When Students of Western European Medieval Literature speak of the rise of the vernacular, they often do not mean what you might think they mean—neither the continued use of Latin as a written vernacular for over five hundred years after the fall of the Roman Empire nor the first texts in Celtic, Germanic, and Semitic languages, from the fourth to the tenth century. They mean something later and geographically narrower—the writing that emerges from the breakup of Latin into distinct regional speech patterns, the Romance languages and literatures, primarily in the territories of modern France, Spain, Italy, and Portugal. Although understanding the rise of Romance-language literature as the rise of vernacular writing misrepresents medieval European literature, it has an important rationale. The twelfth-century literature of what is now France—Old French romance in the north, Occitan (formerly Provençal) lyric in the south—establishes continent-wide norms, thereby giving European literature a coherent set of forms and themes for the first time.

These days, it is impossible to look at the news without finding Facebook in one headline or another. Many are prompted by the leaking of personal information. But a few critics have also called attention to a different kind of problem, having less to do with privacy than with the nature of Facebook as a social medium. Writing in the New York Review of Books, Charles Petersen makes much of its genesis in an Ivy League dorm room: “While Microsoft could as easily have originated at MIT or Caltech, it was no accident that Facebook came from Harvard.” He goes on to analyze the ethos of the site as the digital equivalent of the preppie look: well scrubbed and well behaved, prankish on occasion but in the end clean and safe and bland. The site's juvenile “principle of in loco parentis” has given way to the “authoritarian building codes” of the suburbs, with more legroom perhaps but no less supervised and no less homogeneous, a “chilling and puritanical atmosphere” (9–10).

As a professor of French Studies, I had often wished to develop a course in which students could mount a play in French. Its pedagogical value seemed obvious: performing in a foreign language and managing a theatrical production could help students increase their knowledge of French society while improving pronunciation and vocabulary. However, my lack of expertise in the theory and practice of theater stymied me. I had also often longed to teach a course about the Dreyfus affair. The story of a French officer falsely convicted of selling military secrets to the Germans, which tore apart French society for a decade, it contains plenteous teachable issues about France: nationalism, anti-Semitism, the birth of intellectuals, treason and raison d'état, the rise of the modern press and public opinion, the separation of church and state, Third Republic politics, military justice, Franco-German rivalries, and even handwriting analysis. But I doubted that a French department would welcome a whole course just on the Dreyfus affair.

In Córdoba, Argentina, a library of books once banned by the military junta's censors (1976–83) now resides at a center called the Espacio para la Memoria (“Space for Memory”). The site, where prisoners were once held and tortured, houses workshops inviting schoolchildren to think about this terrifying period in their history. Under the junta, even children's books were banned, and after reading a few of these titles with the children who visit the center, the workshop leaders ask them why they think the books were prohibited. One of the reasons the censors gave for prohibition was that these books offered “unlimited fantasy.” To explore this idea, in one workshop the kids sang the song “The Backward Kingdom” (“El reino del revés”), by the well-known Argentine singer María Elena Walsh. After hearing the charming lyrics (birds swim, fish fly, babies have beards, 2 + 2 = 3, etc.), students brainstormed to generate their own inside-out or upside-down examples. One child mentioned raining up, another suggested that big kids nap while little kids play, and a third proposed cars driving on the sidewalk while kids play in the street. Upset by this disorder, one of the children exclaimed, “No, that's impossible!” until the boy who imagined cars on sidewalks explained, “But we're just imagining!” His classmate responded, “Oh, okay, in that case it's possible.”

Why not compare? It's a janus-faced question, a double entendre, its dual meanings depending on emphasis. On the one hand, what are all the reasons why we should not compare? But, on the other hand, why shouldn't we compare, and what are the costs if we do not? Embedded in these questions are more fundamental ones ranging from the epistemological to the methodological. What do we mean by comparison, what effects do our comparisons have, and how do we actually do comparison? By “we” here, I address those involved in intellectual work who face choices on whether or not to engage in comparison; I do not, in this essay, address those who study how and why individuals or human societies compare and with what consequences.

Emigration is translation. Written by Leo Spitzer in 1934, “Learning Turkish” offers a glimpse into the historical circumstances of his and other German academics' exile in Istanbul—an exile that plays a foundational role in comparative literature, as Erich Auerbach, Edward Said, Aamir Mufti, and Emily Apter have argued. Spitzer's attempt to analyze the characteristics of the Turkish language while that language was transforming amplifies recent critical attempts to understand “modern Turkey's nation-based and state-directed poiesis” (Yaeger 11). Bridging the gap between exile in Istanbul and the modern Turkish language, “Learning Turkish” introduces complexity to contemporary paradigms of global comparatism and identifies symptoms of literary studies' relocation to the context of a new nation-state; the article exemplifies the complicity between local nationalisms and cultural imperialisms and illuminates, on a personal level, how linguistic estrangement becomes a way of negotiating the experience of deportation, of emigration, and of the foreignness of adoptive cultures for Spitzer.

Thwarted romances between Garrisoned American Soldiers and Young Filipinas, problems of translation in a multilingual contact zone, and the precarious masculine authority of the imperial agent irresistibly drawn to the mysterious women who surround him—these are the subjects of Frank R. Steward's short fiction about the American military occupation of the Philippines. But Steward's perspective as an African American military officer complicates efforts to interpret such familiar colonial scenarios. The stories' formal experimentation makes them a significant discovery in the archives of empire.

In 1955 the famous African American writer Richard Wright traveled to Southeast Asia to observe and report on the Asian-African Conference in Bandung, Indonesia. A watershed moment in the history of decolonization, the meeting, also known as the Bandung Conference, drew representatives from twenty-nine newly independent Asian and African countries, including the conference's sponsors: Burma, Ceylon, India, and Indonesia. At the conference's conclusion, as part of a “final communique,” participating countries issued their Declaration on the Promotion of World Peace and Cooperation, which advanced ten principles, ranging from “[r]espect for fundamental human rights” to “[r]ecognition of the equality of all races and of the equality of all nations” to abstention from “serv[ing] the particular interests of any big powers” (Kahin 84). As an important precursor of the Nonaligned Movement, which was officially organized in 1961, the Bandung Conference set the stage for newly independent states to assert and strengthen their autonomy in a world often polarized by the United States and the Soviet Union.