Politics and Literature
Jacob Russell writes: "Not that I believe for a second that literature and the arts are not in themselves, consequential--even primary to politics. But they cannot be so as Mandarin pursuits apart from the messy realities of power and its relations to everyday life."
This reminds me of something that I've tried to argue in the past: it's not that literature becomes politicized, but that politics underlies so much of how we approach literature.
In grad school, I took a course on Asian-American literature, and we very much took for granted that literature is political. During this time, I was reading William Wordsworth's "Nutting," describing an excursion tramping through the woods looking for nuts. How on earth is this a political poem?, I thought. Then I considered some questions one could ask about this poem. What political realities granted the poet access to the woods, and the leisure time to walk about in the woods? More pressing: what political realities lead professors to determine this poem belongs in any canon (in other words, that students should read it)? Why this poem instead of another? Suddenly there are political ramifications underlying my approach to Wordsworth's poem: politics in why I was reading it in the first place.
I don't suggest that one must ask these questions to read that or any other poem (though Wordsworth did occasionally touch on politics in his poetry--"The Prelude" includes his musings on the French Revolution and its aftermath). In fact, I think one would have a more authentic, meaningful experience reading the poem without those political questions. But it is good if somebody asks these questions. Whether you would like to ask these questions or not is up to you as a reader. But politics underlies the canon, and it is a good thing that people are asking the serious political questions about what the canon includes and excludes, and why.
Grammar, Clarity, and They/Their
English teachers should not teach and enforce grammar rules to be conservative sticklers of traditional usage; rather, English teachers should teach and enforce grammar rules to facilitate clarity.
The top priority of most writing (and all academic writing) should be clarity: one wishes to convey one's meaning as clearly as possible. Grammar is a (very small) part of clear writing: poor grammar can distort or confuse one's meaning.
I'm ready to accept the use of "they" or "their as a singular genderless pronoun on philosophical grounds. I don't like it, and I won't use it myself, but I'll tolerate it. Language evolves, and it's silly to resist change on one little grammar rule. However, in some contexts, the use of they/their as a singular pronoun can confuse the point. If a sentence has two separate nouns, and then later in the sentence they/their is used as a pronoun, it can be unclear whether the pronoun refers to both nouns or to only one (or which one).
On the grounds of clarity, I think I ought to encourage my students to maintain subject-pronoun agreement. It is not about nit-picking a clearly evolving grammar usage; it is about encouraging students to be as clear in their meaning as they can be.
Mostly Vegan
I'm in the early stages of working out precisely how I'm living for the next year (or more). While most days I am a fairly strict vegan, I am now also a "special occasions cheese eater." Those special occasions are rare: I ate pizza for my birthday, and in the summer, I foresee three special occasions: an important wedding, a trip to Boston (first real vacation in three years--I want to eat some cheese), and the Hazelweird Fantasy Football Draft.
Links (a few which will show how unabashedly low-brow I can be)
I thought Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle was an outstanding movie in its way; it was a silly comedy, but it was actually exploring something meaningful, too. I hope the next one is just as good: in The New York Times, Dennis Lim calls it a "stoner protest film."
Ona Bonfiglio in Common Dreams: "Peace activists are often accused of being naïve dreamers when it comes to dealing with conflict or dangerous enemies. So what is the alternative? Usually it’s to fight fire with fire (i.e., revenge and retaliation)."
An article in The Onion for fans of Back to the Future.
At New Scientist, read "24 myths and misconceptions" about Evolution.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Stupid Summer Project: The Betrayal
Jerry: Oh my God, this drawer is filled with Fruit Loops!
Elaine: So what?
Jerry: And milk.
Jerry: Well, everybody is a little cranky on their birthday.
George: Oh, it's a bad day. You got everybody over at your house, you're thinking, "These are my friends?"
Jerry: Every day is my birthday.
Comment: The backward episode works. Perhaps this was the furthest stretch of Seinfeld's post-modernism: the episode really only works if you're already aware of all the conventions of the sitcom in general and Seinfeld in particular. It's generally pretty funny, and they do a lot of things to take advantage of the gimmicky format. I like that they go back two years (Nina is explaining the internet, Susan is still alive) and 11 years (Jerry meets Kramer and says since they're neighbors they can share everything).
Elaine: So what?
Jerry: And milk.
Jerry: Well, everybody is a little cranky on their birthday.
George: Oh, it's a bad day. You got everybody over at your house, you're thinking, "These are my friends?"
Jerry: Every day is my birthday.
Comment: The backward episode works. Perhaps this was the furthest stretch of Seinfeld's post-modernism: the episode really only works if you're already aware of all the conventions of the sitcom in general and Seinfeld in particular. It's generally pretty funny, and they do a lot of things to take advantage of the gimmicky format. I like that they go back two years (Nina is explaining the internet, Susan is still alive) and 11 years (Jerry meets Kramer and says since they're neighbors they can share everything).
Friday, April 18, 2008
Literature as a game we choose to play
John Fowles sometimes talked about literature as a game. As an author, he would pretend his characters have freedom, but he knew it was a game, and that he was playing God, in control of everything that happens. I find Fowles an admirable writer in part because he invites readers in on the game. In The French Lieutenant's Woman, he injects himself in to talk about the writing and reading process, he becomes a physical character in the novel, and he manipulates the "ending" while talking explicitly about it. But Fowles is not pulling one over on the reader--rather, he's inviting the reader to recognize fiction as fiction. In The Aristos Fowles writes about different types of games: games in which the play itself is what matters, and games in which there is a goal (to win). If fiction is a game for Fowles, it's a game that exists for its own sake, and a game in which the writer pulls the reader over to his side.
I sometimes think of Fowles as a Reader-response writer: he requires his readers to think about how they read. And perhaps this game metaphor is useful in thinking about how we read. For example, when I read, I know the characters are not real. They don't exist: the author made them up. Yet I'm willing to play the game: while reading, I will happily pretend that the characters are real. I'm willing to assess their actions and consider their desires and motivations. I'm willing to get to know them, try to understand them. I might like them or dislike them. I know the characters don't exist, but I'm willing to play the fiction writer's game. Fiction is pretend. But as children we find it's fun to pretend: we play pretend all the time. As we grow, we can still be willing to play pretend. I'm not giving up my reason or my critical faculties when I pretend that the series of letters I see on the page identify real characters or events: I'm agreeing to play the game. It's a game with conventions, and there is generally a set of rules that both author and reader have agreed to. You can experience literature without agreeing to the rules of the game or even treating it like it's a game. But fiction is, indeed, a game of pretend.
I sometimes think of Fowles as a Reader-response writer: he requires his readers to think about how they read. And perhaps this game metaphor is useful in thinking about how we read. For example, when I read, I know the characters are not real. They don't exist: the author made them up. Yet I'm willing to play the game: while reading, I will happily pretend that the characters are real. I'm willing to assess their actions and consider their desires and motivations. I'm willing to get to know them, try to understand them. I might like them or dislike them. I know the characters don't exist, but I'm willing to play the fiction writer's game. Fiction is pretend. But as children we find it's fun to pretend: we play pretend all the time. As we grow, we can still be willing to play pretend. I'm not giving up my reason or my critical faculties when I pretend that the series of letters I see on the page identify real characters or events: I'm agreeing to play the game. It's a game with conventions, and there is generally a set of rules that both author and reader have agreed to. You can experience literature without agreeing to the rules of the game or even treating it like it's a game. But fiction is, indeed, a game of pretend.
Useful Comparisons
In teaching literature, I sometimes find it interesting to let different texts illuminate each other. I teach Hawthorne's "My Kinsman, Major Molineux" and Joyce Carol Oates' "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" on the same day. They are each initiation stories, showing a young, naive, inexperienced indivdual entering the world and being confronted with the bad stuff (danger, evil, the dark side, all that). Instead of looking at each short story individually, we look at them together. If there are significant similarities (Connie and Robin are rural, isolated individuals that encounter society--with all its dark parts--in town) and significant differences (Robin may grow from his recognition and be better off--Connie has no such luck), perhaps we can learn something about each text in particular.
In a wider sense, perhaps we can learn something about the subject at hand (here, initiation). I don't want my students to encounter these texts as artifacts that mean nothing to their lives. I want us to talk about initiation, how it is often good but sometimes bad, and how initiations can be either traumatic or positively transformative. Encountering literature can be itself a tranformative experience, forcing us to confront ourselves.
In a wider sense, perhaps we can learn something about the subject at hand (here, initiation). I don't want my students to encounter these texts as artifacts that mean nothing to their lives. I want us to talk about initiation, how it is often good but sometimes bad, and how initiations can be either traumatic or positively transformative. Encountering literature can be itself a tranformative experience, forcing us to confront ourselves.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sometimes we need to think about the things we take for granted to recognize the absurdity.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Downpour: mostly links and excerpts
Teaching the text
In my general education literature class, I tell students virtually nothing about the author, and virtually nothing about the time and culture the book was written in. There are some very reasonable exceptions, of course. For the most part, though, I figure we've got enough to deal with in the text itself, and for the objectives of the course, I really think the text is sufficient.
Mostly vegan: private vegan, social vegetarian
When I'm eating alone and planning my meals alone, I'm a fairly strict vegan (though sometimes honey is an ingredient in what I eat). When I'm with people, socializing and going to a restaurant, I don't really want to bother checking whether the veggie burger on a bun that I order contains animal products.
Recently a woman asked and I described myself as "mostly vegan." That clearly implies total vegetarianism, doesn't it? She said she was "basically vegan," and I of course understood that to mean a person that never eats meat. That's reasonable, right?
Is blogging in your office "unethical"?
Apparently it is "improper" to use university resources, including "work-place internet access," for "outside activities."
So is blogging in one's office, but on one's own time, unethical?
It's silly how superior NPR is to everything else on the radio
"Rising Demand for Meat Takes Toll on Environment"
I almost thought Renee Montagne was getting a little defensive: she seemed to be trying to get Naylor to say meat production wasn't that much worse for the environment than other types of mass food production.
"Justices Weigh Death Penalty for Child Rape"
Nina Totenberg:
"'This case is a throwback,' says Washington and Lee University professor David Bruck. 'The death penalty for rape was one of the most disturbing and troubling aspects of this nation's entire experience until the Supreme Court called a halt, we thought, in 1977.'
Harold Bloom in "Why Read?":
"It matters, if individuals are to retain any capacity to form their own judgments and opinions, that they continue to read for themselves. How they read, well or badly, and what they read, cannot depend wholly upon themselves, but why they read must be for and in their own interest. You can read merely to pass the time, or you can read with an overt urgency, but eventually you will read against the clock. Bible readers, those who search the Bible for themselves, perhaps exemplify the urgency more plainly than readers of Shakespeare, yet the quest is the same. One of the uses of reading is to prepare ourselves for change, and the final change alas is universal."
The Pope
Mary E. Hunt in "In the Papal Pocket: Benedict XVI and the Press":
"Press coverage of Pope Benedict XVI’s visit to the United States—his first as Pope—acts like a mirror reflecting the media’s complicated role in reporting religious news as a whole. [...] If the kind of coverage in 2005 that accompanied the death of Pope John Paul II, and the election of his successor, Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger (now Benedict XVI) is any indication, we can expect a great deal of air time and print space, very little if any critical analysis, and a lot of free press for the Roman Catholic Church."
See also
In The Guardian, Fred d'Agular writes about poetry and the Virginia Tech murders of a year ago: "the elegiac art of poetry, when faced with grief, makes marvellous things happen."
In Times Online, Margaret Reynolds discusses editions of classics.
Peter Singer on human rights, words, and moral progress (Common Dreams).
In my general education literature class, I tell students virtually nothing about the author, and virtually nothing about the time and culture the book was written in. There are some very reasonable exceptions, of course. For the most part, though, I figure we've got enough to deal with in the text itself, and for the objectives of the course, I really think the text is sufficient.
Mostly vegan: private vegan, social vegetarian
When I'm eating alone and planning my meals alone, I'm a fairly strict vegan (though sometimes honey is an ingredient in what I eat). When I'm with people, socializing and going to a restaurant, I don't really want to bother checking whether the veggie burger on a bun that I order contains animal products.
Recently a woman asked and I described myself as "mostly vegan." That clearly implies total vegetarianism, doesn't it? She said she was "basically vegan," and I of course understood that to mean a person that never eats meat. That's reasonable, right?
Is blogging in your office "unethical"?
Apparently it is "improper" to use university resources, including "work-place internet access," for "outside activities."
So is blogging in one's office, but on one's own time, unethical?
It's silly how superior NPR is to everything else on the radio
"Rising Demand for Meat Takes Toll on Environment"
I almost thought Renee Montagne was getting a little defensive: she seemed to be trying to get Naylor to say meat production wasn't that much worse for the environment than other types of mass food production.
"Justices Weigh Death Penalty for Child Rape"
Nina Totenberg:
"'This case is a throwback,' says Washington and Lee University professor David Bruck. 'The death penalty for rape was one of the most disturbing and troubling aspects of this nation's entire experience until the Supreme Court called a halt, we thought, in 1977.'
"Disturbing and troubling, he says, because it was almost exclusively imposed on African Americans.
"Indeed, from 1930 to 1972, basically the last years when the death penalty was imposed for rape, nine out of 10 men executed for rape were black. Moreover, it appears that no white man has ever been executed in the U.S. for the non-homicide rape of a black woman or child."
Reading as IndividualsHarold Bloom in "Why Read?":
"It matters, if individuals are to retain any capacity to form their own judgments and opinions, that they continue to read for themselves. How they read, well or badly, and what they read, cannot depend wholly upon themselves, but why they read must be for and in their own interest. You can read merely to pass the time, or you can read with an overt urgency, but eventually you will read against the clock. Bible readers, those who search the Bible for themselves, perhaps exemplify the urgency more plainly than readers of Shakespeare, yet the quest is the same. One of the uses of reading is to prepare ourselves for change, and the final change alas is universal."
The Pope
Mary E. Hunt in "In the Papal Pocket: Benedict XVI and the Press":
"Press coverage of Pope Benedict XVI’s visit to the United States—his first as Pope—acts like a mirror reflecting the media’s complicated role in reporting religious news as a whole. [...] If the kind of coverage in 2005 that accompanied the death of Pope John Paul II, and the election of his successor, Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger (now Benedict XVI) is any indication, we can expect a great deal of air time and print space, very little if any critical analysis, and a lot of free press for the Roman Catholic Church."
See also
In The Guardian, Fred d'Agular writes about poetry and the Virginia Tech murders of a year ago: "the elegiac art of poetry, when faced with grief, makes marvellous things happen."
In Times Online, Margaret Reynolds discusses editions of classics.
Peter Singer on human rights, words, and moral progress (Common Dreams).
Monday, April 14, 2008
Arrested Development: my favorite sitcom ever
Yes, I believe Arrested Development tops Seinfeld as my favorite sitcom ever. I'm re-watching season two and laughing out loud regularly.
What's so great? The eccentric characters (G.O.B. Bluth and Tobias Fumke are the best), the running gags ("Her?"), Michael Bluth's facial expressions (Jason Batemen has several great shocked and appalled looks), the continuous incest jokes, the tone and pacing (the death of the sitcom laugh track was long overdue), and a whole lot more.
Ah, but it's all really about tastes. We all respond to different comedic styles differently: I can only call Arrested Development my favorite, not the greatest, sitcom. What makes one laugh cannot always be so easily quantified, and thus shouldn't really be ranked in any way but by individual tastes.
What's so great? The eccentric characters (G.O.B. Bluth and Tobias Fumke are the best), the running gags ("Her?"), Michael Bluth's facial expressions (Jason Batemen has several great shocked and appalled looks), the continuous incest jokes, the tone and pacing (the death of the sitcom laugh track was long overdue), and a whole lot more.
Ah, but it's all really about tastes. We all respond to different comedic styles differently: I can only call Arrested Development my favorite, not the greatest, sitcom. What makes one laugh cannot always be so easily quantified, and thus shouldn't really be ranked in any way but by individual tastes.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Living and Ideas
Elizabeth Day reviewing Carole Seymour-Jones's A Dangerous Liason (a biography of Sartre and de Beauvoir) in The Guardian:
"As a dual biography of two of the 20th century's most towering philosophical minds, it elucidates the interplay between their intellectual thought and their personal interactions. Much of Seymour-Jones's work centres on the poisonous frictions between the two."
"As a dual biography of two of the 20th century's most towering philosophical minds, it elucidates the interplay between their intellectual thought and their personal interactions. Much of Seymour-Jones's work centres on the poisonous frictions between the two."
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Watching, Reading, and the Aesthetic
I like plot. When I watch a TV show or a movie, I want something to be happening. There are two genres from which I don't demand plot; because horror and comedy attempt to elicit a specific audience reaction (fear or laughter), whether these genres use plot or not to elicit this reaction doesn't matter to me as much as whether or not they do in fact elicit the intended reaction. But generally, if I'm spending time watching something, I would like some sort of story.
But this post isn't about plot; when I'm watching, I don't just want plot. I have a very keen appreciation for the beautiful image. In visual art and entertainment, the aesthetic means a great deal to me. In film and television, what sticks in my memory are not necessarily the ideas, but the aesthetic of the work. I remember the sounds--the music and the way actors speak. I remember the way characters move or hold themselves (when I think of The Sopranos, I see Tony brooding about. I often associate other characters with their visual representations: Janice's distinct plodding walk, or the way Johnny Sac holds and smokes a cigarette, or Silvio's hunched shoulders. Ah, and the sounds! In The Sopranos all of the characters have such unique, distinct voices and speech patterns: when I think of Christopher, of Paulie, of Silvio, of Dr. Melfi, of Uncle Junior, what will stick out to me is the way they talk). In all I watch, I remember the movements of the camera, the way the frame captures the action, the color and movement and tone. Catching parts of Peter Jackson's King Kong on TNT this weekend, I'm struck not just by how much that movie captures beautiful images, but how much that movie is about capturing beautiful images.
Do I read differently than I watch? Perhaps, since I've said for a long time I read for ideas. One of my favorite films is Moulin Rouge, not for any great ideas, but precisely because of the brilliant aesthetic: the music, the movement, the colors, the constantly shifting camera, the distinct speech patterns, the dancing, the gorgeous sets, the costumes, the actors, the beauty of it all. It is the aesthetic of the Red Curtain Trilogy that has enthralled me, not any ideas.
But perhaps it is worth pointing out that while I read for ideas, I am most certainly also reading for aesthetic. When I reject Aestheticism for myself, it is a rejection of "art for art's sake" and a primary or total focus on the aesthetic at the expense of the content. But I most certainly appreciate and recognize the aesthetic originality and power in literature.
Now here's an odd shift: I'm not sure how I read different types of writing differently. I'm not sure my mind is operating differently whether I'm reading literature (poetry, drama, or fiction), history, theology, philosophy, criticism, essays, any remotely serious writing: I'm not entirely sure there's a difference in the way I read.
Ah, but indeed there seem to be different ways my mind is working that I'm not even consciously registering. Actually, I feel rather different when I'm reading a play: it is somehow seems distinct from any other type of writing, and I think I am examining it in a different way (for one thing, my mind is picturing it both on a stage and in a "real" setting that I might picture from reading a novel). I think too I read a poem differently than a novel; in fact, I'm sure I do. And so too must there be a difference in the way I read anything else. But what I'm saying is that I'm not sure what that difference is, and that the similarities in the way I approach any form of serious writing may be greater than the differences. Maybe.
And again I come to Reader-response. I recognize what I respond to in film/television (plot and the aesthetic of sight and sound). Perhaps I ought to become more conscious of precisely how I am reading what I read. I say I read for ideas, but I certainly consider the aesthetic: I don't ignore one for the other. But is the relationship between ideas and the aesthetic in my reading completely understood to me? Just what is it I love about Ted Hughes' Crow so much? If I really had to define it, I'd probably say it is some of my favorite poetry because of the aesthetic, not for any ideas that may be pulled out of these myth-like poems (or is it neither, but rather entertainment? The poems are quite amusing). I respond to Ted Hughes in a way that transcends content and probably resides somewhere in the aesthetic. And even when it is the content I respond to, how would I divorce it from the work's aesthetic? I adore Paradise Lost. I love the content and I love the ideas. But I also love the imagery Milton conjures. I love his poetry. I could spend a long time analyzing and discussing his art in the epic poem. It's a poem beautifully structured and containing many beautiful lines of poetry. It's a poem so rich in both art and content that I rather think it transcends any meaningful separation between the art and the ideas.
So I do in fact read different things differently. My brain pictures different things while I read drama. I respond to poetry in ways that I might not respond to other types of writing. Perhaps what I should say is that when I read history or philosophy or theology, I'm not reading those things that differently from the way I read literature. I've a rather big interest in both history and theology, yet I was an English major and now I'm an English teacher: I started with literature, and I've taken my modes of reading for literature to other types of writing, not vice versa. I might also recognize that in all of my reading, I'm reading for my personal education. At some level, I am reading to learn and to grow, no matter what I'm reading. Perhaps this is another reason that while I do appreciate the aesthetic of literature, I don't accept Aestheticism: I do approach literature for such things as education and edification, concepts that, if I understand it correctly, Aestheticism would reject as morality that doesn't belong in art.
This exploration (navel gazing, certainly, but I hope to a larger purpose) is an attempt to understand the manner in which I watch and read. Harold Bloom wrote a book called How to Read and Why; as a blogger about literature, perhaps my subtitle should be "How I read and why." But blogging about literature probably always contains that as a subtext: it's a rather personal, intimate medium in which to discuss experience with literature.
But this post isn't about plot; when I'm watching, I don't just want plot. I have a very keen appreciation for the beautiful image. In visual art and entertainment, the aesthetic means a great deal to me. In film and television, what sticks in my memory are not necessarily the ideas, but the aesthetic of the work. I remember the sounds--the music and the way actors speak. I remember the way characters move or hold themselves (when I think of The Sopranos, I see Tony brooding about. I often associate other characters with their visual representations: Janice's distinct plodding walk, or the way Johnny Sac holds and smokes a cigarette, or Silvio's hunched shoulders. Ah, and the sounds! In The Sopranos all of the characters have such unique, distinct voices and speech patterns: when I think of Christopher, of Paulie, of Silvio, of Dr. Melfi, of Uncle Junior, what will stick out to me is the way they talk). In all I watch, I remember the movements of the camera, the way the frame captures the action, the color and movement and tone. Catching parts of Peter Jackson's King Kong on TNT this weekend, I'm struck not just by how much that movie captures beautiful images, but how much that movie is about capturing beautiful images.
Do I read differently than I watch? Perhaps, since I've said for a long time I read for ideas. One of my favorite films is Moulin Rouge, not for any great ideas, but precisely because of the brilliant aesthetic: the music, the movement, the colors, the constantly shifting camera, the distinct speech patterns, the dancing, the gorgeous sets, the costumes, the actors, the beauty of it all. It is the aesthetic of the Red Curtain Trilogy that has enthralled me, not any ideas.
But perhaps it is worth pointing out that while I read for ideas, I am most certainly also reading for aesthetic. When I reject Aestheticism for myself, it is a rejection of "art for art's sake" and a primary or total focus on the aesthetic at the expense of the content. But I most certainly appreciate and recognize the aesthetic originality and power in literature.
Now here's an odd shift: I'm not sure how I read different types of writing differently. I'm not sure my mind is operating differently whether I'm reading literature (poetry, drama, or fiction), history, theology, philosophy, criticism, essays, any remotely serious writing: I'm not entirely sure there's a difference in the way I read.
Ah, but indeed there seem to be different ways my mind is working that I'm not even consciously registering. Actually, I feel rather different when I'm reading a play: it is somehow seems distinct from any other type of writing, and I think I am examining it in a different way (for one thing, my mind is picturing it both on a stage and in a "real" setting that I might picture from reading a novel). I think too I read a poem differently than a novel; in fact, I'm sure I do. And so too must there be a difference in the way I read anything else. But what I'm saying is that I'm not sure what that difference is, and that the similarities in the way I approach any form of serious writing may be greater than the differences. Maybe.
And again I come to Reader-response. I recognize what I respond to in film/television (plot and the aesthetic of sight and sound). Perhaps I ought to become more conscious of precisely how I am reading what I read. I say I read for ideas, but I certainly consider the aesthetic: I don't ignore one for the other. But is the relationship between ideas and the aesthetic in my reading completely understood to me? Just what is it I love about Ted Hughes' Crow so much? If I really had to define it, I'd probably say it is some of my favorite poetry because of the aesthetic, not for any ideas that may be pulled out of these myth-like poems (or is it neither, but rather entertainment? The poems are quite amusing). I respond to Ted Hughes in a way that transcends content and probably resides somewhere in the aesthetic. And even when it is the content I respond to, how would I divorce it from the work's aesthetic? I adore Paradise Lost. I love the content and I love the ideas. But I also love the imagery Milton conjures. I love his poetry. I could spend a long time analyzing and discussing his art in the epic poem. It's a poem beautifully structured and containing many beautiful lines of poetry. It's a poem so rich in both art and content that I rather think it transcends any meaningful separation between the art and the ideas.
So I do in fact read different things differently. My brain pictures different things while I read drama. I respond to poetry in ways that I might not respond to other types of writing. Perhaps what I should say is that when I read history or philosophy or theology, I'm not reading those things that differently from the way I read literature. I've a rather big interest in both history and theology, yet I was an English major and now I'm an English teacher: I started with literature, and I've taken my modes of reading for literature to other types of writing, not vice versa. I might also recognize that in all of my reading, I'm reading for my personal education. At some level, I am reading to learn and to grow, no matter what I'm reading. Perhaps this is another reason that while I do appreciate the aesthetic of literature, I don't accept Aestheticism: I do approach literature for such things as education and edification, concepts that, if I understand it correctly, Aestheticism would reject as morality that doesn't belong in art.
This exploration (navel gazing, certainly, but I hope to a larger purpose) is an attempt to understand the manner in which I watch and read. Harold Bloom wrote a book called How to Read and Why; as a blogger about literature, perhaps my subtitle should be "How I read and why." But blogging about literature probably always contains that as a subtext: it's a rather personal, intimate medium in which to discuss experience with literature.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Little Downpour
On Reader-Response
Let me pull out my thesis from the post (and enjoyable discussion) below. My assertion is that as reading is such a distinctly individual activity, we should accept differing, subjective modes of reading. We do not all read for the same reasons or in the same way, and that's a good thing. Our reading experience should be for ourselves, so each person should read in the way that is most authentic to him/her. Furthermore, multiplicity of reading perspectives brings greater understanding of a given work: coming at a work from several different approaches, and then sharing what we've found, makes literary discussion more enriching than if we all used the same approach.
I read for ideas: I assert that not to claim that's the way people ought to read, but to recognize my own mode of reading. I do not assert that there is a "proper" or "true" way for every single person to read. When we read, we need not be limited by any approach; we can choose how to approach the work in an authentic way.
Plagiarism
I don't deal with cheating terribly often; I think I make my paper assignments distinct and specific enough that it's difficult for students to try find a paper that suits the assignment. The much more prevalent problem I face is unintentional plagiarism: students that don't intentionally pass of another's work as their own, but do a shoddy, inadequate, incomplete job of citing their sources.
What's frustrating about catching intentional plagiarism is the work it adds as a professor. In order to fully follow the university's policy on plagiarism, there is all sorts of extra work I need to do. The student tries to avoid doing the work of writing a paper, and for that I get to do extra work. It's like Dr. Farthing says: "What I don't understand is... when you owe a bookie a lot of money, and he, say, blows off one of your toes, you still owe him the money. Doesn't seem fair to me." Wait--it's not really like that. Except the last part. Actually, here's a better metaphor. Last night my son woke up and wouldn't sleep: I was awake with him for an hour and a half. Now, today, if he wants he can nap as long as he's able. But I still have to go to work and can't get back that hour and a half of lost sleep. Of course he's also not getting a zero on the assignment and a note in his permanent record.
The Wire
I'm five episodes into season one of The Wire, and while I recognize it as a good show, I'm a long way off from understanding why a fairly large number of people call it the greatest show (or one of the greatest shows) ever.
Let me pull out my thesis from the post (and enjoyable discussion) below. My assertion is that as reading is such a distinctly individual activity, we should accept differing, subjective modes of reading. We do not all read for the same reasons or in the same way, and that's a good thing. Our reading experience should be for ourselves, so each person should read in the way that is most authentic to him/her. Furthermore, multiplicity of reading perspectives brings greater understanding of a given work: coming at a work from several different approaches, and then sharing what we've found, makes literary discussion more enriching than if we all used the same approach.
I read for ideas: I assert that not to claim that's the way people ought to read, but to recognize my own mode of reading. I do not assert that there is a "proper" or "true" way for every single person to read. When we read, we need not be limited by any approach; we can choose how to approach the work in an authentic way.
Plagiarism
I don't deal with cheating terribly often; I think I make my paper assignments distinct and specific enough that it's difficult for students to try find a paper that suits the assignment. The much more prevalent problem I face is unintentional plagiarism: students that don't intentionally pass of another's work as their own, but do a shoddy, inadequate, incomplete job of citing their sources.
What's frustrating about catching intentional plagiarism is the work it adds as a professor. In order to fully follow the university's policy on plagiarism, there is all sorts of extra work I need to do. The student tries to avoid doing the work of writing a paper, and for that I get to do extra work. It's like Dr. Farthing says: "What I don't understand is... when you owe a bookie a lot of money, and he, say, blows off one of your toes, you still owe him the money. Doesn't seem fair to me." Wait--it's not really like that. Except the last part. Actually, here's a better metaphor. Last night my son woke up and wouldn't sleep: I was awake with him for an hour and a half. Now, today, if he wants he can nap as long as he's able. But I still have to go to work and can't get back that hour and a half of lost sleep. Of course he's also not getting a zero on the assignment and a note in his permanent record.
The Wire
I'm five episodes into season one of The Wire, and while I recognize it as a good show, I'm a long way off from understanding why a fairly large number of people call it the greatest show (or one of the greatest shows) ever.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Reader-Response and Moral Reading
Reader-response Theory discusses reading in terms of "experience," "transaction," or "relationship." It also recognizes the role the reader brings to the text: as a work of literature barely exists outside the mind of the reader, it is worthwhile to examine the reader's participation. It is perhaps the most honest way to read: it doesn't pretend at the objective analysis that other critical approaches may. It requires me to understand that the way I read is but one mode of reading.
Reader-response Theory also recognizes the impact of reading. While it may focus on what the reader brings to the text, it also does not treat the text as an artifact, sealed in a vacuum. Reader-response Theory fully embraces the reality that the text brings something to the reader. We can be deeply, fundamentally changed by what we read.
We might also recognize the morality a reader brings to the reading experience. I am not an Aestheticist: my interest in literature is not to treat the work of literature as an aesthetic creation devoid of moral meaning. I read as a moral being, and I explore art for its moral meaning. That does not mean attaching the author's morality to the text, as Daniel Green recognizes one shouldn't, but exploring moral meaning in the text. Whatever personal failings a writer has does not detract from my reading of that writer's work (though as I'm writing here of the legitimacy of subjective modes of reading, who am I to say another reader must ignore the author's life?).
My most prominent ethical realities are in my embrace of pacifism and my advocacy for animal rights (I was initially going to call them ethical "stances," but they are not mere poses; they are very deep ways of living and thinking that infuse my everyday life). As a reader, I cannot put those ethics aside (that doesn't mean I can't develop an interpretation separate from those ethics--my point here is the reading experience). As I read Golding's Lord of the Flies, a story which explores human nature and violence, I certainly read it as a pacifist. It would be stupid to think I could set aside my opposition to violence while reading the story.
Reader-response Theory also recognizes the impact of reading. While it may focus on what the reader brings to the text, it also does not treat the text as an artifact, sealed in a vacuum. Reader-response Theory fully embraces the reality that the text brings something to the reader. We can be deeply, fundamentally changed by what we read.
We might also recognize the morality a reader brings to the reading experience. I am not an Aestheticist: my interest in literature is not to treat the work of literature as an aesthetic creation devoid of moral meaning. I read as a moral being, and I explore art for its moral meaning. That does not mean attaching the author's morality to the text, as Daniel Green recognizes one shouldn't, but exploring moral meaning in the text. Whatever personal failings a writer has does not detract from my reading of that writer's work (though as I'm writing here of the legitimacy of subjective modes of reading, who am I to say another reader must ignore the author's life?).
My most prominent ethical realities are in my embrace of pacifism and my advocacy for animal rights (I was initially going to call them ethical "stances," but they are not mere poses; they are very deep ways of living and thinking that infuse my everyday life). As a reader, I cannot put those ethics aside (that doesn't mean I can't develop an interpretation separate from those ethics--my point here is the reading experience). As I read Golding's Lord of the Flies, a story which explores human nature and violence, I certainly read it as a pacifist. It would be stupid to think I could set aside my opposition to violence while reading the story.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
When we think about the things we say about War
There is one common argument used to continue the war in Iraq that, when we consider it, it is both obvious and absurd.
The argument goes that we must keep fighting in Iraq because military generals, soldiers, and veterans believe we should continue to fight in Iraq.
But think about it carefully. This argument suggests we should continue the war because:
People who have embraced military values wish to continue the war.
People who are trained to wage war wish to continue the war.
People who have put their belief in violent solutions into practice wish to continue the war.
People who wage war for a career wish to continue to the war.
When you think about it, isn't that a bit obvious? This argument is always self-justifying: it suggests a behavior should be continued because those who believe in and devote their lives to that behavior wish it to continue.
Should we continue a war because people who choose to serve in the military wish to continue a war?
Should we continue a war because those who accept violence as a means wish to continue a war?
If your best argument for waging war is that those who wage war for a living say we should, you may want to reconsider your logic.
The argument goes that we must keep fighting in Iraq because military generals, soldiers, and veterans believe we should continue to fight in Iraq.
But think about it carefully. This argument suggests we should continue the war because:
People who have embraced military values wish to continue the war.
People who are trained to wage war wish to continue the war.
People who have put their belief in violent solutions into practice wish to continue the war.
People who wage war for a career wish to continue to the war.
When you think about it, isn't that a bit obvious? This argument is always self-justifying: it suggests a behavior should be continued because those who believe in and devote their lives to that behavior wish it to continue.
Should we continue a war because people who choose to serve in the military wish to continue a war?
Should we continue a war because those who accept violence as a means wish to continue a war?
If your best argument for waging war is that those who wage war for a living say we should, you may want to reconsider your logic.
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