In the past, I've taught "Human Issues in Literature," and when selecting works for the course, I focused on content, themes, and ideas. Now I'm teaching "Types of Literature," meaning the focus shifts a bit: now my goal is to explore the varieties and possibilities of each genre. I'm still teaching on ideas (and keeping a lot of the same works), but now I'm choosing also in terms of narrative, form, style, and structure.
Here are the prose works I've selected so far; I still need to add a few short stories.
Novels
A Gathering of Old Men, Ernest Gaines
For practical reasons, this spring I replaced As I Lay Dying with A Gathering of Old Men (I had to teach Gaines' novel in a class I was subbing for, so for simplicity sake I taught it in my own course, too). It has the same narrative structure as Faulkner's novel (multiple narrators), so it works out to show the possibilities of first-person narration in a novel. As it happened, it worked out so well that I'm keeping Gaines' novel in my syllabus from now on.
The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison
A wonderful novel to teach, exploring the internalization of racist and sexist standards of beauty. There are huge themes throughout, and the narrative form is so diverse, I'm fairly certain students haven't been exposed to anything like it.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey
For form, it works wonderfully: it's a first-person narrator that sees things differently than the average narrator and that develops throughout the novel.
Short Stories
"The Metamorphosis," Franz Kafka
A great introductory work for it's thematic power and for the fantastic potentials of literature; in "Types of Literature," it also serves to discuss whether this is a short story or a novella.
"Barn Burning," William Faulkner
Third-person limited narrative, perspectives from the present and future: a good sample.
"Everyday Use," Alice Walker
I teach this with "Barn Burning" (both are about family and rejection of family), and it is also a masterwork short story. In this story, Walker is almost perfect in her descriptive techniques.
"The Yellow Wallpaper," Charlotte Perkins Gilman
I wouldn't think of not teaching this: the themes are strong, and the narrative style is just what I want students to be exposed to in this course.
"Bartleby the Scrivener," Herman Melville
Another chance to explore a first-person narrator closely--another story I wouldn't think of not teaching.
"The Jilting of Granny Weatherall," Katherine Ann Porter
A third-person narrative taking us inside the head of a single character, where past and present share no meaningful boundaries
"Circle of Prayer," Alice Munro
I feel like teaching this with the Porter story--I think we can gain insight by comparing them.
"Where are you going, where have you been?" Joyce Carol Oates
A terrifying initiation story.
"My Kinsman, Major Molineux," Nathaniel Hawthorne
I'll probably teach this with the Oates story as another initiation tale.
"A Good Man is Hard to Find," Flannery O'Connor
Structurally, I suspect this is the sort of story students expect a short story to be.
"The Cask of Amontillado," Edgar Allen Poe
A wonderful chance to explore a first-person narrator; I'll probably teach this with the O'Connor story as two different tales about murder.
Showing posts with label morrison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label morrison. Show all posts
Monday, June 25, 2007
Monday, August 21, 2006
Humans: the animals that get bored
What is the purpose of literature? I like the Marxist explanations (to teach cultural norms, to reinforce or subvert dominant ideology, etc.). I like the Existential-Spiritual explanations (to explore what it means to be human, to find the meaning of life, etc.). But those explanations don't seem quite there.
What I think about the meaning of literature, I picture a bunch of people sitting around a fire as somebody recites The Odyssey. I start thinking of long nights between days of work. And it all becomes clear just what the purpose of literature is.
To pass the time.
Literature exists to relieve boredom. My guess is that ancient people wanted something to entertain themselves with in the times between when they had things to do. Thus, literature.
Sure, it does other things. We've found all sorts of new ways to entertain ourselves and avoid boredom, and yet literature persists and wil persist because its meaning and purposes are deep. And yet, still literature's primary purpose is to pass the time, to entertain us, to relieve boredom.
Literature exists to pass the time (so do games/sports, which probably have a longer histoyr in human existence than literature, so don't be too snobbish in dismissing the pointlessness of sports and the supposed shallowness of those of us who follow and cherish them closely).
Anyway, today is a department meeting, so even though I'm still over two weeks from teaching my first class, I'm considering today the symbolic end to summer. So here are capsule reviews of the books I passed the time with this summer.
The World's Wife, by Carol Ann Duffy
I think it's silly that states have things like a state bird, a state flower, and all that crap. These are the clues that always stump me on crosswords. So I've started making up our household items. Our official household lighting fixture is lamp. Our official household mammal is cat. And if we have an household poet laureate, it would be Carol Ann Duffy, a rare poet that my wife and I both love. Should we write her a letter informing her of the honor?
Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, by Roland Bainton
A conventional Lutheran biography of the man that does a good job providing historical context.
Young Man Luther: A Study in Psychoanalysis and History, by Erik Erikson
It's a book of ideas as much as a biography, and a brilliant one at that.
Luther: Man Between the God and the Devil, by Heiko Oberman
Revisionist history that isn't utterly convincing, but is well-written and insightful.
A Gathering of Old Men, by Ernest Gaines
This novel takes place during one day, and in that day Gaines succeeds in describing the entire history of white-black relations in the South. An underrated achievement.
Beloved, by Toni Morrison
Frankly, I like The Bluest Eye better. It's an important book, though.
Operation Shylock: A Confession, by Philip Roth
Roth is growing on me. A good novel of ideas.
MacBeth, by William Shakespeare
The Bard gives you something new each time you read one of his plays. This time, the issue of gender roles and essence stuck out to me.
Spiral, by Koji Suzuki
Actually creepier than the first book.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard
Funny stuff. Very funny stuff.
Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett
The play that inspired a generation of playwrights to write about two boobs sitting around inanely waiting is still probably the best one.
Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire
My favorite book I read this summer. Awe-inspiring. The soundtrack for the musical is wonderful, too.
Mantissa, by John Fowles
Certainly not Fowles' best or most important work, but he knows it (the title is from an old word meaning an addendum that may be minor or trivial). Still, he plays around.
Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller
I wish Miller were a poet. He writes some really incredible sentences. But I don't like works of literature or film that are just about a bunch of stuff that happens.
What I think about the meaning of literature, I picture a bunch of people sitting around a fire as somebody recites The Odyssey. I start thinking of long nights between days of work. And it all becomes clear just what the purpose of literature is.
To pass the time.
Literature exists to relieve boredom. My guess is that ancient people wanted something to entertain themselves with in the times between when they had things to do. Thus, literature.
Sure, it does other things. We've found all sorts of new ways to entertain ourselves and avoid boredom, and yet literature persists and wil persist because its meaning and purposes are deep. And yet, still literature's primary purpose is to pass the time, to entertain us, to relieve boredom.
Literature exists to pass the time (so do games/sports, which probably have a longer histoyr in human existence than literature, so don't be too snobbish in dismissing the pointlessness of sports and the supposed shallowness of those of us who follow and cherish them closely).
Anyway, today is a department meeting, so even though I'm still over two weeks from teaching my first class, I'm considering today the symbolic end to summer. So here are capsule reviews of the books I passed the time with this summer.
The World's Wife, by Carol Ann Duffy
I think it's silly that states have things like a state bird, a state flower, and all that crap. These are the clues that always stump me on crosswords. So I've started making up our household items. Our official household lighting fixture is lamp. Our official household mammal is cat. And if we have an household poet laureate, it would be Carol Ann Duffy, a rare poet that my wife and I both love. Should we write her a letter informing her of the honor?
Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, by Roland Bainton
A conventional Lutheran biography of the man that does a good job providing historical context.
Young Man Luther: A Study in Psychoanalysis and History, by Erik Erikson
It's a book of ideas as much as a biography, and a brilliant one at that.
Luther: Man Between the God and the Devil, by Heiko Oberman
Revisionist history that isn't utterly convincing, but is well-written and insightful.
A Gathering of Old Men, by Ernest Gaines
This novel takes place during one day, and in that day Gaines succeeds in describing the entire history of white-black relations in the South. An underrated achievement.
Beloved, by Toni Morrison
Frankly, I like The Bluest Eye better. It's an important book, though.
Operation Shylock: A Confession, by Philip Roth
Roth is growing on me. A good novel of ideas.
MacBeth, by William Shakespeare
The Bard gives you something new each time you read one of his plays. This time, the issue of gender roles and essence stuck out to me.
Spiral, by Koji Suzuki
Actually creepier than the first book.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard
Funny stuff. Very funny stuff.
Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett
The play that inspired a generation of playwrights to write about two boobs sitting around inanely waiting is still probably the best one.
Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire
My favorite book I read this summer. Awe-inspiring. The soundtrack for the musical is wonderful, too.
Mantissa, by John Fowles
Certainly not Fowles' best or most important work, but he knows it (the title is from an old word meaning an addendum that may be minor or trivial). Still, he plays around.
Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller
I wish Miller were a poet. He writes some really incredible sentences. But I don't like works of literature or film that are just about a bunch of stuff that happens.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Against Aestheticism II (or, my utilitarianism)
Some further additions to the ideas in the post below, Against Aestheticism.
More and more, my evaluation of art and literature is based on what I'll call an "abstract utilitarianianism." When I read a book or see a movie, I have to ask myself a central question. This question can be worded many different ways, but it comes down to this: "What is new in this work that I can take with me?" How that question is answered goes a long way toward how I feel about the work (but it isn't the total answer).
Let me look at recent things I've read and seen that can illustrate and articulate my abstract utilitarianism. I finally got around to reading Beckett's Waiting for Godot. I did not pull much new out of this; HOWEVER, I also recognize why. This play is brilliant, and there are two reasons I didn't pull much new out of it. First, this play is representative of a worldview I am already familiar with--indeed, a worldview I have imbibed and felt and studied for years. Secondly, this play is so influential on the theater and literature that followed it, I feel like I've read several works that were similar in nature. So while on the one hand I don't pull much new from it (though there is a lot of comedy that is sharp and fun), I am at least able to recognize why not.
I recently read Gregory Maguire's Wicked, and besides being the most fun book I've read in quite some time, there were some themes that I can take with, to continue mulling over. No, this novel didn't give me a lot to think about in regard to the nature of evil. However, several things stand out to me. The tension and ambiguity regarding the nature of control and choice in our lives. The tension and cohesion of opposites. There's something for me to claw onto and keep thinking about. Many things, actually.
Earlier this summer I read two books by African-American writers examining the legacy of slavery in the U.S., Toni Morrison's Beloved and Earnest Gaines' A Gathering of Old Men. These are important books for me to read. Why? Because I'm white. I do not know what it is like to experience racism against myself. I don't know the details, the emotions, the anxiety. I can only learn about this experience second-hand. Reading Toni Morrison teaches me about the internalizing nature of racism, about the deep impact of racism. That gives me something to take away. Books which show us another way of experiencing the world, that show us how somebody else might view human existence, are the most necessary books of all. There are two approaches to teaching literature. One approach is to find literature students can relate to. This is appealing for students and to the teacher, because it can spark student reactions. But another didactic purpose of literature exists: to show students perspectives other than their own. That, I think, is the more important. What do students get out of RELATING to a work of literature? Something, I'm sure, though perhaps not enough. What do students get by EXPOSING themselves to a work of literature, by having another perspective exposed to them? Immeasurable value, I hope.
Finally, a film I was disappointed with, The Lady in the Water. There were several things I didn't like about the movie, but what comes to mind right now is that there was nothing new for me. I didn't learn anything from seeing it, I didn't relate to it, I wasn't able to learn any new perspective. Certainly that wouldn't hold as a very strong criticism of a film (and I wouldn't use it as an objective analysis), but that it my personal reaction.
This abstract utilitarian view might seem useless for evaluating material that has little artistic value, but still entertains. I say: not so. Not so at all. This is particularly useful in evaluating comedy. The best comedy is that which brings something new to us. Some new way of examining a part of life, some new way of bringing the mundane to comic effect, some new way simply to be funny and make one laugh. The old jokes work--but the best comedies bring something new to the table, they MUST bring something new because they must make us laugh. Above all else, they, must make us laugh. Two anecdotes come to mind: on The Simpsons, when Bart became the "I Didn't Do it" kid, but that got old, and on Alf, when Alf became a famous comedian, but was only telling the same joke, and eventually nobody laughed. Standup comedians will tell you how hard they work, and they do it because they have to. They have to bring you something new if they expect you to laugh. So even for art not meant to inspire, but meant only to entertain us, I can ask myself, "What is new from this that I can take with me?"
More and more, my evaluation of art and literature is based on what I'll call an "abstract utilitarianianism." When I read a book or see a movie, I have to ask myself a central question. This question can be worded many different ways, but it comes down to this: "What is new in this work that I can take with me?" How that question is answered goes a long way toward how I feel about the work (but it isn't the total answer).
Let me look at recent things I've read and seen that can illustrate and articulate my abstract utilitarianism. I finally got around to reading Beckett's Waiting for Godot. I did not pull much new out of this; HOWEVER, I also recognize why. This play is brilliant, and there are two reasons I didn't pull much new out of it. First, this play is representative of a worldview I am already familiar with--indeed, a worldview I have imbibed and felt and studied for years. Secondly, this play is so influential on the theater and literature that followed it, I feel like I've read several works that were similar in nature. So while on the one hand I don't pull much new from it (though there is a lot of comedy that is sharp and fun), I am at least able to recognize why not.
I recently read Gregory Maguire's Wicked, and besides being the most fun book I've read in quite some time, there were some themes that I can take with, to continue mulling over. No, this novel didn't give me a lot to think about in regard to the nature of evil. However, several things stand out to me. The tension and ambiguity regarding the nature of control and choice in our lives. The tension and cohesion of opposites. There's something for me to claw onto and keep thinking about. Many things, actually.
Earlier this summer I read two books by African-American writers examining the legacy of slavery in the U.S., Toni Morrison's Beloved and Earnest Gaines' A Gathering of Old Men. These are important books for me to read. Why? Because I'm white. I do not know what it is like to experience racism against myself. I don't know the details, the emotions, the anxiety. I can only learn about this experience second-hand. Reading Toni Morrison teaches me about the internalizing nature of racism, about the deep impact of racism. That gives me something to take away. Books which show us another way of experiencing the world, that show us how somebody else might view human existence, are the most necessary books of all. There are two approaches to teaching literature. One approach is to find literature students can relate to. This is appealing for students and to the teacher, because it can spark student reactions. But another didactic purpose of literature exists: to show students perspectives other than their own. That, I think, is the more important. What do students get out of RELATING to a work of literature? Something, I'm sure, though perhaps not enough. What do students get by EXPOSING themselves to a work of literature, by having another perspective exposed to them? Immeasurable value, I hope.
Finally, a film I was disappointed with, The Lady in the Water. There were several things I didn't like about the movie, but what comes to mind right now is that there was nothing new for me. I didn't learn anything from seeing it, I didn't relate to it, I wasn't able to learn any new perspective. Certainly that wouldn't hold as a very strong criticism of a film (and I wouldn't use it as an objective analysis), but that it my personal reaction.
This abstract utilitarian view might seem useless for evaluating material that has little artistic value, but still entertains. I say: not so. Not so at all. This is particularly useful in evaluating comedy. The best comedy is that which brings something new to us. Some new way of examining a part of life, some new way of bringing the mundane to comic effect, some new way simply to be funny and make one laugh. The old jokes work--but the best comedies bring something new to the table, they MUST bring something new because they must make us laugh. Above all else, they, must make us laugh. Two anecdotes come to mind: on The Simpsons, when Bart became the "I Didn't Do it" kid, but that got old, and on Alf, when Alf became a famous comedian, but was only telling the same joke, and eventually nobody laughed. Standup comedians will tell you how hard they work, and they do it because they have to. They have to bring you something new if they expect you to laugh. So even for art not meant to inspire, but meant only to entertain us, I can ask myself, "What is new from this that I can take with me?"
Friday, June 23, 2006
Toni Morrison and more
What makes Toni Morrison such an important American writer? She is better than anybody I've read at showing how racism and institutional oppression becomes internalized in the oppressed. In The Bluest Eye, there are examples of clear racism of whites toward blacks--but the focus of the novel isn't on these clear-cut examples of repulsive prejudice and behavior, but on the internal effect such prejudice and behavior can have. As I'm finishing up Beloved (not as good as The Bluest Eye, but as it is clearly about the legacy of slavery, many seem to see it as the more important book. I'm not sure it is...but I'm not sure it isn't), again I see that there are overt forms of racism and oppression being described--but the thrust of the novel seems to be on the effect of this oppression on black people, and the internal lives of those who suffer such experiences. And Morrison's style and insight does the trick of showing us the internal experience.
Is the ability to show internal experience the difference between entertainment and art? If so, then film is an inferior artform to literature, to "art art" (paintings and sculptures), and even, yes, television. Often in film, time limits require that great changes occuring in a character (and great changes in people often develop slowly over time) must be symbolized in shorter, quicker changes. In many films, the internal change a character quickly goes through can seem inauthentic--it must be shown too quickly. Novels can show this. TV series can show this. Visual art, perhaps, doesn't show the change, but tries to make physical and visual that internal, and the great artists succeed. And yet, a film is more likely to make me cry than any other film.
Speaking of crying during film, a second viewing of Brokeback Mountain helped me to understand the effect this film had on me. This is a movie about...
(here it comes)
THE EXPECTATIONS OF MASCULINITY IN AMERICA.
It's not just about the homosexual relationship; it's about all sorts of expectations and pressures placed on men in America. It is brilliant. I think on the first viewing I was able to feel how the movie presented this; after the second viewing, after much time and thought and the commentary of others, I have been able to think about it. The expectations involving work, family, physicality, expression of emotion, violence...it's all there. If you want to explore this further, do a little research into why the NFL didn't allow the filmmakers to use footage of their games during the Thanksgiving meal scene involving Jack Twist, his son, and his father-in-law.
Is the ability to show internal experience the difference between entertainment and art? If so, then film is an inferior artform to literature, to "art art" (paintings and sculptures), and even, yes, television. Often in film, time limits require that great changes occuring in a character (and great changes in people often develop slowly over time) must be symbolized in shorter, quicker changes. In many films, the internal change a character quickly goes through can seem inauthentic--it must be shown too quickly. Novels can show this. TV series can show this. Visual art, perhaps, doesn't show the change, but tries to make physical and visual that internal, and the great artists succeed. And yet, a film is more likely to make me cry than any other film.
Speaking of crying during film, a second viewing of Brokeback Mountain helped me to understand the effect this film had on me. This is a movie about...
(here it comes)
THE EXPECTATIONS OF MASCULINITY IN AMERICA.
It's not just about the homosexual relationship; it's about all sorts of expectations and pressures placed on men in America. It is brilliant. I think on the first viewing I was able to feel how the movie presented this; after the second viewing, after much time and thought and the commentary of others, I have been able to think about it. The expectations involving work, family, physicality, expression of emotion, violence...it's all there. If you want to explore this further, do a little research into why the NFL didn't allow the filmmakers to use footage of their games during the Thanksgiving meal scene involving Jack Twist, his son, and his father-in-law.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Genius in Art
In the Bakhtin post below, I borrowed from Bakhtin's ideas to suggest one of the signs of genius in an artist is the ability to penetrate the souls of others. To examine and understand and show the psyche of one outside the self.
I would suggest another sign of genius in the artist--the ability to interlock themes so closely that to discuss them separately is pointless.
In David Henry Hwang's M. Butterfly, Hwang explores the stereotype of submissiveness. When I teach this play, I write that on the board in capital letters: Stereotype of Submissiveness. It could be a simple theme, I suppose. In Hwang's skillful hands, though, it is extremely complicated. You cannot separate issues of sex, gender, race, culture, and nation from a discussion of this stereotype. Hwang develops the relationships between these topics tightly. You cannot in any meaningful way discuss one without the other. Hwang also uses his considerable skill to examine how art, culture, and fantasy contribute to this stereotype of submissiveness, and then shows the devestating effects.
You can't peel a theme away from others in M. Butterfly; Hwang too closely connects them.
I see similar interlocking in Morrison's The Bluest Eye (though a certain level of cause-effect relationships between these themes makes them less interlocking and more, I don't know, cause-effect related).
Perhaps this interlocking is what can make a political or social work of art truly great. To make insightful connections, and present them in a personalized, humanized way (nobody does this better than David Mura in Where the Body Meets Memory: an Odyssey of Race, Sexuality, and Identity, where Mura makes an incredible connection between his own sexual addiction and the Japanese internment camps).
I would suggest another sign of genius in the artist--the ability to interlock themes so closely that to discuss them separately is pointless.
In David Henry Hwang's M. Butterfly, Hwang explores the stereotype of submissiveness. When I teach this play, I write that on the board in capital letters: Stereotype of Submissiveness. It could be a simple theme, I suppose. In Hwang's skillful hands, though, it is extremely complicated. You cannot separate issues of sex, gender, race, culture, and nation from a discussion of this stereotype. Hwang develops the relationships between these topics tightly. You cannot in any meaningful way discuss one without the other. Hwang also uses his considerable skill to examine how art, culture, and fantasy contribute to this stereotype of submissiveness, and then shows the devestating effects.
You can't peel a theme away from others in M. Butterfly; Hwang too closely connects them.
I see similar interlocking in Morrison's The Bluest Eye (though a certain level of cause-effect relationships between these themes makes them less interlocking and more, I don't know, cause-effect related).
Perhaps this interlocking is what can make a political or social work of art truly great. To make insightful connections, and present them in a personalized, humanized way (nobody does this better than David Mura in Where the Body Meets Memory: an Odyssey of Race, Sexuality, and Identity, where Mura makes an incredible connection between his own sexual addiction and the Japanese internment camps).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
