Literature: Quid Est? (II)

Lately, I’ve been exploring the questions, what is literature? and what does it mean to study literature? There’s so much great stuff to think about.

Another thought-provoking angle comes from a 1994 TIME article “Hurrah for Dead White Males!” by Paul Gray. Gray addresses literary scholar and critic Harold Bloom’s ideas about the purpose of literature.

In his book The Western Canon, Bloom argues “All that the Western Canon can bring one is the proper use of one’s own solitude, that solitude whose final form is one’s confrontation with one’s own mortality.”

The article’s author suggests that “Such guidance was once the province of religion, and it is ultimately the religious experience that Bloom seeks in secular writing.” He quotes Bloom again: “Since I myself am partial to finding the voice of God in Shakespeare or Emerson or Freud, depending on my needs, I have no difficulty in finding Dante’s Comedy to be divine.”

The instinct to seek truth — or, as Bloom says, to seek  meaning and religious experience — in literature is, I think, somehow human. We are granted a glimpse of something bigger, grander, in truly powerful works of literature. (C.S. Lewis might have called it sehnsucht, fulfillment tinged with longing.)

Unfortunately, the nature of literary language (unlike the quality of mercy) is often strained between an attempt to mimic reality and an awareness that language is insufficient for even this task, let alone for describing Truth.

I am repeatedly brought back to the work of French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan and his theories of the Real. Lacan defines the Real as that for which we long, but which we can know only as the lack or gap we experience in the symbolic (language-mediated) world.

I wonder, then, if it is wiser to understand literature not as containing truth (which supposes truth to fit into the human mind and human language and would be a small truth indeed), but as pointing toward truth, truth being always just out of reach of explanation.

If so, it is a problem, unfortunately, that my blog is doomed to share.

Literature: Quid Est?

This weekend, a professor at my university is hosting a discussion group on literature and literary language. The prospect has gotten me thinking even more about literature as literature: what it is, and what it means to study it.

As I’ve read further, I encountered one thoughtful perspective from Andrew Kern of the CiRCE Institute. It starts with this post, What is Literature Anyway?. Kern asks,

“Are there any schools that self-consciously regard themselves as carriers of that tradition, who deliberately set aside the relative trivia of the modern curriulum, and who teach their children deeply to contemplate those few masterpieces that sustain civilization and nourish our souls?

What am I dreaming about? A school that teaches its students only a few books and teaches them how to read them with all their hearts and souls and minds and strength. They read them, they translate them, they discuss them, they imitate them, they write about them, they live in their wisdom.”

Here Kern addresses the question of canon and “Great Books,” about which I have mixed feelings.

To me, setting up a select few works as “great” literature involves claiming an absolute standard that is, in its relationship to literature, vague and imprecise. Like it or not, these definitions are also closely linked to systems of power, and focus almost exclusively on the literature of the western world.

It seems to me that if great literature is based on great truth, that truth will not emerge only in the West, or, to quote the cliche, in the writings of “dead white males.”

On the other hand, without some judgment of what is true and valuable, meaning becomes generic, nothing more than an arbitrary construct; and I find that conclusion no more satisfying than the first.

I wonder if there is a place for acknowledging the presence (and absence) of quality writing, truth, and beauty in literature without categorically eliminating works that range outside the traditional canon.

As usual, my next question is, if so, what would that look like?

Lots of food for thought here. More to come…

Doctor, Patient, Poetry

Being sick has very few advantages that I can name. Literary enthusiast that I am, I would not subject myself to illness simply to come upon insight about literature. However, it can happen.

Having been sick recently, I was reminded today how much of medicine is reliant on, first, self-diagnosis, and second, the communication between doctor and patient. As a result, the doctor’s role is far less different from a literary scholar’s than you might think.

The doctor can rely on certain objective (if all equipment functions and is used and interpreted correctly) measurements like weight, heart rate, lung sounds, blood pressure, and temperature. Similarly, literati can note (with some discrepancies) the meter, rhyme scheme, rhetorical devices, and shape of a poem.

After that, though, unless the diagnosis is serious enough to merit more tests, much of the examination is based on the patient’s response to questions:

• Are you in pain?
• How much pain?
• How often do you cough?
• Have you noticed improvement since you started the medication?
• Have you experienced any side effects?

Even I, a conscientious patient, notice the ambiguity in my conversations with the doctor. I ask clarifying questions, but I’m not always sure that we understand each other. I’m not sure if I’m describing my condition accurately or in the right terms.

Like it or not, some symptoms are subjective and not as “scientific” as medical personnel would like. It is the doctor’s job to take what I’m saying and try to translate that into what it means for my health. A poet does something similar, looking not simply at the words that are used, but how they relate to one another to produce meaning.

I am not making the argument that analyzing poetry is the same or as important as diagnosing illness. As much as I love literature, I go to see a doctor, not a scholar, when I’m sick.

What I am suggesting is that the broadest divide is one of knowledge, and to a lesser extent, purpose—not method. Both jobs require thoughtful consideration of words and the meanings they convey. Both require judgment skills. Both require the ability to synthesize individual pieces of information into a deeper understanding of the whole.

And in that respect, Pre-Med and English majors may have more in common than the initial diagnosis would indicate.

A Civic Crisis in Education

Science and math are the keys to global competitiveness.

Science and math are where the jobs are.

Science and math are…

Now you finish the sentence. I’m sure you’ve heard this line of thought before. As an avowed humanities scholar, I sometimes find it frustrating that my field of choice is ignored beyond its connotations for literacy and national standards of reading among young children. Once they can read, start them in science, where they can be useful.

That’s one (albeit selfish) reason I’ve chosen “Dehumanized: When math and science rule the school” from Judy Rabin, based on an article by Mark Souka, for the next ProfoundNet. Here’s a snippet:

[Mark Slouka] argues the emphasis on mathscience and the devaluing of the humanities by those who control education and write and talk about education in the general media have framed the discussion within the context of economic success and competition.

He asks the question, Why is every Crisis in American Education cast as an economic threat and never a civic one?

Take a look at any publication coming out of the department of education or from political pundits debating national standards, or pre-K education, or community colleges. You’ll see a theme: education recovery = economic recovery. Better schools = better economy.

This theme underscores what is, to me, a bigger problem in our way of thinking about education. From the original article by Souka:

It’s about the victory of whatever can be quantified over everything that can’t. It’s about the quiet retooling of American education into an adjunct of business, an instrument of production. [...] only by studying this world can we hope to shape how it shapes us; that only by attempting to understand what used to be called, in a less embarrassed age, “the human condition” can we hope to make our condition more human, not less.

Foremost in concerns about education are not the familiarity of individuals with the U.S. constitution, understanding of the  judicial system, or intelligent dialogue about foreign policy, scientific ethics, or personal responsibility.

Science and math are important, certainly. But such a single-minded focus comes with the risk of ignoring the civic, as well as economic, value of education.

Don’t forget: what made the United States different (or has set it apart) from its inception was the way its civic society, not its economic system, was established.

Thanks, Judy, for a thought-provoking post.

“The very spring and root of virtue and honesty lie in good education”
- Plutarch

Easy Button for the Bard

Bt w8, wuz dat lyt n d wndw ovr der?
Itz d east, n Juliet S d sun.

Shakespeare in Text-Speak.

That day has come.

Shakespeare in text-speak may be funny. It may be a clever nod to pop culture. It may be a reminder that 16th century language is no stranger than 21st century language. But it is not Shakespeare.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all in favor of new ways to get students interested in great literature.  And as I’ve written before, I thoroughly enjoy a good parody or clever application of new technology to literature.

I do…as long as the point is still to draw students in to the original literature, to spark interest and encourage them to delve deeper. You might start a prospective chef-in-training with a boxed cake mix, but you certainly don’t stop there.

The subtitle of the original article is, “Bard’s language poses challenge for teachers.” Though I agree with some of the article’s points, I have to ask, when did “challenge” become a dirty word?

Yes, the language is unfamiliar and can be difficult. Yes, Shakespeare wrote for performance, not reading (another false step in the way the Bard is often taught). But is it impossible for a ninth or tenth grader to understand Romeo and Juliet as written? No. Is it hard work? Yes.

The easy button has become a familiar icon since its appearance in commercials for Staples. Perhaps too familiar. Though we laugh at the ad, we also act as though its logic is true. In doing so, we forget that there is no easy button for learning.

In the midst of widespread emphasis on self-esteem and self-help, we treat students as if they are helpless and incapable of meeting high expectations.

The same problem holds true in other subjects, not just literature, but when Shakespeare is reduced to “bt w8, wuz dat lyt n d wndw ovr der,” the effects of reductionism in education become a little clearer.

Must be all the light coming in d wndw.

Literati versus the CEO

Last month, columnist David Brooks wrote an op-ed run by the Salt Lake Tribune called “Why people in literature, media, don’t understand business.” Unfortunately, the full text of the article is no longer available.

I’m a fan of Brooks’ writing, but the article bothered me a little. Brooks’ point was that the skills required of a CEO do not call for a well-rounded person, but rather someone with the ability to focus singly on the job.

He has a point. (The unwillingness of the literati to let go of the Oxford comma may also be a factor.)

This admission made me take a step back to reconsider my own views on the subject of literature and the workforce. I’ve always been a strong believer in the practical value of the liberal arts. But look where I am: working part time, getting ready to return to academia in pursuit of a job that will require me to divide my attention between those who love literature and those who just want to pass the class.

So is that it? Should academia and corporate America go their separate ways, each graciously conceding the theoretical significance of the other sector, but remaining largely disparate from it?

I have to say no.

At the risk of shooting myself in the foot, I’ll concede: reading Jane Eyre may do little for your day-to-day leadership skills. And yet learning has to start somewhere.

I was browing the Internet a few days ago when I found a blog post from the Acton Institute. The author begins by admitting, “I don’t read very fast.” He goes on:

…it’s amazing to me that with all the hope and change being discussed and voted on in Congress these days, that the laws being proposed and voted on — laws, some of which we can down load in massive pdf files — have been read and inwardly digested by the elected representatives who will vote on our behalf. [...] some of these proposed laws are over a thousand pages long.

He then asks the challenging question,

…how did the Founders manage to get a country going with a document we can still read over a cup of coffee?

More words doesn’t mean better ideas. It does, however, make mindlessness easier, particularly if one has little experience decoding complex texts.

Reading, like any other skill, requires practice. Critical thinking requires even more. In “An Examination Into the Leading Principles of the Federal Constitution” (1787), Noah Webster wrote this:

In the formation of our constitution the wisdom of all ages is collected–the legislators of antiquity are consulted, as well as the opinions and interests of the millions who are concerned. It short, it is an empire of reason.

David Brooks may be right when he concludes that today’s CEO does not need literature. He may be right that people in literature fail to understand business. (I’ll be the first to raise my hand.)

Perhaps, though, the problem lies in the fact that both sides need to redefine their priorities. For the literati, that may involve a descent from the ivory tower. For the CEOs, that may involve an occasional step away from the bottom line. I dare say both parties, myself included, would find themselves better off for the experience.

Cracking a Closed System

When you talk about literary study, a two-word phrase tends to surface: “closed system.” (See this archive). The speaker points out that scholarship in the humanities is a closed world, with academic idioms, academic questions, and academic parochialism.

Teachers trying to prevent digital technology from destroying the ability to think deeply need literature to be relevant. Those who pass through life without reading a book need good reasons why it is worth their time.

I believe it is our turn, the literati, to think deeply about why and how we study literature.

Considering languages, history, philosophy, literature, and fine arts used to be a corequisite with civic participation because both were limited to the gentry, those with leisure time. It was a privilege. Engaging the “big ideas” of civilization broadened the mind and was thought to produce wisdom – here’s the significant point – that could be used for the benefit of the whole society. 

Is it right, then, for literary study to be a closed system?

Is it inevitable?  

Before creating another blogosphere, in which quantity renders everything common, burying the exceptional among the mundane, we should consider a few more questions. What has been lost in other systems that became more open? What has been gained?

And at last, how do you go about cracking a closed system? 

These are some of the questions I plan to consider in the next few weeks. I hope you will pass along your ideas as well.

Literature for…Psychology

The community of famous literary characters (here’s one designation of the top 10 – incidentally written by a psychologist specializing in the arts) includes suicidal introverts, individuals disassociated from reality, incestuous fathers, and drug addicts. Most of them seem like prime candidates for the oft-stereotyped psychiatrist’s couch.

The gap between literary studies and psychology should be thin. And yet  in psychology, the study of books may be entertaining, but it does not begin to approach the utility of psychological studies and research papers. So how can the literati emphasize the crossover skills literature has to offer?

The simplest route is for students to anyalyze literary characters as if they were real people. Hamlet has been used (and, some could say, abused) in this role for decades: this page offers a good overview. But I think another route exists, a subtler and more realistic meeting point of the two disciplines. 

One of the most basic premises of a book report is that the student (a reader, an individual) will like or dislike the assigned book. What makes writing the judgment element of the paper so difficult is the need to give a reason.

• “Why did you hate reading Moby Dick and love reading Harry Potter? – they’re almost the same length!” 
• “Why did you sympathize with Hester Prynne and not with Roger Chillingworth?”
• “I thought you hated Brothers Karamazov!” … “I did – at first.”

In psychology (and communication studies), students learn to look beyond instinctive reactions to the triggers that cause or invite them.

A new way to approach literature would be to evaluate the motivators that inspire like or dislike on the part of readers.  One method would be to establish a scale for like/dislike (say 1-10, with one being strong dislike, 5 being apathy, and 10 being strong enjoyment).  At the end of each chapter, students would rate their impression of the book, without looking back to see previous rankings.

After finishing the book, students would look for chapters that marked turning points in their attitude toward the book, return to those chapters, and look for variables that changed – a new character, a shift in style, or the onset of action, for example. 

To make it more interesting, students could compare notes to see if any parts of the book inspired universal distaste or admiration among their classmates. Those sections would be excellent fodder for a discussion on shared preferences among people in the students’ demographics, or even on Jungian archetypes. 

As I have said in previous posts, if this topic swerves from traditional literary criticism, bear in mind that the skills or principles are the same, just framed in different vocabulary.  In order to learn the skills, the student may need to complete more traditional analysis of literature.  In order to instill the drive and enthusiasm, the teacher may need to be willing to speak in terms the student can appreciate.

Dust on Butterfly Wings

Literature has tremendous power to bring actual events to life in a creative and personal manner. Sometimes, however, a  visual dimension is also needed.

A metaphor about a fragile butterfly may give life to an invalid’s story, but it has far greater impact if you can see the delicate dust scales on a real butterfly’s wings.

For this reason, I’ve chosen The Butterfly Project, posted by blogger drpezz, for the next ProfoundNet. The project was a supplement for tenth graders studying the Holocaust. 

Each student is assigned a poem from the collection I Never Saw Another Butterfly, which was written by children living in a ghetto during the Holocaust. Students must create an artwork butterfly that represents the poet and the poem. The butterflies hang in the classroom, while students are assigned to memorize their poem.

On the recitation day, after each presentation, the teacher cuts down the student’s butterfly if the real child-poet died and leaves it hanging if the poet survived. Here’s a snippet:

After the first butterfly is cut down (and only 2-3 butterflies will remain, and not the first butterfly), the class goes silent as the students realize the gravity of what they just learned. The students have identified with their poet by the care of the butterflies’ creations and by the memorization of that child’s words. After all, our students are close in age to the poets. This can be a very moving experience, and I rarely escape the period without tears or, at a minimum, silence. 

The project comes from similar roots as the passports issued to visitors at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. Each passport contains a real person’s story and serves as the visitor’s identity during his or her visit. In the back of the passport, the visitor learns whether he or she ultimately survived the Holocaust.

Similarly, by giving students time to creatively identify with their character, the Butterfly Project gives a human face to what are otherwise chilling, but sometimes impersonal, statistics. 

Thanks, drpezz, for your thought-provoking post/project.

Literature for…Science

At the small liberal arts college I attended, we used to joke about the physical divide between the Arts and Humanities students and the Sciences students. The main street running through campus neatly separated the buildings. Trying to cross the “Dinkel Divide” was risky, especially during the morning and afternoon commutes.

Although other schools may not have the same physical representation of the divide, the sentiments tend to be similar. General education classes for the sciences major include the dreaded literature class, and many arts and humanities majors live in fear of natural and physical sciences requirements.

Not everyone shares this sense of mutual exclusion. The book Math and the Mona Lisa by Bulent Atalay is an interesting discourse rooted in the work of one of the most famous interdisciplinary scholars, Leonardo da Vinci.

Students may recognize the value of broad-based knowledge, or they may simply enjoy literature or science outside their choice of careers, but I think it is fair to say that many students and scholars on each side of the divide fail to see the applicability of study in the other discipline.

Because I am a staunch advocate of the liberal arts and the interconnectedness of all subjects (see the root meaning of the word “encyclopedia” - en-kyklo-paideia, or education in a circular manner), I like to think about ways that the study of literature could hone skills scientists could cross-apply to their own fields.

One possibility is the similarities between the scientific experiments designed by scientists and the social experiments designed by writers. Some novels, particularly those with a political or moral core, begin by asking the reader a question. The story is, in essence, the data of the experiment, from which readers must formulate their own conclusions.

Like characters in literature, facts in science – particularly in controversial areas – are subject to interpretation and manipulation.  Recognizing the craft of storytelling in literature is one way to learn, a) recognition of crafted arguments in science, and b) awareness that individuals can use data to support their own viewpoint.        

Robert Oppenheimer

As technology improves and moves forward at an ever-increasing rate, pure science and its applications can no longer be entirely separate.  (See Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle or the writings of Robert Oppenheimer for more thoughts on this subject).  

Ethical questions that scientists now face are, in their simplest forms, not new. Tampering with nature. Choosing one life over another. The greater good. Authors like Mary Shelley (Frankenstein) and N. Hawthorne (“The Birthmark“) dealt with these questions.  So have writers and thinkers all the way back to Hippocrates.  

As modern scientists are called more and more into the spotlight for ethical decision-making, it is important for them to consider the foundations of ethics, so that when a difficult quandary arises, they will have a basis for the choices they are required to make.  Literature is one way to open these valuable discussions.

So how can these crossover skills be emphasized?  

One way to make the ties between literature and science more apparent is to apply a scientific template to a literary product.  Students could take a novel like Frankenstein or Cat’s Cradle with a definite purpose or theme and write it up as a “lab report.”  With what question is the author concerned?  What is his/her hypothesis?  What data are provided by characters and events in the book?  What conclusions does the author want you to derive?  Do other data – history, science, other peoples’ life stories – support these conclusions?

As I said in a previous post, if this topic swerves from traditional literary criticism, bear in mind that the skills or principles are the same, just framed in different vocabulary.  In order to learn the skills, the student may need to complete more traditional analysis of literature.  In order to instill the drive and enthusiasm, the teacher may need to be willing to speak in terms the student can appreciate.

…Incidentally, science for English majors would be the subject for another post altogether, and one I am not qualified to pursue. I would love to hear the thoughts of those who are…