Revolutionary Sensibility, Embodied Poetics Alan Richardson (bio) The invitation for the symposium in honor of jerome j. mcgann that this special issue represents came as something of a surprise. I had never had the chance to study with, teach with, or collaborate with McGann although, of course, like most professional scholars of Romanticism, I have gained immeasurably from his work over the years. So I chose to frame my own contribution as one that might speak for the indebtedness of a whole generation of scholars, in recording something of my own particular debts to McGann’s significant body of work. I ask for the reader’s indulgence, then, if I need to say a little about myself, in order to make the magnitude of those debts clear. Not, sadly, the full magnitude: we were also asked to structure our symposium presentations around one of McGann’s works in particular and my choice, The Poetics of Sensibility, should be obvious from my essay title. If I could write at greater length, I would want to say much more about the importance to me in my formation as a Romanticist of McGann’s innovative and widely influential work of the period 1979 to 1985—the very years I was in graduate school, although I did not really begin to absorb this work till a year or two later. Not to mention all that I (and my peers) have gained over the years from McGann’s magnificent Byron edition (which came out during that same period), I am thinking especially of the essays gathered together in his 1985 collection, The Beauty of Inflections, and, of course, of The Romantic Ideology, which appeared in 1983.1 For fledgling Romanticists as I was at that time, The Romantic Ideology hit us like so much ice-cold water flung in our faces, abruptly waking us from our dogmatic slumbers. My slumbers, perhaps, deeper than most, as I had spent my graduate years at the feet of the Old Historicists at Harvard—which at that time was a country for old men. Let me clarify that studying with that doughty, that dying generation of scholars would later prove to give me real advantages in my own early and mid-career as a New Historicist. For their grasp of historicism, as they construed it and transmitted it, was capacious, subtle, and meticulous. But as to the “New” part: they could give me no real help there. I had taken in [End Page 535] just enough literary theory as an undergraduate to know that, if I were to survive—and I mean less survive professionally than survive intellectually—I needed, to paraphrase what Ezra Pound said of another provincial, the young T. S. Eliot, to actually train myself and modernize myself on my own. Yet, as we all know, literary scholars and critics can not in fact do this on their own—we need the right methods and trustworthy models—and I could find no one in the field to guide me at first hand. So I turned to the generation of Romanticists just ahead of mine, a group of path-breaking, theoretically savvy, intellectually fearless critical scholars whose early books were already trailing clouds of glory for us neophytes to follow. The models that proved most vital for me prominently included the work of James Chandler and Mary Poovey: Wordsworth’s Second Nature and The Proper Lady and the Woman Writer both came out in 1984, in my case, that is, just in time.2 But it was the example of McGann’s writings that made the greatest single difference for me. The essays gathered in The Beauty of Inflections, in particular, showed me a way to redeem what I had considered the driest and dustiest aspect of my graduate training, the laborious care I had been urged, or perhaps compelled, to take with matters of bibliography, of textual editing and transmission, dates and places and imprints, production and early reception history. McGann, generously sharing lessons he had learned in the course of editing Byron, showed how the old-school disciplines of philology could, with the necessary theoretical and methodological reframing, become newly significant, indeed crucial, tools...
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