BDSL-Klassifikation: 04.00.00 Allgemeine Literaturgeschichte > 04.03.00 Vergleichende Literaturgeschichte
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„Great writers,“ those who constitute our canon (at any given moment, one should add warily, since aesthetic canons fluctuate considerably over time), have invariably been the focus of reception studies, partly because they provide the most fertile ground for research, but partly also because literary scholars (and in particular the aspiring doctoral candidate: I myself graduated with an influence /reception study of this kind) need some justification for their endeavors, and what better ticket into the ivory rower - or onto the book market - than the study of the most seminal and widely accepted authors? James Joyce is just such a „great author.“ And „James Joyce and German Literature,“ the subject of this essay, must inevitably result in some form of reception study. But just what form should it take? Within the limited space of one article, it would be impossible to survey in toto Joyce's influence on German literature; that is, the multiple receptions of Joyce by some four or five generations of authors writing in German.
The essay provides a contrapuntal "parallactic" reading of Johann Wolfgang Goethe's "Bildungsroman" Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre - with its extensions Wilhelm Meisters theatralische Sendung and Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre - and James Joyce's high modernist A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Ulysses (1922). Derived from astronomy, the term parallax designates, transferred to literary history, a narrative stratagem, a metapoetical rationale, and an interpretive method. Joyce employs it as a key concept and narrative tool in Ulysses to denote a stereoscopic perspective applied to the protagonists’ actions and the world they live in. Leopold Bloom thus refl ects on it and the technique of Ulysses is determined by it. On a higher plane, literary critics, too, engage in literary historical parallax whenever they read texts intertextually — as exemplified in this essay. A parallactic reading of the novels’ protagonists Wilhelm Meister and Stephen Dedalus, as regards not just their identification with Shakespeare’s Hamlet but also the symbolic connotations embedded in their names and mythological pretexts, allows us to shed new light on the roles and significance of narrative irony, chance, and paternity in these novels.
The present article analyzes a prominent yet relatively understudied contact space among Native American, New Zealand Maori, and aboriginal Taiwanese literatures: the struggle of indigenous peoples to negotiate optimal relationships between themselves and the natural world, particularly in light of capitalist modernity and globalization. Many indigenous narratives draw sharp distinctions between native peoples and outsiders, predictably portraying the former as protectors and the latter as destroyers of both nature and indigenous local cultures. The Native American Chickasaw writer Linda Hogan's (1947-) novel 'People of the Whale' (2008), the Maori writer Patricia Grace's (1937-) novel 'Patiki' (1986), and the aboriginal Taiwanese writer Topas Tamapima's short story "Zuihou de lieren" are no exception. But these texts also problematize notions of the so-called "ecological native." They do so most conspicuously by revealing the ambiguous relationships those peoples believed closest to nature have with the nonhuman world, that is to say their environmental ambiguity ('ecoambiguity') (Thornber 2012).
In Britain in the late 1880s, two pop cultural icons had an extraordinary meeting: one, Ally Sloper, the fictional star of comic books and stage productions and the other Jack the Ripper, the real-life serial killer who was instantly fictionalised on page and stage as the bogeyman of the moment. The aim here is to explore the way in which this dynamic developed, with a focus on a single issue of 'Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday' (October 20, 1888), which appeared at the point in time when it was first realised that the killings were being done by a lone individual, and when panic was at its peak. What was at stake politically in the comic’s reaction? What can it tell us about Victorian attitudes to fear, death, and poverty? About the status of women? Finally, about law and order, and the social contract that existed between citizen and police?
The point of my explanation is simply that in its "deep-structure" even 'A Handful of Dust' (and 'a fortiori', as we shall see, other novels by Waugh) attaches itself to the mode of the historical novel, which is only in a very qualified way the descendant of the epic, as Lukacs would have us believe.
Comparatists have always had misgivings about the concept of comparison. The status accorded to comparison within Comparative Literature is far from dear. Although the discipline's very name derives from the concept, we are not quite sure what comparison refers to. Does it define what we do? Does it delineate a field of study, a range of objects?
In this article I read Jaime Cortez's graphic novel 'Sexile' as an intervention into linear narratives of crossing such as the "victim-rescuing narrative" (Shaksari) or the "transsexual narrative" (Bhanji). 'Sexile' celebrates the resourcefulness and creativity with which the denizens of the borderlands craft homes in the no-man’s land between departures and impossible arrivals. I argue that it is both the story that Sexile (re)tells as well as the format of the graphic novel that make 'Sexile' a life-affirming, useful, and challenging monument to life in the borderlands of national and gendered belonging.
Monsters are no rarity in the history of U. S.-American comics, but in Ken Dahl's eponymous small press comic they assume a articular function: His morphing monsters tell a story about how being a carrier of the herpes virus leads to incessant worry and social isolation. Dahl's narrative exposes the instability of the body's boundaries, and that of the distinction between illness and health. This chapter reads Monsters through traditions and theorizations of the Monstrous and Grotesque, as well as cultural histories of medicine that have shed light on discourses of contagion and (in-)visibility of illness. It is the idiosyncrasies of the comics medium and its history, and those of Dahl's stylistic choices, that enable a particularly tangible representation of social and personal illness experience.
The world in a 'Zeitschrift'
(2015)
The relaunching of the Jahrbuch 'Komparatistik' in 2015 takes place at a time of ferment in comparative literary studies, as a discipline long focused primarily on Western Europe seeks to reconsider its position in a global landscape, and in the process to rethink the contours of European literature itself. Here I would like to discuss one new manifestation of this rethinking: the founding of the 'Journal of World Literature', which will be debuting in 2016. Published in Amsterdam by Brill, with its managing editors located in Leuven and in Göttingen, the 'JWL' represents a European initiative in comparative and world literary studies, and the journal has a global presence as well. It is overseen by an international board of editors (myself among them), and it has an association with the Institute for World Literature, a Harvard-based program supported by five dozen institutions around the world, which will be responsible for one of its quarterly issues each year. Global in outlook and outreach, the 'JWL' can equally be thought of as carrying on an originally German project: to embody the potentially vast field of comparative and world literature within the pages available in a scholarly journal. To this end, very different approaches were tried in the last quarter of the nineteenth century by two foundational journals: the 'Acta Comparationis Litterarum Universarum', published in Cluj from 1877-88 by the Transylvanian scholars Hugo Meltzl and Sámuel Brassai, and the 'Zeitschrift für vergleichende Litteraturgeschichte', founded in 1886, published in Berlin under the editorship of Max Koch. Probably the very first journals in the field – the French 'Revue de littérature comparée', for example, dates only from 1921 – these pioneering journals divided up the literary territory in very different ways. Meltzl and Brassai’s 'Acta' reflected an idealistic globalism grounded in a radical multilingualism, whereas Koch opted for a more pragmatic but markedly nationalistic conception of the field. The new 'Journal of World Literature' will need to draw on the strengths of each approach even as its editors seek to avoid the pitfalls of both.
This paper is the report of a study conducted by five people – four at Stanford, and one at the University of Wisconsin – which tried to establish whether computer-generated algorithms could "recognize" literary genres. You take 'David Copperfield', run it through a program without any human input – "unsupervised", as the expression goes – and ... can the program figure out whether it's a gothic novel or a 'Bildungsroman'? The answer is, fundamentally, Yes: but a Yes with so many complications that it is necessary to look at the entire process of our study. These are new methods we are using, and with new methods the process is almost as important as the results.