Recently, I've been doing a bit of thinking and a lot of reading (shocking, I know) and I've come to realize that there is something about literature that I'm having trouble pinning down. It's an old question, but I don't think it's ever been answered to my satisfaction.
Put simply: what makes a work of literature a classic?
The thoughts that dragged me back (because I've been here before) to this ever-pervasive question (especially in my field) follow.
We have classic works of literature, and, by and large, anyone even remotely familiar with a high school English class can identify at least a few of them. Jane Eyre, Moby Dick, Great Expectations, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, Mrs. Dalloway, Middlemarch, Oliver Twist, Crime and Punishment, The Scarlet Letter, Ivanhoe, Vanity Fair... and so on and so forth. (Authors as follows: Charlotte Bronte, Herman Melville, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Virginia Woolf, George Eliot, Dickens again, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Walter Scott, William Makepeace Thackery.) And those are just novels. Chaucer, T.S. Eliot, Tennyson, Blake, Byron, Yeats, Keats, Pound, Spenser, Milton, Browning, Barrett Browning, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Whitman, Stein... well, we've got poets coming out of our ears, too. Not to mention playwrights like Wilde, Shakespeare, Marlowe...
But why them? And why do we know their names any better than those of H.D., Mina Loy, Jones Very, Sarah Morton, Adah Menken, William Hill Brown, Charles Brockden Brown, Ellen Glasgow, and so on?
Proliferation doesn't make sense. Nor does lifetime fame. Jones Very wrote constantly. Admittedly, he thought he was the Second Coming of Christ, but you'd think that would add to his interest. Sarah Morton was the most famous American poetess during her lifetime. Associates? H.D. and Djuna Barnes were colleagues (and, in H.D.'s case, a suspected lover) of Pound, Eliot, Lawrence, and co. How well they were liked? Well, okay, so Dickens and Melville had some big hits. Tennyson was poet laureate of England. But. Mellville's books (pretty much other than Moby Dick) flopped. Scott and Dickens both understood the pressure of having to write to eat. Whitman was ostracized from society. The Brownings were actually exiled. Milton, for all his fame, went blind in a closet. Wilde was sent to prison in France.
That said, do you really think Stephen King (yes, Beth, I know) or Dean Koontz is going to be the next Melville or Dickens? I'm sorry, folks, but Tom Clancy isn't ever going to appear on a course syllabus. Nor are Danielle Steel and John Grisham (though, honestly, he'd go on before some). Oprah's Book Club will not be - in all likelihood - producing many great literary giants (Toni Morrison aside). But they are popular.
So what makes literature worth study?
And, to go off a bit on another path, does study necessarily preclude enjoyment? (Because I know some of you are groaning and saying that it has to be dull or intellectual.) To be honest, I enjoy Austen. I enjoy the Brontes. I even enjoy Hawthorne and Dickens. I could do without Spenser, Milton, Faulkner, and Melville, quite happily, most of the time. But I can see the merit in studying all of them (even if I don't personally want to do it).
But. I also see merit in studying genre fiction - the sensationalist kind of literature that Wuthering Heights, Northanger Abbey, The Mystery of Udolpho, and The Turn of the Screw were at one time. Ghost stories (like Beloved, if you want something more contemporary), romances (Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Jane Eyre), and yes, even science fiction (hell, I'm teaching Good Omens - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman - in the fall), all have - when written by the right people - literary value.
Fortunately - I think - these are beginning to emerge in academia - courses on Bradbury, Tolkien, gothic fiction, Agatha Christe, detective fiction.
Then again, I'm a big fan of thinking while you read; I think people should learn while they enjoy something - whether it is learning something about the world, society, or themselves, but, to quote (or perhaps misquote) Einstein, "the important thing is to never stop questioning."
"Words fly up, my thoughts remain below."
black and white, Angels and demons.
We aren't two sides of the same coin.
We're the gold into which those sides are imprinted."
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Emma, you dirty girl
From Jane Austen's Emma.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. "So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young-- he wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time." And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter. It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips.
They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destin'd to feel And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal.
-- made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already. "Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you."
"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he stopt a moment-- "or Miss Smith could inspire him."
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. "Being my friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend's.
He was gone the next moment:--after another moment's pause, "Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss--
CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings, Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have! Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, May its approval beam in that soft eye!"
For those of you who think Jane Austen is a nice girl, consider the following:
Syphilis makes one loose ones memory. Mr. Woodhouse has trouble remembering the riddles he used to know as a young man.
"Kitty" is a term for a prostitute... if "it always ended in 'Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,'" wouldn't it imply that "it" (perhaps syphilis?) ends with the death of beautiful prostitutes.
And do I have to say more: "I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it"?
Just some food for thought. :)
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. "So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young-- he wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time." And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter. It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips.
They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destin'd to feel And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal.
-- made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already. "Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you."
"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he stopt a moment-- "or Miss Smith could inspire him."
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. "Being my friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend's.
He was gone the next moment:--after another moment's pause, "Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss--
CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings, Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have! Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, May its approval beam in that soft eye!"
For those of you who think Jane Austen is a nice girl, consider the following:
Syphilis makes one loose ones memory. Mr. Woodhouse has trouble remembering the riddles he used to know as a young man.
"Kitty" is a term for a prostitute... if "it always ended in 'Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,'" wouldn't it imply that "it" (perhaps syphilis?) ends with the death of beautiful prostitutes.
And do I have to say more: "I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it"?
Just some food for thought. :)
Thursday, July 15, 2004
For whom the pen?
In reading another friend's livejournal this afternoon, I realized something specific about the way I write.
Some people write for themselves, for their own pleasure and/or vilification. They write because there is an inner demon struggling to get out. They write because they love the way their own words sound (and not necessarily in an arrogant fashion - it's a love of language). They write to feed the beast. I understand this. I even experience it from time to time, though not as often as one might think. But I'll get back to this.
Some people write for other people. Nothing wrong with this, either, but if I try to write for someone else, I end up sounding forced or like a demented Hallmark card. Now this isn't to say that, as writers, we should ignore our impled audience. That's not what I mean at all. When I say people write for other people, I mean they write with the express purpose of getting the acclaim/attention/praise/censure of the other party and they tailor their writing for that specific purpose.
Needless to say, this can get rather complicated.
Many people write papers for their teacher/professor. By this I mean that they specifically tailor their language and argument for an A. They don't necessarily write what they really think, or write in their own style, but they mimic what they think their teacher/professor wants to read.
Personally, I find this to be a load of crap and my students suffer for it if it's too obvious. I assign them a paper to hear what they think, not to have them vomit my own words back to me.
This isn't always the case, of course. Sometimes writing for someone can produce original and even beautiful work. I just think that's the exception rather than the rule.
Now as to my personal theory.
I write - whether an academic paper, a story, or a poem - for the subject: for the work itself, for the subject(s) of/in the work, for what needs to be said rather than what I think someone else (even myself) might want it to say.
When I write, I try to allow the story/argument/characters/ideas to speak through my hands rather than forcing the words to articulate something external to the patterns of those ideas. As a result, I often go back over a page and am only able to recall writing about one quarter to one third of it. It's very much like what I imagine automatic writing to be. Only I'm not going to claim to be channeling some long-dead author (W.B. Yeats, are you listening?).
Regardless, I think the subject (story/character/idea/argument) of the writing should speak louder than the desires of the audience or the imposition of the author. Naturally, the author must choose the subject (at least to a certain extent), but he or she - I believe - should also not attempt to force a subject to go contrary to its nature.
I think this is probably a great source of frustration for many "failed" writers. They have this idea of where their work is going to go and they mean to make it go there, even when the work needs to go in an entirely different direction.
Some people write for themselves, for their own pleasure and/or vilification. They write because there is an inner demon struggling to get out. They write because they love the way their own words sound (and not necessarily in an arrogant fashion - it's a love of language). They write to feed the beast. I understand this. I even experience it from time to time, though not as often as one might think. But I'll get back to this.
Some people write for other people. Nothing wrong with this, either, but if I try to write for someone else, I end up sounding forced or like a demented Hallmark card. Now this isn't to say that, as writers, we should ignore our impled audience. That's not what I mean at all. When I say people write for other people, I mean they write with the express purpose of getting the acclaim/attention/praise/censure of the other party and they tailor their writing for that specific purpose.
Needless to say, this can get rather complicated.
Many people write papers for their teacher/professor. By this I mean that they specifically tailor their language and argument for an A. They don't necessarily write what they really think, or write in their own style, but they mimic what they think their teacher/professor wants to read.
Personally, I find this to be a load of crap and my students suffer for it if it's too obvious. I assign them a paper to hear what they think, not to have them vomit my own words back to me.
This isn't always the case, of course. Sometimes writing for someone can produce original and even beautiful work. I just think that's the exception rather than the rule.
Now as to my personal theory.
I write - whether an academic paper, a story, or a poem - for the subject: for the work itself, for the subject(s) of/in the work, for what needs to be said rather than what I think someone else (even myself) might want it to say.
When I write, I try to allow the story/argument/characters/ideas to speak through my hands rather than forcing the words to articulate something external to the patterns of those ideas. As a result, I often go back over a page and am only able to recall writing about one quarter to one third of it. It's very much like what I imagine automatic writing to be. Only I'm not going to claim to be channeling some long-dead author (W.B. Yeats, are you listening?).
Regardless, I think the subject (story/character/idea/argument) of the writing should speak louder than the desires of the audience or the imposition of the author. Naturally, the author must choose the subject (at least to a certain extent), but he or she - I believe - should also not attempt to force a subject to go contrary to its nature.
I think this is probably a great source of frustration for many "failed" writers. They have this idea of where their work is going to go and they mean to make it go there, even when the work needs to go in an entirely different direction.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
And it begins...
The purpose of this particular blog is to catalog my literary and philosophical musings - especially those regarding my current classes - and my thoughts and writings. Hence the "Musings and Imaginings." Not particularly creative, but truth in advertising, at least.
My livejournal will continue to operate and will occasionally link here, but it will contain more personal posts and this blog will be more academic.
As for me, my credentials (for those of you who don't already know me) include a few degrees in English (read: literature) and several years of teaching (jr. high, high school, and college, both theatre and English). I'm no expert, certainly, but I am an able scholar. I, of course, appreciate anyone who would care to engage in discussion, whether you agree or disagree.
My livejournal will continue to operate and will occasionally link here, but it will contain more personal posts and this blog will be more academic.
As for me, my credentials (for those of you who don't already know me) include a few degrees in English (read: literature) and several years of teaching (jr. high, high school, and college, both theatre and English). I'm no expert, certainly, but I am an able scholar. I, of course, appreciate anyone who would care to engage in discussion, whether you agree or disagree.
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