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.

Emerson and Christian Spirituality

I remember my first encounter with Ralph Waldo Emerson. Mr. Keen's junior AP American Lit class had just uncovered the mysteries and the complexities of American Romanticism, and some of us were more enthralled with this discovery than others.

While I relished Hawthorne and Melville, Emerson blatantly offended my sensibilities as a young disciple of Jesus. Statements lambasting the established church and celebrating a pantheistic Oversoul infuriated me as my black pen left sarcastic retorts in the margins of my paperback. "This man is such a heretic. No wonder the United States is no longer a Christian nation," I muttered to myself. I even jokingly told my Christian friends that I would sponsor a book-burning in my backyard for anyone else who shared my sentiments. Fortunately, a liberal-minded friend of mine talked me out of it by using a Miltonic argument: to burn a book is to murder an author. Besides, I'm not sure what Mom and Dad would have thought of a massive conflagration in our backyard . . .

Fast-forward four years. I'm a junior again, a seasoned English major who's been assigned more than her share of explicit and heretical material. The passage of time has not made me align my beliefs with Mr. Emerson, but his unorthodox views no longer shock me. In fact, I can almost reconcile his beliefs with biblical Christianity.

In "The Poet," Emerson exalts the poet as a "seer" and writes that "we hear those primal warblings [the pre-existent poetry] and attempt to write them down." To me, this description of the poetic process has a familiar ring to it.

When I attempt to write poetry "Soli Deo Gloria," or for the glory of God, I prayerfully begin by asking the Holy Spirit to inspire my mind. This begging for divine inspiration is rooted in the belief that I must connect with and obey something (or a Someone) much bigger than my own little attempts at creativity, something Muse-like in its action. As I follow the Spirit's prompting, I somehow walk in the artistic footsteps of the Old Testament prophets who listened to God's message and obediently wrote down what He said.

Emerson's eyes are not closed to our failings in our divine dictation, however. He observes that "we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem." I see truth in this observation. The minute that I interject my own musings, the poem loses its cohesiveness, and my ministry as a writer loses its potency. Granted, my "filler" may sound nice and imitate the authenticity of the lines God whispered, but I believe that time eventually reveals the mediocrity of what lacks divine inspiration.

I think Emerson would agree with me that the key to excellent writing lies in continued fellowship with this omnipresent Force. For me, this involves the surrender of my artistic will to the supremely creative God, who breathes His words into my mind. My humanity challenges that surrender, but I know in my heart that my work lacks completion without it.

Thoughts on Emerson and the Romantic Movement

Two of my classes have crossed paths at exactly the same point in the semester: Literary Criticism and English Romanticism. In the latter class, we have learned that Romanticism involved a breaking of artificial edifices in the name of reason. Such reasoning led to revolution against the status quo and the view of writers as apart from the culture. Emerson writes "The Poet" almost fifty years after the albeit fuzzy inception of the Romantic movement (the start of the French Revolution in 1789). However, his sentiments still interact with Romantic ideals.
The theme of isolation occurs in his writing when he admits that the poet's quest for the representation of beauty, but he states that eventually others will become attracted to this truth and art. His emphasis lies in the adequate expression of beauty, not in Neoclassical wit. He defines the poet as one who can best translate transcendent beauty into words. Through all of this, he supports the Romantic spirit of revolution by preferring the new to the old, and I could definitely see glimpses of his views concerning the Oversoul that he mentions in his other essays. In addition, he mentions Nature time and time again, saying that the poet's duty lies in "re-attaching things to Nature and the Whole," and this, too, reflects the Romantic preference for the natural and the rural over the smog of the city. He lauds the imagination. Finally, he declares that "poets are thus liberating gods," a statement that falls into line with the Romantic political and emotional spirit.