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.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, July 18, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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.
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.
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