What if literature is marked not in its content, ideology, or morality, but in its very form, by the presence of elements belonging to a regional--mostly European, mostly bourgeois--design? What if this form--especially since it is always historically incarnated--reveals itself to be content? And finally, what if a notion of literature as the ideology of the total commensurability of experience, the transparent translation of any location, has survived all the attacks on the universal that we have seen in the development of structuralism, post-structuralism, postcoloniality, and postmodernity?
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