American Literary History

Since they were first published in the 1890's Emily Dickinson's (1830-1886) poems have elicited queries regarding the proprieties of editing. This dissertation considers processes through which Dickinson's work has been edited in the twentieth century and how such editorial processes contribute specifically to the production of Emily Dickinson as author. As the project of editing Dickinson's work has always been associated with sketching her life any such editorial project is a production of a specific version of both her work and her life. The representation of Dickinson's work has been a concrete problem from the beginning. All the idiosyncratic aspects of Dickinson's handwritten manuscripts such as versions of poems and variants of specific words, calligraphy and choice of kind of paper and pen or pencil contribute to the complexity of her work and have been variously treated in different editions. The posthumous editing of her handwritten manuscripts into the conventions of the book and the conven tions of the electronic archive has been formed by editors' assumptions about the 'literary work.' At stake is fundamentally what a Dickinson poem may be, or, rather, how we may approach such an object. As this study assumes that all versions of Dickinson's work, including the edited versions, are part of what may be understood as a wider text, all editions are here understood as contributing towards the formulation of what Dickinson's work may be. This study proceeds by close readings of critical and editorial debates. Chapter 1 considers the early- to mid-twentieth century study and editing of Dickinson as a context both for more recent debates in Dickinson editing and for this study's metacritical approach. Chapter 2 analyzes the argument that Dickinson's work must be understood in its handwritten 'original' form. In the 1990s her handwriting became emblematic of a critical desire for an 'original' inscription. The most important effect of this argument is that one cannot easily read this set of texts in print: it is impossible to deny Dickinson's manuscripts artistic significance. Chapter 3 explores how this manuscript criticism has put into practice the editing of Dickinson electronically. I consider how electronic media may transform the editing, dissemination and interpretation of Emily Dickinson. (Less)

... John does not believe Julius because John is a man of empirical sureness-he likes to act in what he calls "the coolness of judgment ... most white TV viewers process the race iconog-raphy of the raisin commercials-that is, narrowly enough to preserve their investment in their ...

... in the selling of stories about dread disease serve to remind us how deeply the dynamics ofconsumer culture shape perceptions of ... for delicacy carried over into what was the most widely read features of interwar magazines and newspapers, namely cartoons and comic strips. ...

Johannes Voelz offers a critique of the New Americanists through a stimulating and original reexamination of the iconic figure of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Voelz argues against the prevailing tendency among Americanists to see Emerson as the product of an “all-pervasive scope of cultural power.” Instead he shows Emerson’s philosophy to be a deft response to the requirements of lecturing professionally at the newly built lyceums around the country. Voelz brings to light a fascinating organic relationship between Emerson’s dynamic style of thinking and the uplifting experience demanded by his public. This need for an audience-directed philosophy, the author argues, reveals the function of Emerson’s infamous inconsistencies on such issues as representation, identity, and nation. It also poses a major counter-argument to the New Americanists’ dim view of Emerson’s individualism and his vision of the private man in public. Challenging the fundamental premises of the New Americanists, this study is an important, even pathbreaking guide to the future of American studies.

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"A Genuine Article"

Harriet Beecher Stowe and John Andrew JacksonIn late 1850, as a busy wife and mother in Brunswick, Maine, with a modest professional sideline writing essays and magazine fiction,Harriet Beecher Stowe hid a fugitive slave in her house. He was notthe first fugitive she had ever met, but he was the first that she harbored in her own home. She took this step despite the draconian penalties imposed for such behavior by the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, which had been passed only a few weeks earlier. This runaway made an impression upon Stowe and her family. "He was," as she wrote in a letter to her sister, "a genuine article from the 'OleCarling State.'"

Stowe had met other men and women seeking freedom, when she lived in Cincinnati, Ohio, across the river from the slave state of Kentucky. And many of those individuals doubtless influenced her writing and inspired her concerns.

Scholars have long speculated about the myriad influences that went into the imaginative construction of the iconic black characters in Uncle Tom's Cabin
such as Uncle Tom, George Harris, Topsy, Eliza Harris, and others.There is little doubt that her creative impulses were fueled by a life of exposure to pro-abolition arguments as voiced by white people. However, her creativity was also fueled by having witnessed both suffering and resistance on the part of black people in the decades before she wrote her monumental novel. Her early experiences withenslaved people and the effects of slavery on American society particularly during her years in Ohio (1832-1850) may have been limited, but they were substantial in their impact. In some ways, these interactions may have prepared her for an encounter with a runaway slave, in a situation when the stakes were significantly higher than they had been back in Ohio. Stowe had read widelyof the desperate circumstance enslaved people faced, studied how they sought their own freedom, and learned about the issues from her  passionately abolitionist father and brothers (one of whom, Charles, lived for a time in Louisiana). We. . .

All wars are fought twice, the first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory." This sentence begins one of my articles and will likely begin my book, "Just Memory: War and the Ethics of Remembrance." Its major concern is the often irresolvable conflict over remembering particularly troubling events, with the war in question being what Americans call the Vietnam War, what Vietnamese call the American War, and what historians sometimes call the Second Indochina War (1960-1975). 1 Ranging across literary and visual cultures from the 1960s until the present, I examine how this war remains important by weaving American and Vietnamese memories together within multicultural and international contexts. While earlier works on the war have narrower cultural, national, or disciplinary concerns, I consider how both Vietnam and the US fashion war memories through art, literature, cinema, photography, memorials, and museums. What ultimately concerns me is the question of ethical memory, which I define as memory work that recalls both one's own as well as others. Considering memory (and forgetting) in this dual fashion, the book also challenges the borders and assumptions of American studies, Asian American studies, and Asian studies. The war had always been an important concern for me, given how it had determined my life. Let me then begin with the affective and the autobiographical, as this is one case where the personal is unavoidable. Rather than myself seeking out the past, the past has sought me out, something I have felt ever since I came to the US as a refugee from Vietnam. Although I was too young to remember anything of the country or the war, it nevertheless imprinted itself on me with what W. G. Sebald calls "secondhand memories" (88) and what Marianne Hirsch calls "postmemory" *Viet Thanh Nguyen teaches at the University of Southern California. He is the author of Race and Resistance: Literature and Politics in Asian America (2002). His contribution is an excerpt from a book about war and the ethics of memory.

A full-text version of this article apepars in the Brandeis University Institutional Repository:  http://bir.brandeis.edu/bitstream/handle/10192/27252/IrrArticle2011.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y

Here is an extract:  Since at least the late 1980s, ambitious writers have been imagining a new kind of narrative called the global, planetary, international, or simply “world” novel, and in recent years, their visions have started to come to fruition. Paralleling the much-remarked phenomena of accelerated migration and increased interpenetration of global markets, this new genre of the novel is changing the face of twenty-first-century US literature. Most importantly, the world novel is beginning to make global conditions newly legible to American readers.

For some readers, this world or worldly novel replaces the Holy Grail of an earlier generation—the so-called great American novel.1 Yet several features thought to characterize the world novel also seem to derive from the earlier form: namely, multistranded narration, broad geographical reach, cosmopolitan ethics, multilingual sensitivity, and a renewed commitment to realism.2 With the possible exception of multilingualism, all of these features could also describe Dos Passos's Depression-era U.S.A., for example, as well as characterizing recent novels celebrated for their worldliness, such as Junot Díaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2007) or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun (2006). Recognizing this continuity in form, a number of critics have …

... and." Increasingly, however, to understand emergence in Ameri-can culture, we must movebeyond the duality ... At the end of American Literature and the Culture Wars, Jay reflects on the fact that ... become confused or resentful when they find that the aim of pedagogy appears to ...

On commencera donc par inviter l'historien à voir, dans l'Amérique indienne, un Moyen âge auquel aurait manqué sa Rome: masse confuse, elle-même issue d'un vieux syncrétisme dont la texture fut sans doute très lâche, et au sien de laquelle subsistèrent çà et là, pendant plusieurs siècles, des foyers de haute civilisation et des peuples barbares, des tendances centralisatrices et des forces de morcellement.

This is the introduction (with notes, plus front matter) of my book The Poetics of Insecurity (Cambridge UP, 2018).
Marketing blurb:
The Poetics of Insecurity turns the emerging field of literary security studies upside down. Rather than tying the prevalence of security to a culture of fear, Johannes Voelz shows how American literary writers of the past two hundred years have mobilized insecurity to open unforeseen and uncharted horizons of possibility for individuals and collectives. In a series of close readings of works by Charles Brockden Brown, Harriet Jacobs, Willa Cather, Flannery O'Connor, and Don DeLillo, Voelz brings to light a cultural imaginary in which conventional meanings of security and insecurity are frequently reversed, so that security begins to appear as deadening and insecurity as enlivening. Timely, broad-ranging, and incisive, Johannes Voelz's study intervenes in debates on American literature as well as in the interdisciplinary field of security studies. It fundamentally challenges our existing explanations for the pervasiveness of security in American cultural and political life.

As recent literary, cultural, and historical studies take what might be called an “aural turn,” there has been a tendency to re-inscribe earlier assumptions about the relationship between the senses. In attempting to recuperate the apparently neglected sense of listening from the ocular-centrism of critical theory and of modern culture at large, a first phase of sound scholarship has characterized

In his 1925 essay "The Negro Digs Up His Past," Arthur A. Schomburg characterizes previous publications on African-American history as being largely "compendiums of exceptional men and women of African stock" that were "on the whole pathetically over-corrective, ridiculously over-laudatory; it was apologetics turned into biography" (231). Arguing that "a true historical sense develops slowly and with difficulty under such circumstances" as those faced by earlier students of African-American achievement, Schomburg celebrated the fact that, by his day, history had become "less a matter of argument and more a matter of record" (231). But whatever a "true historical sense" might be, its development must still be underway, for it has yet to arrive. Indeed, African-American history, like all history, remains as much a matter of argument as a matter of record. One might note that "compendiums of exceptional men and women of African stock" still remain one of the primary popular genres of African-American writing; 1 but beyond the work of recovering and publicizing the lives and achievements of African Americans that is still necessitated by the relative absence of those achievements in the popular media and public consciousness, approaches to the scholarly "matter of record" itself remain a "matter of argument." Consider, for example, Wilson Jeremiah Moses's Afrotopia: The Roots of African American Popular History (1998), an attempt to recontextualize heated arguments over the nature, validity, and value of Afrocentrism as a scholarly framework. Moses reminds us that "a limitless range of opinion has been attached to the term Afrocentrism by authors across the political spectrum, most of whom are less interested in scholarly investigations of African American cultures and historical traditions than in forwarding myriad self-serving political agendas" (9). Moses here follows Schomburg, and the historical profession generally, in distinguish

Pete Buttigieg's Shortest Way Home is the typical campaign autobiography, except where it isn't. And where it isn't, it transcends the genre and becomes something more personal and more interesting. The way it is conventional is epitomized in the author's name: Pete Buttigieg, not, as he was known to friends and acquaintances before he entered politics, Peter Buttigieg. Full disclosure: I've known Peter since he was in grade school, the son of Notre Dame English Department colleagues who lived across the alley from me. Peter became Pete, I suspect, to make him more relatable to Indiana voters at a time-in the aftermath of the 2000 Bush-Gore electionwhen a typical voter's ability to imagine having a beer with a candidate became a marker of electability. Going back further, it may be why we have Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter. Our 35th president was Jack to his friends and family, but in the election, if my memory as a six-year-old serves, he was John Kennedy or, even better, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Peter's father, my late colleague, was always Joe Buttigieg, not Joseph. I expect, though I don't know, that an immigrant from Malta became Joe as a gesture of assimilation to a democratic and egalitarian America. Joe was a consummate teacher and scholar with a formidable intellect and an ability to connect to others, both qualities Peter inherited. Joe was also a cosmopolitan intellectual, at home in the theoretical debates of the Old World as well as the New. Joe may have been Joe to mark the transition from cosmopolitan, Maltese immigrant to American; Peter may have become Pete Stephen M. Fallon, a scholar of John Milton, early-modern literature, and intellectual history, is Cavanaugh Professor of the Humanities at Notre Dame, where he has chaired the Program of Liberal Studies and the English Department. He is active in prison education.

The early 1830s were banner years for preachers and prophets in America. Circuit riders and evangelists fanned out over the whole of the settled US, and church membership increased exponentially under the influence of itinerant clergy. An explosion of religious periodicals allowed newly formed and reinvigorated denominations to reach thousands of potential converts; by 1830, there were 605 different religious journals, and the American Bible Society was producing more than a million Bibles a year (Hatch 142, 141). The age saw a rise in a variety of eccentric religious activities, including speaking in tongues, divinely inspired "shaking" and dancing, spirit-possession, and faith healing. Numerous self-proclaimed prophets emerged, including William Miller, founder of the Adventists; "Count de Leon" Bernhard Müller, who claimed to be the Messiah; Robert Matthews, the prophet Matthias; Elijah Pierson, the prophet Elijah; and John Humphrey Noyes, founder of the Oneida community. And two particularly charismatic and divisive prophets emerged on the national scene: in April 1830, Joseph Smith, claiming to have miraculously discovered and translated the Book of Mormon, founded the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and in August 1831, the slave Nat Turner, citing visions from God, organized a bloody slave revolt, killing dozens of local families and setting off panicked reactions throughout the South. 1 Turner and Smith both sought to gain direct access to the transcendent and, through their own extraordinary testimony, to bring the voice of the divine bodily to earth. As mediators for the divine, these visionaries pushed at the conventional boundaries of scripture and of prophecy, claiming immediate access to voices thought distant, and taking on biblical roles thought long dead. Outsiders to mainstream culture, both received direct prophecies

Black Hawk, a Sauk chief in frequent negotiation with the US in the decades before the disastrous Black Hawk War, tells us in his autobiography Life of Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak (1833) that he never accepts or wears a US peace medal. 2 The medals were based on a design ...

No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture By Andrew Ross Routledge, 1989 Within the house of culture and its study, the door to popular culture is apparently now wide open. If someone sought to explain how it was that popular culture emerged within literary studies as a legitimate terrain of inquiry, here are some of the factors that would have to be mentioned: the poststructuralist interrogation of the once self-evident boundaries between literature and nonliterature, reader and writer, world and text; the excavation by recent Marxisms and feminisms of the liberatory potential of a utopian strain in popular culture; discursive critiques of how literary studies become institutionalized and transmit a canon of authorized texts; the exemplary influence of feminist film studies and British cultural studies; and finally, the (not so simple) fact that each generation of students seems more strongly affiliated with nonliterary forms of culture as the site for ideas and pleasure, framing paradigms and everyday experience. Each of these factors has played a role in working through the resistances to popular culture in the disciplines of literary study. While some literary critics might wonder what to "do" with their new freedom of access to popular culture, perhaps annexing its study to a more catholic but essentially unmodified discipline, two recent books offer challenges to such a strategy. Highbrow /Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America, Lawrence Levine's account of the "sacralization" of culture in nineteenth-century America, suggests the historical shift in the idea of culture that produced terms within which the modem academic study of culture has developed. In No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture, Andrew Ross narrates a series of twentieth-century episodes-from the debate about "mass culture" to the wars against pornography-when intellectuals' self-definition and social role pivot upon their antagonistic relationship to popular culture. By offering historical studies of the emergence and policing of the boundary between high and low, legitimate and popular culture, both books promote reflection upon those factors that sustain resistance to, and thus mediate our approach to, popular culture and its study.

The heightened climate of xenophobia and compulsory patriotism, as well as the rallying together behind "Western" values by many intellectuals in the aftermath of the tragic events of September 11, makes painfully clear the necessity of interrogating US culture through the lens of postcolonial studies. Repeated invocations of diierences between our civilization and their barbarity, entreaties for a "new imperialism," and calls for reinstating a nineteenthcentury type of colonialism, now with the US replacing Britain and France, are ample proof that the suitability of postcolonial theory to the study of US culture should no longer be a subject of debate. 1 Hardt and Negri's postulation of the contemporary world as the age of unlocalized, nonimperialist empire is surely being tested (xiv, 134). Nevertheless, although the present moment might warrant a postcolonial understanding of US literature and culture, the relevance of postcolonial analyses to American studies has not always been clear. After all, the master-texts of American studies were consolidating American exceptionalism at the very moment that radical anticolonialist treatises questioning the humanity and universality of modernity were being written by Third World intellectuals such as Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, and George Lamming. Edward Said's Orientalism (1978) is widely credited for having inaugurated the Weld of postcolonial studies, and with Homi K. Bhabha, Gayatri Spivak, Benita Parry, Ranajit Guha, and the subaltern studies scholars, the major questions of postcolonial studies were laid out. These questions included the analysis of Western texts as colonial discourse, the investigation of representations of the colonized, the study of forms of resistance to colonization in the literature of the formerly colonized, and issues of neocolonialism, comprador natives, and subaltern representation. Yet despite revisionist histories such as R. W. Van Alstyne's The Rising American Empire (1960) and Carl Eblen's The First and Second American Empires (1967), and later works such as Richard Drinnon's Facing West: The Metaphysics of Indian-Hating and Empire Building (1980), which demonstrated imperialism as central to national identity from the beginning, much of American studies remained remarkably insular, thus reinforcing

The heightened climate of xenophobia and compulsory patriotism, as well as the rallying together behind "Western" values by many intellectuals in the aftermath of the tragic events of September 11, makes painfully clear the necessity of interrogating US culture through the lens of postcolonial studies. Repeated invocations of diierences between our civilization and their barbarity, entreaties for a "new imperialism," and calls for reinstating a nineteenthcentury type of colonialism, now with the US replacing Britain and France, are ample proof that the suitability of postcolonial theory to the study of US culture should no longer be a subject of debate. 1 Hardt and Negri's postulation of the contemporary world as the age of unlocalized, nonimperialist empire is surely being tested (xiv, 134). Nevertheless, although the present moment might warrant a postcolonial understanding of US literature and culture, the relevance of postcolonial analyses to American studies has not always been clear. After all, the master-texts of American studies were consolidating American exceptionalism at the very moment that radical anticolonialist treatises questioning the humanity and universality of modernity were being written by Third World intellectuals such as Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, and George Lamming. Edward Said's Orientalism (1978) is widely credited for having inaugurated the Weld of postcolonial studies, and with Homi K. Bhabha, Gayatri Spivak, Benita Parry, Ranajit Guha, and the subaltern studies scholars, the major questions of postcolonial studies were laid out. These questions included the analysis of Western texts as colonial discourse, the investigation of representations of the colonized, the study of forms of resistance to colonization in the literature of the formerly colonized, and issues of neocolonialism, comprador natives, and subaltern representation. Yet despite revisionist histories such as R. W. Van Alstyne's The Rising American Empire (1960) and Carl Eblen's The First and Second American Empires (1967), and later works such as Richard Drinnon's Facing West: The Metaphysics of Indian-Hating and Empire Building (1980), which demonstrated imperialism as central to national identity from the beginning, much of American studies remained remarkably insular, thus reinforcing

In his rich articulation of an "Antipodean American Literature," Paul Giles moves beyond the transatlantic framework of his own seminal scholarship. With the turn toward Australia and New Zealand, he adds another dimension of geopolitical specificity to the work of a transnational literary criticism. Although his antipodean configuration is triangular in connecting the Anglo-American nexus to Australasia, his conceptual aims are not. Giles wants to place US history in "a postcolonial matrix," to outline a "spherical trajectory" that began in the late eighteenth century when Britain, having lost its empire in the northern hemisphere, began expanding its settlements in the South. Postcoloniality on this view is spatially as well as temporally complex. As against the dyadic "contact zone," with its tendency to essentialize physical encounter, Giles posits the "parallax zone," a term he adopts from the geographer Neil Smith to describe "colonial relations where there was no spatial or corporeal proximity, but, rather, an unsettling interplay between near and far." The first reward of Giles's approach is a fresh way of looking at Benjamin Franklin. Neither the Enlightenment cosmopolitan of Thomas Schlereth's reading nor an icon of American identity, the Franklin whom Giles describes is a subaltern satirist who inverts colonial power from the vantage of the antipodean triangle. Franklin's mocking of the ex-mother country's efforts to tighten its grip over Australia thus exemplifies America's "fraught postcolonial condition, the extent to which its belligerent cultural

I no longer recall the month or the week, only the place. Wrapped in our winter coats and gloves, scarves and hats, my third grade class was on its first field trip of the year. The thrill of leaving behind workbooks filled with three place addition and subtraction problems can only be described as a third grade "rush." It was electrifying. The trip, like many of those in my elementary years, was to the Alamo: that bastion of Texas liberty and memorial to brave men. I had passed by it numerous times before, on my way to see my father at the pharmacy where he worked across the street. I remember wondering if he ever ventured over there during his lunch break, feeling the same invigoration that I would surely experience walking amidst the Alamo's ancient stone walls where, I had learned, heroes died. My every expectation was met. The stones cried out to me with their sense of history. I looked closely at the wall, searching for pockmarks, imagining muskets displacing rock with each shot. The silence of the main room, what I learned was the mission church, filled me with awe and heightened my senses. There, beneath the floor that I and my classmates tread upon, was the site where legends fell in martyrdom for my freedom. Bowie. Travis. Crockett. Texan heroes all of them. Once outside the silent chamber of the mission church, the air fresher, and the light brilliant, I lost my equilibrium. I recall it vividly. Robert, my best friend, nudged my elbow and whispered, "You killed them! You and the other 'mes'kins'!" Unfortunately, this experience is not mine alone. Over the last few years as I have retold this story at various places throughout the US-some as distant from Texas as Ithaca, New York-invariably someone would approach me with a similar tale.1 The breath of the Alamo-well beyond the confines of its regional appeal-is the result of its transformation from a battle of defeat in 1836 into a place and story that resonates with the experience and values of the US in the modern period. As a site of public history and culture, the Alamo did not emerge full-blown into American cultural consciousness but is American Literary History 429 the cumulative affect of multiple representations that have reproduced its compelling discourse. In many ways, the response of my third grade accuser was mediated through the story he had learned from teachers, books, possibly John Wayne, and most importantly for the purposes of this essay, our visit that day. His views were informed, selective as they were, by what I refer to as memory-place: collective memories fixed to physical places that construct meaning. My understanding of memory-place builds on Pierre Nora's discussion of les lieux de memoire or sites of memory ("Between Memory and History"), as well as the recent interest in the relationship between memory, history, and semiotics.2 For Nora, lieux de memoire are constructed from the interplay between memory and history with memory attaching itself to "sites" and history to "events" (22). But the relationships between memory, site, history, and event are not so clearly delineated in places of public culture like the Alamo. Walking through the stonefortified Alamo church, listening to historical renditions of the battle, recalling last week's history lesson or the previous night's Disney episode of Davy Crockett collapses the distinctions between the events of 1836, their historical emplotment, the aura of the place and one's collective memory of it. It is this conjuncture of the learned and the experiential that emerges with the presence of place. The result is a past made real because one stands-quite literally-in its wake; the collective memory of the Alamo burst into truth by walking through its silent chambers. Examining the semantic force of memory-place allows me to explore how collective memory is semiotically grounded in geographic sites, providing physical and spatial locations upon which social meanings, and concomitantly, social identities, are fabricated. As such, collective memories, disguised as the workings of historical discourse, are spatially and physically embedded in geographically fixed sites of public history. Memory-place is critically linked to practice, emerging from and within the concrete relations of social power that inform the social construction of meaning. As Arjun Appadurai and Carol A. Breckenridge remind us, the implications of such constructions call for critical scrutiny since public locations like the Alamo are "deeply located in cultural history, on the one hand, and are therefore also critical places for the politics of history, on the other" (37). The cultural history of the Alamo concerns a long and multifarious process through which the memory of 1836 is inscribed, not only in place, but in numerous discursive and nondiscursive forms. As such, unraveling the relationship between memory and place requires that we cast a glance in two directions at once: first, to-... collective memories, disguised as the workings of historical discourse, are spatially and physically embedded in geographically fixed sites of public history. Memory-place is critically linked to practice, emergingfrom and within the concrete relations of social power that inform the social construction of meaning.

... Martin Pernick points out in The Black Stork: Eugenics and the Death of "Defective" Babies in American Medicine and Motion Pictures ... But disability scholars like Adrienne Asch and Ruth Hubbard, investigating prenatal screening, question the use of abortion as a "solution" to ...