Last night my dad and I rented and watched Monty Python's "The Life of Brian." Irreverent and bordering sacrilege, the film's parody of Jerusalem at the time of Christ made us shake our heads in disapproval while launching us into knee-slapping laughter. Perhaps the characters most relevant to Said's study of Orientalism are the members of the Jewish Liberation Front, a Hebrew terrorist organization incapacitated by indecision that eventually hails Brian as a martyr instead of rescuing him from crucifixion.
After last night's amusement, my dad tuned into NPR's "Car Talk" this morning. One of the callers told the hosts how his son had brought a garter snake into the car as a prank, and now the snake eluded capture by slithering from the back seat to the dashboard. This snake managed to make appearances at the most inopportune moments, making excursions up the driver's pants while waiting in traffic. The hosts jokingly suggested that the caller procure an oboe and attempt to charm the snake out of its hiding place.
These experiences illustrate the easy dissemenation of stereotypes in today's "electronic, postmodern world" that influences Westerners' views of Asians, particularly Middle Easterners. The Monty Python episode generates particular interest. Major events that have unfolded in the past eight years-- the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the subsequent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq-- have both exposed the Middle Eastern terrorist to the American consciousness and continued to spread general distrust and stereotypes about Arabs. I think that these perceptions and attitudes could not have had the same potency without the influence of the media-- namely television, newspapers, and the Internet. Obviously, our political interests in the Middle East have skyrocketed, and this has not failed to interact with our culture's constructs.
I think most of us would scoff at those who would lament the supposed political incorrectness of the snake charmer comment. After all, we've seen videos on YouTube of this performance and can vouch for its authenticity, right? However, I think that we associate this innocuous image with a general perception of the Middle East as someplace exotic, dangerous, and even seductive. We connect the snake charmer's music with veiled belly dancers and harems . . . and the list goes on. Although these ideas may have some distant basis in truth, they are nevertheless exaggerations that manage to infiltrate our thinking as Westerners.
Edward Said also mentions the fact that the West has used these images as justification for imperialism. I easily accept this statement, especially in light of 19th century English literature and the swelling of the British Empire that occurred under Queen Victoria. However, I would have to do some honest soul-searching before I could admit that the United States has continued to use these images to defend recent policy. While the images have changed but have also persisted since Victorian England, I would have to disagree with those who say that our (perhaps failed?) occupation of Iraq was motivated out of racist ideologies. Nobody's arguing that the war wasn't somehow political, though, and I can admit that the invasion was motivated by national superiority, if we define that as liberty, confidence in democracy, and a desire to prevent terrorist attacks. I could continue to analyze this further, but I'd be here for the next week.
In any case, Said's text definitely opened my eyes to the connections between literature's portrayal of characters and situations and the justification of political and economic interests in the Middle East and other colonized countries, both past and present.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Pandora's Box: Gender and De[con]struction
I found Judith Butler's "Gender Trouble" difficult to read for several reasons.
First, her tone, diction, and style made her language extremely esoteric. When I read passages of her text to my mother, she responded that Butler could have said the same thing in fewer, more accessible words. I tend to agree with her. I understood Butler's meanings, but I feel that she has put on the verbal trappings of an elite academic, and while this may appear to give her authority, it in fact contradicts the fundamentals of her message that repeat "performances" create hegemony and authority. Nevertheless, she intended this work to be political, and although it would not reach the average voter, her thoughts about gender construction have seeped down through the academic hierarchy to popular culture. The effects of this filtering have caused unhealthy societal turmoil-- and dare I say human pain and destruction-- since she first published this text.
As I completed this excerpt, I couldn't help but consider the frightening implications of her logic. Her text obviously descended from Derridean thinking and terminology, as I saw evidence of deconstruction throughout her work. On the surface, I find deconstruction fascinating and even plausible, but I oppose the idea that deconstruction proves the nonexistence of metaphysics, primarily because of my relationship with God. This issue of metaphysics and Butler's justification of "alternative lifestyles" scares me not because I hate homosexuals or because of her work's density but because the heart of her argument could justify any number of behaviors. What's to keep rapists, murderers, and slave traders from applying Butler's deconstruction of Otherness to their own situations? Since she supposedly has exposed regulations as fictions, there remains no distinction by which to judge ethical behavior.
First, her tone, diction, and style made her language extremely esoteric. When I read passages of her text to my mother, she responded that Butler could have said the same thing in fewer, more accessible words. I tend to agree with her. I understood Butler's meanings, but I feel that she has put on the verbal trappings of an elite academic, and while this may appear to give her authority, it in fact contradicts the fundamentals of her message that repeat "performances" create hegemony and authority. Nevertheless, she intended this work to be political, and although it would not reach the average voter, her thoughts about gender construction have seeped down through the academic hierarchy to popular culture. The effects of this filtering have caused unhealthy societal turmoil-- and dare I say human pain and destruction-- since she first published this text.
As I completed this excerpt, I couldn't help but consider the frightening implications of her logic. Her text obviously descended from Derridean thinking and terminology, as I saw evidence of deconstruction throughout her work. On the surface, I find deconstruction fascinating and even plausible, but I oppose the idea that deconstruction proves the nonexistence of metaphysics, primarily because of my relationship with God. This issue of metaphysics and Butler's justification of "alternative lifestyles" scares me not because I hate homosexuals or because of her work's density but because the heart of her argument could justify any number of behaviors. What's to keep rapists, murderers, and slave traders from applying Butler's deconstruction of Otherness to their own situations? Since she supposedly has exposed regulations as fictions, there remains no distinction by which to judge ethical behavior.
Derrida's House of Mirrors
I must admit that I am exceedingly proud of myself for having finished this excerpt from "Of Grammatology." At the same time, I must confess that I had first attempted to read Lacan-- unsuccessfully. So I suppose this qualifies my triumph. Ha.
In any case, I found Derrida challenging but also fascinating. I had an elementary understanding of deconstruction, and it proved helpful as I navigated his text. His theory tears apart the concept of "logocentrism," which includes not only words but also reason and central truths. I found his arguments and illustrations clever, and I thought his wordplay was entertaining, to say the least.
However, from my perspective, portions of his text-- especially his justifications-- seemed linked together with non sequitors. I simply couldn't understand in some cases how the beginning of the paragraph was linked to Derrida's conclusion at its end. It's very possible that I didn't entirely understand his description, but it's also possible that his reasons for defending deconstruction are false.
When Derrida goes about his deconstruction, he reveals what he calls "an abyss," a hall of endless mirrors, "an indefinitely multiplied structure." He then states that this scenario demonstrates how the text (and I suppose reality, if he believes in it) reveals the nonexistence of metaphysics, including truth.
I could see from whom postmodernism inherited its dislike of metanarratives and its declaration that truth does not exist.
Now here is my question: How does Derrida distinguish between those "central truths" which he claims do not exist and the truth of what he's explaining on these pages? Have I failed to see an invisible line here? To state that metaphysics have deconstructed-- or that they do not exist-- contradicts one's statement. If one claims that truth does not exist, then he or she is claiming a truth. Honestly, I am curious about the diehard deconstructionists' objection to this.
In addition, I had expected various elements of popular postmodernism to appear somewhere in Derrida's text, and their absence surprised me. I anticipated some kind of overlap between his work and the works of Mikhail Bakhtin. Instead, Derrida focuses on looking into the text to see how it deconstructs its surface meaning. He does not even consider outside voices, and he has little concern for the metaphysics of multiple social voices. In other words, no semblances of heteroglossia exist for Derrida.
Perhaps I'm a heretic, but I thought Derrida's exclusive focus on the text, its multiple iterations of substitions, and its ability to undermine metaphysics more closely resembled the Formalists, namely Wimsatt and Beardsley. Derrida does not focus on the author, and he does not focus on the reader. It seems to me that deconstruction is the logical continuation of the Formalists' thought, not necessarily an anti-modernism.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Hearing Voices
Alan Jacobs' portrayal of Mikhail Bakhtin so impressed me that I decided to read an excerpt from Discourse in the Novel. In it, Bakhtin discusses the flaws of other modern readings of the novel. He accuses other theorists of looking at the novel as a one-sided composition with only stylistic features and a plot. He contends instead that the novel's language and content interact in dialogue with outside social voices-- heteroglossia. This heteroglossia-- which comes from professional, social, literary, and genre-related contexts-- creates and influences the text, even as the text influences the sources that shaped it. According to Bakhtin, the language of the novel is a bundle of both centripetal and centrifugal forces, both directing the interpreter away from the written text and holding the novel together as a unified whole.
After I had taken time to understand Bakhtin's theory, I found his ideas fascinating. I must admit that I also enjoy the ability to look back and compare his ideas with those of his predecessors, his contemporaries, and his successors.
Bakhtin's method of interpreting the novel certainly seems more plausible than that of the Formalists, who appear to take language out of its fuller context by proclaiming the affective and intentional fallacies. However, Bakhtin's emphasis on the influence of outside voices upon a text does resemble T.S. Eliot's belief that tradition and experience are necessary ingredients present in the creation of new literature. Although Bakhtin lambastes the Russian formalists, I think he could find common ground with them if he tried, assuming their theories parallel those of Eliot.
Perhaps my earlier exposure to postmodern literary theory explains why the thought that novels reflect and are shaped by multiple, perhaps conflicting voices does not startle me. Bakhtin's concept of heteroglossia appears decades before American and French critics began studying the existence of intertextuality, and his idea that the text and its outside influences "create" each other seems virtually identical to the tenets of postmodernism. I don't see how Bakhtin's ideas could have escaped the eyes of the more recent poststructuralist and postmodern theorists.
I did disagree with Bakhtin's assertion that poetry does not partake in heteroglossia, however. Some aspects of his argument against the presence of "alien discourse" within poetry seemed feasible, but I think his exclusion is reductive. I wonder about the cultural connotations that collide in the world of bilingual Mexican-American poetry, since the language of this sub-genre can display a multiplicity of social and chronological voices. My disagreement extends into the universal sphere of poetry. Don't social pressures and other outside voices influence poets as well as authors? The idea that the poet only uses the untainted language inside him or her seems presumptuous and misinformed. I would like to see Bakhtin offer concrete evidence pointing to the socially independent nature of the poet's internal language. He writes that "the poet, should he not accept the given literary language, will sooner resort to the artificial creation of a new language specifically for peotry [rather] than to the exploitation of actual available social dialects." I wonder what Bakhtin thought of Wordsworth and other Romantics, who did reject the literary language of the day in favor of "actual available social dialects." Although Coleridge contends that Wordsworth's poetry is not identical to spoken prose, the English Romantic movement revolved around writing in the language of the commoner-- plain, simple, and unadorned. Bakhtin blames the absence of heteroglossia from poetry on the existence of rhythm. I found this assertion weak since the presence of rhythmic structure doesn't automatically sift through the poet's mind and throw out language shaped by outside social voices. Wouldn't the words that fit into the established rhythmic pattern flow from the poet's mind, which doesn't function in a social vacuum?
Despite my objections, I still value Bakhtin's insights, and I can testify to his influence in the world of modern literary criticism. His theory of heteroglossia has opened doors-- even if the language used to describe it exists in the midst of others' voices.
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.
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.
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