A rich critical literature explores the relation between Edmund Burke's theatrical style and his counterrevolutionary argument. Redirecting this line of inquiry, the essay treats Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790) as a histrionic literary performance, arguing that to appreciate its significance we must recover a neglected subtext: a preoccupation with boredom and restlessness. Burke's loyalties are divided: defending England, he counsels against extremes of torpor and excitement. He works to preserve England in a state of settled “repose,” yet his rhetoric reveals a baseline of boredom. Indulging in fantasies of reform and utopia and deploying strategies of tragic hyperbole and self-parody, he mobilizes conventional associations of boredom and revolution to negotiate a new position from which to exercise cultural authority. Textual histrionics do more than contain a revolutionary threat; they establish an alternative theater of boredom.

Jorie Graham's blanks offer the chance to see how lyric intersects with the historical vicissitudes of material culture. The word-length line segments in Graham's poems function as both a graphic representation of lyric and as a reflection of late-twentieth-century material culture, a way of writing the surfaces and textures of everyday life. While reducing to the simplest expression the alienating distance that gives the lyric I its definitive privacy, the blank also replicates the nebulous substances of late-century technology—latex, spray paint, Formica. Such substances become a material idiom of mediation, a repertoire of images that shape our understanding of interpersonal relationships, which in contemporary culture are both void of definition and thick with significance. While much lyric criticism defines the genre in terms of transhistorical rhetorical patterns, the example of Graham's blanks suggests that lyric must also be considered as an intimate material history.

This essay addresses the question of whether the Spanish epic was composed orally or was a literary creation using the oral techniques of bards but composed in writing. Oral dictation played an important role in even the most literate works of the time. Theme was an important compositional aid employed by bards during performance, and its presence is evident in passages of the Cantar de Mio Cid and the Mocedades de Rodrigo. A new tool of analysis is introduced, the intonation unit, which leads to an understanding of Spanish epic narrative as orally composed and governed by the cognitive constraints of speech. Oral composition eventually included literate individuals whose contributions are linked to the social and political circumstances under which these poems were preserved on parchment.

This essay takes up the issue of chaste intentionality in John Milton's A Mask Presented at Ludlow Castle and Margaret Cavendish's Assaulted and Pursued Chastity. Each of these narratives presents a female protagonist who simultaneously embodies and theorizes sexual virtue, creating a problem of will: when women intentionally participate in the ideological structures that constrain their acts, whose agency is at stake? The essay locates this question in the context of early modern conduct manuals and other prescriptive codifications of feminine sexuality, in which the performance of chastity, even as it is idealized, often involves actual or potential acts of violence against patriarchal structures and the male subjects who inhabit them. Milton and Cavendish raise the stakes by creating characters whose chastity is militant even as it tends toward marriage, identifying intentional virtue as a profoundly social problem.

The Last Man, Mary Shelley's novel of 1826, describes the extinction of humanity by a plague that leaves only one man alive. The plague exerts pressure on the idea of national community by forcing a reevaluation of the number of people needed to continue a nation. It also increases human mobility, severing all local attachments as its survivors seek safety. By considering these issues, The Last Man engages with contemporary sociopolitical debates, reflects on the consequences of those debates for literary production and readership, and meditates on the possibilities for cultural memory in a peripatetic world. This essay introduces a neglected historical context for the novel: the debates over emigration, especially state-aided emigration, during the first three decades of the nineteenth century. Shelley's novel aligns itself, in a strikingly pessimistic way, with those who opposed any encouragement of emigration.

Everyone knows that the concept of form has outlived its usefulness in discussions of literature, the arts, and media. The word does not appear in the recent handbooks of critical terms in art history and literary studies issued by the University of Chicago Press (Nelson and Shiff; Lentricchia and McLaughlin), and it appears in Raymond Williams's classic glossary, Keywords, only in its derivative (and mainly pejorative) form as an “-ism,” as in the phrase “mere formalism.” Formalists, as we know, are harmless drudges who spend their days counting syllables, measuring line lengths, and weighing emphases (Trotsky), or they are decadent aesthetes who waste their time celebrating beauty and other ineffable, indefinable qualities of works of art. If form has any afterlife in the study of literature, its role has been completely overtaken by the concept of structure, which rightly emphasizes the artificial, constructed character of cultural forms and defuses the idealist and organicist overtones that surround the concept of form.

In recent years, North American literary studies has been marked by a double movement: outward from the Euro-American sphere toward the entire globe and inward within national traditions, in an intensified engagement with local cultures and subcultures. Both directions might seem natural stimuli to comparative study—most obviously in the transnational frame of global studies but also in more local comparisons: a natural way to understand the distinctiveness of a given culture, after all, is to compare it with and contrast it to others. Yet journal articles and job listings alike have not shown any major growth in comparative emphasis in recent years. Is the comparatist doomed to irrelevance, less equipped than the national specialist for local study and yet finding the literary globe expanding farther and farther out of reach, accessible only to a multitude of, again, local specialists?

It was inevitable that the events of September 2001 and the rapidly shifting world picture they have generated should force us to reexamine our programs, methods, orientations, and presuppositions. Having set out to address the role played by theory in comparative literature programs, I find myself caught between a wish to anticipate this fast-changing history we half live, half dream, in front of television screens and a need to take more distance, to survey a longer history. Besides, since I completed a book entitled The Future of Theory just weeks before these events, I feel the urge to check the relevance of some of my analyses and predictions.

What is comparative literature? Not a theory or a methodology, certainly (which raises the question of why this article should appear in a series so entitled), though theories and methodologies aplenty occur as part of its typical business. Is there, or can there be, an object of knowledge identifiable as “comparative literature”?

When I began hearing about comparative literature in the middle 1970s, there was a fairly straightforward means of distinguishing comparative literature on the university campuses where it was done. The English department pursued knowledge of language and literature in one language; the foreign language departments pursued similar studies in two languages (typically English, assumed to be most students' native language, plus the foreign tongue); and comparative literature committees, programs, or departments carried out literary analysis in at least three languages at once.