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Peter Viereck
         Strict Form in Poetry: Would Jacob Wrestle with_a_Flabby_Angel?
         Poetry doesn't write about what it writes about. Critics may now
            agree that this tends to be so, but why? Is it, as here argued,
            inherently so because of poetry's two or more rhythm-levels? Or is
            it, as many "explicating" critics imply, noninherently and only
            recently so because of the two or more diction-levels of the
            symbolist heritage? If the answer to the latter question is no,
            then the explicators have brought us to a blind alley by being
            oversubtle about the ambiguities and ambivalences of diction and
            undersubtle about those of rhythm. The fact that good prose (not to
            mention purple "poetic" prose) also has two rhythm-levels is not to
            the point. The tension between two irregular rhythms, as in prose,
            is simply not the same as that between one irregularity and one
            formal, traditionally shared regularity in poetry.
             
            The half-conscious uncovering of rhythm's hidden language helps
            explain an ancient truth: unlike a prose essay, a tragic poem or a
            tragic verse-play may leave the reader feeling exalted while an
            exalting love poem may leave him mournful. The explanation is not
            some miraculous "transcending" of tragedy and of the human
            condition (as if the presumptuous poet were doing God's work for
            Him better) but the uncovering of a palimpsest layer. What will be
            needed, from now on, are not generalizations (like this one) but
            precise trochee-by-iamb-by-spondee analyses (which are exactly what
            I have begun) of why the relevant passages in King Lear, for
            example, achieve tragic joy by means of the joy-connoting rhythms
            beneath the somber words. While translating certain German and
            Russian poets of our century, I am also making a parallel analysis
            in parallel languages. My conclusion: the future translator should
            consult his dictionary less and his ear more (searching not for
            lilt duplications by metronome but for lilt equivalents by
            connotation). Poets, then, are not our Shelleyan "unacknowledged
            legislators" (no more delusions of grandeur on that score) but our
            unacknowledged kinaesthesia.
             
            Peter Viereck, professor of European and Russian history at Mount
            Holyoke College, received the Pulitzer Prize for his book of poems,
            Terror and Decorum (1948); this and his Conservatism Revisitedand
            The Unadjusted Man have recently been reprinted by Greenwood Press.
            In a slightly revised version, "Strict Form in Poetry" appears as
            the appendix in his book of poems, Applewood, for which he has been
            awarded a fellowship by the Artists Foundation.
             
            See also: "On the Measure of Poetry" by Howard Nemerov in Vol. 6,
            No. 2
Sharon Cameron
         Naming as History: Dickinson's Poems of Definition
         For Emily Dickinson, perhaps no more so than for the rest of us,
            there was a powerful discrepancy between what was "inner than the
            Bone"1 and what could be acknowledged. To the extent that her poems
            are a response to that discrepancy are, on one hand, a
            defiant attempt to deny that the discrepancy poses a problem and,
            on the other, an admission of defeat at the problem's
            enormity they have much to teach us about the way in which
            language articulates our life. There is indeed a sense in which
            these poems test the limits of what we might reveal if we tried and
            also of what, despite our exertions, will not give itself over to
            utterance. The question of the visibility of interior experience is
            one that will concern me in this essay, for it lies at the heart of
            what Dickinson makes present to us. In "The Dream of
            Communication," Geoffrey Hartman writes: "Art represents a self
            which is either insufficiently present or feels itself as not
            presentable."2 On both counts one thinks of Dickinson, for her
            poems disassemble the body in order to penetrate to the places
            where the feelings lie as if hidden, and they tell us that bodies
            are not barriers the way we sometimes think they are. Despite the
            staggering sophistication with which we discuss complex issues,
            like Dickinson we have few words, if any, for what happens inside
            us. Perhaps this is because we have been taught to conceive of
            ourselves as perfectly inexplicable or, if explicable, then
            requiring the aid of someone else to scrutinize what we are
            explicating to validate it. We have been taught that we cannot see
            for ourselves this despite the current emphasis on our
            proprioceptive functions. But Dickinson tells us that we can see.
            More important, she tells us how to name what we see.
             
            ·  1. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, ed. Thomas H. Johnson
            (Cambridge, Mass., 1955), n. 321.
            ·  2. Geoffrey Hartman, "The Dream of Communication," in I. A.
            Richards: Essays in His Honor, ed. Reuben Brower et al. (New York,
            1973), p. 173.
             
            Sharon Cameron, associate professor of English at Johns Hopkins
            University, is currently preparing a theoretical study of the lyric
            and is examining the relationship between obsession and lyrical
            structures. The present essay is part of her Lyric Time: Dickinson
            and the Limits of Genre.
Françoise Meltzer
         Color as Cognition in Symbolist Verse
         The prominence and peculiarity of color in French symbolist verse
            have often been noted. Yet the dominance of color in symbolism is
            not the result of aesthetic preference or mere poetic technique, as
            has been previously argued; rather, color functions, with the
            synaesthetic poetic context of which it is an integral part, as the
            direct manifestation of a particular metaphysical stance. Color
            leads to the heart of what symbolism is, for it is the paradigmatic
            literary expression of a general spiritual crisis a crisis in
            epistemology.
             
            The nineteenth century extended seventeenth-century
            empiricism an empiricism which had invented mathematical
            measurement as the gauge of reality and which resulted in a
            predilection to see most authentic knowledge as quantifiable. The
            logical corollary of such a predilection is that all sensory
            experience is regarded as suspect. Newtonian physics had
            rationalized the laws of the universe in reducing its properties to
            atomical structures and laws of motion. Nothing, it seemed, was
            left unexplained. Those areas of perception which remained
            unquantifiable were dispelled as illusion or attributed to the
            necessary limitations of the human mind. The theories of John Locke
            act as a kind of historical watershed in this regard: they are the
            classic philosophic expression of the disjunction between sensory
            experience and knowledge which, in its nineteenth-century versions,
            would lead to the symbolist revolt.
             
            Françoise Meltzer is a professor of French literature and of
            comparative literature at the University of Chicago. Her previous
            contribution to  is the translation of Christian
            Metz's "Trucageand the Film" (Summer 1977). She is the author of
            The Trial(s) of Psychoanalysis, Salome and the Dance of Writing,
            and Hot Property: The Stakes and Claims of Literary Originality.
Joseph Frank
         Spatial Form: Some Further Reflections
         It is obvious that the closer the structure of a narrative conforms
            to causal-chronological sequence, the closer it corresponds to the
            linear-temporal order of language. It is now equally obvious,
            however, that such correspondence is contrary to the nature of
            narrative as an art form. Indeed, it is clear that all through the
            history of the novel a tension has existed between the linear-
            temporal nature of its medium (language) and the spatial elements
            required by its nature as a work of art. Most of what are known as
            the "formal conventions" of the novel are an implicit agreement
            between writer and reader not to pay attention to this disjunction
            and to overlook the extent to which it exists. Shklovsky
            provocatively called Tristram Shandy the most "typical" novel in
            world literature (of course, it is one of the most untypical)
            because it "laid bare" all the conventions, whose nature as
            conventions had become imperceptible through long familiarity,
            employed by the form.
             
            Joseph Frank, professor of comparative literature and director of
            the Christian Gauss seminars in criticism at Princeton University,
            received the James Russell Lowell Prize of the MLA for Dostoevsky:
            The Seeds of Revolt, 1821-1849, the first volume of his four-volume
            biography. Frank's original article on spatial form in modern
            literature appeared in Sewanee Review (Spring, Summer, Autumn
            1945); the essay was later revised and incorporated in his The
            Widening Gyre: Crisis and Mastery in Modern Literature.
Stephen J. Greenblatt
         Marlowe, Marx, and Anti-Semitism
         Nevertheless, Marx's essay ["On the Jewish Question"] has a
            profound bearing upon The Jew of Malta; their conjunction enriches
            our understanding of the authors; relation to ideology and, more
            generally, raises fruitful questions about a Marxist reading of
            literature. The fact that both works use the figure of the
            perfidious Jew provides a powerful link between Renaissance and
            modern thought, for despite the great differences to which I have
            just pointed, this shared reference is not an accident or a mirage.
            "On the Jewish Question" represents the nineteenth-century
            development of a late sixteenth-century idea or, more accurately, a
            late sixteenth-century trope. Marlowe and Marx seize upon the Jew
            as a kind of powerful rhetorical device, a way of marshalling deep
            popular hatred and clarifying its object. The Jew is charged not
            with racial deviance or religious impiety but with economic and
            social crime, crime that is committed not only against the dominant
            Christian society but, in less "pure" form, by that society. Both
            writers hope to focus attention upon activity that is seen as at
            once alien and yet central to the life of the community and to
            direct against that activity the anti-Semitic feeling of the
            audience. The Jews themselves in their real historical situation
            are finally incidental in these works, Marx's as well as Marlowe's,
            except insofar as they excite the fear and loathing of the great
            mass of Christians. It is this privileged access to mass psychology
            by means of a semimythical figure linked in the popular imagination
            with usury, sharp dealing, and ruthless cunning that attracts both
            the sixteenth-century playwright and the nineteenth-century
            polemicist.1
             
            ·  1. Anti-Semitism, it should be emphasized, is never merely a
            trope to be adopted or discarded by an author as he might choose to
            employ zeugma or eschew personification. It is charged from the
            start with irrationality and bad faith and only partly rationalized
            as a rhetorical strategy. Marlowe depicts his Jew with the
            compulsive cruelty that characterizes virtually all his work, while
            Marx's essay obviously has elements of a sharp, even hysterical,
            denial of his religious background. It is particularly tempting to
            reduce the latter work to a dark chapter in its author's personal
            history. The links I am attempting to establish with Marlowe or the
            more direct link with Feuerbach, however, locate the essay in a far
            wider context. Still, the extreme violence of the latter half of
            Marx's work and his utter separation of himself from the people he
            excoriates undoubtedly owe much to his personal situation. It is
            interesting that the tone of the attack on the Jews rises to an
            almost ecstatic disgust at the moment when Marx seems to be
            locating the Jews most clearly as a product of bourgeois culture;
            it is as if Marx were eager to prove that he is in no way excusing
            or forgiving the Jews.
             
            Stephen J. Greenblatt is the Class of 1932 Professor of English
            Literature at the University of California at Berkeley. He is the
            author of Sir Walter Raleigh: The Renaissance Man and His Roles,
            Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare,Marvelous
            Possessions: The Wonder of the New World, and the editor of a
            collection of essays, New World Encounters.
Carolyn G. Heilbrun
         Marriage and Contemporary Fiction
         Marriage, in fiction even more than in life, has been the woman's
            adventure, the object of her quest, her journey's end. Contemporary
            fiction modulates the formula in one respect: the abandonment of
            marriage replaces the achievement of it. While it is obvious what
            these fictional women detest in marriage, it is not always clear
            what they desire. How, indeed, might clarity be expected about an
            institution whose success depends so much upon woman's failure at
            autonomy?
             
            So the women split: Kinflicks, Small Changes, The Women's Room,
            Loose Ends, The Oracle these are merely representative of a
            long list. What is new in these books is that we are seeing
            marriage at all seeing it, moreover, from a woman's point of
            view. "What about Norm?" the narrator asks in The Women's Room;
            "Who is he, this shadow man, this figurehead husband?"1 In fact,
            who Norm is, who all the husbands are, is clear: those who need
            someone to take care of their domestic, cooking, cleaning, sexual,
            breeding needs while they are out attending to civilization and
            their own appreciation of life. Even the least intelligent husbands
            realize (and some of the most intelligent believe) that a change in
            marriage profound enough to satisfy the fleeing wives would
            profoundly alter the foundation of that conservative community, the
            family. Freud had urged women not to interfere with man in his
            pursuit of civilization; and this is the way it is, the way men
            want it to be.
             
            ·  1. Marilyn French, The Women's Room (New York, 1977), p. 193.
             
            Carolyn G. Heilbrun, professor of English at Columbia University,
            is the author of, among other works, Toward a Recognition of
            Androgyny. Her book, Reinventing Womanhood, includes parts of this
            present essay.
Ross Chambers
         Commentary in Literary Texts
         Let us hypothesize that there are three main "registers" of
            writing: narrative, description and commentary. "Narrative" and
            "description" are by definition concerned with diachronic and
            synchronic relationships (independently of whether these are
            regarded as purely linguistic or as relationships in the "real
            world"); and it may be said that taken together, they therefore
            exhaust the inventory of all relationships constituting the "world"
            our language regards as possible. It is often remarked that there
            is such an affinity between narration and description that on
            occasion they are hard to distinguish: narration is the
            descriptionof an action or change, and description mimes the action
            of relating items one to the other, and hence may have a narrative
            function. This solidarity of narration and description justifies
            their being grouped together as constituting the "topic" of
            literary discourse. But the function of "commentary," which
            correlates the (narrative and/or descriptive) text with a context,
            is to create a different type of relationship, in which makes the
            narrative/descriptive topic "meaningful." We are thus
            distinguishing "meaning" and "meaningfulness" on the grounds that
            "meaning" (le sens) can be understood as the object of semantic
            analysis (in this case, the diachronic and synchronic relationships
            of the "topic"), whereas "meaningfulness" (la signification) is the
            meaning bestowed on a set of relationships by an act of
            interpretation (i.e., it is distinguishable from the nuclear
            meaning inherent in the words of a specific language). This type of
            meaningfulness is what the moral of a La Fontaine fable most
            characteristically seeks to create. Thus, the two-line commentary
            segment in Le Chat, la Belette et le petit Lapin:
             
            Ceci ressemble fort aux débats qu'ont parfois
            Les petits souverains se rapportants aux rois1
             
            (a) designates the narrative/descriptive relationships established
            on the fable proper ("ceci"), (b) designates the pragmatic context
            ("les débats qu'ont parfois . . ."), but also (c) specifies the
            analogy/homology between the two which makes the text meaningful
            ("Ceci ressemble fort aux débats"). Meaningfulness in this sense is
            thus definable as the perception of a text/context relationship.
             
            ·  1. "This greatly resembles the debates which petty sovereigns
            have when they refer to kings." [My translation]
             
            Ross Chambers, Marvin Felheim Distinguished University Professor of
            French and Comparative Literature at the University of Michigan,
            Ann Arbor, is the author of Gérard de Nerval et la poétique du
            voyage, La Comédie au château, L'Ange et l'automate, "Spirite" de
            Théophile Gautier, and Room for Maneuver: Reading Oppositional
            Narrative.
Earl Miner
         On the Genesis and Development of Literary Systems,_Part_I
         By a "literary system" we must mean (as with "history") two
            distinct yet related matters: a discrete and continuous literary
            history of "occurrences" such as that we designate as English
            literature; and a continuous set of ideas about what that first
            system is. To be sure, the first consists in our thought of it,
            which is to say of literary creations in temporal series. But the
            literary creations themselves represent a development or, at a
            minimum, a sequence of examples of literary knowledge or what may
            be generally termed poems. That temporally serial set of creations
            of knowledge had individual knowers in its creators, its poets. Our
            historical knowledge of the poems consists of ideas about their
            serial, differentiated character, about their relation to each
            other, and about their relationship to their creators and the times
            in which they were created. The second sense of a literary system
            involves what we call criticism, knowledge about that knowledge is
            synchronic, as we consider such things as epics, tragedies, lyrics,
            or novels as categories possessing some validity. But this second
            kind of literary system has also an historical, diachronic
            character by virtue of the fact that (for example) there were
            generations before which the novel did not exist or generations
            during which the novel evolved as a kind of literature whose
            possibilities were exploited and altered. Without the novel in its
            history, there can be no history of criticism about the novel.
            These two varieties of literary system can be designated, then, as
            literary systems proper and as critical systems. The second does
            require the existence of the first, in spite of seeming exceptions.
            We might imagine a new nation wishing to have a literature it does
            not presently possess. The literature envisioned would imply a
            poetics prior to the emergent literary system, but the poetics
            would be borrowed from another literature in which the literary
            system had predated its critical system.
             
            Earl Miner is Townsend Martin, Class of 1917, Professor of English
            and Comparative Literature at Princeton University. "That
            Literature is a Kind of Knowledge," his previous contribution to
            , appeared in the Spring 1976 issue. His works
            include Literary Uses of Typology from the Middle Ages to the
            Present (of which he is editor and a contributor) and Japanese
            Linked Poetry. Part II of the present essay appeared in the Spring
            1979 issue of .
Robert Alter
         Biblical Type-Scenes and the Uses of Convention
         One of the chief difficulties we encounter as modern readers in
            perceiving the artistry of biblical narrative is precisely that we
            have lost most of the keys to the conventions out of which it was
            shaped. The professional Bible scholars have not offered much help
            in this regard, for their closest approximation to the study of
            convention is form criticism, which is set on finding recurrent
            regularities of pattern rather than the manifold variations upon a
            pattern that any system of literary convention elicits; moreover,
            form criticism uses these patterns for excavative ends to support
            hypotheses about the social functions of the text, its historical
            evolution, and so forth. . . . The most crucial case in point is
            the perplexing fact that in biblical narrative more or less the
            same story often seems to be told two or three or more times about
            different characters, or sometimes even about the same character in
            different sets of circumstances. Three times a patriarch is driven
            by famine to a southern region where he pretends that his wife is
            his sister, narrowly avoids a violation of the conjugal bond by the
            local ruler, and is sent away with gifts. Twice Hagar flees into
            the wilderness from Sarah's hostility and discovers a miraculous
            well, and that story itself seems only a special variation of the
            recurrent story of bitter rivalry between a barren, favored wife
            and a fertile co-wife or concubine. That situation, in turn,
            suggests another oft-told tale in the Bible, of a woman long barren
            who is vouchsafed a divine promise of progeny, whether by God
            himself or through a divine messenger or oracle, and who then gives
            birth to a hero.
             
            Robert Alter, professor of Hebrew and comparative literature at the
            University of California at Berkeley, is the author of, among other
            works, Partial Magic: The Novel as a Self-Conscious Genre and
            Defenses of the Imagination. He has written a general literary
            study of biblical narrative, of which this essay forms a chapter.
Robert L. Carringer
         The Scripts of Citizen Kane
         The best-known controversy in film criticism of recent years has
            been over the authorship of the Citizen Kane script. Pauline Kael
            first raised the issue in a flamboyant piece in The New Yorker in
            1971. Contrary to what Orson Welles would like us to believe, Kael
            charged, the script for the film was actually not his work but
            almost wholly the work of an all-but-forgotten figure, one of
            Hollywood's veteran screenwriters, Herman J. Mankiewicz. . . . The
            first two drafts of the Citizen Kane script were written by Herman
            Mankiewicz and John Houseman in seclusion in the desert at
            Victorville, California, during March, April, and May 1940.
            Officially, Houseman was there as an editor. But part of his job
            was to ride herd on Mankiewicz, whose drinking habits were
            legendary and whose screenwriting credentials unfortunately did not
            include a reputation for seeing things through. Detailed accounts
            of the Victorville interlude have been given by Houseman in his
            autobiography and by Kael in "Raising Kane." There was constant
            interchange between Victorville and Hollywood, with Houseman going
            in to confer on the script and Welles sending up emissaries (and
            going up on occasion himself) and regularly receiving copies of the
            work in progress. Welles in turn was working over the draft pages
            with the assistance of his own secretary, Katherine Trosper, and
            handing the revised screenplay copy in its rough state over to
            Amalia Kent, a script supervisor at RKO noted for her skills at
            breaking this kind of material down into script continuity form,
            who was readying it for the stenographic and various production
            departments.1
             
            ·  1. John Houseman, Run-Through: A Memoir (New York, 1972), pp.
            445-61. "Raising Kane," pp. 29-39. Amalia Kent had impressed Welles
            with her work on the problematic first-person script for his
            unproduced Heart of Darkness film, and she worked directly with him
            on various script supervision capacities on other of his RKO
            projects, including The Magnificent Ambersonsand the unproduced
            Smiler with the Knife. She also continued as the script supervisor
            throughout the shooting of Citizen Kane and prepared the cutting
            reports for the film's editor, Robert Wise. Kael gives the
            impression that Rita Alexander, Herman Mankiewicz's private
            secretary, was performing all these specialized studio functions
            herself.
             
            Robert L. Carringer is associate professor of English and cinema
            studies at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and the
            author (with Barry Sabath) of Ernst Lubitsch. His forthcoming
            edition of The Jazz Singer will begin the Warner Brothers script
            series. "Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby,and Some Conventions of
            American Narrative," his previous contribution to ,
            appeared in the Winter 1975 issue.
Kenneth Burke
         Methodological Repression and/or Strategies of Containment
         Fredric Jameson's exacting essay, "The Symbolic Interference; or,
            Kenneth Burke and Ideological Analysis"  4 [Spring
            1978]: 507-23) moves me to comment. I shall apply one of my charges
            of my title to him, he applies the other to me. The matter is
            further complicated by the fact that there is a distance at which
            they are hard to tell apart. For any expression of something
            implies a repression of something else, and any statement that goes
            only so far is analyzable as serving to forestall a statement that
            goes farther. And I can't go as far as I think if I share with
            Jameson what I take to be his over-investment in the term
            "ideology." . . . the line between the implicit and the explicit
            being so wavering, there are many cases where the distinctions
            between conscious and unconscious become correspondingly blurred.
            But the kind of methodological repression (or variant of the
            Quietus) that is implicit in Jameson's hermeneutic model can be
            wasteful beyond necessity. For it encourages him to be so
            precociously prompt in his "rereading" of a text that he doesn't
            allow his readers to read a single sentence of it. He doesn't tell
            them what Sinn, in its own terms, my text has on the subject of
            "ideology," "mystification," and the "unconscious." Instead, he
            cuts corners and settles for a report of the Bedeutung (see
            Jameson, p. 516) that it has for him. In this case the procedure is
            particularly wasteful because Jameson is highly intelligent, and if
            it weren't for the bad leads of his models he's the last man in the
            world who would have to be so bluntly inaccurate as he is on this
            occasion. I believe that he could put me through quite a trying
            ordeal if he could have but kept on the subject and pursued me
            accordingly.
             
            Kenneth Burke's previous contributions to  are
            "Dancing with Tears in My Eyes" (September 1974), "Post-Poesque
            Derivation of a Terministic Cluster" (Winter 1977), "(Nonsymbolic)
            Motion/(Symbolic) Action" (Summer 1978), and a hermeneutic fantasy,
            "A Critical Load . . ." (Autumn 1978). He would like us to mention
            that William Willeford, the interlocutor of a section in "
            (Nonsymbolic) Motion/(Symbolic) Action," is a professor of English
            at the University of Washington.
Fredric R. Jameson
         Ideology and Symbolic Action
         I don't conceive of this as a debate with Burke, but if I
            did, I would be tempted to use the old debater's formula: there are
            many ways in which the word ideology can be used, most of them
            defensible, but there are two ways in which the word ought never be
            used, and that is to designate "value systems" on one hand or
            "false consciousness" on the other. The first meaning folds us back
            into the perspective of the history of ideas, which it was the aim
            of the concept of ideology to spring us out of in the first place.
            The second betrays a vulgar Marxist approach to culture which it is
            the task of any genuinely contemporary Marxism to liquidate:
            indeed, from the Lukács of History and Class Consciousness to the
            Frankfurt School, from Sartre to Althusser and Macherey, there are
            a number of very different Marxian conceptions of ideology
            available today which have nothing in common with the old notion of
            ideology as a "false consciousness." And since I have gone this
            far, I will add something I didn't mention in my essay, that when
            Burke documents his own use of the Marxian category of ideology,
            unfortunately he turns out most often to have meant our old friend
            "false consciousness," so unavoidable a part of the baggage of
            thirties Marxism.
             
            Fredric R. Jameson is the editor, with Stanley Aronowitz and John
            Brenkmam, of Social Text and the author of Marxism and Form, The
            Prison House of Language, and, forthcoming, The Political
            Unconscious: Studies in the Ideology of Form. "The Symbolic
            Interference; or, Kenneth Burke and Ideological Analysis" Critical
            Inquiry 4 [Spring 1978]: 507-23) was presented in an earlier
            version at the English Institute in September 1977 as one of a
            group of studies in reevaluation of the work of Kenneth Burke.
Lowry Nelson, Jr.
         Notes and Exchanges
         Early in February 1978, we received the following letter from Lowry
            Nelson, Jr., professor of comparative literature at Yale
            University:
             
            Regarding the exchange between Professors Martin ("Literary Critics
            and Their Discontents: A Response to Geoffrey Hartman") and Hartman
            ("The Recognition Scene of Criticism") in  4
            (Winter 1977): 397-416, I would like to comment on the use of the
            institutional adjective "Yale." Labels are naturally sticky and
            attaching them is a habit and for a time a convenience. It would be
            unfortunate if the label that reads "the Yale group" or "the Yale
            critics" were to gain unchallenged currency. So far as I can see,
            there is nothing that could be called a "school" of criticism here
            and certainly there is no indoctrination of students of some touted
            orthodoxy. In literary criticism there is still, and I am confident
            there will continue to be, a great range of views and interests
            discussed generally with amicable forthrightness. Versions of Hegel
            and Freud, revivals of rhetoric, criticism as "literature," and
            etymological dabbling are not so very new or so very local. This
            still enlightened academic grove has not and will not become a
            lucus a non lucendo.
