No one would think of denying that literary texts lend themselves to “plural” readings, as we say today: the studies collected in this issue are one more proof, as is the title of the collection. Tens of thousands of pages have already been written on Shakespeare and on Montaigne, which does not preclude the enjoyment of those that are offered us here; and the idea would not occur to anyone that this process of re-writing could ever come to an end, aside from the apocalyptic end of all human things, written and unwritten.

Among the many story groups of The Thousand, and One Nights, few demonstrate with such clarity, precision and even some audacity the vicissitudes, privileges, fortunes and joys of sexual polymorphism. The geste of Boudour belongs to such a cycle.

The survival of some masterpieces of literature across the ages is still an unexplained mystery. Deeply rooted in their time, they reflect the preoccupations of a given historical period and have an impact, by means of their testimony, on future generations. They bring into play images, drives and phantoms which have remained unchanged from prehistoric time to our day. The perfection of their form has remained unequaled; their examples incite us to meditation and creativity.

The history of the interpretations of The Merchant of Venice, both on the stage and in critical comment, and of the reactions it has evoked in its readers or viewers, is surely unique in the Shakespeare canon. Interpretations of Hamlet are numberless, but the contentions expend themselves within the intellectual realm. The Merchant of Venice reaches down into deep emotional levels, involving commitments and shrouded reticences of the soul. When conscience and the play come together, a drama takes place. Sigurd Burckhardt has clearly perceived the problem, without exploring it. “Audiences,” he writes, “persist in feeling distressed by Shylock's final treatment, and no amount of historical explanation helps them over their unease.” We cannot join unreservedly in the joyful harmonies of the last act. “Shylock spooks in the background, an unappeased ghost.”

This is how Montaigne explains the principles which he followed in his role as mayor, a statement whose very expression casts all the light needed on the nature of what has been called Montaigne's conservatism. In Montaigne's political language, to conserve is defined by its opposition to innovate. Conservation receives its lexical “value” from its contrasting relation with innovation and with “novelties.” This semantic pair, common in sixteenth-century French and in most European languages, is profoundly different from the present system. In today's language, the concept of conservatism (itself of recent formation) is defined principally in terms of the notion of progress or (because of the symmetry of the suffixes) of progressionism, in the sense which it had taken on during the 18th century, but the antonym innovation has not ceased contributing to the “value” of conservation. Today's semantic system cannot avoid attributing to “conservatism” an essentially antithetic function in reference to historic “progress,” or to theories of progress in which innovation is generally seen in a favorable light.

The novel has always provided a vehicle for commenting on various aspects of human existence. We are familiar with the political novel, the historical novel, or the metaphysical novel, and in this sense Sorrentino's Mulligan Stew, with its running commentary on novels, novelists, critics and publishers, may be viewed as a critical novel. A critical novel, however, has a striking feature which it does not share with the other sorts of novels mentioned above in that a critical novel is itself a novel, and a member of the class of objects on which it is commenting. This is a structure that logicians call “self-reference” and the phenomenon of self-reference has provided a central theme in twentieth century logic and philosophy.