Ann Campbell

Deflating Gothic Clandestine Marriage in Cecilia

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:53 PDT

Courtship Novels as Course Strategy

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:52 PDT

Surrogate Brothers as the New Family Instructor in Moll Flanders

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:51 PDT

Indentured Servitude as Colonial America’s ‘Semi-Slavery’ Business in Sally Gunning’s Bound

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:50 PDT

Satire in 'The Monk': Exposure and Reformation

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:48 PDT

Matthew Lewis punctuates the plot of The Monk (1796) with several bizarre, grisly and pornographic episodes; this "excessive, maniacal movement from one orgiastic episode to another," as Alok Bhalla has described it, makes it difficult to discern any clear narrative progression in the novel. A plot synopsis of The Monk would probably follow Ambrosio's moral debasement, necessarily excluding most of the characters that populate the novel. These minor characters and forgettable exchanges are frequently satiric. Satire permeates the novel, obtruding into even the most gruesome scenes, but seems most significant when incidental.

Tristram Shandy and the Seven Years' War: Beyond the Borders of the Bowling Green

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:47 PDT

Magdalen or Harlot?: Satire, Sentiment, and the Fallen Woman in William Dodd’s The Sisters

Ann M. Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:46 PDT

Punitive Subplots and Clandestine Marriage in Eliza Haywood’s The History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:45 PDT

The Limits of "Laudable Action": Women's Marital Choice in John Shebbeare's The Marriage Act

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:43 PDT

The Strange and Surprising World of Curriculum Reform and Its Consequences for Eighteenth-Century Studies

Ann Campbell — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 12:40:41 PDT

Despite every conceivable obstacle, including innumerable departmental, college, and university committees seemingly created for the sole purpose of impeding change, both my university’s core curriculum and my department’s literature curriculum have in the span of the last two years been dramatically revised, or "reformed" as the university refers to the process, for the first time in thirty years. I have regarded this strange and surprising process with alternating wonder, anxiety, disorientation, and denial, much like Robinson Crusoe when he is first stranded on his island. Although neither "savages" nor "wild beasts" threatened me, I felt wholly isolated as our university’s only specialist in eighteenth-century British literature. Observing and to some degree participating in this process — though my involvement was limited to futile attempts to oppose the departmental changes — has made me realize how much my ability to teach my area of expertise to undergraduate students is circumscribed by curriculum.