An Interview with David Wagenknecht

I first met David Wagenknecht on my arrival at Boston University as an assistant professor in the fall of 1979, fresh from UC Berkeley. Though he was only a decade older than I, David seemed even then an entire generation wiser. His shock of salt-and-pepper hair wasn't the only reason I thought so, nor was it my own Miranda-like wonder at the brave new world of faculty life in the City on a Hill. (I soon learned to leave my sandals at home.) In our first few substantive conversations, as in our many discussions of literary merit since that time, whether in job searches or joint evaluations of graduate student work or on those occasions when I was asked my opinion of a submission to Studies in Romanticism, I never ceased to be amazed by David's ability to get to the heart of even the most complex and recondite argument, or to retrieve a pearl of wisdom from the murkiest depths of terminological--and often grammatical--obscurity. While I would find myself distracted by an intransitive use of the verb "transform," David would remain open to transformation, listening, like a doctor with a stethoscope, for the idea beating softly, deeply beneath the surface. A more sympathetic and, at the same time, a more intellectually alert and scrupulous reader I have yet to meet in over thirty years of teaching and writing. It wasn't just his uncanny sense of what a writer whose reach exceeded his grasp had in mind, but his sharp eye for what was original and groundbreaking that set David apart as an editor. All of us who have read Studies in Romanticism over the three decades of his residence on the fifth floor of the BU English Department can recall, almost effortlessly, those essays that have turned our thinking around "as with the might of waters." He has read widely and with penetration, in and out of the field, and is himself a Lacanian with several challenging essays to his credit in that demanding theoretical discipline. And yet he remains to this day the most modest and unassuming scholar I know. In short, David set a daunting standard for any new editor, and the reputation of Studies in Romanticism at its half-century mark is a testimony to his achievement. Part of what made the prospect of succeeding David less terrifying for me was the realization that it wouldn't be until the beginning of 2013 that my own apprentice handiwork would appear in the pages of the journal. Now, almost a year into the job, eagerness is starting to overtake dread at the approach of my real as opposed to nominal debut. That's one reason I was delighted to be asked, two years ago and as incoming editor, to shepherd into print the outstanding essays that Emily Rohrbach and Emily Sun have gathered for this, our 50th Anniversary issue. If the work I am considering today for publication a year from now is half as good as what our guest editors have assembled in these pages, there is little any of us have to fear. For the honor of having my name associated with this number of SiR, I have David to thank, who, true to form, graciously stepped aside to let me cut in. I trust you will enjoy reading it as much as I have, and take as much pleasure in the following interview as I did in conducting it. CR: How many years were you editor of SiR? Can you describe the circumstances surrounding your appointment and how you felt just starting out? DW: I assumed the editorship (what a word!) of SiR in 1978, and "assumed" is the right word because with respect both to preparation and intention--and also to anxiety--I felt the journal was more something happening to me than something I really wanted or could conceivably be good at. This is less weird than it sounds if you consider that, even though colleagues had suggested I might be suitable, I was much less an all-round romanticist than a Blake geek, and I had already observed that editorial work was not necessarily a great career move. Younger colleagues I knew and admired had not been advanced as a reward for working on SiR, and clearly there was a fair amount of scut-work. …