Why I Am a Comparatist and What the Hell that Means...

Always have I enjoyed the edifying escapism of literature. The refinement that transforms simple sign into complex symbol, and absence into presence, is “instructive” through a sort of temporary metamorphosis. Students of comparative literature do not only, if at all, learn to experience the world vicariously; rather, they learn to see that world from a variety of different lenses. Through his mastery of modes of signification, the comparativist is at least able to view the world in technicolor, if not also synesthetically. Language is, of course, only a tool, and the language, mores, and spirit of particular epochs ultimately only reveal the universality of Man's aspirations, desires, fears, and experiences. Yet, reaching this conclusion is more easily achieved by a diversity of perspectives than the more singular myopia of monolingual expression and impression. Thus, my inclusion of “escapism” as a reason for my interest is really but a straw man. The discipline is only escapist in so far as it allows a reader to view the world from a diversity of ostensibly differing perspectives which, at least for me, usually ends in the realization that human experiences share more similarities than differences.