What does it feel like to read a novel? For Georges Poulet, it feels like lending out one's mind to another: in reading, he writes, “I am thinking the thoughts of another. . . . I think [those thoughts] as my very own” (Poulet 55–56). For D. A. Miller, by contrast, it feels like a confirmation of our identities as liberal subjects—that is, subjects “whose private life, mental or domestic, is felt to provide constant inarguable evidence of [our] constitutive ‘freedom’” (Miller x). For Rae Greiner, by contrast, reading novels—particularly novels written in the nineteenth century in England—feels like sympathy, an experience that she defines, following Adam Smith, as that “of ‘going along with’ others” (16). This is neither the mind-meld of Poulet nor the interpellative nightmare of Miller. Nor is it pity or compassion—feelings that are often...

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