Monty Python, Garter Snakes, and Edward Said

Last night my dad and I rented and watched Monty Python's "The Life of Brian." Irreverent and bordering sacrilege, the film's parody of Jerusalem at the time of Christ made us shake our heads in disapproval while launching us into knee-slapping laughter. Perhaps the characters most relevant to Said's study of Orientalism are the members of the Jewish Liberation Front, a Hebrew terrorist organization incapacitated by indecision that eventually hails Brian as a martyr instead of rescuing him from crucifixion.

After last night's amusement, my dad tuned into NPR's "Car Talk" this morning. One of the callers told the hosts how his son had brought a garter snake into the car as a prank, and now the snake eluded capture by slithering from the back seat to the dashboard. This snake managed to make appearances at the most inopportune moments, making excursions up the driver's pants while waiting in traffic. The hosts jokingly suggested that the caller procure an oboe and attempt to charm the snake out of its hiding place.

These experiences illustrate the easy dissemenation of stereotypes in today's "electronic, postmodern world" that influences Westerners' views of Asians, particularly Middle Easterners. The Monty Python episode generates particular interest. Major events that have unfolded in the past eight years-- the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the subsequent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq-- have both exposed the Middle Eastern terrorist to the American consciousness and continued to spread general distrust and stereotypes about Arabs. I think that these perceptions and attitudes could not have had the same potency without the influence of the media-- namely television, newspapers, and the Internet. Obviously, our political interests in the Middle East have skyrocketed, and this has not failed to interact with our culture's constructs.

I think most of us would scoff at those who would lament the supposed political incorrectness of the snake charmer comment. After all, we've seen videos on YouTube of this performance and can vouch for its authenticity, right? However, I think that we associate this innocuous image with a general perception of the Middle East as someplace exotic, dangerous, and even seductive. We connect the snake charmer's music with veiled belly dancers and harems . . . and the list goes on. Although these ideas may have some distant basis in truth, they are nevertheless exaggerations that manage to infiltrate our thinking as Westerners.

Edward Said also mentions the fact that the West has used these images as justification for imperialism. I easily accept this statement, especially in light of 19th century English literature and the swelling of the British Empire that occurred under Queen Victoria. However, I would have to do some honest soul-searching before I could admit that the United States has continued to use these images to defend recent policy. While the images have changed but have also persisted since Victorian England, I would have to disagree with those who say that our (perhaps failed?) occupation of Iraq was motivated out of racist ideologies. Nobody's arguing that the war wasn't somehow political, though, and I can admit that the invasion was motivated by national superiority, if we define that as liberty, confidence in democracy, and a desire to prevent terrorist attacks. I could continue to analyze this further, but I'd be here for the next week.

In any case, Said's text definitely opened my eyes to the connections between literature's portrayal of characters and situations and the justification of political and economic interests in the Middle East and other colonized countries, both past and present.

Pandora's Box: Gender and De[con]struction

I found Judith Butler's "Gender Trouble" difficult to read for several reasons.

First, her tone, diction, and style made her language extremely esoteric. When I read passages of her text to my mother, she responded that Butler could have said the same thing in fewer, more accessible words. I tend to agree with her. I understood Butler's meanings, but I feel that she has put on the verbal trappings of an elite academic, and while this may appear to give her authority, it in fact contradicts the fundamentals of her message that repeat "performances" create hegemony and authority. Nevertheless, she intended this work to be political, and although it would not reach the average voter, her thoughts about gender construction have seeped down through the academic hierarchy to popular culture. The effects of this filtering have caused unhealthy societal turmoil-- and dare I say human pain and destruction-- since she first published this text.

As I completed this excerpt, I couldn't help but consider the frightening implications of her logic. Her text obviously descended from Derridean thinking and terminology, as I saw evidence of deconstruction throughout her work. On the surface, I find deconstruction fascinating and even plausible, but I oppose the idea that deconstruction proves the nonexistence of metaphysics, primarily because of my relationship with God. This issue of metaphysics and Butler's justification of "alternative lifestyles" scares me not because I hate homosexuals or because of her work's density but because the heart of her argument could justify any number of behaviors. What's to keep rapists, murderers, and slave traders from applying Butler's deconstruction of Otherness to their own situations? Since she supposedly has exposed regulations as fictions, there remains no distinction by which to judge ethical behavior.

Derrida's House of Mirrors

I must admit that I am exceedingly proud of myself for having finished this excerpt from "Of Grammatology." At the same time, I must confess that I had first attempted to read Lacan-- unsuccessfully. So I suppose this qualifies my triumph. Ha.

In any case, I found Derrida challenging but also fascinating. I had an elementary understanding of deconstruction, and it proved helpful as I navigated his text. His theory tears apart the concept of "logocentrism," which includes not only words but also reason and central truths. I found his arguments and illustrations clever, and I thought his wordplay was entertaining, to say the least.

However, from my perspective, portions of his text-- especially his justifications-- seemed linked together with non sequitors. I simply couldn't understand in some cases how the beginning of the paragraph was linked to Derrida's conclusion at its end. It's very possible that I didn't entirely understand his description, but it's also possible that his reasons for defending deconstruction are false.

When Derrida goes about his deconstruction, he reveals what he calls "an abyss," a hall of endless mirrors, "an indefinitely multiplied structure." He then states that this scenario demonstrates how the text (and I suppose reality, if he believes in it) reveals the nonexistence of metaphysics, including truth.

I could see from whom postmodernism inherited its dislike of metanarratives and its declaration that truth does not exist.

Now here is my question: How does Derrida distinguish between those "central truths" which he claims do not exist and the truth of what he's explaining on these pages? Have I failed to see an invisible line here? To state that metaphysics have deconstructed-- or that they do not exist-- contradicts one's statement. If one claims that truth does not exist, then he or she is claiming a truth. Honestly, I am curious about the diehard deconstructionists' objection to this.

In addition, I had expected various elements of popular postmodernism to appear somewhere in Derrida's text, and their absence surprised me. I anticipated some kind of overlap between his work and the works of Mikhail Bakhtin. Instead, Derrida focuses on looking into the text to see how it deconstructs its surface meaning. He does not even consider outside voices, and he has little concern for the metaphysics of multiple social voices. In other words, no semblances of heteroglossia exist for Derrida.

Perhaps I'm a heretic, but I thought Derrida's exclusive focus on the text, its multiple iterations of substitions, and its ability to undermine metaphysics more closely resembled the Formalists, namely Wimsatt and Beardsley. Derrida does not focus on the author, and he does not focus on the reader. It seems to me that deconstruction is the logical continuation of the Formalists' thought, not necessarily an anti-modernism.

Hearing Voices

Alan Jacobs' portrayal of Mikhail Bakhtin so impressed me that I decided to read an excerpt from Discourse in the Novel. In it, Bakhtin discusses the flaws of other modern readings of the novel. He accuses other theorists of looking at the novel as a one-sided composition with only stylistic features and a plot. He contends instead that the novel's language and content interact in dialogue with outside social voices-- heteroglossia. This heteroglossia-- which comes from professional, social, literary, and genre-related contexts-- creates and influences the text, even as the text influences the sources that shaped it. According to Bakhtin, the language of the novel is a bundle of both centripetal and centrifugal forces, both directing the interpreter away from the written text and holding the novel together as a unified whole.

After I had taken time to understand Bakhtin's theory, I found his ideas fascinating. I must admit that I also enjoy the ability to look back and compare his ideas with those of his predecessors, his contemporaries, and his successors.

Bakhtin's method of interpreting the novel certainly seems more plausible than that of the Formalists, who appear to take language out of its fuller context by proclaiming the affective and intentional fallacies. However, Bakhtin's emphasis on the influence of outside voices upon a text does resemble T.S. Eliot's belief that tradition and experience are necessary ingredients present in the creation of new literature. Although Bakhtin lambastes the Russian formalists, I think he could find common ground with them if he tried, assuming their theories parallel those of Eliot.

Perhaps my earlier exposure to postmodern literary theory explains why the thought that novels reflect and are shaped by multiple, perhaps conflicting voices does not startle me. Bakhtin's concept of heteroglossia appears decades before American and French critics began studying the existence of intertextuality, and his idea that the text and its outside influences "create" each other seems virtually identical to the tenets of postmodernism. I don't see how Bakhtin's ideas could have escaped the eyes of the more recent poststructuralist and postmodern theorists.

I did disagree with Bakhtin's assertion that poetry does not partake in heteroglossia, however. Some aspects of his argument against the presence of "alien discourse" within poetry seemed feasible, but I think his exclusion is reductive. I wonder about the cultural connotations that collide in the world of bilingual Mexican-American poetry, since the language of this sub-genre can display a multiplicity of social and chronological voices. My disagreement extends into the universal sphere of poetry. Don't social pressures and other outside voices influence poets as well as authors? The idea that the poet only uses the untainted language inside him or her seems presumptuous and misinformed. I would like to see Bakhtin offer concrete evidence pointing to the socially independent nature of the poet's internal language. He writes that "the poet, should he not accept the given literary language, will sooner resort to the artificial creation of a new language specifically for peotry [rather] than to the exploitation of actual available social dialects." I wonder what Bakhtin thought of Wordsworth and other Romantics, who did reject the literary language of the day in favor of "actual available social dialects." Although Coleridge contends that Wordsworth's poetry is not identical to spoken prose, the English Romantic movement revolved around writing in the language of the commoner-- plain, simple, and unadorned. Bakhtin blames the absence of heteroglossia from poetry on the existence of rhythm. I found this assertion weak since the presence of rhythmic structure doesn't automatically sift through the poet's mind and throw out language shaped by outside social voices. Wouldn't the words that fit into the established rhythmic pattern flow from the poet's mind, which doesn't function in a social vacuum?

Despite my objections, I still value Bakhtin's insights, and I can testify to his influence in the world of modern literary criticism. His theory of heteroglossia has opened doors-- even if the language used to describe it exists in the midst of others' voices.

How Can Ethnic Literature Adapt?

Dr. Powers' essay "Reading Ethnic Literature Now" deals with America's decreasing literacy and its affect on the study of ethnic literature. He opened my eyes to some of the lesser-known ripple effects of a culture that no longer values reading.

I don't believe that our culture's decreased interest in reading is necessarily irreversible. Although we have endangered "good" literature-- works from both the established, traditional canon and the newer ethnic canons-- decisive action on the part of both the private and the public sectors could renew the public's interest and participation in literacy.

However, assuming that those in power and everyday citizens won't take steps to protect the future of books, I think we will continue to see the growth of the television and the Internet's monopoly on the dissemination of information and aesthetic judgments. This doesn't necessarily mean that old literary classics and the seminal works of ethnic literature will completely disappear from the popular memory. I think it is very possible that some (perhaps only a few) will reappear in abbreviated adaptations or as allusions. Although these snippets might reach a wider audience than a paperback, I believe our culture's growing impatience and overwhelming materialism will ultimately reduce these masterpieces to mere shadows.

Another challenge to ethnic literature's future concerns socioeconomic class and the lack of educational opportunity. The majority of American ethnic literature flows from the "minority" experience, and, on a national level, many minorities continue to experience economic hardship. I question the likelihood that students whose minds suffer as a result of failing inner city schools and other poverty-related circumstances would be able-- or even willing-- to read James Baldwin or Toni Morrison, much less become authors themselves. I believe that many of these authors write because they want to edify their communities and shed light on ethnic identity, but, tragically, a substantial portion of their intended audiences can't receive their messages. Instead, the students who do read ethnic literature have educational and often economic privilege as members of the middle- to upper-middle classes. While I am thankful for the opportunity to read Alice Walker and Richard Rodriguez and I can see how my education has benefited from that exposure, I can't help but feel frustrated and angry for those high school students from Chicago's South Side, North Philadelphia, and East Los Angeles.

Erasing Myself

In keeping with Bakhtin's model of the engaged reader, I found myself interacting with Dr. Power's objections against Alan Jacobs' "Hermeneutics of Love."

I had not realized that Jacobs furthers the argument for male patriarchy by rejecting Adrienne Rich in favor of stronger male voices, such as those of Auden and Kierkegaard. I also had not noticed the implications in Jacobs' preference of Tompkins, who sees women as redeeming men as opposed to leaving men out of the equation. However, part of me has to agree with Jacobs when he says that Adrienne Rich, the quixotic reader, conforms her view of Emily Dickinson to herself and consequently misses some of the richness that this author has to offer. This is why I agree with Jacobs that Tompkins is the more charitable reader.

Dr. Power's accusation that Jacobs has attempted to "erase the reader and the reader's prerogatives before the text in the face of the author's greater authority and reality" leads me to make a remote connection between Formalism and poststructuralism. Obviously, Jacobs advocates for something completely different, but his alleged "death of the reader" reminds me of streams of criticism that renounce the author. The trend towards killing the author has frustrated proponents of ethnic and postcolonial literature as these authors have struggled for a voice, only to be told that they do not matter.

However, I disagree with Powers' basic reading of Jacobs, especially when he describes Jacobs' charitable reader as erasing himself. When I read Jacobs' article, I noticed that he did not advocate the annihilation of the author. He writes that "kenosis in the sense of self-evacuation or self-annihilation is forbidden by the Bakhtinian understanding of love" (107). Jacobs favors Bakhtin and cites his works over and over again, and he makes a point of voicing his distrust of Dostoevsky, who holds to the self-annihilation theory. Instead, he advocates self-renunciation, an action I see as distinct from self-erasure.

In my opinion, Powers' proposed "loving reading" does not contradict Bakhtin and Jacobs. In fact, its celebration of the undying, growing discourse resembles Jacobs' work. Jacobs cites Bakhtin: "Nothing is absolutely dead: every meaning will have its homecoming festival" (96). I associate this quote with not only eschatology but the resurrection, which I consider a type of transfiguration. Therefore, I think that Jacobs would agree with Powers' statement that "the goal of love is transfiguration, not repetition." In addition, Powers' model of the charitable reader who expands upon the author's work fits into Bakhtin's theory of heteroglossia since it makes room for multiple, related interpretations that interact with and shed light on a larger truth.

In Search of a Charitable Reading

Alan Jacobs' thoughts in "The Hermeneutics of Love" stimulated and refreshed my mind by offering a contemporary, Christ-oriented commentary on types of criticism. I could definitely pick out the aspects of his theory that seemed to align themselves with Christianity, and I enjoyed his ability to use well-known literary critics as examples.

Jacobs does an excellent job of presenting the theories of Mikhail Bakhtin. I had no idea that this theorist-- whom I had noticed in our anthology's table of contents-- had such an interest in Christianity. I found myself tempted to absorb everything he said because I was so enthralled with his ideas. However, this attitude is exactly what Bakhtin denounces as unethical. By swallowing his theories whole and unquestioningly, I would prove that I had not truly applied this critic's contributions.

I have several questions or points of contention for both Alan Jacobs and Mikhail Bakhtin. My first concern deals with the issue of eschatological community which the two critics celebrate. They seem to see the ideal interpretation as a "homecoming" when polyphonous voices will come together and form a larger, inclusive truth. Jacobs condemns exclusion under these assumptions and sees this framework as making room for those who are otherwise seen as outsiders within the context of certain texts. My question concerns the difference between "differentiation," which Jacobs sees as legitimate, and "exclusion." Is there such an interpretation that is completely irrelevant to the larger picture? If so, where are those boundaries? If Bakhtin and Jacobs are willing to accept any interpretation in the name of heteroglossia, I would become quite worried. Not only does this attitude bring about problems in the realm of literary theory by abolishing the need for and the authority of criticism, but such beliefs have shown their their true nature by causing strife and heartache within the Church, as seen in the crises occurring in many of our mainline Protestant denominations. If, however, Bakhtin and Jacobs merely celebrate the diversity of "tested" viewpoints while maintaining the need for discernment, I gladly endorse their theory. Not only does such a theory evoke a warm emotional response in me, but I see precedent for it within the Scriptures and in Christian tradition.

My second question concerns the issue of self-renunciation. What does Bakhtin mean by this? And how do we practice self-renunciation while we read? I understood this to mean that we should attempt to see the subject at hand from the perspective of the author, giving him or her the benefit of the doubt without blindly accepting everything they offer. Jacobs links self-renunciation to unconditional love, so I interpret this to mean that we should expound energy and dedication as readers and critics in an attempt to understand without fearing that the author would not reciprocate.

In addition, Bakhtin and Jacobs alerted me of the possibility that I could be guilty of reading without interacting with the text. Have I become a lazy, passive reader? If the author truly desires that readers interact with and critique his or her text, have I fulfilled those wishes? I must admit that when I read works of fiction for my literature courses, I tend not to question the ideas and forms presented. Wanting to complete the reading assignment as quickly as possible in order to move on to the next task, I seldom take time outside of class discussion to "seek the vice." I confess that this habit has left me bored and disillusioned. Perhaps forming a critical response in my mind would make my assignments more interesting, and I wouldn't feel as though I had a case of intellectual bulimia. I could restore the meaning and purpose that has often been lacking in my reading.

Finally, these chapters make me pause and question whether the reading of non-Biblical texts is a "theologically significant activity." If reading holds no theological significance, Jacobs states that all his theorizing is useless. After pondering this question, I must say that I believe that reading is theologically relevant because it concerns the shaping of one's heart and mind. God has given us our minds so that we might exercise them and use them for His glory, and secular, substantial reading accomplishes this. Furthermore, our reading forms our sense of values and can illuminate the good that remains in human nature as a result of God's creation of us in His image. For these reasons, I believe that Alan Jacobs' work was not in vain.

Standing Up for Poetry

How often have we heard people say, "I don't like poetry. I don't get it-- why does it have to be so obscure?" Evidently, this response has existed for centuries, and Giovanni Boccaccio testifies to this. However, most people would rather read a newspaper filled with articles about current events or flip through a fashion magazine while waiting in line at the supermarket. Poetry, however, has a more select audience.

Does poetry's select audience make it a genre for snobs? While appreciating poetry requires effort and education, I do not see it as a genre for the academically elite. Not all poetry requires the explication skill of an English major. I think of Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, and Ogden Nash. The average fourteen-year-old can come away with at least an elementary understanding of their most famous works.

Our culture does not celebrate philosophers-- at least not philosophers in the traditional sense-- to the extent of Renaissance Italy. However, like Boccaccio, I see today's philosophers as the academic elite. While the poets seem to belong to the people, the philosophers reign in their marble halls and only speak to a select group of carefully selected scholars. Furthermore, some academics-- for example, Barbara Christian-- have accused the philosophically-oriented literary critics of attempting to destroy poetry by emphasizing discourse over imagination.

Some things haven't changed in the past seven hundred years.

Boccaccio seems to think that poets are the true, fervid philosophers, and he says that poetry "veils truth in a fair and fitting garment of fiction." Isn't this what English majors have known all along? I remember in Medieval-Renaissance Literature how Professor Smith said that English majors do the same thing as philosophy majors, except that they have more fun. The philosophy majors can keep their pretentious titles. We both understand and can better communicate the same profound truths. After all, what is the point of possessing knowledge if you can't successfully share it?

Boccaccio also elevates the status of the poet to that of a high priest who proclaims the truth of the Almighty God. The poet uses his (or her) gifts of imagination and word-weaving and becomes a kind of benevolent sorcerer, "bringing forth strange and unheard-of creations of the mind." I find in Boccaccio's description the portrait of an individual who is a cross between the Old Testament prophet and the Romantic poet.

This brings me to consider several other facets of Boccaccio's argument. First, secular poetry can be inspired by God, who does not limit His glory to the biblical texts. I see this as a breakthrough heralding the beginning of the Renaissance sacred humanist movement. Second, Boccaccio's ideas seem to have indirectly influenced 18th century Romantic writers such as Wordsworth and Coleridge. While his concept of the sublime remains fixed in the object itself-- as opposed to the Kantian sublime-- his connection of poetry to emotional fervor is revolutionary and ahead of his time. He also sees poetry as stemming from "the creations of the mind," or the imagination. This is another view commonly associated with the Romantic movement.

Despite Boccaccio's ability to anticipate movements centuries into the future, portions of his definition of poetry remain rooted in the Middle Ages and would certainly be seen as antiquated by today's standards. He deems the knowledge of rhetoric, logic, grammar, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy necessary for the production of excellent poetry. Our contemporary conception of poetry has been shaped by the Romantic movement's emphasis on "the language of the common man," the use of everyday subjects, and the power of the imagination and emotion. We don't see the need for logical training beyond knowledge of basic grammar and spelling, and I believe that if we insisted that poets study mathematics and astronomy before being allowed to write, we would see their passion and inspiration squelched simply because most poets love the humanities, not the sciences.

Antiquated residue notwithstanding, Boccaccio gives the foundation to contemporary views of poetry and philosophy. His ideas have survived the centuries' changes and remain ingrained in society's mind.

Dante's Timeless Insight

Dante Alighieri's explanation of different types of exposition remains relevant and perceptive even today, as we enter the 21st century. He explains four different senses by which a literary work-- specifically, the Bible-- can be understood: the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical. I had never heard of the fourth word before, but he nevertheless defines and gives examples of each type of interpretation.

Obviously, the literal interpretation is the surface meaning of a text, whereas the allegorical is "a truth hidden beneath a beautiful fiction," representing real-life situations and characters. The moral sense is didactic, and the anagogical sense concerns the supernatural and the spiritual, or the reader's relationship with God.

Dante calls this kind of multi-faceted reading polysemous. I saw his analysis as more in line with contemporary thought concerning reading than the theories of Augustine, and, consequently, I could better apply his theory to my own reading.

I also believe that Dante's theories have influenced today's orthodox readings of Scripture. I'm sure that the majority of evangelical laypersons would not recognize that their theology of biblical explication has its roots in 14th century Italy, but the fact remains that Dante's emphasis on understanding the literal meaning of Scripture prior to forming hermeneutical interpretations is still recognized as authoritative. I distinctly remember my youth director teaching this principle to our youth group when I was a sophomore in high school, and I still keep his notes from that meeting in my Bible. I have found this theory useful time and time again in my own study of Scripture.

However, I must consider two more ideas concerning Dante's influential theory. Dante seems to focus exclusively on sacred texts or texts inspired by Scripture. I wonder whether all the elements of his definition of a polysemous reading can be applied to so-called secular fiction. For me, this raises issues of the author's intention (which the Formalists would call a fallacy). Perhaps the author told his or her story with the sole purpose of entertainment. If this is the case, would it be fair-- or even relevant-- to apply an allegorical, moral, or anagogical reading? Certainly many authors' writings demonstrate profound truths about humanity, intended or not, but I question the ability to anagogically analyze these works. I fear that if I attempted this, I would come up with a perverted or contorted view of God, an outlook not in keeping with Scripture. In other words, I would see my impositions of representation as a "stretch."

I also think that Dante's theory of interpretation is exclusively scholastic, not meditative. This surprises me because he takes poetic license in his most famous work, The Divine Comedy. This is hardly an academic work. Furthermore, Dante seems to see meditative readings of Scripture
as illegitimate. I find this fascinating in light of the supposed prevalence of the medieval practice of lectio divina, which contrasts against Dante's proposed objective disinterest. Dante appears dismiss mystical readings, which are more dependent on experience and emotion than on reason and exposition. I can hardly rule these out as illegitimate, since I value the dynamics of one's relationship with God.

All things considered, I still find Dante's thoughts useful and enduring. His theory definitely stimulates discussion and leaves room for practical application.

My Acquaintance with Augustine and Aquinas

I had looked forward to this moment all semester and eagerly anticipated reading the words of two of the great doctors of the Church, hoping that their ideas might prove enlightening to me, a modern-day Christian reader.

I have to admit that I didn't exactly find what I had expected-- at least not immediately. However, a few of the passages appealed to me and gave me cause to ponder their significance.

St. Augustine makes a very interesting connection between the Trinity, the Word (logos-- Christ incarnate) and the words which humans use. Augustine writes that "there can be no work unless the word precedes," and he links this to the presence of the Word of God (by whom all things are made) and the existence of creatures. I interpret this to mean that the idea represented in language exists regardless of the existence of the word that describes it.

Augustine does not doubt the authority of the word to describe the preexisting idea. He calls the possibility of a disjunct or faulty connection between language and meaning a lie. This makes me believe that he is a complete literalist, since it appears that he doesn't allow for any sort of figurative language in this equation. After reading in the introduction about Derrida's interest in Augustine's work, I can see how this simplistic view of language would give the poststructuralists fits. Isn't poststructuralism and postmodernism in general amused by wordplay and the ability of language to undermine itself? I intend to read Derrida in order to get his perspective on this dilemma.

As much as I admire St. Augustine's role in the formation of orthodox Christianity, I can't say that I completely agree with all of his ventures into literary theory. Perhaps I should applaud him anyway because of his handicap of having lived in an age devoid of the following centuries' theories. Perhaps I'm being pretentious.

However, St. Thomas Aquinas' logical arguments concerning Scripture, metaphor, and multiple meanings better satisfied my expectations. Because I value poetry and the mystical, his ability to see the beauty of metaphor as a gift from God to be used for His glory resonated deep within my soul. Aquinas believes metaphors demonstrate truth about God and the world by veiling the actual essence of a thing in order to make it understood and appreciated by people. In my opinion, these thoughts resemble Platonic or Emersonian theory, except that they have been consecrated to God. I can then agree with C.S. Lewis in his assertion that even pagan philosophy possesses an element of truth. Furthermore, I see Aquinas' ideas as aligning with Jesus' example of parables. If God can partake in this activity, why can't we? After all, beneath this storytelling lies an enduring Truth.

bell hooks: How Postmodernism Serves [My] Race

Unlike Barbara Smith, bell hooks seems to have reconciled her race with postmodernism. She makes apologies for its rejection of essentialism, dismissing the problems that Smith raises as "not really intervening in the discourse in a way that alters and transforms." The ease with which she throws out this contention makes me question whether she has fully examined all the ramifications of this tenet of postmodernism.

Instead, she sees the rejection of essentialism as positive for the black experience since it breaks down the implicit rules that occur in various sectors of the African-American population. In other words, she believes postmodernism breaks down the walls that go up when African-Americans view other African-Americans as "not black enough" or "whacko extremists."

I'm an outsider to this discourse concerning postmodernism and blackness, but I can attest to the fact that African-Americans sometimes have condescending attitudes about other African-Americans. I also think that a prevailing-- yet faulty-- idea of "black essence" exists in the minds of both the African-American community and in other racial groups. This essentialism is formed from outside, often stereotypical pressures as well as the inside pull towards conformity.

Many whites-- and other racial groups-- have at least some of these stereotypical, prejudiced assumptions about blackness:

1. They live in the 'hood. The 'hood is dangerous and undesirable.
2. They speak a weird, incorrect form of English. This shows their lack of intelligence and their refusal to take education seriously.
3. They like hip-hop. Hip-hop is bad because it's sexual and violent.
4. They belong to Pentecostal, storefront churches. This proves that they are easily swayed by their emotions and can't reason.
5. They are good at basketball. That's the only honest way they'll succeed in life.
6. They don't do well in school because they're dumb.
7. They have an attitude. This makes them intimidating and unruly.
8. They dislike-- if not hate-- whites. This means they're dangerous.
9. They commit crimes and belong to gangs. This also means they're dangerous.
10. They eat soul food: fried chicken, grits, ribs, greens, cornbread, and red velvet cake. An unbalanced diet explains their tendency to become overweight.

I agree with bell hooks when she says that postmodernism will help break apart stereotypes. I personally hope that it will help to end the tendency among other groups to label African-Americans. Obviously, this problem is detrimental to both groups. It harms the African-American community because it provides the fuel that maintains oppression, and it deprives other racial groups of meaningful relationships in addition their dignity and goodness.
(However, "true" postmodernism rejects the metanarrative of good and evil. This causes obvious issues in the realm of race relations.)

I think urban blacks and political activists sometimes accuse other African-Americans of "selling out" if they use proper grammar, wear "white" clothes, listen to classical music, or study ballet. These divisions only cause conflicts within the African-American community, and bell hooks seems to lament this. I agree with her when she states that postmodernism will theoretically help break down these artificial divisions.

bell hooks gives a thoughtful critique of postmodern academia's tendency towards inaction. From what I have seen, postmodernism often leads to self-centeredness and a deficiency of motivation and conviction. I respect bell hook's work in the African-American community and her view that engagement puts theory into practice. Again, however, I believe the conviction needed for activism can't coexist with a truly postmodern viewpoint. I think it is possible to adopt some of the products of postmodernism (inclusiveness, tolerance in the traditional sense, questioning of authority, etc.) without becoming a postmodernist.

Poststructuralism on Trial

At fifteen, I made an unnerving discovery.

I was living in a postmodern world.

I remember trying to share the Gospel with a friend who had already left for a tiny liberal arts college in New England. This friend responded by telling me that if Christianity was my reality, that was fine. But it wasn't her reality, and what was "right" for me wasn't necessarily right for her. Her lukewarm words made me feel deflated, but they did not cool my passion for evangelism. As a consequence of this exchange, I began investigating postmodernism and its main tenets. I assumed that if I could understand the current cultural and academic trends, I would be better equipped to share my faith. I was right. My rudimentary, teenage investigation has stood the test of time, providing a decent foundation for my subsequent, academically-oriented studies and giving me the tools to construct-- no pun intended-- a Christian response to postmodernism and poststructuralism.

Unlike some ardent apologists, I don't waste a considerable amount of energy condemning postmodernism. Sometimes I'm able to make use of its more mainstream manifestations and its vocabulary.

However, I don't agree with the core postmodern / poststructuralist ideology because it has the potential to eliminate the world's sense of ethics. Furthermore, it is self-contradictory. After reading "The Race for Theory," I think that Barbara Christian would resonate with my sentiments.

Christian brings up the point that poststructuralist discourse is itself a metanarrative. She sees it as oppressive and stringent, accomplishing the very thing that it seeks to eradicate. I had never looked at postmodernism's self-contradictions from the perspective of language. Christian also opened my eyes to the secular critique of poststructuralism. Before reading her remarks, I thought that all major, secular critics and academics adhered to postmodern theory. Obviously, I was wrong.

Barbara Christian critiques poststructuralism from her unique situatedness as a female, African-American intellectual. One of her main points of contention concerns the poststructuralist's murdering of the author. She states that powerful white intellectuals conceived of this concept right as the narratives of people of color began to surface, suggesting that the newly-discovered "death of the author" wasn't a coincidence. I'm not sure that her theory is true-- I would need more information. But her complaint that poststructuralist theory steals power from the authors who have fought for empowerment seems absolutely valid and legitimate.

Christian's commentary makes me consider the ramifications of white privilege within the world of criticism. The likes of Derrida, Lacan, and Barthes can enjoy the luxury of playing with theory and droning that metanarratives and authors do not exist. For them, it is only literary criticism-- a game that has no effect on them personally as white males. Those who have been disenfranchised-- with the exception of white females such as Cixous-- can't afford to toy with poststructuralist theory because it takes away their very rights and souls as humans yearning for justice.

Unfortunately, I found Christian's response to poststructuralism disappointing. She advocates a different approach to every work, essentially fulfilling the aim of the theory she seeks to abandon by rejecting all metanarratives, including poststructuralism. She's more postmodern that the poststructuralists! She also falls into their fallacy by denying metanarratives. Her conclusion places her right where she started.

As a result of reading Barbara Christian's critique, I have further reason to believe that postmodernism and poststructuralism will not continue to reign in academia indefinitely. Eventually intellectuals will see these problems and reject this movement. I pray that after poststructuralism dies they will embrace an honest, true ideology, an ideology would draw them closer to Christ.

They're Not Abolishing English

When I first turned to "On the Abolition of the English Department," I was prepared to staunchly oppose what would be presented. I remained somewhat defensive until I realized that, in the words of the introduction, the Kenyan professors were advocating an "expansionist" policy. They weren't nearly as radical as I had expected.

I had expected that the Kenyan professors would throw out all English-language literature with the exception of Negritude, Afro-Caribbean, and African literature. Instead, I found that the proposed changes within the University of Nairobi's English (or Literature) Department served to put English national literature in perspective in light of the students' identities as Kenyans. This actually made quite a bit of sense to me. After all, it's their country. Why shouldn't they celebrate their culture and heritage?

The inclusion of African oral literature fascinated me. I learned that the oral tradition-- specifically, the folk tale-- incorporates song. So far, I've found that this is unique to Africa, and I really respect it. I think the closest thing to the African folk tale that we have in our culture is opera and musicals, but both of these genres are considered music-related, not literature-related.

I also found it interesting that the revised departmental syllabi would include the literature of other European countries such as Germany, Russia, and France. Again, I would have previously expected that the department would eliminate all study of European literature out of (justified) resentment. The inclusion of these countries' literature makes sense because it would give students a better-rounded and better-informed knowledge of the world and its cultures without compromising the study of Kenyan literature.

I wonder whether similar changes will eventually occur within the wider American university system. I am currently investigating numerous graduate programs in English, and most of the schools that I'm considering have exclusively "English" departments. These schools include Rice, University of Texas, UCLA, UC-Berkeley, and UC-Santa Barbara. However, UC-San Diego is notable in its rejection of the strictly "English" department. They offer a broad Literature degree which encompasses Asian, African, American, Commonwealth, and European literature in addition to the standard English literature. I originally dismissed this innovation as a result of politically-correct multiculturalism, and I still don't know whether I would apply to UCSD because their broad focus may not allow for intense study in British literature and general literary criticism-- where I would like to focus my studies. However, this article about the University of Nairobi's proposed transformation has caused me to become more open-minded and to respect UCSD's decision.

Langston Hughes and the Negro Artist

I must admit that as I consider Langston Hughes' admonition to African-Americans in the 1920s, I feel a little out of place. First of all, I am not black. I have never known anything other than white privilege. Secondly, I don't understand the cultural and social milieu of the Jazz Age. I come from the world of the early 21st century, post-Civil Rights Era, post-Black Panthers. While all is far from perfect, our nation is now coming to the realization that we may have an African-American president in another six months.

However, for what my opinion is worth, I will offer my reflections.

Langston Hughes favors the black lower class, which he sees as more authentically Negro (to use his term). If I put myself in his position, I can understand his frustration about middle- and upper-class African-Americans. I can see why he would see the "white" culture that has consumed these families as bland or stifling. (Mind you, I don't see my culture as boring or tasteless, but I respect the opinions of others, even if I disagree with them.)

However, I question Hughes' description of poor blacks. Perhaps they have maintained their authenticity, but I thought his portrayal of their lives was glamorized. He seems to think that these people have a more easygoing lifestyle-- he pictures them breaking into song and dance for every occasion. I wonder whether the black lower class was comparatively better off in the 1920s than today. If their financial position was no better than at present, I would accuse Hughes of viewing life through rose-colored glasses.

When I spent a semester in North Philadelphia, my classmates and I would walk through the neighborhood every week to get to the community center where we were volunteering. I didn't see anyone singing, and nobody was dancing in the streets. I saw rowhouses crumbling and vacant lots filled with trash. I remember one block where only one shabby house was left standing. There were no grocery stores, no parks. The ineffective public school system had become notorious for violence against teachers, and many children were at least a year behind acceptable reading levels. The neighborhood was plagued by gangs, drugs, and gun violence. We didn't dare walk down the side streets after dark.

After studying the information that the Census Bureau had collected concerning our neighborhood, we found that many times multiple families lived in one dwelling. Most of the men who were of marrying age-- or had fathered babies-- were either dead, imprisoned, or delinquent. This left scores of unmarried young women raising families, wandering from one boyfriend to the next. Very few families had health insurance, and we learned that many mothers waited until their children's illnesses had become so severe that they had to go to the emergency room because they could not pay to see a family practitioner. Because of these stressful financial issues, education took second place to basic survival. Only some men and women had attained high school degrees. Very few had completed college.

I find it hard to believe that our neighbors in North Philly would have approved of Hughes' description of the lower class. In my estimation, with the exception of the tenacious inner-city church, today's African-American communities inspire very little joyful singing. I only hear angry, disenchanted hip-hop.

Out of the Verbal Straight-jacket

Jane Tompkins' "Me and My Shadow" was exactly what I needed to hear.

Dr. Tompkins begins her essay by confessing that she gained professional clout at the expense of her emotional life. I can echo her concerns because I often feel as though a division exists between my personal life and my academic persona. Although I have grown comfortable inside a classroom and in academic discussions, I can't stay in that realm for an extended period of time without compromising my sanity. That facet of my life isn't altogether natural. It requires sustained effort on my part.

Tompkins advocates a combination of the personal and the professional, the emotional and the academic. As a woman, I find this liberating, since I often feel as though I stuff my emotions when in the classroom. For me, academics can be very exciting, and I'd like the freedom to express those feelings in my work. Essentially, Tompkins believes that language should express that personal involvement, emotionally affecting not only the author but also the reader. I see using this new language as an act of service, since all clear, relevant writing does the reader a favor.

Because she legitimizes "the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion," Tompkins sounds as though she has been influenced by the Romantics. She also mimics her Romantic predecessors by preferring the plain language of the common people over the elevated prose of the strictly rational and the "ruling class." Just as in 1798, Tompkins brings about a democratization of language as she tears down the hierarchy between the scholarly and the everyday. Unlike the stilted diction and syntax of many intellectuals, Tompkins' proposed language allows the author's authentic voice to speak. Tompkins' ideas bring me great comfort and hope: I can be myself, even as a scholar and critic.

I don't think that the acceptance of emotion into our intellectual writing necessarily signals a shift against rationality, however. As I mentioned above, the discoveries that occur when we do research and write criticism often trigger emotion, and it makes sense to incorporate the two. For that reason, I think that the attacks on Tompkins' theory are illegitimate. We aren't forfeiting anything.

However, I am concerned that some scholars will read Tompkins' essay and see it as a license for narcissism. There is a fine line between incorporating one's feelings and experiences into scholarly writing and annoying your readers with your apparent self-centeredness. I think some contemporary scholars and professors inadvertantly slip into this habit. Instead of engaging their readers as they intended, they end up alienating them. The student closes the book or leaves the lecture hall in disgust, thinking, "She's so full of herself." In these cases, I think that professors need to reexamine their priorities and their teaching methods and perhaps focus less on their own personal reactions, allowing the students to voice their own responses to the work. This is especially important for Christian professors because (theoretically) they should be servant-minded. I do like the way that Tompkins' essay parallels the Christian worldview by voicing the need for "out-going, outflowing, giving feelings" in the world of scholarship. I agree with her when she says that there is no room for "an intellectual performance." This other-centeredness should apply to the Christian campus as well as the secular university.

I am a Madwoman

I first met Gilbert and Gubar in our First Year Intro to English Studies class, and I remember thinking how ridiculous their ideas seemed. Weren't they exaggerating just a bit? After all, I had never experienced oppression because of my sex. Not to my knowledge.

Now that I have read excerpts of their seminal work, "The Madwoman in the Attic," I find myself more hesitant to dismiss their ideas. Their concept of "anxiety of authorship" especially fascinates me.

As I read the first several sentences of their explanation of this phrase, I thought of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the Biographia Literaria. Coleridge distinguishes between the primary and the secondary imagination, stating that the primary imagination belongs to all who take hold of creative ideas generated by experiences of the sublime. The secondary imagination concerns the ability to bring this vision into fruition by actually creating a work based on those ideas. Coleridge's secondary imagination eventually fails him, and he is reduced to plagiarism. I can commiserate with him, not because I plagiarize, but because I often feel the frustration of "writer's block."

However, Gilbert and Gubar go beyond the idea of literary constipation by developing the concept that women writers hesitate because of they fear creating a work inferior to the masterpieces of their male predecessors. They fear not being good enough for posterity, and they believe they can't write as well as Shakespeare or Keats.

I ask myself if this fear has kept me from writing, and I have to admit that it has prevented me from valuing my work. I consider myself just another unremarkable college poet, lacking in ability. Milton had a gift for lyricism. I do not. Therefore, I have not ventured into the realm of poetry for a long time.

Gilbert and Gubar state that the female poet is either isolated or destroyed, and they cite the words of Margaret Atwood: "You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man . . . Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance." Since I haven't actually worked up the nerve to dance, I can't say that I have metaphorically had my feet chopped off. However, I can identify with the anxiety associated with having to choose between love and literary endeavors. While my current genre of writing is not labeled "creative writing," I consider my undergraduate work as a student critic and researcher just as rewarding and creative. I could see myself as a professor someday, writing books and submitting papers to conferences, but I fear that if I choose this career path, I will never find a husband. It is my opinion that many otherwise "good" men do not want their marriage to be labeled as "Mister and Dr. So-and-So." A well-educated woman can be intimidating, but I suppose the men who are intimidated are not worth marrying anyway. Nevertheless, I fear that I will end up marrying academia and feeling frustrated and lonely. Or becoming disgustingly self-centered. Moreover, I could find myself judged or excluded from certain intellectual and social circles because I am a woman.

I found that Gilbert and Gubar's observations were especially relevant to me as an upperclassman-- or upperclasswoman, if you will. While they aggravated some of my deep-seated fears, at the close of the essay I had been enlightened concerning my circumstances, and I felt as though my emotions had been validated.

Kolodny's Aesthetic Fallacy

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Annette Kolodny's essay "Dancing Through the Minefield." She opened my eyes to the discrimination against female writers that has occurred as scholars have defined the literary canon. I resonated with her frustration, and I appreciated her thoughts.

However, her ideas concerning aesthetic merit troubled me. At various points in her essay, she sounds as though she has aligned herself with Barbara Hernstein Smith, who argues that aesthetics are a mere matter of taste. Kolodny also quotes Robert Scholes, who states that "there is no single 'right' reading for any complex literary work.'"

If Kolodny believes that any interpretation of a text is acceptable, what makes her feminist reading legitimate or worth believing? I have to wonder whether this perspective undermines the feminists'-- or even the pluralists'-- cause. If Scholes is speaking the truth, what right does Kolodny have to convince her readers that women should be included in the literary canon? What right does she have to even write an essay and strengthen her argument? Why shouldn't we maintain sexist readings of texts and dismiss her ideas? Finally, if Kolodny adheres to Scholes, I have to ask her what, in fact, makes sexism "wrong"? If I were a male scholar, couldn't I just say that my sexist perspectives are my prerogative, an expression of my intellectual taste?

I can accept Kolodny's view that literary history-- and the historicity of literature-- is a fiction or a construct. However, I think one can hold to this belief without throwing out the idea of a hierarchy of aesthetics. (Perhaps the word "hierarchy" conjures up connotations of patriarchy. If this is offensive, I'll use the word "absolute.")

It is my opinion that males have been included in the literary canon because of their works' aesthetic merit and their command of the English language. This mastery is not an innate "male" trait that makes men superior to women. This is merely the result of males' access to the education that history has denied women. If women have very little education, it follows that they will not create "aesthetically superior" masterpieces. An illiterate woman can't compose sonnets.

I fully support Kolodny's basic cause: the inclusion of women and a reexamination of the qualifications for canonicity. At the core of her argument is a desire for respect and acknowledgement, which I see as completely legitimate. However, I don't think she needs to discard the metanarrative of aesthetics to accomplish this.

On Medusa and Fear

Cixous's "Laugh of the Medusa" reminded me of a conversation that I had with a friend several weeks ago. This talented friend, another Messiah English major, writes insightful poetry without any reservations and has had her work accepted to the Minnemingo Review several times. I, however, have serious emotional issues with creative writing, and in this conversation, I angrily declared that I "hate writing." I think my response must have taken my friend by surprise. (However, she probably has noticed by now that while she manages to maintain a calm demeanor, I have a much more hot-headed, emotional disposition, and I speak my mind.)

Why do I hate creative writing? I used to love it. I used to pour hours of my life into composing poetry and short stories, and I had accumulated a handful of awards by the end of high school. So obviously someone-- at some point in time-- thought my work was worth reading.

I refuse to write because I am angry. My creative self-esteem has plummeted since my sophomore year of college, resulting in my switching my concentration from writing to literature. I have no qualms about writing research papers or critical essays, but I refuse to create. I am, by nature, a perfectionist. I don't like what I create-- I critique every word, every line, every sentence. I see myself reflected in Cixous's work since my debilitating fear of failure stems from failed attempts to gain the approval of male critics. I agree with Cixous in the recognition that certain men have aided in the erosion of my confidence.

My refusal to write is a form of self-protection. If I keep silent, no one can hurt me by hurling painful critiques. I consider my work an extension of myself, the intimate expression of my soul's joys and struggles, and when a critic picks my poem to pieces, I feel as if he has criticized my naked body. Consequently, I have vowed I will never put my creations on public display ever again.

I wipe away my furious tears and stuff my shame back into that forgotten corner in my mind. Cixous would probably tell me that I can't let these men steal my joy and dash my self-esteem into slivers. I would love to completely disregard the past and move forward. She calls for the invention of a new, feminine language, and she tells her female readers to write from their bodies. What does that mean? Part of me fears that I am unable to write "from my body" because, well, sometimes I honestly hate my body.

Perhaps once I accept that my imagination and my body are "fearfully and wonderfully made," I will be able to write again. Then those painful memories will become impotent in light of the authority of my almighty God and His assessment of my worth.

Simone de Beauvoir Goes to the Mall

In keeping with our class' recent discussion of feminism, I decided to read Simone de Beauvoir's "The Second Sex." The work uncovers the paternalistic assumptions behind feminine "mystery," but it also seems prophetic in its account of men's perceptions of women in power. De Beauvoir writes, "Woman's dress in becoming practical need not make her appear sexless: on the contrary, short skirts made the most of legs and thighs as never before. There is no reason why working should take away woman's sex appeal."

Today I made a trip with my roommate to the mall, and we walked through various women's clothing stores, including my personal favorites: Express and The Limited. Both of these stores cater to today's working woman because they include racks upon racks of matching suits with blazers, dress pants, and skirts. To me, these stores embody class combined with youth.

However, these stores also emphasize another attribute: sexiness. Express' website proclaims a sale on "Sexy Basics." The model on the Limited's website leers at the camera, which takes note of the woman's curves-- from head to toe. The Limited also sells overpriced fishnet tights. Scandalous! Especially when paired with high heels!

While I can find plenty of beautiful clothes in these stores that allow me to maintain my self-respect, it's clear from the stores' merchandise that the granddaughter of de Beauvoir's "working woman" should have sex appeal.

But why? I believe that de Beauvoir would argue that women desire this sexiness because 21st century culture still serves men. While we may feel better when we are dressed up in our high heels, short skirts, and clingy tops, our feelings result from societal constructs. Seeing women in sexy business clothes gives men carnal satisfaction. So while women contend that they have asserted themselves in the workplace, perhaps fashion undermines that achievement. Perhaps we still have a long way to go in the pursuit of beautiful, yet respect-inspiring fashion.

Meanwhile, I continue to sift through the clearance racks.

Virginia Woolf and Androgyny

I'll admit it. My first glance at Virgina Woolf's text "A Room of One's Own" left me skeptical. However, I emerged from the text sharing many-- if not all-- of Woolf's opinions.

Woolf advocates an awareness of the individual's androgyny, which appears bizarre on the surface but makes sense once examined. Essentially, she declares that every person has man-womanliness or woman-manliness, or that we have a mixture of the masculine and the feminine in us. I don't find this statement far-fetched at all, but perhaps I can accept it because of my situatedness as a supposedly "liberated" 21st-century woman. In my opinion, masculinity and femininity lies on a spectrum; maleness or femaleness is not a clear, black-and-white issue.

I believe this perspective gives us considerable flexibility in our pursuits without fear of receiving labels. For example, a boy can enjoy ballet without being called "queer," and a girl can dream of becoming a construction worker without being denigrated as a "tomboy." However, women pursuing traditionally male gender roles has become more accepted than the reverse, men in female gender roles. While the women's liberation movement brought both bane and blessing, women have benefited in terms of occupational opportunities and other societal expectations. Perhaps we need a men's liberation movement in order to make it more socially acceptable for men to show strength mingled with gentleness and beauty. Women have, in general, managed to balance femininity with masculine assertiveness, and I wonder whether such a balance is possible for men.

Another facet of Woolf's argument that intrigued me concerned the implications of affirming both the female and the male within the individual. Woolf implies a respect for the masculine by stating that women must embrace their repressed manliness. I wonder whether contemporary feminists would condemn all masculinity-- even that which Woolf claims exists in women-- as a representation of the male oppressor. It appears to me that many contemporary feminists have argued for female supremacy, and it seems that these women would find Woolf's thoughts unsettling because of their recognition of our mutual need for masculinity. Can women live on the feminine alone? Similarly, can men live on the masculine alone?

Weighing Meaning: Issues in Oral Literature

Peter Wasamba's lecture last Monday intrigued me because of its insistent relevance. While we could have spent the entire hour discussing theoretical issues of textuality as they pertain to oral literature, I felt that Dr. Wasamba chose to tell stories in order to illustrate their own functions within his society instead of making his culture fit into our critical theories. His form of oral literature has a purpose-- to bring about social justice. If we can include it in our discourses about theory, then that is fine, but its intended purpose transcends literary criticism.

Dr. Wasamba's lecture was filled with points of interest, but one of his statements struck me as particularly powerful. He said that the compiler of oral literature cannot merely collect information and subsequently walk away. He argued that the recorder's role should include action on the part of the oppressed, and he used the story of the Kenyan woman who was raped fourteen times to illustrate this. The recorder's compassion for the woman led him to help her find medical attention, and his story has helped to open the eyes of lawmakers concerning the country's injustices.

The lecture showed me how social justice and nonfiction intertwine, and it has caused me to question the importance of fiction. As writers, shouldn't we work to expose the horrors of the world through our works of nonfiction (or reality-based fiction) instead of writing fairy stories or internal musings about the sublime? How does such an outlook on fiction affect our literal "ethic" of reading? Is it ethical to spend our time reading works that seem to do nothing to improve the plight of the oppressed? Personally, after finishing a poem by Wordsworth or an essay by Barthes, I rarely feel moved to improve the world. I appreciate the world as a result of my reading, but I don't take action. Should I feel guilty?

Breaches of Ownership

Bennett states in his criticism that the author is the "owner" of his or her work and that the labor of the person is intellectual property. This thinking explains our aversion to plagiarism in academics.

Ownership is clear when the copyright is present, but how do we prove ownership on the Internet? "Borrowing" occurs incessantly, and sites such as Wikipedia show layer upon layer of so-called authorship. These sites are owned by no one, and the origin of ideas becomes increasingly hazy. While the Internet often reflects and increases alienation and individualism, it seems to me that this layering of authorship resembles the original storytelling that Ohmann celebrates. Perhaps we are regressing into a form of synthesis.

Replacing the Gatekeepers

I find Richard Ohmann's idea of gatekeeper intellectuals fascinating, especially in the context of multiculturalism. Ohmann believes that these gatekeeper intellectuals determine which works of fiction amass a broad readership and receive critical acclaim. Essentially, they create the classics by approving of works that reflect the cultural ideologies of the day.

But what happens when gatekeeper intellectuals become more open-minded, when they allow the creation of classics that do not reflect the lifestyles of America's supposedly homogeneous readership? I consider works such as Ngugi wa Thiong'o's Devil on the Cross, which concerns itself with issues of neocolonialism in Kenya. This work appears to break down the ideologies that support social and economic hierarchies, but yet it has achieved critical acclaim and substantial readership on American university campuses. Perhaps it has not acquired the status of "classic literature" yet, but inclusion within the canon is not out of the question. When narratives supporting the plight of the socially and economically oppressed do enter into the canon, have these so-called gatekeepers fallen asleep?

Perhaps the inclusion of works that celebrate Marxism and multiculturalism-- which break down the conservative cultural establishment-- signals a shift in the hierarchy, not necessarily its abolition. This hierarchy has re-assigned values, giving some new ideas dominance over others.

Novel vs. Story

Walter Benjamin's "Storyteller" confused me at first because I had trouble distinguishing between the stylistic characteristics of the story versus the novel. I understood the concepts surrounding Marxism and production, but I needed to take a closer look at what makes the story unique.

One of my questions surrounds the issue of storytelling within the novel. Theoretically, an author could write down a story that has passed from generation to generation and publish it in a book. Would the author's actions-- which would be residual of a previous society-- be inherently bad, according to Benjamin?

I think Benjamin would disapprove. Although a novelist can publish a tale with the sole intention of sharing oral tradition and thus enriching the rest of the world, the author is still complicit with economic interests. To Benjamin, the act of publishing places the author-- and his or her good intentions-- under the confines of capitalism.

Perhaps Benjamin would consider the author presumptuous for publishing the story. After all, the act of publication implies that the author's version of the story is the final, complete iteration. The author has the AUTHORity. He or she claims to have finally gotten the family tale right. The storyteller, on the other hand, makes no such presumptions-- at least theoretically. Benjamin writes that "the perfect narrative is revealed through the layers of a variety of retellings." By refusing publication, the storyteller leaves room for multiple interpretations and multiple authors.

Personal Economy and Me

With all of Barbara Herrnstein Smith's talk of personal economy, I decided to delve into the issue for myself. Smith argues that art has no intrinsic value-- only "use" value, or the value that we as interpreters assign it. She states that our personal economy-- our ideals, our cultural background, what we value-- shifts. Supposedly we can't become conscious of our personal economics.

But I wonder whether that last statement is correct. Don't our preferences in art and literature speak to our values? Why, then, should we lack self-consciousness?

For instance, I can consider the titles under my "Favorite Books" list on Facebook. (Perhaps this is a cheesy example, but at least it's honest.) My first title is the Bible, which says quite a bit about my values: I find religion worthwhile, I can envision a divine ideal, I come from a Judeo-Christian background, I appreciate ancient poetry, I value narratives . . . etc. I also included the works of John Donne on this list, which means that I can swallow extended conceits, I respect the past, I read from an Anglo-American perspective, and I value form and order.

Yet another facet of Smith's idea is the concept that personal economies shift. I find this believable, and I can ask myself how my own personal economy shifts. How do my values and ideals change as I read?

For me, the greatest shift occurs when I read for assignments as opposed to leisure. I want my assigned reading to make me think, to draw me into a narrative or a set of ideas. I also find that I value concise readings over lengthy, endless tomes written by authors who enjoy the appearance of their own words on the page. I want to grasp what's written and to be able to formulate a thoughtful response within my graded essays and research papers.

I think that some of my preferences within so-called academic reading bleed over into what I value in the works I read for pleasure. However, my personal economy also displays noticeable shifts. For example, I choose to read books or articles based on their relevancy to my own personal issues, and I tend to prefer nonfiction when I read for pleasure. (What kind of an English major am I?!) I value works that I can pick up again after setting them aside for a number of months. However, the stylistic preferences that I have within my assigned reading carry over in my leisurely reading: I want a work (however informal) to be written well. This means using clear, colorful, and powerful diction, imagery, and syntax as well as strong character development.

I guess I could say that Smith's "Contingencies of Value" fits within my personal economy. It certainly made me pause and evaluate my own personal reading economy.

Life on the Border

As an Anglo-American who has grown up on the border between the United States and Mexico, I have always been exposed to Mexican culture in some way or another. Perhaps I this explains why I found myself drawn to Gloria Anzaldua's "Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza." I experienced a sense of familiarity as I digested her bilingual text about inclusivity and the need to cast off the shame associated with being "mestiza," or of mixed race. Anzaldua's work reflects the new emphasis in literary theory on cultural studies.

One passage of her work, "Somos Una Gente," spoke to me because it expresses what Anzaldua desires of Anglo-Americans. She writes, "We need you to accept the fact that Chicanos are different, to acknowledge your rejection and negation of us. We need you to own the fact that you looked upon us as less than human, that you stole our lands, our personhood, our self-respect. We need you to make public restitution: to say that, to compensate for your own sense of defectiveness, you strive for power over us . . . . To say that you are afraid of us, that to put distance between us, you wear the mask of contempt. Admit that Mexico is your double, that she exists in the shadow of this country, that we are irrevocably tied to her."

Anzaldua's words of accusation and her call for public restitution do not surprise me (or even anger me) because I have heard similar things during the course of my college education. My interdisciplinary Pluralism course has pointed out that, in regards to reconciliation and the end of racism, white Americans tend to view the individual's decisions as sufficient whereas minorities generally see the need for larger structural changes. Anzaldua's work reflects this pattern because she speaks to the Anglo-American population and accuses the larger population (which is composed of individuals) of committing crimes against the Mexican people.

I also illustrate the pattern in my disagreement: Did I personally steal Mexican land? No. Did I commit brutal acts? No. Do I project my own sense of defectiveness on Mexican-Americans? I hope not. I cannot be held responsible for the regrettable decisions of those who held power long before I entered this world and for those who continue to promote racism. However, if an authentic apology for the acts and attitudes of my ancestors and for those who continue to promote white supremacy will bring about reconciliation, then I would support it.

I appreciate Anzaldua's statement about the need for multiracial collaboration. She says, "I think we need to allow whites to be our allies." This differs from more radical minority groups, such as La Raza or the Black Panthers, who want to eliminate "the Caucasian demon." I see Anzaldua's vision as more realistic, more feasible, because it wishes healing for both groups. Anzaldua's accusations of Anglo society's projection of its own negative qualities on the Mexican hurts, but she argues that "by taking back the collective shadow, the intracultural split will heal." In other words, she seems to say, "The truth hurts, but it will help you in the end." Whether or not I entirely agree with her, I respect her intentions.

Post-Structuralism: From Point A to Point B

I thought I had a basic understanding of postmodern / post-structuralist theory. Was I wrong?

This week, we looked at Foucault's teachings on what "writes" literary works. Foucault argues that a work is "written" by the mind of the group surrounding it-- it is a "fiction of discourse." He emphasizes the meaning of the author's proper name and concludes that only cultural discourse makes a work literary. Much of this seems foreign to my previous understandings of this movement.

I knew that postmodernism emphasizes the importance of context and the theory that works do not suddenly appear out of nowhere but rather are shaped by their "situatedness" within history. This coincides with Foucault's thoughts about the authorship of culture-- that the people create a work.

However, my previous courses have taught that postmodernism rebells against the modernist mantra, "Make it new," by returning to the past. I did not see this highlighted within Foucault's writings, but perhaps he makes implicit reference to the idea of "return" by acknowledging the importance of context. Related to this concept is the idea that works influence or even create each other. Does Foucault include the texts prized by the author / culture in his definition of culture?

I thought that postmodernism rejected of the scientific in favor of the spiritual or supernatural, but I didn't see this explicitly stated in Foucault, either. If Foucault assumes that the authority culture (which has authored texts) has rejected spirituality in favor of science, and he argues that this authority culture should be questioned in light of power, perhaps he lays a framework for the acceptance of the magical.

Finally, I always equated postmodernism with a rejection of metanarratives, or overarching truths. However, Foucault doesn't seem to make statements about the nonexistence of truth. (If he had, I could have thrown his work out my dorm window, since he would have no authority to tell me how to interpret literature.) Our lecture emphasized that Foucault wasn't concerned with ethics. We assumed that he believed that it didn't matter who authored a work. Does his lack of concern with ethics make him unethical? My heart's response says yes.

Assuming that my previous understandings of post-structuralism were correct, I would like to know how literary theory evolved from the statements of Foucault to the tenents declared in today's university courses.

Is the Author Really Dead?

In "The Death of the Author," Roland Barthes' theory illustrates how the literary theory of authorship had shifted from the blossomings of Romanticism to the structuralism of the 1960s.

I can see Barthes' idea of authorship as "mixing writing" as apparent in our education. Certainly what we read influences our creative writing, sometimes in the form of overt imitation. Our Introduction to Creative Writing courses demand that we write in in the style of particular established authors, and so our work does not necessarily belong to us. However, according to Barthes, our copying doesn't simply include the imitation of style: all of our literary devices and "ideas" come from others because of the extent that our writing is dependent on our reading. The remnants of Romanticism in me would like to think of the author as imaginative, though, but Barthes doesn't seem to value the creative.

From what we have read so far of post-Romanticism, I see Formalism as presenting the highest view of authorship. It doesn't seem to me that Eliot sees new works as a mere synthesis of established canonical literature. If the author serves as a catalyst, at least the resulting work has something new about it. In other words, the work does not equal the influences. But Barthes seems to disagree by arguing that our composition is never original.

As an author myself, Barthes' radical idea of mixing writings doesn't necessarily offend me however. (Perhaps I should be offended.) I feel jaded about my own work, as if what I put forth in writing merely imitates other established authors who have heard the muse more clearly. What, then, is the purpose of my own writing when I have nothing new to add?

What Affective Fallacy?

Back in 1949, Wimsatt and Beardsley stated that if a reader doesn't have knowledge of a poem's linguistic background, he or she had no right to judge the poem publicly. How times have changed!

Now that I have reached upper division courses in the English major, I can agree with this statement. It's not fair to a work of literature to judge it without investigation. However, our postmodern culture begs to differ. We can see evidence of this in various aspects of our 21st century society.

We need look no further than amazon.com to see scores of uninformed readers making critical, public judgments of literature. The customer review option makes it possible for absolutely anyone to influence the decisions of shoppers solely on the basis of opinion. This is an example of one such review on Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury:

"I tried to understand it, I even tried to re-read it, but I must need a translator from the South, because it was the most unreadable book I ever tried to read. The only part I remember was a girl sitting on a bed wishing she had boy parts. Give me a break! I know it is sacrilege to say Faulkner should be on this worst books list, but his writing doesn't do it for me."

The Internet has served as the great equalizer in our culture. The ease with which it transmits information makes it significantly easier to critique literary works publicly without the need of a publisher's approval. With the absence of a filter, all critical judgments become equally true and equally authoritative. The average high school student has the same amount of critical clout as the professor with a PhD.

Perhaps this development appeals to some people because of the easily obtained visibility that it promises. However, I see this outgrowth of postmodernism as dangerous. In my opinion, it shows what happens when democracy is exaggerated and taken too far.

Consulting the Oracle

I can't read Wimsatt and Beardsley's "The Intentional Fallacy" without experiencing flashbacks.

As a high school student, I belonged to a vibrant youth group. Among countless other things, our leadership facilitated discussions about the trustworthiness, inspiration, inerrancy, and authority of Scripture. We also discussed the interpretation of Scripture, and my youth minister told us that we should interpret Scripture according to the human author's intentions. As good Christians, we couldn't conduct a seance in order to interrogate the apostle Paul, so we were encouraged to understand the context of passages in order to understand the author's meaning. I understand now that our youth pastor adopted this method in an effort to resist contemporary currents within the Church that have placed the focus on the authority of the reader.

These are the same issues that Wimsatt and Beardsley face in their essays. Who is the authority in a text? The author, the reader, or the text itself? They claim that the text has superiority and that its meaning can become evident through careful study of the text itself. No context necessary. And the text is definitely NOT about how it makes you feel.

I could apply this theory to the study of English literature without fear of mortal ramifications, but I question whether this method of interpretation applies to Scripture because of the souls and ethics that I potentially hazard if I disseminate false ideas.

Can Scripture speak for itself without an authorial context? Theoretically, there are those who pick up Bibles left by the Gideons, read the Gospel of John, and dedicate their lives to Christ. No background notes, no commentary, no concordance. Just the text itself (plus the Holy Spirit, of course). In this case, you could argue that Wimsatt and Beardsley's theory could be applied to Scripture.

But what about more complicated issues? What do we do when we simply don't understand what the text says? Some teach that the best authority on Scripture is Scripture, so they send students to the concordance. This can clear up issues. Knowing Greek and Hebrew can answer questions, as well. But does this negate the need for historical background? While perhaps the basic ideas of the Bible could be understood without external information, I think that not understanding Scriptural context or the author's intention opens doors to all kinds of misinterpretation, including how to apply what we read. Then again, Wimsatt and Beardsley seem to make the reader unimportant, so, from their perspective, application would probably become trivial. The question sends me in circles and merits more thought.

Why Anglicanism Makes Sense for Eliot

“What happens [in the writer] is a continual surrender of himself as he is at the moment to something which is more valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.”

--T.S. Eliot

After our class finished reading “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” we discussed T.S. Eliot’s emphasis on “consciousness of the past” and connected this to his later decision to become an Anglican. We discussed how Eliot’s values relate to the doctrine contained in Cranmer’s Three-Legged Stool as well as the theology behind the Prayers of the People. Since I am also an Anglican, I can speculate further and guess that the distinct worship and the structure of the Anglican Church would appeal to Eliot, as well.

Eliot emphasizes “consciousness of the past,” an attribute vividly present within the Anglican Church’s worship. When I attend my home church, I become awestruck when I realize that I am experiencing a liturgy very similar to the service used by the Church down through the ages. For example, if I turn to the chapter on Medieval Liturgy in my music history textbook, I see the same form used by my parish: the Gloria, the Kyrie, the Creed, the Sanctus, etc. The Creed itself creates in me a "consciousness of the past" since Christians throughout the world have repeated it since the 8th century. I also consider the liturgical calendar and realize that the Church has marked time in the same way since the early middle ages, if not earlier. When I consider the history behind the liturgy, I feel almost overwhelmed by the tradition of a far-reaching movement. For example, on Ash Wednesday and Maundy Thursday I find myself thinking of the ancients and their commemoration of these solemn days.

I see this same "consciousness of the past" in the celebration of saints. The Anglican Church commemorates certain saints' days, and this enables the Church to remain conscious of those Christians who have traveled before us, forming a kind of standard for us to follow. Does our own devotion resemble theirs in practice and in passion? We continue to in that "tradition" in the development of our own spiritual lives.

At some point in the Anglican service, a priest will lead the congregation in the Confession. I see this action as something that would appeal to Eliot's sensibilities because of his emphasis on "continual surrender . . . to something which is more valuable." In the case of Confession, the congregation submits in to God and the truths of His law as well as the glory of His grace.

Finally, I see the hierarchical structure of the Anglican Church as appealing to Eliot. The Archbishop of Canterbury is at the top of this hierarchy, other archbishops submit to him, the diocesan bishops answer to the other archbishops or to a Presiding Bishop, and rectors submit to their diocesan bishops. This structure and emphasis on authority resemble the same submission and self-sacrifice that Eliot admires, and it makes the individual seem quite small in the context of the larger worldwide Church.

While I still can't agree with all of Eliot's claims, my understanding of the assumptions behind his commitment to the Anglican Church enables me to appreciate our common ground. Now that I understand his appreciation for conformity, perhaps I can appreciate his work.

Perspectives on Sir Philip Sidney

Because of my need to ration time, I decided to read only a portion of Sir Philip Sidney's "An Apology for Poetry." However, what I read whet my appetite for more. Here is one quote that intrigued me:

"Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, doth grow in effect another nature, in making things either better than nature bringeth forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in nature . . . so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done" (330).

Here, Sidney seems to harmonize with the Romantics in his celebration of the mind, of the wonders of the imagination. The imagination is boundless, not conformed to Nature but rather supplementing it with further adventures. Sidney celebrates the fantasy, the unrealistic. This outlook is one that sympathizes with my own, since I do not see great literature as bound by the rules of reality: animals can speak, mountains can move, and mere children can perform monumental, kingdom-saving tasks. I am not precisely clear concerning the relationship of Sir Sidney to the Neoclassical movement except that 150 years separate them. However, Sidney doesn't seem to advocate mere imitation of the past. His discourse reflects ample knowledge of classical literature, but he praises freedom and the full "zodiac of the wit," which I suppose includes the furthest reaches of the mind.

However, I should comment on the second part of this quote, the portion lauding the work of poets. The idea that poetry exceeds Nature sounds like an acceptable enough notion at first reading, but after examining this statement further, I recognized that, as a Christian, I should consider the question of authorship. By praising the creative work of Mankind over the creation of God, it appears that Sidney proposes a kind of heresy. I wonder if he recognized what he was doing since he praises the Psalms and the "inconceivable excellencies of God" elsewhere in his writing. Does he make the statement that poetry excels Nature because he sees poetry as somehow more redeemed than God's fallen Creation? Does he imply that our act of creation brings us closer to God and makes us somehow more holy than our surroundings? These questions make me yearn to read more.

My Encounter with Formalism, or Why I Disagree with T. S. Eliot

When I cracked open my Literary Criticism textbook this week with the intention of perusing T.S. Eliot's "Tradition and the Individual Talent," I began reading with an open mind. Having read "The Wasteland" in American Literature, I had a very general grasp of this Anglo-American author's outlook on life. I also assumed that scholarship in the field of Literary Criticism would have shifted since the time of the Romantics. However, I didn't expect Eliot's blatant rebuttal of Romantic sensibilities or what I perceive as his intellectual arrogance . . .

Here is just one of his statements that galled me: "Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." Hmph!

In addition to feeling indignation towards Eliot's tone, I have issues with his elitist theory. He seems to say, "I am higher than you because I have this elusive connection with tradition. Great poets belong to an exclusive club, and unless you possess my level of education, we won't admit you as a member. Forget 'emotion recollected in tranquility' and your overwhelming desire to convey the sublime in everyday subjects and accessible language. These attempt to serve the reader by sharing something. This club is above that. We're too good for our emotions."

While the Romantics worked to break down the artistic and socioeconomic hierarchy, Eliot and his Formalist followers reconstruct it. Not everyone has access to the education that Eliot deems necessary to obtain union with tradition. At the time of the composition of "Tradition and the Individual Talent," only a miniscule number of women, minorities, or people of few financial resources could obtain a university-level education. However, everyone-- regardless of race, gender, or class-- has the potential to convey emotion and an artistic personality. I can see how Formalism would grate upon the beliefs of Post-Colonial and feminist critics. While I don't consider myself a member of either school, Eliot's ideas anger me.

Reflections on Emerson and Action

Monday night I finished reading the entirety of Ralph Waldo Emerson's "The American Scholar," and, again, I found the transcendentalist's remarks relevant. Emerson writes, "Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it, he is not yet man. Without it, thought can never ripen into truth."

I appreciated this balanced approach to scholarship because of the refreshment it gives the student. Too often, we bury ourselves in our books and become mindless, passive imitators of what we read. This lifestyle drains us of our energy and our creativity, and we wonder, "What is the point of all this pedantry? What good does it serve?" Our work seems meaningless as we cram information into our brains, only to regurgitate it in the form of essays and research papers.

Emerson offers an alternative to this intellectual dreariness. By calling the scholar to action, the information suddenly becomes applicable. When we go out into the world armed with our knowledge, intending to making a difference in the lives of our neighbors, our scholarship serves a higher purpose besides the satisfaction of our curiosity.

Messiah College has given me ample opportunities to go out and take action as a scholar, and I feel that this opportunity for community engagement and service makes this a well-balanced learning community. While we certainly engage our minds in the classroom and in our reading, we go out into the world to make a difference, harmonizing our heads with our hands. I had this experience last year when I spent a semester at the Philadelphia Campus. My favorite class that semester was "Urban-Eco Footprints," a course taught by Dr. Timothy Peterson which discussed urban planning and the issues that city dwellers face. Living in North Philadelphia, we came face-to-face with children affected by these very issues as we tutored at Montgomery Townhouses, a low-income housing unit just a few blocks west of Temple University. Meeting these children, helping them with their math homework, and building relationships with Ms. Hattie, the lady in charge of the tutoring program, gave our academic work significance. Our discussions of bureaucracy took on meaning when we confronted a meddlesome organization that disrespected the work of Ms. Hattie and the community, and we engaged our textbooks as we worked to pick up the trash that had accumulated on our block. I wouldn't trade that semester of action for an entire four years of straight book learning.

Emerson's ideas about action also apply to our lives as Christians. Too many of us read the Bible without engaging it, without going out and sharing the Gospel and living according to Jesus' teachings. James tells us, "Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says . . . But the man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it-- he will be blessed in what he does" (1:22,25). Personally, I repent for the times when I haven't taken action, and it's my heart's desire that the Church would learn to truly follow God's commandments.

I disagree with Emerson over what should be the greatest motivation for our action, however. We should take positive action not merely because we want to become better scholars but because we want to worship Christ and show His love to our neighbors. While developing the mind is certainly praiseworthy, the worship of Christ and the love of His people should be our highest aspirations.

Pleasure and Purpose: Shelley's Literary Theory

"The production and assurance of pleasure in this highest sense is true utility. Those who produce and preserve this pleasure are Poets or poetical philosophers . . . Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, 'I will compose poetry' . . . This power arises from within" --Percy Bysshe Shelley

I found these provocative quotes from "A Defence of Poetry" intriguing because of Shelley's sense of authority. Most of us take for granted the assumption that poetry should celebrate pleasure, and I think that most of our post-Romantic writing has reflected this sensibility. However, I also think of poets who commemorate pain (such as Whitman in his "O Captain! My Captain!") as part of the elite group of "poetical philosophers." Does reading someone else's expression of sorrow give us some sort of twisted pleasure? Perhaps we identify with the poet's lamentation because of our shared humanity, and this commiseration lessens our own personal burdens and assures us that our suffering is normal.

The second portion of Shelley's quote relates to poetry and the will. Shelley seems to say that the ability to compose comes from spontaneity. I would insert that spontaneity enables us to write well.

Before I decided to focus on literature, I spent my first year and a half of college as a writing emphasis student. I experienced a rude awakening in Introduction to Creative Writing where the professor expected the class to compose poetry on command and before deadlines. This killed my ability to write well because my work lacked the magical spontaneity that gives poetry its essence. Like Shelley's hypothetical poet, I told myself I would compose-- and nothing came out on paper. I recognize now that my best writing comes when I least expect it-- whether that means late at night, during a crisis, in the middle of my heart's greatest joy, or on a lazy summer afternoon devoid of constricting deadlines. Because of the ephemeral, unpredictable nature of my inspiration, I could never support myself financially with my fiction.