Is there life after theory? If the death of the Author has now been followed by the death of the Theorist, what's left? Indeed, who's left? To explore such riddles Life. After.Theory brings together new interviews with four theorists who are left, each a major figure in their own right: Jacques Derrida, Frank Kermode, Toril Moi, and Christopher Norris. Framed and introduced by Michael Payne and John Schad, the interviews pursue a whole range of topics, both (...) familiar and unfamiliar. Among other things, Derrida, Kermode, Moi and Norris discuss being an outsider, taking responsibility, valuing books, getting angry, doing science, listening to music, remembering Empson, rereading de Beauvoir, being Jewish, asking forgiveness, smoking in libraries, befriending the dead, committing bigamy, forgetting to forget, thinking, not thinking, believing, and being mad. These four key thinkers explore why there is life after theory...but not as we know it. Jacques Derrida is Professor at the +cole des Hautes +tudes en Sciences Sociales in Paris. He is the author of a range of extraordinarily influential works including Of Grammatology, Writing and Difference and Dissemination. Sir Frank Kermode is a former King Edward VII Professor of English Literature at the University of Cambridge and author of, among many other books, The Sense of An Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction, Shakespeare's Language, and Not Entitled, his memoirs. Toril Moi is James B. Duke Professor of Literature and Romance Studies at Duke University. Her books include Sexual/Textual Politics: Feminist Literary Theory, Simone de Beauvoir: The Making of an Intellectual Woman and What Is a Woman? And Other Essays. Christopher Norris is Distinguished Research Professor in Philosophy at the University of Cardiff. He has published some twenty books to date, including, most recently, Deconstruction and the Unfinished Project of Modernity, Quantum Theory and the Flight from Realism, Truth Matters: Realism, Anti-Realism, and Response-Dependence, and Hilary Putnam: Reason, Realism, and the Uses of Uncertainty. (shrink)

Fifty years ago when Jacques Hadamard set out to explore how mathematicians invent new ideas, he considered the creative experiences of some of the greatest thinkers of his generation, such as George Polya, Claude Le;vi-Strauss, and Albert Einstein. It appeared that inspiration could strike anytime, particularly after an individual had worked hard on a problem for days and then turned attention to another activity. In exploring this phenomenon, Hadamard produced one of the most famous and cogent cases for the (...) existence of unconscious mental processes in mathematical invention and other forms of creativity. Written before the explosion of research in computers and cognitive science, his book, originally titled The Psychology of Invention in the Mathematical Field , remains an important tool for exploring the increasingly complex problem of mental life. The roots of creativity for Hadamard lie not in consciousness, but in the long unconscious work of incubation, and in the unconscious aesthetic selection of ideas that thereby pass into consciousness. His discussion of this process comprises a wide range of topics, including the use of mental images or symbols, visualized or auditory words, "meaningless" words, logic, and intuition. Among the important documents collected is a letter from Albert Einstein analyzing his own mechanism of thought. (shrink)

Plutarch in his Life of Agis describes the plots by which Lysandrus the ephor contrived to depose King Leonidas II. He meant to use against him one of the Spartan laws which forbade a member of the royal houses from begetting children by a foreign woman, and another by which he who went out of Sparta with a view to settling abroad was liable to the death penalty. But though apparently a case could be made out against Leonidas under (...) these charges, Lysandrus did not simply proceed with the prosecution. After instructing confederates who would bring the case, he with his fellow ephors ‘waited for the sign’. What this meant Plutarch explains in these words: στι δ τοινδε· δι' τν1 ννα1 λαβντες ο οροι νκτα καθαρν κα σληνον, σιωπ καθζονται πρς τν ορανν ποβλποντες. ν ον κ μρους τινς ες τερον μρος στρ διξ, κρνουσι τος βασιλες, ς περ τ θεον ξαμαρτνοντας, κα καταπαουσι τς ρχς, μχρις ν κ Δελν ἢ λυμπας χρησμς λθτος λωκσι τν βασιλων βοηθν. (shrink)

“All experience is an arch wherethro’ gleams” an untravell'd world and through which come the joyous adventures of life and also grief and pain. Since all that we know and hope to know and think we know must come through this arch and since the primary task of science is the validation and enlargement of knowledge, science is vitally interested in this experience and its interpretation. This interest stems not from the philosopher's epistemology but it is strictly operational. We (...) want to know what kind of experience yields reliable knowledge when checked against other experience and applied in practical adjustment to things as they are and to prediction of the probable future course of events. In short, the field of natural science embraces everything that comes within the range of human experience. Its specific functions are to codify this mixed experience, to search out those uniformities which yield classification, verification and prediction, and from these observed uniformities to construct by sound reasoning verifiable laws, hypotheses and theories, that is, to find the meaning of the experiences had. First we want to know the facts, but what we are after in the upshot is the interpretation of the facts. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy and Literature 25.1 (2001) 171-173 [Access article in PDF] Book Review Literary Lives: Biography and the Search for Understanding Literary Lives: Biography and the Search for Understanding, by David Ellis; ix & 195 pp. New York: Routledge, 2000, $35. In his discussion of biography as a form, Ellis points to his study as a response to the scarcity of "monographs on biography... and [that] none of (...) them are particularly satisfactory" (p. 2). He further points out that "the comparative dearth of analytic enquiry into biography is surprising" (p. 3). In short, his first pages get off to a rocky start in their tatty justification of a critical study. Though a critic of D. H. Lawrence, Ellis uses the English writer sparingly, pointing out in his "Preface" what he feels is a need "to keep illustration involving Lawrence to a decent minimum" (p. viii) while concentrating on those problems which face the biographer. That said, he sets about to characterize biography as an integration of "a disinterested enthusiasm for information... [fashioning a]... compelling story in which many details with no direct relevance to the life of his subject can be considered as contributing successfully to a period atmosphere" (p. 35). Ellis is thinking specifically of Norman Sherry's biography of Graham Greene through which he has brought to the discussion his intent of pointing to an approach which concerns itself with chapters on "Ancestors," "Primal Scenes," "Body Matters," "the Sociological [End Page 171] Imagination," "History, Chance and Self-determination," "Compatibility, Sartre and Long Biographies." All are aspects of biography.As well as the approach he suggests by these areas of concentration, Ellis draws broadly from many subjects of biography, always keeping a critical eye on its form. Anne Stevenson's approach "is towards psychological determinism" (p. 135); Ackroyd in his biography of Dickens raises "through a degree of intellectual play" the questions of when "lineage" is appropriate, that is, the extent to which it has any productive consequence. He also uses Hawthorne and Virginia Woolf as examples. Writing of the role of the historian raises difficulties for writers creating biographies from such an early period as that of Chaucer; Ellis points to Derek Pearsall's "excellent Life of Geoffrey Chaucer" (p. 121).Ellis neither can nor should ignore Lawrence and what better chapter to include him in than "Body Matters" in its concentration on illness. Here Ellis draws on Lawrence's concern with the harm of his health on his work (p. 78). He also considers Flaubert, Sartre, and Woolf. Briefly he mentions Stendhal's imagination of his "future audience" after his death (p. 109), sensibly rejects the long ago depleted and so, parenthetically, apparently permanent speculation on what Keats's might have become had he lived a full life "in a time of drugs for treatment of tuberculosis" (p. 123) and the equally mined issue of what prompted Hemingway's suicide (pp. 132-33). Certainly he is aware of the danger that such a use of material may pander to the pleasure of mere name-hunters (what if there were no index!). At the same time, if the effect of his range of examples invites additions of our own, while keeping before us that his study is about biography as form, it is successful.In "Primal Scenes," the fourth chapter of his book, Ellis gives what he feels is necessary space to Freud, the creator of the term. He points to Wordsworth's "spots of time" as only one indication of the difficulty--if not impossibility--of capturing biographically those moments in childhood by which the individual written about might be defined (p. 57). (Such an impossibility should not be surprising to those of us readers who recognize the nearly impossible task for ourselves in our own lives.) Surely both the biographer and autobiographer share this ignorance and frustration. In a very interesting move, Ellis points to Compton Mackenzie's discussion of a critical event in his six-year old life surrounding the interruption of an Easter evening with his parents and siblings, interrupted by the arrival of friends. Ellis writes... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy and Literature 26.2 (2002) 312-333 [Access article in PDF] Consilient Literary Interpretation Marcus Nordlund I THIS IS AN EXCITING TIME in the history of human self-knowledge. Like the two souls in Plato's Symposium, the life sciences and the human sciences are slowly coming to terms with their painful divorce and are increasingly on speaking terms. Thanks to important developments across a broad range of academic disciplines (...) from biology and neuroscience to anthropology and psychology, we are starting to glean the possibility of a new conceptual integration that may have important consequences for our understanding of human nature. After hundreds of years of virtuoso variations on the theme of philosophical and scientific dualism, we have come some way towards bridging the gap between mind and matter, biology and culture, science and the arts.From the perspective of literary studies, two recent developments have been especially valuable. The previous decade saw a growing recognition among social scientists of the explanatory force of evolutionary theory, and of the ultimate bankruptcy of the nature-nurture opposition that forces biology and culture into different compartments. Since the social sciences have always supplied literary studies with food for thought, it would be strange if such developments did not reflect on literature, too. Equally important has been the increasing impatience among scholars in the humanities with the radical skepticism, antiscientism, and dogmatic agnosticism that turns both science and literature into mere self-validating narratives and sees no significant difference between descriptive and normative statements. Together, these theoretical shifts have slowly begun to pave the way for a new dialogue between those who study biology, psychology, and cultural artifacts like literature. Since the mid-1990s, a number of literary [End Page 312] scholars have taken the first steps towards merging evolutionary and cultural explanation in the study of literature. 1One striking defense of such a conceptual integration between science and literature was delivered a few years ago in Edward O. Wilson's Consilience. 2 According to Wilson, there is "only one way to unite the great branches of learning and end the culture wars. It is to view the boundary between the scientific and literary cultures not as a territorial line but as a broad and mostly unexplored terrain awaiting cooperative entry from both sides" (p. 138). While he concedes that the two cultures can and should be characterized by "radically different goals and methods," he also stresses that interpretation provides a "logical channel of consilient explanation between science and the arts" (p. 234).While we have good reason to be optimistic about the potential of this joint endeavor, it is nevertheless fraught with massive problems. The current track record in interdisciplinary literary studies is uneven, to say the least. Strange confusions about the nature and status of theory abound, and these often take the shape of spontaneous raids into foreign conceptual frameworks that are bound to baffle the practitioners of the host discipline. As Richard Levin importantly points out, 3 there are numerous reasons why current interdisciplinary literary theories tend to become self-validating. There are no negative tests; critics tend to choose theories on the basis of ideological preferences rather than the criterion of truth; and there is a widespread assumption that theories can simply be transformed willfully whenever they do not meet the requirements of the interpreter.Many of the problems Levin points to can, I think, be remedied by something as trivial as a change in attitude within the discipline of literature itself. For example, something has obviously gone seriously wrong when the automatic spouting of political ad hominem arguments and genetic fallacies has become second nature to so many critics. But there are other and more fundamental problems that seem intrinsic to the whole question of interdisciplinarity. One of these, according to Wilson, is that as we move forward in the hierarchy of sciences, from physics to biology to literature, we encounter a rapidly accelerating complexity: "It is far easier to go backward through the branching corridors than to go forward.... Biology is almost unimaginably more complex than physics, and the arts equivalently more complex than... (shrink)

The Useless Mouths" and Other Literary Writings brings to English-language readers literary writings--several previously unknown--by Simone de Beauvoir. Culled from sources including various American university collections, the works span decades of Beauvoir's career. Ranging from dramatic works and literary theory to radio broadcasts, they collectively reveal fresh insights into Beauvoir's writing process, personal life, and the honing of her philosophy. The volume begins with a new translation of the 1945 play The Useless Mouths, written in (...) Paris during the Nazi occupation. Other pieces were discovered after Beauvoir's death in 1986, such as the 1965 short novel "Misunderstanding in Moscow," involving an elderly French couple who confront their fears of aging. Two additional previously unknown texts include the fragmentary "Notes for a Novel," which contains the seed of what she later would call "the problem of the Other," and a lecture on postwar French theater titled Existentialist Theater. The collection notably includes the eagerly awaited translation of Beauvoir's contribution to a 1965 debate among Jean-Paul Sartre and other French writers and intellectuals, "What Can Literature Do?". (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Moving Literary Theory OnWendell V. HarrisParadox has long been especially seductive to literary critics and theorists. For the New Critics, the presence of paradox in a text served to vouch for the complexity and therefore value of the perspective on life the text offered. For poststructuralists it seems to be even more important: paradox is the hallmark of earnestness. And if paradox is good, self-contradiction is (...) even better. That at least would seem to be the reasoning that justifies the amount of internal contradiction to be encountered among the critical principles most in vogue these days. Let us note twelve of the most egregious of these contradictions.(1) New Criticism is dead. But the New Critics’ major activity, the pursuit of the author’s intended meaning through close reading, is still very much with us. However much poststructuralists have wished to deny the importance of or possibility of achieving understanding of authorially intended meaning, their own critical commentary necessarily begins with the meaning the author is assumed to have intended. For instance, that which Derrida seeks to deconstruct or undercut in Saussure, Rousseau, Austin, or Searle begins in what he thinks they intended to say. However, the New Critic sought to resolve apparent contradictions on the principle that the interpretation producing the greatest consistency would be nearest the author’s meaning (since the author was assumed to have assumed that the reader would assume that the author intended a non-contradictory statement). In contrast, the poststructuralist typically seeks to find and emphasize or, if necessary, induce contradiction—but only after having assumed that degree of consonance and unity in the text necessary to interpret the intended meaning within which can be sought the contradictions for the [End Page 428] discovery of which the reading was undertaken. The result is thus more often than not a New Critical reading into which contradictions have been injected. One is reminded of the old story of the student in a short story writing class who told his friend that he had the story all written—all he had to do was go back and put in the symbols. The typical poststructuralist begins with a reading much like what one would expect from a New Critic and then begins inducing contradictions.(2) Literature and language cannot really be about anything beyond themselves. At the same time literature and the language on which it is dependent are regarded as largely constituting that which we experience. If language cannot refer to non-linguistic things and events, either it cannot have the power to shape our classifications, descriptions, and evaluations of things and events experienced, or there exists nothing beyond language—in which case we can abolish poverty, racism, and sexism by denying that those words have any meaning. Moreover, if language is about nothing but itself, any formulation that uses language to make statements denying the relationship of language to anything outside itself must be meaningless.(3) All narratives, indeed all statements about the world, are fictional. Yet “fictional” would have no meaning if it did not stand in contrast to those things that are not fictional, while the distinctions made available by the contrast are ones we can hardly do without. There are narratives (1) that both tellers and their hearers/readers know to be not true (“not to be the case” is the evasive formulation popular with philosophers), (2) that tellers and/or hearers/readers think true though they prove not to be, and (3) that tellers think true and are in fact partially, perhaps largely true, but erroneous in some details and necessarily incomplete. These classifications require a modicum of explanation, but to lose one’s way among them would seem to require a wilful pursuit of confusion.Class 1. Oliver Twist is fictional even though there were workhouses, thieves, and such sites as The Angel and Newgate existing at the time at which the narrative is set. Of course, within a fictional narrative, there may be subnarratives the reader is to regard as true within the total fictional narrative and others that are to be regarded as false. To take a light-hearted example, within the narrative of Gilbert and... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Ancient Quarrel Revisited:Literary Theory and the Return to EthicsJoseph G. KronickThe modern quarrel between theory and practice, like the ancient one between philosophy and poetry, is at once a practical one—at its heart is the question how we should live—and a pedagogical one—who or what is the proper teacher of virtue? Today, the quarrel is between theory and literature rather than between philosophy and poetry, a change (...) that has not been beneficial. The modern complaint against the abstractions of theory reflects a diminution in the quality of the argument. For the ancient Greeks, to ask about the virtuous life was to inquire into what it is to be human, for aretê, which is typically translated as "virtue," but is understood to mean "excellence" or "goodness," meant acting in accordance with what it is to be fully human. 1 The notion that "real issues," as one prominent theorist argues, belong to the realm of action and epistemological and ontological questions to the abstract realm of theory is a simplification of the more serious question of the relation of particulars to universals. It reverses the Platonic and Aristotelian hierarchy that makes thinking the highest form of activity. But something else is going on in this call to action: in denigrating thinking as abstract, it elevates doxa, opinion, in its place. Under the regime of doxa, two things occur: philosophy and poetry are looked upon as useless because utility becomes the criteria for measuring value, and singularity is looked upon with disdain, if it is, indeed, acknowledged at all, because to the extent the world as it appears is common to us all, doxa is not distinct or individual but uniform or the same. Philosophy and poetry share not only the stigma of being deemed useless, but they are dismissed as odd, singular, not common.This essay is concerned with the status of the singular in philosophy [End Page 436] and poetry. The ancient quarrel has not been settled, which may indeed be a good thing because the quarrel keeps alive the question, who is to speak for that which cannot be spoken of, the singular? Silence may be the appropriate response, yet to preserve the experience of that which resists language is the task of philosophy and poetry, hence the quarrel. A long tradition has it that the philosopher seeks universals, while the poet offers particular images of virtue, but at the heart of this argument over ethics is the question of how to account for the singular or unique. To do so, I turn to Socrates, whose singularity remains unaccounted for to this day.Socrates may be said to embody the very problem of the relation between philosophy and literature, for he left us no writings and exists for us primarily through the writings of Plato. Yet there is widespread acceptance of Plato's portrait of him, particularly as to Socrates' method, the elenchus, and his principle of the priority of definitions. However, Socrates' insistence upon the priority of definition is not an example of the philosopher elevating theory over experience but a practical issue involving the care of the self. Furthermore, in ancient Greece, moral and philosophical questions concerning the soul were as much the provenance of poetry as they were of philosophy. The search for truth is a practical matter concerning the conduct of life, but the Platonic philosopher wishes to give a rational account, or logos, that would link conduct to knowledge, whereas the poet's examples are bound to their representations. Nevertheless, to presume that Socrates was seeking a definition of virtue on the grounds that possession of the definition would translate into a good life is an absurdity, for he could never have sought after the knowledge of virtue if his mode of life depended upon the definition rather than on his character. 2The error is to accuse Socrates of placing abstract knowledge before virtuous conduct. When Socrates asks for a definition of the beautiful, for instance, he does not reject the answer, "the beautiful is a beautiful woman," because it confuses a particular with a universal (when compared to the beauty of the gods, the woman is... (shrink)

Smith expressed regret in 1780 that his Custom‐house duties held up ‘Several Works’ he had projected. One of these was on the subject of the ‘Imitative Arts,’ presumably his mimetic aesthetic philosophy. This was very likely connected with the two ‘Great Works’ he had ‘on the anvil’ on 1785. He described the first one as a ‘sort of Philosophical History of all the different branches of Literature, of Philosophy, Poetry, and Eloquence.’ The second he described as a ‘sort of theory (...) and History of Law and Government,’ which presumably would have included the ‘system of jurisprudence’, Smith promised his readers at the conclusion of TMS in 1759. He reported in 1785 that the materials collected were in tolerably good order, but he doubted whether the onset of old age would allow him to finish either work. Parts of the first project were published after his death in Essays on Philosophical Subjects, the only book of his that was not a commercial success. His major efforts of the end of his life went into further editions of TMS and WN, which he had in hand by 1783, in part responding to his critics. (shrink)

There is relative agreement among modern scholars that the bulk of Arrian's literary activity came late in his life. What has become the standard theory was evolved by Eduard Schwartz, who maintained that it was only after the end of his public career that Arrian turned to writing. According to this hypothesis the Пєρίπλους of 131/ A.D. was a tentative preliminary monograph, which was followed in 136/7 by a work of similar genre, the.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Cicero's Correspondence: A Literary StudyJohn NicholsonG. O. Hutchinson. Cicero's Correspondence: A Literary Study. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. xv + 235 pp. Cloth, $65.The focus here is on rescuing Cicero's correspondence from the subliterary status of mere historical and biographical source material, and promoting an appreciation of its inherent artistic value and interest. Now that the text of the letters has finally been restored to a sound (...) footing and their historical contents well elucidated, Hutchinson cogently argues that it is time for scholars to pay more attention to them from a literary perspective. Accordingly, he shows how Cicero's constant rhetorical shaping of his material lifts the letters beyond the level of mere historical documents to that of a sophisticated and persuasive form of literature. In his introductory chapter he explains that critics have long shied away from this kind of literary approach because Cicero did not write these letters for publication. But even so, there is evidence that Cicero saw the potential of letters as a distinct and respectable literary genre. We are reminded, for example, that he knew and valued various published collections of letters, such as those by Plato and Epicurus, and that toward the end of his life he planned to publish a small edited selection of his own correspondence. We also know that he was conscious of different categories of letter writing based on [End Page 159] function and manner (Fam. 2.4.1), thereby showing his awareness of the aesthetic dimensions inherent in the form. In particular, examination of the dozens of his letters of recommendation (Fam. 13) reveals his deliberate manipulation of established epistolary conventions. Also notable is the prevalence of prose rhythms, similar to those found throughout his published works--a strong indication of self-conscious artistry in the composition of his letters. Finally, the goal of persuasion, central in much of the correspondence, naturally called forth the author's exceptional rhetorical powers to craft his words in an artfully persuasive way. Considering all these factors, Hutchinson argues that Cicero's letters must not be naively mined as historical source material without considering the aesthetic considerations which influenced their composition; in fact, he says, "the constant shaping of material for persuasive and aesthetic ends, in presentation, structure, and style, prevents any direct or straightforward access to history" (23). The present literary approach is therefore long overdue.After exploring in chapter 1 these general issues that justify his approach, Hutchinson devotes the remaining chapters of his book to discussing six specific themes, each illustrated by passages taken from a wide selection of different letters (including samples written to Cicero) and comparing them to passages from other types of literature. The six themes are Exile, Consolation, Narrative, Dialogue, Time, and Humor.The chapter on exile presents three letters Cicero wrote in 58 b.c. during the intense personal crisis of his banishment from Rome (Fam. 14.4, Att. 3.7, Q. Fr. 1.3). Though usually interpreted as embarrassing emotional exhibitions of a weak character out of control, these letters in fact show great eloquence and mastery of language, astutely molded to suit the addressee: to his wife he is tender, to Atticus he is argumentative, to his brother he is formal. Beneath the superficial emotional hyperbole, the subtlety and mobility of the author's intelligence remains evident throughout, and emotion blends with argument and rhetorical power just as deftly here as it does in the published speeches. So too in the next chapter, on consolation, where the subject matter remains emotionally gloomy, we can observe Cicero's renowned rhetorical skills at work. Writing in a recognized philosophical genre, he uses argument and persuasion to try to control and lessen the emotional excess of bereaved friends, mixing conventional Stoic adages with acknowledgment of harsh contemporary realities. The writing is elegant, neat, multilayered, and closely reasoned. For the sake of contrast and comparison, Hutchinson also presents two well-known letters of consolation written to Cicero after the death of his daughter in 45 b.c. (Fam. 5.14 and 4.5). The rhetoric in these, though impressive, nevertheless lacks Cicero's masterly smoothness and tact. In place of his... (shrink)

“Think of our world,” writes Robert Nozick, “as a novel in which you yourself are a character.” As we shall see, this is easier said than done. In that case, would the project be worth the effort? Yes, says Alexander Nehamas. In Nietzsche: Life as Literature, Nehamas suggests that we would have a better grasp of some hard doctrines of Nietzsche's, if we accepted literary texts as providing a model for the world, and literary characters as yielding (...) models of ourselves. The idea is intriguing, in part because Nietzsche presents difficulties, and in part because it has some of the alluring obscurity of Nozick's playful charge. In what follows, however, I shall argue that Nehamas's proposals about Nietzsche and literature are not particularly helpful, that Nietzsche's doctrines remain hard to grasp even after we have considered the nature of literary texts, and that Nehamas himself is misled by ambiguities connected with literary characters and the fictional worlds they inhabit. (shrink)

Focusing on Correspondence from the Double-Cassia Studio (Shuanggui xuan chidu 雙桂軒尺牘), a collection of letters by a gentlewoman named Ding Shanyi 丁善儀 (1799–after 1861), this paper examines how elite women in mid-nine- teenth-century China applied epistolary conventions in their social life. Com- pared to other literary collections of individual women in late imperial China, Ding’s letter collection is exceptional in recording the life of its author through the epistolary genre and in revealing the sociopolitical dynamics that (...) underlay elite women’s epistolary gentility. Ding’s letters are indicative of the noticeable concerns shared by gentlewomen in mid-nineteenth-century China and provide specific contexts for understanding some of the epistolary techniques used by lit- erary women to facilitate social networking. This paper uncovers Ding’s life and explores three major themes in her epistolary collection: her responses to crises, concerns about health, and cultivation of friendship. Ding’s letters show how elite women evinced sophistication and erudition in their epistolary composition, which was an important way for them to express themselves and demonstrate their mas- tery of language and rhetorical tradition. (shrink)

In psychoanalytic theory, the notion of the person inevitably evokes the notion of subjectivity. Not that the former can be reduced to the latter; but if psychoanalytic theory is anything more a certain type of therapeutic practice, it is indeed a theory of the subject or a theory of the subjective relation. We should perhaps begin by specifying that the subjective relation must be understood as a complex whole: an intrapsychic relation, that is, a relation between the various instances that (...) make up the subject, and at the same time an inter subjective relation, that is, a relation between (at least) two subjects. These two aspects are both inseparable and conflictual. They are inseparable because the self cannot exist, cannot construct itself without the other (whether this be a parental other or a peer). They are conflictual for at least two reasons. On the one hand, because the intrapsychic relation is by definition an arena of conflict: the conflict that opposes the Ego to the contradictory but equally tyrannical demands of the Id - which translates its attachment to the body and testifies to its inherent drives - and of the Superego, which represents its rootedness in the social and cultural sphere. And on the other hand, because this subject, which is thus divided within itself, must undergo the trial of bringing its desire face to face with the desire of the others with whom it is destined to live. The psychoanalytic theory of the subject is therefore the theory of a doubly heterogeneous relation: there is the heterogeneity of the components of the self, which go, once again, from their anchorage in somatic drives to the most ethereal expressions of the ideal; and there is the heterogeneity of the relation between this self and the self of the other. Moreover, this double heterogeneity is not limited to the matter of components: after all, these, one might think, would ideally be open to reabsorption into the homogeneity of the individual. On the contrary, this heterogeneity gives rise to a double rationality or double logic. Psychic causality - to borrow André Green's expression - is also driven by the conflict that opposes what in psychoanalysis are known as the primary processes, which Freud has described in chapter 7 of the Traumdeutung and which govern the formation and organization of the dream images, to the secondary processes, which are those processes that govern our daytime thoughts. Psychic causality is formed by the struggle for hegemony between these two logics, each of which is itself acted upon by an antagonism between what Freud, at the end of his life, called Eros and Thanatos, the urge for Life and the drive toward death or destruction. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy and Literature 30.1 (2006) 102-117 [Access article in PDF] Gossip and Literary Narrative Blakey Vermeule Northwestern University Since its murky origins in Grub Street, a specter has haunted the novel—the specter of gossip. In its higher-minded mood, literary narratives have been very snobbish about gossip and the snobbishness is unfair. Even the most casual reader of social fiction will recognize that gossiping is what characters do (...) most passionately. However, they can neither admit nor be aware of it. Only minor or morally compromised characters are allowed to indulge in its pleasures. Matronly middle-aged women, chatty maids, little girls, and effeminate fops are the ones who gossip; their more reflective counterparts—the men and women designated as heroes and heroines—only briefly tolerate such idle chatter. Gossip is derided, decried, condemned, and maligned. It is womanish, low, slavish, servantish, silly, pert, loose, wanton, jiggetty, mean. It is the "tittle-tattle of Highbury" in Austen's Emma, an activity for the old maid Miss Bates and her even older, blind, and senile mother. In Middlemarch, although the world is "apparently a huge whispering-gallery," the greatest gossip of all is Mrs. Cadwallader, a matron with a mind like "phosphorous, biting at everything" (Spacks, p. 194). In Richardson's Clarissa, Lovelace—a man not known for his indifference to social information—airily dismisses gossip as "the female go-round." (In novels, the male equivalents of the "female go-round" tend to be such despised modes of exchange as business letters, gambling, chess, and games of chance.) Gossip has always been a part of charivari with the power to turn the world upside down. It also has the power to destroy lives (Les Liasons Dangereuses) and to derail love (when it becomes the "prejudice" of Pride and Prejudice). If it ever innocent, it is only because it is meaningless.Gossip is all of these things even—especially—when it powers the [End Page 102] whole narrative. This paradox is evident almost anywhere we choose to look. Social novelists view the stuff of direct, unmediated social information as so intense that it requires special handling—even disavowal. I will briefly survey examples from French, English, and Russian fiction. The first is a lurid and overheated speech by Henri de Marsay, the peculiar hero of Balzac's short novel, The Girl with the Golden Eyes (1815). De Marsay is a dissipated aristocrat in love with a mysterious young girl who, he finds out much later, is the sexual slave of de Marsay's long-lost sister. But first, after a night of passion that "had begun with a slow trickle of pleasures and ended in overflowing torrents," de Marsay realizes, when his lover accidentally lets slip the name of his rival, that the person he is competing with is female. The next day he becomes consumed with a bitter plan to kill his faithless lover. He reflects to his friend Paul "Upon my honor, man is a clown dancing on the edge of a cliff. We're told about the immorality of Les Liaisons dangereuses, and some book with the name of a chambermaid. But there is one ghastly, dirty, dreadful, corrupting book that is always open and never closed, the great book of the world—not to mention another book, a thousand times more dangerous, that consists of everything passed on by word of mouth between men or women behind their fans at the ball."1 Even though de Marsay is a corrupt aristocrat, his sentiments are little different from those the narrator expresses in the book's opening chapter, a panoptic survey of Parisian life as a glorious mosaic of infection, rot, and moral disease.In Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff's new tenant Lockwood breaks his self-imposed exile from social life by pressing the housekeeper Nellie Dean to do what housekeepers do best and launch into an aggrieved saga about her master's family. He wants her to serve up the gossip hot. "I ate..., hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to animation, or lull me to sleep... (shrink)

For decades, Anderson has been pressing critical theorists and literary scholars to acknowledge the inescapably normative dimensions of their work. Through careful attention to rhetorical styles, she has persuasively argued that epistemological positions and social theories are tethered to “characterological” judgments—to implicit endorsements of ethos. Meanwhile, critical discourse has warmed to the claims of lived experience (the “turn to ethics,” the interest in “affect”), but the “ethical” has remained a negative movement, either as the critique of social and discursive (...) structures or as clearing space for the “other”—and “affect” has been construed as the pleasure and self-care that enable resistance to the pressure of these structures. The questions that galvanize ethical criticism (What is wrong with the way things are?) and theories of affect (How can I survive?) continue to evade the deeper one that Anderson sees as basic to any theorizing: How should I live?The lesson of Anderson's The Way We Argue Now is that ethics without ethos is shallow. In Psyche and Ethos, the lesson is that psychology without morality is benumbed. Though Anderson is characteristically judicious in her reconstruction of the arguments she opposes, there are several rhetorical targets in these lectures. The first is contemporary cognitive science, which pictures moral thinking as either the “belated” rationalization of decisions really made by “automatic” psychological processes or as a mechanism for eliminating “cognitive dissonance.” Anderson shows how these pictures assume an abstracted, “punctual” model of moral experience; their “deflationary” zeal ironically depends on an untenable ideal of moral voluntarism that is then speciously “debunked.” By contrast, novels are able to explore the temporal dimension of moral consciousness, especially through their representation of what she calls “moral rumination,” a concept further developed in her recent contribution to Character: Three Inquiries in Literary Studies. Anderson shows, moreover, that narrative fictions like The Winter's Tale, Middlemarch, and The Beast in the Jungle understand “belatedness” not as evidence for the superficiality of morality but as a distinct mode of moral recognition that can unfold only across time.Anderson worries that the new “eudaimonic” literary criticism, which explores “enabling moods,” unwittingly perpetuates the moral confusion of empirical psychology and “privileg[es] psychological over moral desiderata,” even as certain “psychological states” are “presented as morally desirable.” This contradiction is another iteration of one she has been confronting throughout her career: the strange incapacity of critical discourse either to recognize or to avow the normative claims—the elaboration of an ethos as good or valuable—with which it is nonetheless saturated. Still, the contradiction has been a defining feature of modern “therapeutic culture” (a formulation she employs): the neutral, functionalist descriptions of empirical psychology ostensibly bracket morality, yet some descriptions are inevitably coded as “better” or “worse,” and they are consistently harnessed to fully moral evaluations. It is rare to hear a literary theorist of Anderson's provenance reanimate, if indirectly, the criticism that Philip Rieff, Christopher Lasch, and Jackson Lears directed toward “therapeutic culture,” which has largely been forgotten or vulgarized by right-wing pundits. In essence, however, her plea is similar to theirs: she wants us to acknowledge that the moral life is integral to the “healthy” life; and she wants critics to stop dismissing it as epiphenomenal to either psychology or politics. She sees the novel, and the humanities more broadly, as the preeminent cultural vehicles for “clarifying” the moral life. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Literary Power and the Criteria of TruthThomas ReinertLiterary Power and the Criteria of Truth, by Laura Quinney; xx & 183 pp. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995, $35.00.Given the predominance of cultural materialism and historical scholarship, literary studies no longer ascribe much of a distinct, autonomous role to literariness as such. Current critics are interested in the complicity of individual works in the propagation of social (...) and political power, but the notion of literariness as a power in its own right has for the most part dropped away. The decline of this concept is a real loss; how great a loss becomes evident when one reads a book like Laura Quinney’s Literary Power and the Criteria of Truth, which in a gripping and authoritative fashion recalls the seductiveness of the literary.Quinney writes with a deconstructionist’s sense of the shaping influence that the desire for literature exercises over claims about the world. For Quinney, the literary—not just individual works, but literariness as a distinct disposition of language—has power and solicits attention on its own terms. To explain her general view of the prevalence of the literary in human experience, she makes use of Wittgenstein’s account of language as an engrossing and primary activity, irreducible to other drives or aims. To discuss the special case of literature, she turns to Maurice Blanchot’s notion that literature constitutes a distinct, impersonal, absorbing, but also uncanny and desolate “space.” Her book aims to affirm and expand on this Blanchotian idea.Quinney is primarily concerned with what she calls the “tragic paradigm” whose basic premise is that grim and depressing depictions of life somehow tell a greater or deeper truth than happy and comic depictions do. Working from this premise, writers and readers tend to set tragedy and the sublime above comedy and the beautiful in the hierarchy of literary forms. Quinney both acknowledges the force of this preference and puzzles over its oddity; she tries here to explain its origins.Through an examination of some of its most compelling exponents, Quinney interprets the tragic paradigm as a symptom of the struggle between an attraction to and a recoil from the “literary,” understood in Maurice Blanchot’s sense as an impersonal elaboration of language—language as a motiveless, subjectless compulsion akin to repetition in Freud. According to Quinney, literature is necessarily oriented toward representation, and for this reason, a passion for literature expresses itself as a “love of mimesis.” But because there is an irreducible difference between representation and what it represents, and because the truth it tries to tell is bound to be distorted, the love of it leads to a feeling of loss and mourning; and in turn this feeling seems to reflect the deepest truth of literary experience. According to Quinney, works that obey the logic of the tragic paradigm see the world through the prism of this failure of mimesis, the failure of literature to coincide with the world, and as a result the world appears to them colored with the pain of that failure.After a preliminary discussion of the sublime and tragedy, focusing on [End Page 275] Aeschylus, Edmund Burke, and Simone Weil, Quinney devotes the bulk of her book to Samuel Johnson and Percy Shelley as major representatives of the tragic paradigm. Johnson embodies the paradigm in all its ramifications, Quinney argues. Shelley, conversely, offers an example of the peculiar, almost surreal desolation that takes over when an author tries to break with the paradigm—that is, to deny tragedy any special epistemological authority—yet remains compulsively under its spell.These are dense, riveting, illuminating, and groundbreaking chapters. Readers will admire Quinney’s range of reference, her sureness of judgment, her originality, and her power to fascinate. Her argument takes counter-intuitive, paradoxical turns, but always with deliberation and patience. The book is strange, but its strangeness never feels gratuitous or self-indulgent; it only recalls the strangeness that may after all be intrinsic to literature itself.Thomas ReinertWellesley CollegeCopyright © 1996 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)

Reading Morgan's eloquent explanation of himself as a "feminist," self-taught and now wholly enthused at the prospect of teaching a Women Writers course, one comes away sharing Morgan's concern that he not be left out in the cold. It is, after all, exciting and revitalizing to be part of a "revolution"—especially if, like Morgan, one can so generously and wholeheartedly espouse its goals; and, at the same time, it is surely comforting and ego-affirming to experience oneself as a legitimate (...) son of that sacred brotherhood, The Community of Scholars. What clearly disturbs Morgan is any suggestion that the two may not yet be compatible and that, further, if forced to choose, Morgan might find himself without viable options on either hand. For, if the larger academic "community" continues to close its professional ranks to women in general and feminists in particular , then Morgan, as a self-styled "feminist" will be forced to seek shelter among the female feminists, many of whom have closed their ranks to men. . . . Beverly Voloshin's Note restores to print some factual information which, for the sake of brevity, I cut from my original article, directing the reader, instead, to James D. Hart's concise summary of the original context of Hawthorne’s letter to Ticknor . While she and Hart make much the same point, her longer explication is, of course, welcome. Additionally, her fine explanation of "what was so daring about Ruth Hall" further reinforces my argument that there are fascinating texts to be discovered in the "feminine fifties" - even if only one or two; certainly, that's better than condemning all the women writers of that decade to obscurity. Moreover, since we teach a number of male texts simply on the grounds of their historical or "sociological" interest, why not also include women's texts on these grounds as well?—especially if, as Voloshin suggests, they reveal "numerous covert rebellions against male authority." How fascinating! One looks forward to her doing more than this. Finally, my main point was not the "feminine fifties" per se, but a plea for the careful reconsideration "of texts by women which have, for one reason or another, been either lost or ignored" . Stretching the "feminine fifties" by only two years, for example, one discovers Rebecca Harding Davis' Life in the Iron Mills , recently reissued by the Feminist Press . Annette Kolodny, assistant professor of English at the University of New Hampshire, has been awarded a Ford Foundation Fellowship for the study of women in society. She has written articles on American literature and culture and a feminist analysis of American pastoral, The Lay of the Land: Metaphor as Experience and History in American Life and Letters. (shrink)

An accidental glance at a newspaper notice causes Rousseau to collapse under the force of a vision. A car accidentally hits Giacometti, and he experiences an epiphany. Darwin introduces accident to the basic process of life, and Freud looks to accident as the expression of unconscious desire. Accident, Ross Hamilton claims, is the force that makes us modern. Tracing the story of accident from Aristotle to Buster Keaton and beyond, Hamilton’s daring book revives the tradition of the grand history (...) of ideas. _Accident _tells an original history of Western thought from the perspective of Aristotle’s remarkably durable categories of accident and substance. Throughout antiquity and the Middle Ages, Aristotle’s distinction underwrote an insistence on order and subordination of the inessential. In a groundbreaking innovation, Hamilton argues that after the Reformation, the concept of accident began to change places with that of substance: accident became a life-transforming event and effectively a person’s essence. For moderns, it is the accidental, seemingly trivial moments of consciousness that, like Wordsworth’s “spots of time,” create constellations of meaning in our lives. Touching on a broad array of images and texts—Augustine, Dante, the frescoes of Raphael, Descartes, Jane Austen, the work of the surrealists, and twentieth-century cinema—Hamilton provides a new way to map the mutations of personal identity and subjectivity. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Simulation, Subjective Knowledge, and the Cognitive Value of Literary NarrativeScott R. Stroud (bio)IntroductionLiterary narrative holds the power to move individuals to thought, reflection, action, and belief. According to a longstanding view of literature, it is this impact on the reader that leads to literary narrative being valued so highly in our culture and in others. What exactly is the value of literature? Humanists such as Peter Lamarque (...) and Stein Olsen1 argue for this value in terms of perennial themes that literature allows one to "grapple with," as opposed to cognitivist accounts that discuss the value of literary narrative in terms of conveyed truths or knowledge. One particularly important position that explains the cognitive value of literature can be labeled the "Subjective Knowledge Theory" (SKT). Such an account of literature places its value in the subjective perspectives or experiences the narrative opens up to the reader. Thus, one can gain knowledge of "what it is like" to be caught in the throes of jealousy, endangered by an opposing army, or captivated by the lure of magical prowess. Lamarque and Olsen, however, argue that SKT is fundamentally flawed in its analysis of knowledge derivable from the literary narrative and in terms of its account of literary practice.I wish to defend a version of SKT in this article. In order to do so, I make and defend the following claims. First, Lamarque and Olsen's critique of SKT relies on a conflation of two distinct types of knowledge—the knowledge provided by the simulated subjective experience and its appropriation/ generalization to forms useful for the reader's real life activities. I will argue that the former of these outcomes is due strictly to the aesthetic features of the literary narrative, whereas the second involves a non-necessary psychological reaction to the text (that is, judgments of the veracity or usefulness of the text for one's own purposes). By conflating both of these into the cognitive knowledge derivable from the text, Lamarque and Olsen's critique can [End Page 19] gain its purchase against SKT. If these two processes and the resultant sorts of knowledge are separated, then the SKT account does seem to show how literature holds value in itself and in relation to the reader's moral activities/ judgments. Second, the process of simulation is the primary means by which one can gain any type of subjective knowledge from a literary narrative. This type of knowledge will be gained by virtue of the literary narrative's aesthetic qualities, which result in a certain type of activity in the reader. Third, I will argue that the second sort of knowledge—that derived from the simulated subjective experience—results from the process of reader identification with the values, beliefs, and/or behaviors of the simulated agent. This sense of identification involves selective appropriation and generalization and will be shown not to be subject to the critiques of simple identification offered by Noël Carroll.2 It is at this stage that individuals learn what they believe they ought to value, how they ought to act, and what they should believe from their experience of simulation in reading the literary narrative. Notice that this knowledge is separate from the first sort of knowledge, which is knowledge of what it is like to experience x through y's eyes.As I elucidate and defend these claims, I hope it will become clear that this is an account that does justice to the value resident in literature and in the activities readers do after they partake in the aesthetic object of the literary narrative. Thus, I will conclude by showing how this account does not fall prey to the conflation that both critics and supporters of SKT commit in muddling the different types of knowledge available from and in relation to a literary narrative.Before I proceed, it is important that some basic concepts are clearly set forth. A narrative can be defined as any representation of two or more events over time. The number of events and the relationship among them can be as simple or complex as one likes, but the crucial aspect is that the representation supplies the... (shrink)

Which modernism or modernisms circulate in Deleuze’s two-volume work on cinema? Can one meaningfully claim that both or either The Movement-Image and The Time-Image maintain connections with literary modernism? What relationship if any may be forged between theoretical debates in the areas of literary and film studies as these have been influenced by engagement with Deleuze’s work on cinema? The first obstacle to any successful negotiation of these questions lies in the absence in the books of any reference (...) to the category of modernism – a fact which is after all hardly surprising in a French author of Deleuze’s generation. A second consideration is summed up well by Joost Raessens when he argues that “For Deleuze the term ‘modernity’ is not a neutral category. In effect modern cinema is a representation of differential thought which is determined [...] as a fundamental critique of the classic thought of Plato and Hegel.” Scholars often assert that Deleuze’s modernity owes much to Nietzsche, in the shape of the latter’s demand for a new approach to questions of truth and knowledge. Once life is no longer judged in the name of a higher authority such as the good or the true, the stage is set for Nietzschean transvaluation. This is a process which subjects “every being, every action and passion, even every value, in relation to the life which they involve” to evaluation. This normative model of a cinema which has the capacity to carry out a Nietzschean total critique by means other than philosophy presides over The Time-Image in particular. In terms of the trajectory of Deleuze’s thought, total critique is opposed, in Nietzsche and Philosophy and Difference and Repetition, to Kantian critique as well as to Hegelian sublation. The thinking images of modern cinema, more specifically of its preeminent auteurs in Deleuze’s pantheon such as Welles, Resnais, Godard, and others, can effectuate this new image of thought. Thus is rendered tangible Deleuze’s claim that films think, that cinema thinks. Thus are linked a modernism of cinema and a project which dates back to Difference and Repetition, namely the challenge to a certain image of thought. In this challenge the allies include the two philosophers who dominate the film books – Bergson and Nietzsche. This chapter assumes the position that it is impossible to consider Deleuze’s modernism as being in any way other than intrinsically linked to his overall philosophical system and therefore that it is only in this context that connections with literary modernism can be explored. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Man and Animal in Severan Rome: The Literary Imagination of Claudius Aelianus by Steven D. SmithFabio TutroneSteven D. Smith. Man and Animal in Severan Rome: The Literary Imagination of Claudius Aelianus. Greek Culture in the Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. 308pp. $99.When Otto Keller published his meticulous work Die Antike Tierwelt (1909–13), classical scholars still conceived of ancient zoological knowledge as an astonishingly labyrinthine (...) corpus of tales. One felt the need to separate objective truths and fabulous accounts on the basis of a modern-oriented comparatist approach which was especially suspicious of Aelian’s De Natura Animalium and the so-called paradoxographic tradition. At that time, classicists were also keen to [End Page 532] see Severan literature as a scarcely original (and relatively uninteresting) digest of earlier writings—a faithful mirror of the beginning of the end.Steven Smith’s book on Aelian’s “literary imagination” and its culturally embedded use of animal figures is paradigmatic of the notable progress of scholarship in both such fields of research—the role of animals as revealing symbolic constructs and the intellectual life of Severan Rome. Throughout his well-structured survey, Smith offers new insights into Aelian’s worldview as a profoundly Hellenized Roman writer creatively combining biological notions and literary mirabilia, socio-political patterns, and sophistic aesthetics. On the one hand, the book clearly situates itself in the flourishing area of cultural and animal studies, making the most of both well-known and newly emerging theoretical frameworks (from Michel Foucault to Donna Haraway, from Derrida and Deleuze to Giorgio Agamben). Of course, the purpose of Smith as well as of other contemporary scholars interested in the ancient representation of animals is no longer to identify reliable “scientific” data as distinct from ancient folklore. Rather, it is the intersection of rhetorical, historical, and anthropological factors which seems to characterize most properly the Graeco-Roman discourse on animal life. On the other hand, however, Smith engages in an ambitious reconfiguration of Aelian’s (admittedly enigmatic) profile as an exponent of the Second Sophistic, at the same time indebted and alien to the milieu of the third century c.e. The multifaceted textual construction of Aelian’s animal narratives is shown to entail a critical (and at times ambiguous) reflection on such different issues as gender, religion, ethnicity, natural philosophy, and kingship.The book is composed of ten chapters, each one investigating a specific aspect of Aelian’s Weltanschauung on the basis of thematically connected passages. While the main focus is on De Natura Animalium (and thus on animal-related topics), two chapters (2 and 10, respectively) extend the scope of the inquiry to Aelian’s Rustic Letters and Varia Historia (VH). The monograph as a whole is framed by an introductory overview (starting with a fictional first-person speech by Aelian) and a conclusive note which sums up Smith’s most relevant theses. In addition, a more “philological” appendix discusses seventeen short fragments possibly pertaining to Aelian’s lost Katēgoria tou gunnidos (“The Indictment of the Little Woman”), a bitter invective against Elagabalus prudently written after the emperor’s death (cf. Philostr. Vit. Soph. 625).The question of Aelian’s elusive literary persona figures prominently in the general introduction and is the core subject of chapter 1. By qualifying the author of the De Natura Animalium (NA) as “independent” and “countercultural,” Smith does not mean to remove him from his social and political context. On the contrary, the evidence drawn from the NA itself (especially from the impressionistic self-portrait of the preface and the epilogue), together with the biographical sketches in Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists and in the Byzantine Souda lexicon, is used to demonstrate that, though “inextricably bound up with and perhaps even unwittingly celebratory of urban Roman culture of the early third century c.e., Aelian nevertheless also fashions a literary persona that is critical of that same [End Page 533] cultural milieu” (16). In Smith’s view, such a fascinatingly ambivalent effect is made possible by the overwhelming stylistic variety (poikilia) of the NA, which appears as an “open” work (in Umberto Eco’s terms) intentionally lacking any large-scale... (shrink)

A good feminist criticism . . . must first acknowledge that men's and women's writing in our culture will inevitably share some common ground. Acknowledging that, the feminist critic may then go on to explore the ways in which this common ground is differently imaged in women's writing and also note the turf which they do not share. And, after appreciating the variety and variance of women's experience—as we have always done with men's—we must then begin exploring and analyzing (...) the variety of literary devices through which different women are finding effective voices. As a consequence of this activity, we may even find ourselves better able to understand and to encourage women writers' continued experiments in language—in stylistic devices, genre forms, and image making—experiments which inevitably expand everyone's abilities to know and express themselves. Annette Kolodny, assistant professor of English at the University of New Hampshire, has been awarded a Ford Foundation Fellowship for the study of women in society. She has written articles on American literature and culture and a feminist analysis of American pastoral, The Lay of the Land: Metaphor as Experience and History in American Life and Letters. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Plato and the Socratic Dialogue: The Philosophical Use of a Literary FormDavid SiderCharles H. Kahn. Plato and the Socratic Dialogue: The Philosophical Use of a Literary Form. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. xxi 1 431 pp. Cloth, $64.95.An enduring question in Plato studies is whether—and if so how—Plato developed as a thinker. A simple positive answer, as argued by Taylor and Burnet, has Plato starting out (...) his philosophical life as an associate of Socrates who adopted and portrayed his teacher’s ideas in the early dialogues (some few of them, in this reviewer’s opinion, perhaps antedating Socrates’ death). Then, upon further and continual reflection, of a Socratic sort no doubt, Plato slowly or quickly (some would mark the spot at Symposium 210a) began to espouse views never held by his rabbi. Or—as, e.g., Shorey and Cherniss would hold—Plato knew his own mind, if not at the very first then at least in his earliest published writings, holding to these same beliefs throughout his life.Neither position is intrinsically impossible or even unlikely. But faced with the various literary devices and philosophical ploys with which Plato shapes his dialogues, it is not surprising that developmentalists predominate over unitarians in Plato studies, each side generally content to leave the other alone in its ignorance. Now comes Charles Kahn to show how both sides may be right: while Plato the thinker behind the dialogues had firm views from which he rarely deviated throughout his life, he planned years in advance how these ideas would best be presented to the public, and in what order. It is, then, [End Page 624] only the dialogues that develop, according to a prearranged scheme that constitutes, as the subtitle has it, Plato’s “philosophical use of a literary form.” (Kahn’s review of the history of the dialogue form in chapter 1 is excellent, with especially valuable remarks on Antisthenes, but is not strictly necessary for his thesis.) This intriguing idea is worthy of Kahn, whose writings on pre-Socratics, Plato, Aristotle, and beyond always command immediate attention and frequently become standard entries in later bibliographies. It is particularly noteworthy that in an earlier attempt at a different sort of reconciliation, Kahn—when all the rest of us believed that Empedocles wrote two major works, one “scientific” and the other “religious”—showed how these apparently different works in fact complemented each other. Now, after Osborne’s argument that Empedocles wrote but one poem has been proved correct by the Strasbourg papyrus, Kahn’s paper holds up remarkably well. Kahn’s own bibliography in the present volume also contains articles written as far back as 1983 (“Drama and Dialectic in Plato’s Gorgias,” OSAP 1:75–121) that not only maintain and develop the idea he is considering but also illustrate how a thinker can space out his already fully formed thesis in well-articulated units—just as Kahn argues Plato did over a large portion of his own oeuvre, specifically the eighteen dialogues from Apology to Phaedrus.It is not that there is no Socratic period, rather that it would now be limited only to the four dialogues Apology, Crito, Ion, and Hippias Minor (93). Hard-core developmentalists and unitarians will want to see whether Kahn can convince them to alter long-held views about so important an aspect of Plato’s dialogues and thought. To convince them, however, Kahn, like the developmentalists, should ideally present a case for the chronological order of composition and publication that depends solely upon external criteria, so as not to beg the question of how, in his own view, the dialogues were made to develop. (The unitarian view would remain theoretically unaltered were it to be proved that, say, Parmenides was written before Laches.) It must be said, however, that on this most essential point, Kahn has not altogether managed to avoid circularity. In part, this is because external evidence tells us very little about Plato’s intellectual development: the Seventh Letter is fascinating but short on details, and Aristotle’s account “is not historically reliable” (41 n. 10, developed further in chapter 3, where, amazingly, an account explicitly... (shrink)

Hans-Georg Gadamer, the major proponent of philosophical hermeneutics, reveals himself here as a highly sensitive reader and critic of the German literary tradition. This is not the work of a specialist as narrowly defined in the typical literary study. Although he is a master of the techniques of criticism, Gadamer always sees the study of literature as a fundamentally human activity where human beings, generation after generation, pose their questions to an encroaching darkness that threatens to rob (...) them of their confidence in the meaning of life and death. Never pedantic or antiquarian, these studies show such literary giants of the German past as Goethe and Hölderlin as our contemporaries. Gadamer demonstrates his ability to achieve the creative interplay of literature and philosophy which, in isolation, easily degenerate into sterile academic games. Typical of this dialogue are essays on Rainer Maria Rilke, including an examination of a problem of punctuation in one of his poems. What would be, in less capable hands, one more solution to a literary problem, turns out to be one of Gadamer's creative approaches to the mystery of man's relation to time and death. (shrink)

Hans-Georg Gadamer, the major proponent of philosophical hermeneutics, reveals himself here as a highly sensitive reader and critic of the German literary tradition. This is not the work of a specialist as narrowly defined in the typical literary study. Although he is a master of the techniques of criticism, Gadamer always sees the study of literature as a fundamentally human activity where human beings, generation after generation, pose their questions to an encroaching darkness that threatens to rob (...) them of their confidence in the meaning of life and death. Never pedantic or antiquarian, these studies show such literary giants of the German past as Goethe and Hölderlin as our contemporaries. Gadamer demonstrates his ability to achieve the creative interplay of literature and philosophy which, in isolation, easily degenerate into sterile academic games. Typical of this dialogue are essays on Rainer Maria Rilke, including an examination of a problem of punctuation in one of his poems. What would be, in less capable hands, one more solution to a literary problem, turns out to be one of Gadamer’s creative approaches to the mystery of man’s relation to time and death. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Journal of the History of Ideas 64.3 (2003) 489-510 [Access article in PDF] The Analysis of Culture Revisited:Pure Texts, Applied Texts, Literary Historicisms, Cultural Histories Warren Boutcher School of English and Drama, Queen Mary, University of London Theory What is the relationship between study of canonical texts and broader social and cultural history? This question lies behind the contemporary academic issue of historicism and the public "culture wars" (...) that broke out in the late 1980s, but it was asked by Raymond Williams in the late 1950s and by German and French intellectuals of the 1930s. For the purposes of the present argument I shall distinguish between three broad phases in the responses of those who have taken the inquiry up most actively. Each phase began with what were perceived as crises or turning-points in the humanities corresponding to watersheds in wider history. The first and most profound began after the global crisis of 1929-33 and continued through the global wars that followed. A second began in the mid-1950s after McCarthyism, the consolidation of the Cold War and the Soviet invasion of Hungary. A third phase began in the mid-1970s, after the events of 1968 brought on the extended period of social unrest which found one important epicenter in the universities themselves and which broke out again in the more civilized form of the culture wars already mentioned.Most discussions of historicism do not engage directly with the practice of history. The second half of the paper will therefore ask what the theoretical account offered in the first half means for historical research that starts from past texts, and will include as one of its practical examples a case-study in the modern intellectual history offered in outline below. [End Page 489] Literary Histories of Ideas After the First World War an intellectual revolt took place against the isolation of aesthetic experience in the European tradition. It was led in England and America by teachers who wanted to establish that the general critical intelligence acquired in English literary studies could be applied in extra-literary fields from anthropology to social psychology. In England, English literature as a single discipline was to be the "liaison field of study"; in America it fell to pre-professional literary education in general. 1 The common project was to use refined literary experience of texts as the base from which to conduct value-laden, historically informed analysis of the contemporary problems of interwar European and American society, of western culture and civilization. 2 As consolidated in English intellectual culture between the pre-war and immediate post-war period this has been dubbed the moment of Scrutiny, the influential literary periodical headed by F. R. Leavis. In American intellectual culture it might well be dubbed the moment of Partisan Review, an equally influential periodical whose leading literary critic was Lionel Trilling. 3Leavis's at once dissident and élitist literary criticism concealed a sociology designed to salvage the humane culture of an earlier England from amidst the decay of mass civilization. 4 Trilling used European culture to critique what he perceived to be the superficiality of modern American civilization and literature. His criticism became the Ellis Island of intellectual life, the product of an immigrant culture desirous of assimilation by means of high culture to an American society whose better values were formed by the European canon. 5 For both, then, distinctive histories of society and social change, culture and cultural change were central to the enterprise of criticism. 6 Culture in their hands was a value-laden English or European way of life that shaped and was shaped by the highest artistic consciousness. As such, it carried a new awareness of alienation and repression in the midst of modern society or civilization. The aesthetic critical sense of a Leavis or a Trilling was now a sense of past and present cultural and social life. It competed successfully with claims to the [End Page 490] same ground made by what were seen as cruder sociological theories of... (shrink)

This article explores the possible interpretations—and the implications of those interpretations—of a comment about the importance of art made by Yasunari Kawabata (1899–1972), later the first Japanese Nobel laureate for literature: that “looking at old works of art is a matter of life and death.” (In 1949, Kawabata visited Hiroshima in his capacity as president of the Japan literary society P.E.N. to inspect the damage caused by the atomic bombing of Hiroshima that helped end World War II. On (...) his way back to his home in Kamakura, he stopped in Kyoto. He came under severe criticism for “sightseeing” at such a time. This comment was his response.) The introduction explains why we should take him seriously as a commentator on art. The body of the article examines why our looking at art might be more, not less, important after the post-War situation, the kinds of art Kawabata might have meant, why some possibilities are more likely than others, and how they differ in what they offer us and the value of art under conditions of trauma and mass trauma. (shrink)

The literary and scientific renaissance that struck Germany around 1800 is usually taken to be the cradle of contemporary humanism. Posthumanism in the Age of Humanism shows how figures like Immanuel Kant and Johann Wolfgang Goethe as well as scientists specializing in the emerging modern life and cognitive sciences not only established but also transgressed the boundaries of the “human.” This period so broadly painted as humanist by proponents and detractors alike also grappled with ways of challenging some (...) of humanism's most cherished assumptions: the dualisms, for example, between freedom and nature, science and art, matter and spirit, mind and body, and thereby also between the human and the nonhuman. Posthumanism is older than we think, and the so-called “humanists” of the late Enlightenment have much to offer our contemporary re-thinking of the human. (shrink)

After the Human provides a comprehensive overview of how a range of philosophical, ethical, and political ideas under the framework of posthumanism have transformed humanities scholarship today. Bringing together a range of interdisciplinary scholars and perspectives, it puts into dialogue the major influences from philosophy, literary study, anthropology, and science studies that set the stage for a range of new questions to be asked about the relationship of the human to other life. The book's central argument is (...) that posthumanism's challenge to and disruption of traditional humanist knowledge is so significant as to presage a sea-change from the humanities into the posthumanities. After the Human documents the emergence of posthumanist ideas in the fractures within traditional disciplines, examines the new objects of analysis that thus came into prominence, and theorizes new interdisciplinary methods of study that followed. (shrink)

This paper offers a reading of Hartmann’s philosophy of literature from the perspective of contemporary aesthetics. In particular, I focus on his defense of the truth-value of literary works. After outlining the main concern of the paper (sect. 1), I place Hartmann’s view within the context of current aesthetic cognitivism (sect. 2). In the following three sections, I discuss Hartmann’s account, examining his critique of the thesis that literature is cognitively valuable because it transmits factual truths (sect. 3); (...) his defense of the view that literature discloses life (sect. 4); and the link between cognitive value and the ontology of the literary work (sect. 5). Finally, I discuss Hartmann’s focus on the concept of “truth” in the light of recent debates on knowledge of “what it is like” and on “understanding” (sect. 6). (shrink)

The work of Michel Foucault is much read, widely cited, and occasionally misunderstood. In response to this state of affairs, this collection aims to clarify, to contextualize, and to contribute to Foucauldian scholarship in a very specific way. Rather than offering either a conceptual introduction to Foucault's work, or a series of interventions aimed specifically at experts, After Foucault explores his critical afterlives, situates his work in current debates, and explains his intellectual legacy. As well as offering up-to-date assessments (...) of Foucault's ongoing use in fields such as literary studies, sexuality studies, and history, chapters explore his relevance for urgent and emerging disciplines and debates, including ecology, animal studies, and the analysis of neoliberalism. Written in an accessible style, by leading experts, After Foucault demonstrates a commitment to taking seriously the work of a key twentieth-century thinker for contemporary academic disciplines, political phenomena, and cultural life. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy after ChristJohn O'CallaghanConsider the words of Justin Martyr written in the middle of the second century after the birth of Christ and after Justin's conversion to Christianity:Philosophy is indeed one's greatest possession, and is most precious in the sight of God, to whom it alone leads us and to whom it unites us, and in truth they who have applied themselves to philosophy are holy (...) men.1In addition to the praise heaped upon the philosophers, among whom Justin had counted himself before his conversion,2 the text is one of the earliest pieces of evidence for the historical reality of Christian intellectual engagement with pagan or secular philosophy. Whether that engagement proved spiritually fruitful or sterile in any particular age or any particular tradition of philosophy, Christian intellectuals have often sought out engagement with philosophy as an inherent task of the intellectual life of the Church, in order to pursue and develop the understanding of Christian revelation and the mode of life informed by it. One lasting result of the impetus represented by Justin is to be found even now in the normative requirement in Catholic education that, at a certain stage of development, anyone who receives a [End Page 49] serious Catholic education must be introduced to serious philosophical reflection on where we came from, what we are, and where we are born to go.In addition, one of the general points John Henry Newman made in The Idea of a University is that the human mind looks for unity in the diversity of intellectual disciplines it pursues. In search of this unity, it seeks a kind of primary discipline that takes into account the truths discovered throughout the other disciplines as it seeks to understand what it can of the whole of reality, not just its parts. But Newman also pointed out that, in the absence of such a unifying discipline, practitioners of each particular discipline will often claim for their particular discipline the prize of being primary—of being the discipline by which all others must be understood and judged.3Take classical and modern physics. A familiar claim of some physicists, but even more so of non-physicist physicalists, is that physics is the fundamental intellectual discipline for understanding what is real. All reality, living reality, historical reality, moral reality, indeed perhaps even literary reality, must be reduced to reality as described by the physicists or rejected as unreal or epiphenomenal, or in a kinder, gentler vein, non-reductively emergent and supervenient. Whichever position is taken, whether reduction, non-reductive emergence, or epiphenomenalism, the thought is that the real work of the really real is done by reality as described by physics, either in its actual contemporary state or, more likely, in an idealized future state always on the horizon of where physics presently is. We are really atoms spinning ceaselessly in the void, mostly empty space, the warp and woof of a four-dimensional space-time manifold, or congeries of strings in an even more bizarre thirteen-dimensional manifold, or whatever was said most recently to surpass what was said before that by the leading physicists in California or Cambridge.However, anyone who has actually practiced physics knows that, even when uttered by a physicist, these are not claims of physics, but about physics. What prompts them is the sense that there is no intellectual discipline other than contemporary physics itself that can both understand the achievements of physics and integrate them into a larger intellectual comprehension of reality as a whole. These claims about physics nicely display Newman's point about the way in which a particular discipline, in the absence of a larger more comprehensive discipline, can take on an importance for its practitioners well beyond its disciplinary limits. [End Page 50]In the case of physics, if a more comprehensive unifying discipline is not to be found, this attitude is not entirely unjustified, for Newman's point is partly Aristotelian. Aristotle had pointed out that, if one cannot show that unchangeable, and thus non-physical beings, exist, then what Aristotle called "first philosophy" would just be physics as he understood it, the science of... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:After Irony: Aristophanes’ Wealth and its Modern InterpretersJames McGlewThe contest between Chremylus and Penia in Wealth (488–626) lies at the center of interpretations of Aristophanes’ final surviving play and of Old Comedy’s dramatic and receptive development in Aristophanes’ last years. In much of the work of scholars since Helmut Flashar’s 1967 article, 1 and including A. E. Bowie’s recent study (1993) on Aristophanes, that contest and the episodic (...) portion of the play following it are seen as dominated by a tension between the play’s logical consequences and its dramatic outcomes; Penia, these scholars believe, gives the better argument, and when Chremylus nonetheless proceeds with his plan of restoring Plutus’ sight, his program is haunted by her warnings: for the insightful members of the audience, Chremylus’ plan proves to be a social and ethical catastrophe. This “ironic interpretation” of Wealth has troubled some recent commentators. But most of those who refuse to see a fundamental disengagement between the logic and drama imbedded in the play, find a similar tension between the play’s dramatic promise and its reception; for Konstan and Dillon (1981) and for Olson (1993), the play imagines universal wealth but serves a conservative, anti-revolutionary ideology: comic fantasy provides an escape for an increasingly impoverished and powerless dēmos. Thus, even if Wealth did not persuade poor Athenians that Penia was better than Plutus, it still helped keep them loyal to her.Recent interest in Wealth has had some effect in rescuing the play from literary death. Viewed as enervated and unimaginative by most scholars of recent generations, 2 Wealth has regained the moral weight [End Page 35] that once inspired the Italian Renaissance to honor it before any other work of Greek antiquity with a Latin translation, 3 and that invited the attention of Fielding (Aristophanes 1742) and other modern translators. Underlying this new interpretation of Wealth lies a reassessment of its dramatic qualities: the dramatic and narrative infelicities that troubled the last generation of Aristophanes scholars are now seen as keys to the subtlety of this last extant example of Old Comedy. But the revived interest and dramatic reassessment of Wealth have made it into a very different play. 4 What earlier scholars had read as a somewhat anemic flight into escapist fantasy is now taken as a demonstration that wealth and justice, good behavior and material happiness are inherently irreconcilable. Chremylus may dream of universal wealth, but the play itself hopes to offer its audience a superior moral wisdom.The new readings of Wealth constitute a relatively united front against which the few dissident voices—Sommerstein’s (1984) is the most important 5 —have had little effect. This paper examines the dramatic and political character of Aristophanes’ last comedy to argue that Wealth itself thematizes the relationship between comic fantasy and its audience’s private desires, a relationship at the heart of recent conservative interpretations of the play. I will suggest that Aristophanes has constructed Chremylus’ victory over Penia to restate—albeit his audience and comedy itself were changing—the political significance and integrity of comic fantasy. Accused by Penia at 557—and by her modern admirers—of doing nothing more than “trying to kō mō idein” her, Chremylus [End Page 36] invites his audience “to laugh at poverty” and dream of escaping it in a way that reaffirms Athenian democratic identity and celebrates the decision-making powers of the collective dē mos. 6The ironic interpretation of Wealth, and even some critics of this interpretation, 7 assume that Aristophanes’ audience would have perceived, and held on to the perception, that Penia’s argument was stronger than Chremylus’; and that, moreover, the superiority of Penia’s argument shaped the audience’s view of the second half of Wealth, which presents a utopic vision of life without her (Olson 1993, 235–36). But the comic arguments of Aristophanes’ earlier agons—our best source for reconstructing the expectations of Wealth’s audience—do not offer much support for these assumptions. Arguments win in Aristophanes’ earlier plays by uniting the Chorus, the synecdochic audience, behind the protagonist; for this, verifiable fact is not necessarily the best tool. In Acharnians, Dicaeopolis’ argument... (shrink)

This study of contemporary art and culture brings together Boyers's sharply focused essays on writers, filmmakers, painters, and critics, first published in the _TLS_, _The American Scholar_, _Granta_, _The_ _American Poetry Review, and Salmagundi. The essays respond to the diversity of "events" that make up our cultural life, and take as their central theme what Boyers calls "object loss" in the art and writing of some prominent contemporaries. The term designates a radical incapacity to think clearly about the objects—actual (...) or imagined—that give a work point or focus. He argues that this incapacity has produced various kinds of irrelevance and dishonesty, not so much in the art of our day as in the various critical theories and response patterns which are dominant among us._ Dwelling on such figures as Jean-Luc Godard, Mario Vargas Llosa, Marcel Duchamp, John Ashbery, and William Styron, Boyers frequently casts his reflections as responses to theories that have gained—especially among contemporary literary intellectuals—an indisputable currency. His essays constitute a negative aesthetic, a "definition by recoil" of postmodernist art and the ideology that promotes or defends it. (shrink)

This article looks into the workings of educational authority. While scholarly debate in education usually promotes authority as either good or bad, the same debate seldom asks questions about how authority works. This article is, then, an answer to the question ‘How?’ How does educational authority operate? It operates, it is suggested, in much the same way that literary authority operates. To make the case for educational authority as literary authority, the paper uses the philosophical work of Jacques (...) Derrida and the literary work of Franz Kafka. (shrink)

Donald Davidson is probably the most eminent living analytic philosopher, and his writings in philosophy of language and philosophy of action have shaped much of the recent work in both these fields. However, despite the obvious shared concerns of literary theory and these aspects of philosophy, up to this point literary theorists have not paid much attention to Davidson's ideas or have only known about them through the interpretations of other philosophers like Richard Rorty. Literary theorists have (...) seen more relevance to their concerns in Continental philosophy and, among analytic philosophers, in the essentially anti-analytic work of J. L. Austin and Ludwig Wittgenstein than in the harder tradition of analytic philosophy—more concerned with logic and philosophy of science—represented by the work of Donald Davidson. _Literary Theory after Davidson _challenges both views, stressing the variety of ways in which Davidson's thought can contribute to the development of literary theory. Davidson himself has contributed a new essay to the collection that explores the interrelations between his theories of language and literature. (shrink)

Like all deaths, Raymond Williams’ must touch most profoundly those who were closest to him; it belongs first to his private circle. But it also belongs to his fame: to those who have read his books, heard him speak in public, were taught by him, and, then, to those who have been taught by those he taught, and so on. Because Williams was so committed and important politically—writing not just as an academic but as a leftist—his death also enters public (...) history. One can ask: does it mark the end of an era? Or, on the contrary, is it the sign of a beginning set in motion by the programs, the shifts of emphasis, he urged? Such questions are all the most insistent because the left, as a political force and as an idea, is so fragile today. Indeed, no other theme seems as urgent in thinking about Williams’ life and work now; for, to put it rather glibly, it is no longer easy to tell left from right. If we regard “being on the left” as requiring the belief that state control of the economy and the ideological apparatus and the empowerment of the proletariat are steps demanded by the journey towards real, rather than illusory or formal, freedom, then who is still on the left? And if “being on the left” does not require such beliefs, if there is a left that is not statist, how does it differ from liberalism, from a Deleuzian or Foucauldian micro-politics or a mere insistence on “social justice”?2 2. This is not to approach the question of what it means to be a “Marxist” in cultural/literary studies. Historically, one of the clearest demarcations of Marxism within and from the left in general was its willingness to theorize and imagine revolution. The difficulties faced by Williams’ work and career are very much those posed by a nonrevolutionary Marxism. Simon During is a lecturer in English at the University of Melbourne. His Foucault and Literature will appear in 1990, and he is currently working on a book entitled Literature without Culture. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Notes and Fragments ENJOYING NEGATIVE EMOTIONS IN FICTIONS by John Morreall There is a puzzle going back to Aristotle and Augustine that has sometimes been called the "paradox of tragedy": how is it that nonmasochistic, nonsadistic people are able to enjoy watching or reading about fictional situations which are filled with suffering? The problem here actually extends beyond tragedy to our enjoyment of horror films and other fictional depictions (...) of situations which we would not enjoy in real life. What is it about fiction that turns intensely unpleasant situations into situations we can enjoy? Ofthe many solutions proposed to this puzzle, I shall mentionjust four. Aristotle held that in viewing tragedy we experience negative emotions — pity and fear — but get pleasure from the experience nonetheless because we are thereby purged of excess pity and fear. For Aristotle, too, there is a pleasure which tragedy shares with fiction in general, the delight we take in representations.1 Hume put more weight on this latter delight. Our pleasure in tragedy, he said, is based on our appreciation of the skill with which the literary or other artist has depicted the unpleasant scenes.2 Susan Feagin has recently located the pleasure we take in tragic art not in our direct responses to the work, which are "unpleasant experiences," she says, but in our meta-response of moral self-congratulation at these responses.3 The fourth solution to our puzzle is really a dissolution: it consists of denying that we actually feel fear, pity, and other negative emotions in our experience of fiction. The guiding principle here is that in order to have some emotion toward a situation, we must believe that it is a real situation. This principle is articulated in an influential article by Kendall Walton, though he does not apply it to our puzzle.4 95 96Philosophy and Literature I believe that this last solution is no solution at all because we do in fact feel emotions in our appreciation of fiction (a point I will develop later). The other three solutions above address the puzzle, and the pleasures they appeal to all have some explanatory power. But these solutions seem to me to overlook perhaps the most basic pleasure we take in tragedy, horror films, and the like — the direct pleasure of feeling (ear, pity, and similar emotions. The idea of enjoying negative emotions seems counterintuitive at first; indeed it may seem analytically false. But let us look more closely at those emotions to see what there might be to enjoy in them. Because the idea that we experience real emotions in response to fiction is controversial, we will begin not with fiction but with real life. After seeing how negative emotions can be enjoyed in real life, we can then consider their enjoyment in response to fiction. Fear is perhaps the most basic negative emotion, and at first glance one of the least likely to be enjoyed. To feel fear, many have claimed, we have tojudge that we are in danger, and danger is disturbing to us. And so it is natural that in fear there is the motivation to eliminate the danger, by fleeing, protecting ourselves, or attacking. Changes in the autonomic nervous system and the endocrine system equip us forjust such actions. They produce an increase in alertness and muscle tension, a faster and stronger heartbeat, a redistribution of the blood from the skin and internal organs to the voluntary muscles and brain, and a release of stored sugar from the liver into the bloodstream. Now although we may not be able to identify all these changes when we are in a state of fear, we can feel many of them directly, and we certainly feel the overall excitement which they produce. It is this excitement, I think, that makes fear potentially enjoyable. Especially for someone who leads a relatively dull life, the stimulation provided by fear can be pleasurable by contrast with the ordinary lack of stimulation. Many people, indeed, go to considerable trouble to put themselves into dangerous situations, in part, at least, for the thrill of fear that the danger will provide. Consider mountain climbers and skydivers, for instance. Now there are many sources... (shrink)

This is a comprehensive collection of readings from the work of Theodor Adorno, one of the most influential German thinkers of the twentieth century. What took place in Auschwitz revokes what Adorno termed the “Western legacy of positivity,” the innermost substance of traditional philosophy. The prime task of philosophy then remains to reflect on its own failure, its own complicity in such events. Yet in linking the question of philosophy to historical occurrence, Adorno seems not to have abandoned his paradoxical, (...) life-long hope that philosophy might not be entirely closed to the idea of redemption. He prepares for an altogether different praxis, one no longer conceived in traditionally Marxist terms but rather to be gleaned from “metaphysical experience.” In this collection, Adorno's literary executor has assembled the definitive introduction to his thinking. Its five sections anatomize the range of Adorno's concerns: “Toward a New Categorical Imperative,” “Damaged Life,” “Administered World, Reified Thought,” “Art, Memory of Suffering,” and “A Philosophy That Keeps Itself Alive.” A substantial number of Adorno’s writings included appear here in English for the first time. This collection comes with an eloquent introduction from Rolf Tiedemann, the literary executor of Adorno’s work. (shrink)

A book review of Literary Theory After Davidson edited by Reed Way Dasenbrock.

Time is integral to human culture. Over the last two centuries people's relationship with time has been transformed through industrialisation, trade and technology. But the first such life-changing transformation – under Christianity's influence – happened in late antiquity. It was then that time began to be conceptualised in new ways, with discussion of eternity, life after death and the end of days. Individuals also began to experience time differently: from the seven-day week to the order of daily (...) prayer and the festal calendar of Christmas and Easter. With trademark flair and versatility, world-renowned classicist Simon Goldhill uncovers this change in thinking. He explores how it took shape in the literary writing of late antiquity and how it resonates even today. His bold new cultural history will appeal to scholars and students of classics, cultural history, literary studies, and early Christianity alike. (shrink)

Even for those who do not believe in a life after death, the idea of the afterlife that a past culture held can serve as a marker in the evolution of human consciousness. Like a demarcation that begins a process of map-making, the description of the time and space of the life after death starts a process of exploring the nature of consciousness and the cultural ideas of individuation that derive from it. World literature is the (...) chronicle of this cultural process of individuation, and literary works of the past serve as milestones on the historical path of the moral and psychological development of humanity. (shrink)

In 1968, Michel Foucault agreed to a series of interviews with critic Claude Bonnefoy, which were to be published in book form. Bonnefoy wanted a dialogue with Foucault about his relationship to writing rather than about the content of his books. The project was abandoned, but a transcript of the initial interview survived and is now being published for the first time in English. In this brief and lively exchange, Foucault reflects on how he approached the written word throughout his (...) life, from his school days to his discovery of the pleasure of writing. Wide ranging, characteristically insightful, and unexpectedly autobiographical, the discussion is revelatory of Foucault’s intellectual development, his aims as a writer, his clinical methodology, and his interest in other authors, including Raymond Roussel and Antonin Artaud. Foucault discloses, in ways he never had previously, details about his home life, his family history, and the profound sense of obligation he feels to the act of writing. In his Introduction, Philippe Artières investigates Foucault’s engagement in various forms of oral discourse—lectures, speeches, debates, press conferences, and interviews—and their place in his work. _Speech Begins after Death_ shows Foucault adopting a new language, an innovative autobiographical communication that is neither conversation nor monologue, and is one of his most personal statements about his life and writing. (shrink)

Should the hard questions of philosophy matter to ordinary people? In this down-to-earth, nonhistorical guide, Thomas Nagel, the distinguished author of Mortal Questions and The View From Nowhere, brings philosophical problems to life, revealing in vivid, accessible prose why they have continued to fascinate and baffle thinkers across the centuries. Arguing that the best way to learn about philosophy is to tackle its problems head-on, Nagel turns to some of the most important questions we can ask about ourselves. Do (...) we really have free will? Why should we be moral? What is the relation between our minds and our brains? Is there life after death? How should we feel about death? In a universe so vast, billions of light years across, can anything we do with our lives really matter? And does it matter if it doesn't matter? These are perennial questions we ask about the human condition, and Nagel probes them, and others like them, thoughtfully, clearly, and with humor. He states his own opinions freely but with refreshing modesty, always leaving it open to readers to entertain other solutions, encouraging them to think for themselves. Nagel is eminently qualified to introduce the uninitiated to the world of philosophical inquiry. Singled out by the Chicago Literary Review as "one of the sharpest analytic philosophers in America today," he has been praised in the New York Times Book Review for writing "sensitively and elegantly" and in the Times Literary Supplement for his ability, rare among philosophers, to combine "profundity with clarity and simplicity of expression." Never rarefied, What Does It All Mean? opens our eyes to a side of the world we rarely consider, demonstrating that philosophy is no empty study but an indispensable key to understanding our lives. It challenges us to think hard and clearly, to ask questions, to try out ideas and raise possible objections to them--in short, to become philosophers ourselves. (shrink)

Sloterdijk's 1999 lecture, known as the Elmau Speech, posited that all existing humanisms, including Heidegger's Fundamental Ontology, were rendered obsolete by the emergence of the so-called new media, and that education faced a similar fate. Taking a step further, the Elmau Speech establishes a connection between post-humanism in the sense of post-literary and postepistolary and Nietzsche's prophetic philosophy, suggesting the potential for genetic intervention in human life and education, thereby giving rise to social controversy. This paper begins by (...) examining Heidegger's Letter on Humanism, which offers criticism of traditional humanisms and introduces his concept of Fundamental Ontology. It then delves into Sloterdijk's critique of Heidegger in Rules for the Human Zoo, as well as Sloterdijk's own conception of posthumanism, analyzing their implications for contemporary education. (shrink)