Compared with other literary genres, the novel has a relatively recent history, and thus the editing of the novel does not have the long tradition of textual criticism associated with, for example, epic, drama, or poetry. Moreover, while we can safely trace the editing of these ancient genres back to at least the time of the Alexandrian librarians and their editing of Homer and the Greek tragedians, the beginning of the editing of the novel cannot unambiguously be assigned to a specific period. This may also be partly a problem of genre. While the Oxford English Dictionary does not record the word novel (as a fictitious narrative of some length) before the mid-seventeenth century, there have been some attempts to begin the novel, and thus the possible editing of the novel, at earlier points. If, say, Geoffrey Chaucer's verse Troilus and Criseyde (ca. 1385) is to be regarded as a form of the psychological novel, then the editing of that work begins with the first scribal redactions in the fourteenth century; or if Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur (ca. 1470) is similarly a (prose) novel, then Caxton's structural and teleological recomposition of Malory is an example of early editing in the genre (see DEFINITIONS).
But, given the assumption that the novel in Europe was only invented in the seventeenth century, then any account of its editing will have a more limited historical record than that of other genres. It may also be that because of its latecomer status, editing the novel may have inherited editorial principles and procedures derived from other genres and perhaps improperly imported into this modern form. Moreover, the comparatively limited historical range of textual criticism is more than offset by the explosion of editorial work on some canonical novelists. For example, the two anthologies edited by Alexander Pettit contain essays on the editing of Tobias Smollett, Aphra Behn, Daniel Defoe, Samuel Richardson, Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, William Makepeace Thackeray, Theodore Dreiser, Joseph Conrad, Willa Cather, William Faulkner, and William Styron, together with important essays on editing principles for novels. The 1995 Pettit was itself a conscious response to, and updating of, the 1975 Studies in the Novel survey (see Tanselle, 1975b). The Bornstein volume has essays on editing James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner, and D. H. Lawrence. Gaskell's study covers Richardson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, Thackeray, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thomas Hardy, and Joyce. The Greetham collection contains essays on the editing of novels and other genres in eighteenth-century English literature, nineteenth-century British fiction, colonial and nineteenth-century American, twentieth-century American and British, as well as early modern French, Italian, German, and Russian, and thus includes brief accounts of the editing of such novelists as Henry Fielding, Fanny Burney, Dickens, George Eliot, the Brontës, Hardy, Conrad, William Dean Howells, Washington Irving, Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Dreiser, H. G. Wells, Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Joyce, George Orwell, Gustave Flaubert, Voltaire, Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Nikolay Gogol, Maksim Gorky, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Leo Tolstoy. The treatment of Spanish novels recently took an enormous step forward in Francisco Rico's editing of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra's Don Quixote (1605, 1615), especially in the companion volumes of textual commentary, with the sort of technical “analytical” bibliography previously associated with the editing of Anglo-American novels under the auspices of the Modern Language Association's Committee on Scholarly Editing (2005, El Texto del “Quijote”; 2005, Don Quijote de la Mancha). And such detailed technical research by Allan C. Dooley (1992, Author and Printer in Victorian England) has examined the relationship between technology and the Victorian novel, demonstrating that, for example, the publisher's setting of Eliot's Middlemarch (1871—72) in easily reprintable stereotypes was a testimony to the novelist's status as a bankable commodity (see PAPER AND PRINT). But perhaps the two most characteristic editing debates of late have focused on Joyce and Lawrence, with editors having generated a huge array of often very contentious responses to the textual condition of their works and the editorial methods brought to bear on them. As collections such as the Rossman on Joyce, and Ross and Jackson on Lawrence demonstrate, the critical dust has by no means settled on the editing of the major modernists, and passions can often run high. In Dennis Jackson's account of “Reception History” within the 1995 Lawrence collection, there were some 120 books, articles, and reviews published between 1975 and 1993 on various aspects of just the Cambridge edition of Lawrence, not counting the nineteen volumes of Lawrence's own works published by Cambridge during the same period. With Joyce, the ongoing publication history is even more voluminous and acrimonious, involving several lawsuits (and even formal trials), in addition to the hundreds of essays and books on the editing of the author (see MODERNIS).
In fact, with the recent extension of copyright by both the U.S. Supreme Court and the European Union, based specifically on the publication date of Joyce's Ulysses (1922), there is no end in sight to the conflicts. While it is perhaps unfortunate for the scholarly dignity of literature that the Supreme Court decision should have earned the sobriquet of the “Mickey Mouse Protection” case, it is a reality that both the Disney character and the Joyce novel were created in the 1920s and are again protected property when they would otherwise have been in the public domain. The commodification of literature is a recognized part of the history of editing (especially the novel) and is, of course, a discouragement to further editing of the modernists without the prior approval of the estates and their financial interests.
While not as personally vituperative as the “Joyce Wars,” the editorial debates over Lawrence have been characterized by claims of dissimulation, even literary fraud. Thus, when Cambridge University Press (the licensed operative for the Lawrence estate) tried to start the copyright clock ticking anew when its edition of Sons and Lovers appeared in 1992, the claim was based on the very dubious assertion that the restoration of some cuts made by the editor Edward Garnett in the 1913 first edition entitled the publisher and estate to regard the novel as a “new” work, rather than a mere “edition” of an old one.
These two examples do at least show that the recent history of editing the novel is not a dryasdust matter of mere technicalities but is as infused with passion as are the critical battles over poststructuralism, postmodernism, gender studies, and the like (see STRUCTURALISM). In fact, most contemporary practitioners of textual criticism would agree that the “criticism” part of that phrase is as speculative, interrogative, and rhetorical as any of the other intellectual debates that literature can produce. But, apart from the obvious personal and institutional stakes in Joyce and Lawrence, what sort of intellectual and critical issues do editors of these and other authors confront?
For Lawrence (and especially for the canonical Sons and Lovers), the debates center around authorial intention—one of the hoariest of textual questions—and the ontology of the work. Briefly put, did Lawrence acquiesce under editorial pressure to the cuts made in the original 1913 edition (without the “steamy bits”), and does the posthumous publication of the intentions shown in the authorial manuscript make the Cambridge edition a different work? Or, did Lawrence expect (even anticipate) some editorial intervention—as argued by, for example Eugene Goodheart (in Bornstein)—and does the later restoration amount to just a series of emendations without bestowing a new ontology on the work? A related sociocultural issue is whether the status of the critical use of the mediated text, including the widespread classroom use, provides a separate validity to the eighty-year history of reading, no matter what value is now placed on the Cambridge edition, a validity that may be superseded by the later edition but not erased by it.
Virtually these same questions are shared by a number of other canonical modern novels. For example, the original authorial version of Dreiser's Sister Carrie (1900) was withdrawn just before publication and an “expurgated” version issued in its stead. It was this version that was read (and thus formed the basis of critical evaluation of Dreiser's work) for most of the twentieth century, until the Pennsylvania edition restored the cuts made to the original when published in 1981. Here a commodification of the editing of the novel becomes a reality that must be faced. The Pennsylvania edition is a serious, scholarly, and very expensive production, and it is doubtful that its publication would have changed the critical landscape if Penguin had not picked up the paperback rights and made the later edition available for public (and classroom) use. With Sister Carrie, the differences are not just in the “steamy bits” (though these are again significant) but also the structure, shape, and even the ending of the novel: there is a difference of roughly 80,000 words between 1900 and 1981. Does this difference not make a new novel and force reading and criticism to begin anew?
Dreiser and Lawrence are no longer available for adjudication of this question (and besides, Lawrence's documented comments are ambiguous at best), but Styron did have an opportunity to address it. As James L. W. West III records (“The Scholarly Editor as Biographer,” in Pettit 1995), when he was assigned the responsibility to produce a uniform edition of the Styron novels, the editor approached the author with the chance to restore the similarly “steamy” cuts that had been made in Styron's first novel, Lie Down in Darkness (1951), published when the author was not yet the famous novelist of Sophie's Choice (1979) and The Confessions of Nat Turner (1967)—in other words, before he was “William Styron” (see AUTHORSHIP). West fully expected Styron to leap at this opportunity to publish his original intentions, but, after considering the editing changes made to his first novel, Styron decided that, on balance, these publisher's cuts had improved the work and decided to keep the work as is. Would Lawrence and Dreiser have done the same?
And what happens when the novelist is both author and publisher? How does this change the balance of power and the likely differences between original and final intentions? The best-known example of this cultural conundrum is the work of Virginia Woolf, who, with her husband Leonard, controlled the publications of the Hogarth Press, by which the canonical Woolf novels were made public. While it is something of a simplification, the manuscript versions of several Woolf novels can be seen as more “feminist,” more “political,” and more critical of contemporary society than the published book forms: as Brenda R. Silver puts it, “the early drafts...are often far more explicit in their social and political attitudes” (in Bornstein, 201). Of course, it can always be argued that it was her husband's influence that toned down the more overt sentiments of the manuscript versions, but the fact remains that it was finally within the author's prerogative to make her works more socially acceptable, a prerogative that was not available to Lawrence, Dreiser, and (originally) Styron. It is perhaps inevitable that recent textual and critical attention has been turned on these manuscript versions of the Woolf oeuvre.
This same question of shifting intentions surfaces in the work of many other novelists. As was the custom in the Victorian period, the novels of Thomas Hardy were first published in serial format and only later in book form (see SERIALIZATION). There are again major differences between the two formats for several of Hardy's novels, including Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the Obscure (1895), and again these differences tend toward a softening of the social and sexual critique, a tendency that is even more pronounced when the original manuscript readings are added to the record. What is the “real” Hardy: the initial intentions of the manuscripts, the partially socially mediated versions in the serials, or the public presence of the first editions? In the case of Hardy, we do know that the unfavorable cultural response to such novels as Tess and Jude led the novelist to “edit” himself, in the most critical way: to stop writing novels and to turn to poetry (see CENSORSHIP).
Another, perhaps even more problematic, example of the self-editing of the Victorian novel occurs in Dickens's Great Expectations (1861). The story goes that Dickens had originally written an ending to the story of Pip and Estella that was, well, not “Dickensian,” in the sense that the relationship between the two was left unresolved and the reader not given the sort of narrative satisfaction of other Dickens novels. Such, anyway, seems to have been the opinion of Edward Bulwer-Lytton who, as a friend and colleague of Dickens, advised the author that the original ending would not provide the reader with the sort of closure expected. Whatever actually happened during a weekend critique of Great Expectations, we do know that Dickens set about revising the ending, going through at least six different attempts until he came up with the more “final” version published in the first book edition. It was this “resolved” version that all readers of Dickens were exposed to until the account of the Bulwer-Lytton critique became known. Ironically, the cultural difference of the two endings is shown in a comparison between, on the one hand, the 1946 David Lean film, in which the curtains of Miss Havisham's room are thrust aside and the two lovers walk together into the sunshine to soaring musical accompaniment, and the other, 1996 version, in which the hands of Gwyneth Paltrow and Ethan Hawke are shown hovering around each other in uncertainty for some time before any attempt at a “resolution.” The differences in the films, each faithful to one of Dickens's intentions, can easily be explained: in the immediate postwar period, audiences did not want irresolution but confident and hopeful faith; in a postmodernist world, such grand narratives could be set aside and deferred resolution made acceptable.
Again, the problem for the reader-critic's response to Great Expectations is that, after having been accustomed to the first-edition text, even though it represents not so much Dickens's sole intentions but those of Bulwer-Lytton as well, how is it possible to “unread” this history and to deal with Dickens's now-available original intentions? This difficulty is perhaps exacerbated by our knowing that Dickens never authorized the publication of these original intentions and that, during his lifetime and much beyond, the socially mediated version with the “happy” ending was the only one available.
A similar challenge to the reader-critic occurs in confronting the “New York” edition of the novels of Henry James (1907—09, 24 vols.), a uniform revision of previously published texts prepared by the author himself and often involving major stylistic and substantive rewriting of these texts. Again, it may be an oversimplification of a complex process, but in general this later New York edition offers the reader a denser, more stylistically convoluted James than the earlier editions. While there is no doubt that James is fully responsible for this stylistic remaking (by the time the New York edition appeared, James was much too established a literary presence to have to negotiate with a publisher's editor as Lawrence did with Sons and Lovers), there will be those readers for whom the first-edition James novels are more amenable and approachable than the thorny prose of the final intentions. Which James should we read?
At least the New York revisions by James do provide coherent and consistent narratives, but, if Hershel Parker is correct in his assessment of the attempts by other American novelists to rewrite their works, the results may be a perplexing mixture of two different (and perhaps contradictory) textual states. As Parker puts it in his survey of revised novels by Melville (White-Jacket, 1850), Twain (Huckleberry Finn, 1885; Pudd'nhead Wilson, 1894), Norman Mailer (An American Dream, 1965), Stephen Crane (Maggie, 1893; The Red Badge of Courage, 1895), Fitzgerald (Tender Is the Night, 1934), and other central canonical texts, “sometimes a passage in a text will embody two different and contradictory authorial intentions rather than one consistent authorial meaning” (7). These contradictions in the process of revision might be the result of some intervening external event between the original and the revised version, as when the assassination of John F. Kennedy caused Mailer to revise the text of An American Dream (1965) as published in Esquire magazine for the first book edition by the Dial Press, a revision that, according to Parker, produced a hybrid and internally inconsistent narrative. Or the disjuncts might be the result of the sort of editorial intervention already seen in Lawrence, as when Crane undertook the self-censoring of the text of the 1893 privately printed Maggie (under the insistence of the editor Ripley Hitchcock) for the Appleton “first” edition, to produce a text that, according to Parker, “contains nonsense rather than any particular meaning” (12).
But even when such narrative or stylistic disjuncts in revised texts do not so obviously occur, a comparison of early and later texts can often yield surprising results. For example, in the first edition of Melville's Typee (1846), the author devoted considerable attention, based on his own experiences in the Pacific, to the harmful activities of Christian missionaries. Perhaps inevitably, these passages generated some criticism, although the book was a great commercial success. When a second edition was called for, Melville considered these negative responses and decided that, while as author he still had control over the content of the work, in his view the critical passages in the first edition detracted from the narrative and structural shape of the book, and he therefore opted to omit them from the second edition. But when the editors of the “definitive” Northwestern-Newberry edition (1968-) of Melville confronted these textual facts, although they were in theory operating under the principle of “final intentions,” they decided that Melville's documented intentions in the second edition were perhaps not really “final,” and that the first-edition passages should be restored. As G. Thomas Tanselle puts it:
There is no question that Melville is responsible for the changes, and in this sense they are “final”; but they represent not so much his intention as his acquiescence. Under these circumstances, an editor is justified in rejecting the revisions and adopting the original readings as best reflecting the author's “final intentions”; in fact, to accept the readings which are final in chronological terms would distort that intention. ... In the end, one cannot automatically accept such statements at face value; as in any historical research, statements can only be interpreted by placing them in their context. (1976, 193—94)
While this rhetorical play on the distinction between “intention” and “acquiescence” is clearly a valid argument (as the examples from Lawrence and others demonstrate), the “context” in which Tanselle wants to place Melville's decision is very different from that faced by Lawrence or Styron, beginning authors who needed to get published and were therefore under editorial pressure to “acquiesce” to censorship. At the time he was preparing the second edition of Typee, Melville was already a successful author (in fact, the passages to be “censored” had already appeared in the first edition). If he did “acquiesce,” Melville's decision to remove the critical passages from Typee was more akin to Dickens's having taken Bulwer-Lytton's comments on the initial version of Great Expectations to heart and exercised his authorial privilege to change his mind. As in the example of Great Expectations, the reader-critic is left with the problem of which text to encounter and which to use in responding critically to the author.
Methods of Presentation
This question of response is rendered particularly difficult when confronting a magisterial edition like that of the Northwestern—Newberry Melville (or now, perhaps, the Cambridge Lawrence or the Pennsylvania Dreiser). And the “magisterial,” “definitive” qualities of the monumental multi-volume Melville are made even more problematic by the editorial methods of the edition, especially its use of clear-text presentation. In brief, a “clear-text” edition, as the name suggests, provides a continuous reading text that shows no signs of the editorial intervention necessary to produce that text: all such evidence is safely consigned to the back of the book (or, in some cases, even to a separate volume). There are obvious advantages to these clear-texts: they allow the reader to proceed without interruption and to turn to the critical apparatus at the end only if specifically interested in editorial decisions and their rationale, or perhaps if a passage in the clear-text seems to require explication on how it got to that form. If the reader is willing to keep a finger simultaneously in two parts of the edited volume (and to shift back and forth between these two parts), then the needs and prerogatives of both author and editor can perhaps be met.
But what happens to this reciprocity when, in a reprint edition, only the silently emended text is available to the reader, and the critical apparatus on which it is based is simply not available? Given that such clear-text reprints of Lawrence, Dreiser, and Melville are indeed on the market, and given that one of the main rationales of the clear-text theory is precisely to make such reprints easy to produce, how are we to respond to and navigate the editorially constructed but mute texts of canonical authors?
This issue—clear-texts versus what are usually called “inclusive texts” (in which the evidence of editorial intervention is presented directly to the reader on the textual page)—is one that, with its attendant ramifications, has driven much of the editorial debate of late and is connected to several other aspects of editing theory and practice. To return to Joyce for a moment, the three-volume “synchronic” Gabler edition of Ulysses—which generated the so-called “scandal” (Kidd, New York Review of Books 35, 30 June 1988) and a vituperative debate—presented the Joyce text in two different states: on the left-hand “verso” page Gabler produced an inclusive text, marked with an array of editorial sigla to show the diachronic evolution of the novel; on the right “recto” page was a clear-text displaying what Gabler took to be Joyce's final intentions. The Gabler edition therefore married two different editing dispensations: the diachronic has been primarily associated with Franco-German “genetic” editing, in which the critical interest is in process rather than product and has underwritten editions of Kafka's Der Schloß (1926, The Castle); Flaubert's Un coeur simple (1877, A Simple Heart); Marcel Proust's Le temps retrouvé (1927, Time Regained), specifically, the last section of À la recherche du temps perdu (1913—27, Remembrance of Things Past); as well as editions in other genres, especially poetry—Friedrich Hölderlin (1770—1843), Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724—1803), Conrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825—98)—and diaries (Klopstock again). Allied to a concern with rough drafts (brouillons or Arbeitsmanuskripte), this continental emphasis has been very different from the typical Anglo-American concentration on final intentions.
As already noted, even under the auspices of final intentions, editors can produce highly variant editions; but in general, during the hegemony of Anglo-American copy-text theory (roughly 1950s—1980s), an “eclectic” text drawn from the evidence of several witnesses was constructed to enshrine an ideal text that might never have existed in any single document but could be produced by a process involving “dual authority.” This meant that the “accidentals” (or surface features of a text—the punctuation, spelling, capitalization, and so on) might be drawn from one state of the text—usually the earliest surviving, ideally an authorial manuscript or barring that, first edition—but the “substantives” (the words themselves) might come from different states, especially when it could be shown that an author had revised the wording of a later state than that preserving the accidentals.
Although derived from the special circumstances of English Renaissance drama (Greg), where very few authorial manuscripts survived, this copy-text theory was then imported into the editing of other genres, largely through the enormous influence of Fredson Bowers (1964, 1970)and his disciple G. Thomas Tanselle. These other genres included poetry, philosophy, and the novel. For example, Bowers acted as textual editor of the Wesleyan Fielding edition (1967-, gen. ed. William B. Coley), and thus, in the edition of Tom Jones (1749), when Bowers could prove that the third edition was set not from the expected second edition but from the first, this made the accidentals of the first more authoritative than those of the second, though Fielding's substantive changes from the third could then be inserted into the eclectic text of the Wesleyan edition. Under these same eclectic principles, Bowers's edition of Crane's Maggie strives for that very perfectability that Parker so passionately rejects. His edition presents a clear-text, with separate apparatus for textual notes, substantive variants, emendation of accidentals, end-of-line hyphenation, and historical collation (a record of all the variants recorded in multiple states of the text). In such an eclectic clear-text, product is thus emphasized over process, although theoretically the process can be reconstructed from the back-of-the-book apparatus.
A different sort of concern with product motivated an earlier generation of editorial work on novels, among other genres. Under R. W. Chapman's principle of “deathbed” copy-text, the last printed edition of a work produced during an author's lifetime (whether or not this could be shown to have been overseen by the author) would usually be regarded as the most authoritative. Chapman's standard edition of the novels of Jane Austen (1924) was for many years regarded as emblematic of this approach. In a direct conflict with Bowers's eclectic principles, Philip Gaskell typically placed more authority on the first print edition of a novel, even in preference to authorial manuscripts, where they existed, although obvious errors in the print edition could be corrected.
The importance (and the peculiarity) of the facing-page Gabler edition of Joyce was that it tried to have it both ways: as a student of Bowers, Gabler felt that final intentions and a clear reading text were still desirable; but as a product of the Franco-German genetic school, he also felt that the evolution of the text should be given equal prominence. It may be that this dual inheritance produced what have been called “estranging openings” (two irreconcilable ways of editing and reading), and Gabler's determination has not resulted in a spate of simultaneously genetic and final intention editions of novels. In fact, the three-volume synoptic and critical edition of Ulysses is no longer available, and we are left only with the clear-text, either in a form of the Gabler recto pages or its close relative, a “new” version of the Rose Reader's Edition (2004).
As in the case of Franco-German genetic editing already mentioned (see Deppman et al., Werner et al.), non-Anglophone editing of the novel has proceeded under auspices different from the Anglo-American and created very different methods of presentation. Indeed, as noted by Lernout, there are several competing “national” schools—French, German (Nutt-Kofoth et al.), Italian (Pasquali, 1974, Storia della tradizione e critica del testo), Scandinavian (through the 1995-, Nordiskt Nätverk för Editionsfilologer), Russian (Mikhailov et al.), and so on. While Lernout describes a fairly close collaboration between German and French textual scholars in recent decades, in general each European literature has created its own traditions. Italian and Spanish editors have been more concerned with medieval and Renaissance works—Rico's Quijote and Vittore Branca's Decameron (1348—53) being outstanding examples—and usually with poetry—Dante (1265—1321), Ariosto (1474—1533)—rather than modern prose fiction, and so lie outside the scope of this entry. As the account of Russian literature in Kasinec and Whittaker (in Greetham) demonstrates, the Soviet period brought both the benefits of a centralized archival system and the disadvantages of state censorship. In the post-Soviet climate, new editions of Tolstoy, Gogol, and other canonical figures have been undertaken, along with those of formerly suppressed authors (Mikhail Bulgakov, Ivan Goncharov, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the latter in a planned thirty-volume uniform edition comparable to those of Anglo-American novelists).
With Franco-German editing, one of the undeniable problems of “presentation” has been that the genetic method, because of its concentration on “process,” retains a much fuller documentary record to be negotiated by the reader. As Lernout notes, Flaubert's Un Coeur Simple is usually no more than thirty pages in a clear-text edition, but in the “genetic dossier” is over seven hundred pages. Lernout similarly records that the genetic dossier of Zola's Le Rêve (1888, The Dream) sponsored by L'Institut des textes et manuscrits modernes (ITEM) is the least used source for the novel online. There may be too much evidence, and the existence (and success) of both the Pléiade editions of French literature and the Library of America, where textual apparatus is kept to a minimum and printed at the end of the volume, does seem to suggest that critique génétique may be more interesting in theory than in practice. With recent expansion of the Library of America to include living authors (e.g., Philip Roth), the definition and range of the “canonical” author has become even more comprehensive.
Despite (or perhaps because of) these international debates and the spirited debates on Joyce, Lawrence, and other novelists, it can confidently be predicted that the textual criticism involved in editing novels is going through a period of renewed vitality. After the hegemony of the copy-text school that was so productive, particularly in the editing of American novels of the nineteenth century—as the disparity and range between, say, the genetic and final intentions approaches show—there may no longer be a consensus, but the editing of the novel is now firmly a part of the general critical discussions of our time. The Melville edition might now be finished—although Parker's 1995 “Kraken” edition of Pierre (1852) follows very different principles and has generated much heated debate—but with ongoing editions of Hardy, Thackeray, Austen, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and many others offering a wide choice of methods and results, the editing of the novel is very much alive. While editing still focuses primarily on print, the future can perhaps best be seen in Danis Rose and John O'Hanlon's 2010 edition of Joyce's Finnegans Wake (1939), for which the Houyhnhnm Press clear-text print version is to be supplemented by an electronic hypertext apparatus. This is described by the editors in an Afterword in the accompanying booklet (also containing a general introduction by Greetham and a textual foreword by Gabler). The Houyhnhnm limited edition is linked to a trade press edition by Penguin. Half a century ago, Bruce Harkness (1959)(1959) raised the charge that textual critics did not take editing novels seriously. Such a position would now be very difficult to sustain.
SEE ALSO: Adaptation/Appropriation, Publishing, Typography.
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2. Bowers, F. (1964), “ Some Principles for Scholarly Editions of Nineteenth-Century American Authors,” Studies in Bibliography 17: 223—28.
3. Bowers, F. (1970), “ Greg's ’Rationale of Copy-Text’ Revisited,” Studies in Bibliography 31: 90—161.
4. Deppman, J., D. Ferrer, and M. Groden, eds. (2004), Genetic Criticism.
5. Gabler, H.W., G. Bornstein, and G.B. Pierce, eds. (1995), Contemporary German Editorial Theory.
6. Gaskell, P. (1978), From Writer to Reader.
7. Greetham, D.C., ed. (1995), Scholarly Editing.
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15. Pettit, A., ed. (2002), Textual Studies and the Common Reader.
16. Ross, C.L. and D. Jackson, eds. (1995), Editing D. H. Lawrence.
17. Rossman, C., ed. (1990), Editing “Ulysses,” special issue, Studies in the Novel 22.
18. Tanselle, G.T. (1975a), “ Greg's Theory of Copy-Text and the Editing of American Literature,” Studies in Bibliography 28: 167—229.
19. Tanselle, G.T. (1975b), “ Problems and Accomplishments in the Editing of the Novel,” Studies in the Novel 7: 323—60.
20. Tanselle, G.T. (1976), “ The Editorial Problem of Final Authorial Intention,” Studies in Bibliography 29: 167—211.
21. Werner, M. and W. Woesler, eds. (1987), Édition et Manuscrits.