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THE Department of Comparative Literature, in which I hold an appointment, is housed in Connecticut Hall, built in 1750 and the oldest building on our campus. The Center for International and Area Studies, where I also have an office, is housed in the newest building on campus, Luce Hall, which opened in February of this year. The two buildings are located at opposite ends of the campus, and as I walk from one to the other it has struck me from time to time that the temporal and spatial distance between the two makes an irresistible metaphor for the split between activities characteristic of the occupants of both structures. As a comparatist I am surrounded by scholars occupied with questions of literary theory, analysis, and history; they are ineluctably humanists. In my appointment (or, as I sometimes conceive it, my guise) as chair of the Council on Russian and East European Studies, I spend time with economists, sociologists, political scientists, diplomatic historians, and specialists on international security issues who deal with questions of global environment, arms control, and the medical infrastructures of emerging nations; they are no less ineluctably social scientists.
On those trips across campus I have often reflected on the difficulties both worlds have experienced in trying to relate to each other. This contemplation has occasionally been lugubrious, but recently hope has arisen for a new rapprochement between humanists and social scientists because of changes in both areas. Taking the instances of comparative literature and Russian and East European studies, in what follows I will sketch some of the events that have led to greater interaction between the two discourses.
This is not the place to rehearse a complete history of comparative literature as a discipline, but it is useful to remember that the field is a relative latecomer within the spectrum of disciplines organized around methodical comparison. Comparison was a basic gesture in Aristotle's biology, of course, but it was only with the Enlightenment that systematic contrast and comparison became the central feature of so many different methodologies. The work of Linnaeus, Cuvier, and others led to such new disciplines as comparative anatomy (Grew, 1672), embryology admitted by the French Academy in 1762), taxonomy (de Candolle, 1813), morphology (Goethe, 1817), and paleontology (Lyell, 1838). As the sheer act of comparison gave skeletons a history, a whole new sense of time's immensity dawned. Comparative anatomy and geology laid open the great age of the earth. In what turned out to be one of the more problematic innovations in the comparative method, in 1829 Abel Villemain, seeking to make literary study scientific, coined the term littérature comparée.
The effect of the comparative method in literary scholarship was no less revolutionary than it had already proved to be in physiology and anatomy. The transfer to the cultural realm of a master trope from the natural sciences is no innocent thing: often, as with littérature comparée. , it portends a shift in the balance of power among the fundamental categories by which a society separates “culture” from “nature.” It could be argued, in fact, that the Enlightenment turn to comparative method across several disciplines played a role in the “discovery” of culture as we now know it: as two distinguished anthropologists have pointed out, “The concept of culture, in the sense of a set of attributes and products of human societies, and therewith of mankind, which are extrasomatic and transmissable by mechanisms other than biological heredity … did not exist anywhere in 1750” (Kroeber and Kluckhohn 145).
It was only slowly, however, that scholars became aware of the consequences of introducing relative values into culture as well as into nature. Early work in comparative literature was as much characterized by positivism and hierarchy as were natural sciences such as comparative anatomy. Thus, binaries abounded, as in the East-West dichotomy at the heart of an extended Orientalism. One effect of this adherence to clear-cut dichotomies was an enviable lucidity. To begin with, such an arrangement restricted the number of texts available for comparison to a manageable list of classics in the West. And non-Western areas could be seen not to count for very much, since they either had no literature (as was the Hegelian prejudice about Africa) or, if it could not be denied that they indeed had a literature, even if only in the remotest past, their texts could be assigned to historical linguistics (as with India) or ignored (as was generally the case with China). Before the gaggle of new nations came roiling onto the scene after the Treaty of Versailles, the field confined itself, horizontally, to the comparison of western European works and, vertically, to only the “highest” expressions of western European culture. It was a golden age of Stoffgeschichte , in which titles such as “The Theme/Motif/Image of the Quest/Shield of Achilles/Joseph and His Brothers / and So On in German/French/English Literature from [period x] to [period y]” were typical.
After 1919, these extended bibliographic exercises masquerading as motif studies were challenged by a number of different groups in Europe whose work was more speculative. These scholars paid more attention to such extrahistorical considerations as forms of genres, the structure of repetition in verse, and above all the nature of the sign in language. One might, as did Boris Eikhenbaum, write about American and Russian literature, but the emphasis was less on thematic similarities or differences—the way water imagery was treated in one country's literature as opposed to another's, say—than on the formal features of defining differences between, for example, the genres of the short story and the novel. Much of this more formally oriented work was first accomplished in central and eastern Europe.
It is not by chance that the changes in the paradigm of comparison were first manifest in countries whose ambiguous position between Asia and Europe had made them unpopular as areas of concentration in comparative literature. Shocks to the old binarized models of comparison were arguably first felt in these lands because the East-West standard model could not account for them. But perhaps no less important, the Slavic lands were being reshuffled politically, as the old paradigm of south, west, and east Slavs gave way to newly independent countries after 1919, engendering new senses of identity that created strains on prior models of comparison. Thus it is not surprising that it was a citizen of one of those new nations who gave the shift in the comparative method its most influential, (if belated) formulation: René Wellek of Prague, an ancient city but the new capital of the freshly minted state of Czechoslovakia.
It was the year after the Second World War and its further reshaping of the geopolitical map that Wellek could celebrate “The Revolt against Positivism in Recent European Literary Scholarship” and propose seven years later to a new American audience “The Concept of Comparative Literature” as a successor to such a by-then widely abandoned positivism. But only six years later, Wellek would himself have to acknowledge the discipline was in turmoil in his much cited “The Crisis of Comparative Literature”; in 1972 Wellek ultimately characterized this crisis in even more urgent terms as “The Attack on Literature.” The military rhetoric had intensified because earlier, in 1959, the since-discredited word crisis could be invoked to describe what then was merely the clash of different methodologies—in Wellek's vocabulary, the clash between “intrinsic” and “extrinsic” approaches.
Since then, of course, the situation has grown more fraught. One way to gauge how far we have come is to recognize that the source of our anxiety has shifted form a concern originating in contradictions between different methodologies to the more basal question of what in our present state of incivility might constitute a methodology at all. In other words, while various forms of comparative study have come and gone, rarely before has it been felt necessary to interrogate the possibility of comparison itself. The crisis in comparative literature was only one aspect of a larger dilemma that now began to emerge: a shift in the space of interpretation.
The most obvious way this dilemma manifests itself within the academy in the West is through the recent debates about the place of identity studies, gender criticism, cultural criticism, and multiculturalism. Whatever else these topics might nominate, the urgency with which they are debated reminds us again that the concept of canon always boils down to a set of questions about how to make a comparison, a structure previously taken for granted. Baldly stated, the reason scholars in the past could be confident of their method was that they cold be certain about what they were comparing.
In the disciplines of natural science that first adopted comparison as a systemic methodology for gaining new knowledge, one could be certain of one's subject if only because of its indubitable materiality: the jawbone of an Indian elephant might be different from the jawbone of a hairy mammoth, but the essential boniness of each was never in question. In retrospect, comparative literature appears to have been in crisis from the moment of its inception, because of its extension of the comparative method from the realm of nature to the realm of culture. Such immaterial subjects of analysis as tropes, genres, themes, and narrative forms—all heavily freighted in cultural values—introduced a new complexity in the constitution of the objects being compared.
Not only was the ratio of comparison made less secure, so too were the very poles to be compared: what might be called the basic arithmetic of comparison began to shift. The previous hegemony of two began to melt into a new necessity for three. In traditional comparative studies, the basic unit comprised two things that were then put into a meaningful relation to each other through an act of comparison. In line with the most advanced assumptions of the Enlightenment in which the comparative method's origins are complicit, the active role of the subject making the connection between them was obscured by the invisibility of the subject, whose presence was always assumed but not stated. The dualism enabled by this hidden subject in turn made possible the fiction of objective science. Insofar as the subject's activities resulted in the value-free judgments of natural science, the specificity of the subject could theoretically be considered unimportant—indeed, has to be systematically discounted; the subject merely instantiated a particular act of a universal mind in the unfolding of a larger truth.
The sheer unmediatedness of this model of comparison began breaking up in the new uncertainties that followed the First World War: the crisis in comparative literature went a long time unrecognized until finally a subject of one of the nations that came into being after 1919 perceived it. The crisis in comparative literature is deeply intertwined with the history of postcolonialism and particularly with the ideology of nationalism that grew apace after the breakup of the empires and monarchies that had defined space before the Treaty of Versailles.
It turned out that 1919 was the first act in the three-act tragicomedy of modern postcolonialism, the second act being the further redrawing of boundaries after the Second World War, and the third the breakup of the Soviet empire in our own time. At Versailles a completely different order of geopolitical space opened, as the old empires and their colonies splintered into a myriad of new nations. The small number of great-nation hegemonies that defined the simple ratio of center-periphery relations before 1919 shattered into a clamorous horde of newly invented polities. Each proclaimed a self-determination that rendered the old categories of comparison unequal to their new variety and scale. Different ratios were called for as, to give only one instance, central Europe broke up into a dizzying tarantella of new and rapidly shifting alliances, such as the Little Entente, which pitted the three victorious Danubian Powers (Czechoslovakia, Romania, and Yugoslavia) against the three defeated remnants of empire (Bulgaria and the truncated versions of the formerly imperial states of Austria and Hungary).
These newly drawn nations constituted a map (and a clock) that could not be read in the time and space of Old World imperialisms. A new chronotope was created after the First World War. The salon des miroirs in which the Treaty of Versailles was signed was, for all its pomp, still a smoky back room and thus an apt setting for the creation of the new world that emerged there, a world of appearances whose borders were created precisely by smoke and mirrors. In the second act of postcolonialism, the farcical redrawing of the maps of Africa and Asia after the Second World War, the complexities of comparison were further compounded as old peripheries became new centers, creating a confusing matrix of neo- and postcolonialism. And since the opening of the third act, the breakup of the Soviet empire after 1989, the indexes of difference have increased exponentially. In such a welter of shattered categories, the old certainties that had enabled earlier enthymematic, either-or acts of comparison have lost their power to underwrite bipolarity.
Or so it would seem. But the chronology of events and the chronology of paradigms successively invoked to explain those events have failed to coincide. As Einstein is reputed to have said about the effect of relatively theory, “Overnight everything changed, except the way people think.” For decades after the Big Bang of 1919 that initiated a new world of geopolitical complexity, the ratio between the new cultural realities of that world and the theoretically impoverished models of comparison for representing it remained incommensurable. If I may invoke a specular metaphor one last time, the salon des miroirs created a situation in which scholarly methods were cast into a carnivalized house of distorting mirrors. Traditional models no longer sufficed to calibrate the ramifying variety and complexity of the emerging worlds: the number two was, and of course still is, a cipher whose capaciousness was never adequate, as became apparent in the need to invent new versions of complexity, such as the brutalizing attempt to move to the threeness of dividing the glove into First, Second, and Third Worlds.
This greater variety and complexity in geopolitics is reflected as well in the difficulties that have attended comparative studies since the end of the First World War: the borders between disciplinary languages and the practices they shape are becoming less marked than they were once assumed to be. This blurring of boundaries may be—and within a given discipline often is—perceived as a crisis.
A recent response to the situation in comparative literature has been to expand the number and kind of subjects to be compared; the confusion of borders on maps and borders in discourses has recently been seen in a more positive light, an optimism resulting in what is sometimes called cultural studies. But even when conceived as a source of answers to the current dilemma, cultural studies has proved difficult to define. As the mountain of books attempting to explain it rises, the phenomenon itself becomes ever more elusive.
It might be useful, at least for the present, to think of cultural studies as a way of grouping the increasing number of works that bring together insights formerly apportioned among the social and human sciences. More to the point, cultural studies might be thought of as nominating new filiations of the kind that the Social Sciences Research Council and the American Council of Learned Societies joint committees have sponsored in the last decade, providing models for just how productive such discursive border crossings can be. Following are three examples of how the borders of the social and human sciences are currently being breached to the advantage of both sides:
The phenomena figured in these three instances might be visualized as composing something like a Russian stacking doll ( matryoshka ). The metaphor has a certain historical logic, insofar as it is precisely the collapse of the Soviet Union that more than anything else has given new urgency to the cross-disciplinary tendencies these examples manifest. We might say, then, that this matryoshka has at least three layers. One is the new linkage among social science and humanities disciplines (in the cases cited, among political science, sociology, and psychology on the one hand and between history and literary studies on the other). Another is made up of the connections between American and foreign scholars. A third layer consists of a new perception of how politics relates to culture.
What these three layers represent is a new geology of scholarship: they map a territory different from the one that was previously divided between the social and human sciences. This shift in the tectonics of disciplines makes itself apparent dramatically in the new alignments developing between international studies and humanistic studies. Samuel Huntington, director of the Olin Institute for Strategic Studies at Harvard, has recently made the point in the canonical pages of Foreign Affairs: “World politics is entering a new phase.… It is my hypothesis that the fundamental source of conflict in this new world will not be principally ideological or primarily economic. The great divisions among humankind and the dominating source of conflict will be cultural” (22). This emphasis on culture is one way in which changes that have already occurred in relations among the disciplines making up area studies have been recognized.
As one who trained as a philologist but who now directs a center for Russian and East European studies I can describe more specifically how the developments impelling Huntington to make his hypothesis have shaped changes in the congeries of disciplines once stigmatized as kremlinology.
The collapse of the Soviet Union is cause for wonder and dismay. But for the small band of specialists who were devoted to the academic study of the Soviet Union, the shock of its disappearance has a particular pathos. The depth of the effect on such scholars may be felt in the words of one of the most prominent among them: James H. Billington, a leading historian of Russia, a longtime director of the Kennan Institute, and the current librarian of Congress, recently told a meeting of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, “We are living in the midst of a great historical drama that we did not expect, do not understand, and cannot even name” (31).
The geopolitical shape of what was once the Soviet Union has changed irrevocably. But so has the shape of the academic disciplines devoted to the study of what was once the Soviet Union. The most intimate form that the collapse has assumed for experts in the area is the breakup of their own discursive paradigms. Billington is not exaggerating when he says we do not even know what to call the historical drama now unfolding. It has not been a revolution (certainly not—even in what is already the former Czechoslovakia—a velvet revolution). Nor has it been a consistently applied reform from above, dictated by a single person or group with a coherent telos. Various metaphors for change have been proposed, such as the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the medical trope of Oliver Sacks's Awakenings. But it is still too early to fix these events in a useful new metaphor. One other model for recent events has already proved its inutility: whatever else is happening, we are not experiencing “the end of history.”
In this age of what Thomas Kuhn might recognize as a period of unnatural science, an increasingly popular approach has been to conceive the current discursive crisis as a shift from something called area studies to something called cultural studies. Area studies was—and, although in transition, still is—a way to name a conglomeration of professional specialties (particularly in the social sciences) organized outside the academic departmental structure and centered on specific areas of the world. Russian and East European studies is, then, one of several professional formations (along with Latin American studies, Near East studies, etc.) pursued primarily by economists, political scientists, sociologists, and historians. Slavic departments have played an ambiguous or a merely service role in area studies, acting mainly as places where social scientists can pick up the languages they need to practice their specialty. The humanities in general and the study of literature in particular were always uneasily accommodated in this clustering. During the cold war, which saw the emergence of area studies in American universities, social scientists frequently felt that literary scholars had little to contribute to the kind of understanding of the Soviets required during a period of confrontation. The emphasis was on more or less recent events that could be related to policy issues.
It was always a canard to understand kremlinology as a discipline devoted merely to monitoring the appearance of Politburo members as they jockeyed for position at Lenin's tomb during May Day celebrations (or, even worse, to equate it with “counting tanks”). Nevertheless, there was always a certain tension between area specialists—or, as they were sometimes more barbarously called, areal specialists—and specialists in hard-core academic disciplines. As hapless chairs of Russian and Soviet and east European centers would tell you, the more an economist, say, knew about the specific details of a particular region, the less highly regarded he or she was by theoretically minded colleagues in the indubitably academic confines of micro- or macroeconomics.
Professionals organized in department of economics, political science, and so forth, then, were slightly suspicious of area specialists, who were usually clustered in extradepartmental Title VI centers. But in one discipline the suspicion went the other way: area experts were always somewhat dubious about the contribution that literature specialists might make to area studies. Government funding agencies, like the Department of Education, and local centers of area specialists at particular campuses had the sense that there was something soft, or, as was sometimes said, nonstrategic, about literary scholarship; it had, in short, little to contribute to policy studies.
One way you can tell things are changing is in the reevaluation of this judgment that is taking place both in Washington and on campuses across the land: the culture of eastern Europe, an area of study that social scientists preoccupied with real-world issues of finance and politics always left to literary scholars, is increasingly being perceived as a subject that has been neglected to the disadvantage even of hard-line social scientists. In his most recent book, Out of Control , and in an even more recent interview, one of the paladins of the cold war, Zbigniew Brzezinski, is at pains to explain recent political events in terms of ethics and culturally held values, drawing a distinction between Western civilization and the civilizations of the rest of the world (Interview 58).
But how do these developments relate to the work of the ADFL and the MLA? The new respect scholars in the social and human sciences are showing for one another is having an effect beyond area studies. When political scientists such as the two distinguished representatives I have invoked here call for new attention to culture, they are pointing to an aspect of literary scholarship that is more highly specified in the three examples above. Huntington and Brzezinski suggest that the fundamental differences among societies can be grasped only by looking at the stories people tell themselves about themselves—and about others—that define them as selves. Certainly Anderson, the social scientists cited in my first anecdote, holds this view: his whole theory of nationalism is based on the premise that the power holding individuals in the embrace of the community of the nation is at bottom narrative. Like Renan, Anderson argues that a first condition for any nation is that it get its history wrong, meaning that the community must, if it is to cohere, see itself as the product of a past that has conduced ineluctably to its present constitution. It must willfully exercise a certain collective amnesia, forgetting the vagaries and contingencies of the actual past in favor of a more compelling and teleological tale. In this way the randomness of experience can be given the comforting mantle of necessity.
This account of Anderson's theory gives no hint of its subtlety but may suggests why two German philologists should play so important a role in Imagined Communities. Both Auerbach and Benjamin provide elegant hypotheses about the way in which particular literary narratives can model larger assumptions about time and space in the communities from which the narratives spring. Auerbach wandered across borders all his life, writing about European literature in Turkey, where he became a member of the MLA, and ending up in the United States after the Second World War. Benjamin committed suicide in an all too lugubrious realization of the metaphor of border crossing when he felt he would be turned back by Spanish customs officials to face the fate that befell Jews in Nazi-occupied France. Both philologists argue that literary texts are the most intense and most comprehensive expressions of the cosmologies of the cultures in which they are enshrined, so that if one wishes to know a given society, its literary texts (even in societies where the category literature does not exist and privileged narratives are myths or orally transmitted wisdom tales) are indispensable. Thus, when Anderson defines nationalism as a phenomenon that derives from and creates a new cosmology for its adherents, it is not surprising he should turn to Auerbach and Benjamin and identify novels and newspapers as sites where the new sensibility is both mirrored and, more to the point, actively shaped.
Since the official acknowledgment of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) by the American Psychiatric Association in 1980, there have been a growing number of collaborative efforts involving medical doctors, psychiatrists, sociologists, historians, and literary scholars to understand this long-recognized and widely recognized phenomenon. PTSD is “a response, sometimes delayed, to an overwhelming event or events, which takes the form of repeated, intrusive hallucinations, dreams, thoughts or behaviors stemming from the event, along with numbing that may be begun during or after the experience, and possibly also increased arousal to (and avoidance of) stimulants recalling the event” (Caruth 2–3). The disorder was first noted during the First World War, as the number of cases of shell shock reached almost epidemic proportions on some fronts, but only recently has it become clear that “the pathology consists … solely in the structure of its experience or reception: the event is not assimilated or experienced fully at the time, but only belatedly, in its repeated possession of the one who experiences it. To be traumatized is precisely to be possessed by an image or event” (Caruth 3).
Another way of understanding trauma might be, then, to conceive it as an especially intense from of a problem that in its less pathological manifestations is familiar to all of us as the difficulty of assimilating our past to our present so as to form a coherent identity. Trauma is, in other words, a particularly urgent form of narrative: how to construct a beginning, middle, and end from the chaos and horror of experience. Trauma is a rich area of investigation because in it “the traumatic event is not experienced as it occurs, but becomes fully evident only in connection with another place, and in another time” (Caruth 7).
Trauma studies involve interdisciplinary work by medical researchers, social scientists, historians, and literary scholars, all of whom have different reasons for cooperating. Clinicians have discovered that getting a better grasp on narrative theory aids them in understanding—and treating—disorders that are rooted in a person's ability to put the story of his or her identity into a livable order. Historians have become involved (there is now a journal devoted to psychohistory) because much of what Freud and others in the clinical community have reported on trauma provides a new perspective on such massively traumatizing events as war or, paradigmatically, the Holocaust. And literary scholars have found a new way to ground the fictions they study in the deepest layers of lived experience, for the skills they have learned in studying complex emplotment in literary works (think of Tristram Shandy or the French roman nouveau ) have much to offer their colleagues in other fields who seek to unravel the mysteries of how trauma occludes the ability of patients to tell their own stories to themselves.
The effects of such developments on the internationalization of scholarship are no doubt obvious, but let me cite some of the more pertinent ones. Not only is much of the theory driving trauma studies derived from different countries (Austria, Israel, France, the United States), but the whole impulse of the movement is directed toward better understanding of events whose scope is ineluctably international: the effects of wars and political repression, as well as different artistic movements in various countries that have evolved new formal means for representing such events in literary texts. The scholar I quote so frequently in this section, Cathy Caruth, has a PhD in comparative literature and now teaches English. That she was chosen to edit two issues of American Imago , the official journal of the Association for Applied Psychoanalysis, is exemplary, as is these issues' inclusion of scholars from a wide variety of disciplines and countries, devoting attention to questions of international concern.
A specific example of how new forces are shaping the boundaries of both nations and disciplines is provided by the work of James Wertsch, an American psycholinguist who has written several studies probing the construction of national identity. Because national identity can only be studied comparatively, Wertsch has joined colleagues in a number of other countries: Japan, Sweden, Brazil, and, since his major focus is on eastern Europe, Russia and Estonia. In his most recent work, he has addressed the problem Billington addresses in his lecture to the American Academy: the recent history of eastern Europe, especially Russia, where changes are so great and so manifold that they beggar all traditional schemes for investing contingency with an aura of necessity. With Estonian and Russian colleagues (Peter Tuulviste, of Tartu University, and Mark Rozen, of the Institute for Psychology in Moscow), Wertsch interviewed large numbers of people to gather data on how they contextualize recent events in their lives. The project also involves close attention to how national history was taught in the past in Estonian and Russian schools (and how that teaching compares with the teaching of national history in the United States) and how it is now presented in Estonian and Russian textbooks.
Wertsch's work has certain affinities with trauma studies, insofar as it concerns the reception of experience that can only be described as traumatic. And he too finds himself necessarily working with not only other scholars in his discipline but also historians and literary scholars, since much of the analysis of his data once again involves questions of organizing narrative—at the personal level of biographies in individual subjects and at the level of history in textbooks that examine connections between the national past and the present. His work represents another constellation in the expanding universe where social and human scientists find themselves necessarily thrown together on an international scale.
I have not made the obvious point that, in all the cases I have cited and in many other instances of collaboration between humanist scholars and colleagues from different disciplines and countries, the humanists involved are members of foreign language or comparative literature departments. The new cooperation between disciplines represents a kind of interdisciplinary scholarship that has grassroots origins in that it does not develop out of some grand scheme that is then applied to selected problems: rather, the new problems we are facing in the post-coldwar era have themselves called into being the need for cooperation across professions.
The author is Professor of Comparative Literature at Yale University. This article is based on his keynote presentation at ADFL Seminar East, 23–25 June 1994, in Rensselaerville, New York.
Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. 2nd ed. London: Verso, 1991.
Billington, James H. “The Search for a Modern Russian Identity.” Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 45.4 (1992): 31–44.
Brzezinski, Zbigniew. Interview. Brown Journal of Foreign Affairs 1.1 (1993–94): 51–60.
———. Out of Control: Global Turmoil on the Eve of the Twenty-First Century. New York: Scribner's, 1993.
Caruth, Cathy. Introduction. American Imago 48.1 (1991): 1–9.
Huntington, Samuel P. “The Clash of Civilizations?” Foreign Affairs 72.3 (1993): 22–49.
Kroeber, A., and C. Kluckhohn. “Culture: A Critical Review of Concepts and Definitions.” Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archeology and Ethnology 47 (1952): 145–54.
Wellek, René. “The Attack on Literature.” American Scholar 42 (1972): 27–42.
———.“The Concept of Comparative Literature.” Yearbook of Comparative Literature. Ed. W.P. Friedrich. Vol 2. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1953. 1–5.
———.“The Crisis of Comparative Literature.” Proceedings of the Second International Congress of Comparative Literature. Ed. W.P. Friedrich. Vol. 1. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1959. 148–56.
———.“The Revolt against Positivism in Recent European Literary Scholarship.” Twentieth Century English. Ed. W.S. Knickerbocker. New York: Philosophical Library, 1943. 67–89.
© 1995 by the Association of Departments of Foreign Languages. All Rights Reserved.
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