De rerum natura (13–15), but it quickly turns these detailed observations into a reading (based on Ovid Ars Amatoria 3.337) of Aeneas as the atomic, “original substance” of Rome. Similarly, his final chapter concludes with a pointed verbal reminiscence of Lucretius in Andrew Marvell’s “On Paradise Lost”: for Hardie, Marvell’s mention of “delight and horror” (l. 35), which conjures up Lucretius’ divina voluptas... atque horror DRN, 3.28–29), captures perfectly the similarity between Lucretius’ and Milton’s sense of the strong connection between verbal composition and the composition, or creation, of reality (278–79... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:After the Future. The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian CultureDmitry KhaninAfter the Future. The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian Culture, by Mikhail Epstein; translated with an introduction by Anessa Miller-Pogacar; xvi & 394 pp. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995, $55.00 cloth, $19.95 paper.Mikhail Epstein, a renowned Soviet critic—his books in Russian include Paradoxes of the New (1988) and Faith and Image: The Religious Subconscious in (...) [End Page 508] Twentieth Century Russian Culture (1994)—emigrated to the U.S. in 1988. After the Future is the first collection of his major essays (written from 1986 to 1991) in English translation. It begins with the article “New Currents in Russian Poetry: Conceptualism, Metarealism, and Presentism,” which first introduced to the Soviet reader a group of postmodernist poets, just coming out (with the advent of glasnost) from the literary underground. Other articles (“Avant-Garde Art and Religion,” “After the Future: On the New Consciousness in Literature”), though first published in Russian literary journals, were shipped to Russia from “the other shore” (to use Alexander Herzen’s description of emigre writers’ whereabouts vis-à-vis their homeland). The latest studies (“Relativistic Patterns in Totalitarian Thinking: The Linguistic Games of Soviet Ideology,” “The Origins and Meaning of Russian Postmodernism”) were not only sent from the other shore but apparently produced for the other shore. Instead of analyzing the recent Russian literary crop and emerging aesthetic sensibilities, Epstein focuses on Russian historic experience in its entirety, which he somewhat didactically clarifies for the foreign reader.Despite its shifting perspectives, After the Future features a distinctive approach toward Russian postmodernism, its bona fide subject matter. Following Jean Baudrillard, Epstein defines postmodernism as simulation (“the production of reality as a series of plausible copies”) that engenders some new hyperreality and in so doing supplants “reality itself, which then becomes irrecoverable” (p. 189). The originality of Epstein’s position lies, however, in his claim that Russia as a historic and cultural entity is a postmodernist phenomenon in its own right that simulates and masterminds reality. Epstein’s claim that postmodernism is ingrained in Russian tradition is pitted specifically against those who doubt that Russia is ready to enjoy its own postmodernist bash since (contrary to the West) it never went through prior modernist phases. To prove that Russia foreshadowed postmodernism, Epstein draws on a number of historic illustrations. He cites the forceful adoption of Christianity under Prince Vladimir in 988, Peter the Great’s building of Petersburg in the “Finnish swamp” and Prince Potemkin’s infamous make-up villages as examples of the Russian tendency to forfeit the status quo for the sake of trumped-up, ersatz realities.However, Epstein’s arguments to the effect that Russia, and not the West, is the birthplace of postmodernism are not very convincing since (in accordance with his own premise) other countries can claim such a dubious distinction as well. (“Russia is the motherland of elephants”—the Russians joke about claims by zealous patriots that all great discoveries were known in their country before they appeared elsewhere.) Elsewhere, the building of the Chinese wall and the ensuing Chinese policies of isolationism, draconian enclosures of peasant land in England that led to a speedy transition to capitalism, drastic economic and social reforms after the French Revolution, and the racist policies of the Third Reich were just as arbitrary, and yet transformative of prior realities, as any of [End Page 509] Russia’s most foolhardy experiments. Ironically, Epstein’s claim that Russia is the motherland of postmodernism harks back to the turn-of-the-century controversy as to whether it is pertinent to apply Marxist theory to rustic Russia. Lenin argued that Russia can claim Marxism as its own because all of its long-suffering history was an anticipation of Marxism and leading toward it. Epstein analogously contends that there is a special, indigenous Russian route to postmodernism, a statement that evokes similar pronouncements ingrained in Russian philosophical tradition: Epstein’s thesis that Russia is “irreal” reminds one of Peter Chaadaev’s contention that Russia does not have a history; his idea that Russia is on the threshold of a cultural synthesis with the... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:English Classical: The Reform of Poetry in Elizabethan England STEPHEN ORGEL Roger ascham, writing in the 1560s, in the course of a treatise on education, urged the reform of English poetry on classical models: “Our English tongue, in avoiding barbarous rhyming, may as well receive right quantity of syllables, and true order of versifying... as either Greek or Latin....”1 He cites as an example of right (...) quantity of syllables and true order of versifying this translation by the scholar and poet William Watson of a verse from the Odyssey: All travelers do gladly report great praise of Ulysses. For that he knew many men’s manners, and saw many cities. This does not sound much like English poetry, but if we count it out we can see that it does, more or less, follow the quantitative rules. The trouble is that the rules have little to do with English pronunciation. Vowels are long by position (followed by two consonants) regardless of how they are pronounced ; moreover, Watson makes vowels long if they are stressed (such as the a in “travelers” and “manners” and the i in “cities”), again regardless of how they are pronounced. For the Elizabethans, this was a problem not with the rules, but with English, both in its dissimilarity from the classical tongues and in the variety of spelling and pronunciation at the time—proponents of quantitative verse in English observe that a necessary first step would be to stabilize the language, as Gabriel Harvey wrote to Edmund Spenser, “there is no one more regular and justifiable direction, either for the assured and infallible certainty of our English artificial prosody particularly, or generally to bring our language into art and to arion 27.2 fall 2019 frame a grammar or rhetoric thereof, than first of all universally to agree upon one and the same orthography.”2 But even with a stable orthography, the application of quantitative rules to English is problematic. To begin with, it is not clear in what sense an English vowel can be said to be long or short—to consider the vowels in stressed syllables invariably long, as Watson does, is entirely arbitrary. There is obviously a difference between the a sound in “rat” and in “rate”; such vowels are now described as short and long, but in pronunciation, they may or may not be of equal extension : thus, the a in “rate” is not, in speaking, longer than the a in “rat,” it is simply pronounced differently; whereas the i in “rise” is certainly longer than the i in “rid.” If quantity means length, English vowels are too erratic to serve—Harvey observed to Spenser that in some quantitative hexameters Spenser had sent him, “the,” “ye” and “he” were treated as short, but “me” was long.3 The issue is especially vexed in the case of vowels that are long by position. The most common examples in English are the -ing endings of participles, which are invariably unaccented and stubbornly short when spoken. In fact, Thomas Campion confronted precisely this problem; and his way of dealing with it gives a clear sense of how willed the whole quantitative system in English necessarily was: For though we accent the second [syllable] of Trumpington short, yet is it naturally long, and so of necessity must be held of every composer.4 What can “naturally” mean here? Are the rules of Latin prosody laws of nature? Harvey had a clear sense of the practical problems, writing to Spenser, “in short, this is the very short and long: position neither maketh short nor long in our tongue,” and concludes that some other rule must be found for English “that should as universally and canonically hold amongst us as position doth with the Latins and Greeks.”5 The larger assumption behind Ascham’s and Harvey’s proposals for a new poetry was that the “barbarous” England 44 english classical of the time could be rectified by the application of classical rules. A return to the classics held out the promise of culture and civility—not only in poetry, of course, but poetry seemed a particularly clear example. Nobody thought the transformation would be easy; a hectoring... (shrink)

The article deals with a hitherto largely neglected group of poetic texts that is characterized by the representation of the vicissitudes and deeds of a single hero through a third-person omniscient authorial voice, henceforth called ‘aretalogical poetry’. I want to demonstrate that in terms of form, contents, intertextual ‘self-awareness’ and long-term influence, aretalogical poetry qualifies as a fully-fledged epic genre comparable to bucolic or didactic poetry. In order not to blur my argument, I will focus on heroic aretalogies, and (...) on Heracleids and Theseids in particular, because of their prominence in the minds of ancient literary critics. In the case of Heraclean aretalogies, it is expedient to distinguish further between aretalogies of ‘epic’ and ‘lyric epic’. (shrink)

Jeffrey Cox’s new book takes as its guiding thesis the rejection of the widely-held view of Wordsworth (1770-1850) as a poet whose only substantial work was produced from 1798 until about 1808. Thi...