When I was reading through T.S. Eliot's "The Possibility of a Poetic Drama" (online, at whatthethundersaid.org, thanks to the wonder of technology) I was struck by the following line: "the moment an idea has been transferred from its pure state in order that it may become comprehensible to the inferior intelligence it has lost contact with art."
My first thought was of my high school chorus teacher, who always told us that it wasn't his job to come down to our level, it was our job to come up to his, handing us a dictionary when we wanted to know the meaning of whatever 25 cent word he had used that day. Of course this thought is rather frivolous, and nostalgically indulgent, as most of my "first thoughts" tend to be as I read.
My second thought is that the line reminded me of another passage we had read for class. It took me awhile to figure out what the connection was, but in looking back through the mess of highlights and scribbles, I found this passage in Emerson's "The Poet":
"For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem."
Although Eliot was speaking more of the dumbing down of ideas for the masses, I cannot help but associate the "art" he spoke of with the eternal truth that Emerson and others were attempting to write down. In my mind we (humans) are quite simply the "inferior intelligence," and in our attempts to render truth comprehensible we separate it from the eternal art and, as always happens when we are trying to summarize a concept we do not fully understand, "substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem."
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Real Dead Poets Society
"Someone said: 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did'. Precisely, and they are that which we know." -Eliot, "Tradition and the Individual Talent" (Norton, 1094)
We (humans) are so awfully arrogant some (most) times. We look back on the past with condescension and pity, confident that we know so much more in 2008 than was known in 1998 or 1898 or 98 BC. We think that because we have split the atom and created flat screen televisions and know that the world is round--we think this makes us better, more advanced, more intelligent, more worthwhile than past generations. We think: 'how did people survive without cell phones' or wonder how scientists got anything done without the equipment we have available today.
Eliot's response to our arrogant assertion that "we know so much more" than the writers of the past was to remind us that those writers are our new knowledge; their works are the new chapters in the history of human knowledge.
While I enjoy the manner in which Eliot burst our bubble of pride, I would argue whether we do "know" anything more from reading the poets of the past. Now, this is not to say that I do not think their works valuable or their voices important. What I mean is that truth does not change. Human nature has not changed much since Adam and Eve left that garden; our desires, our emotions, our pitfalls have not changed much either. We long for the same things that citizens of Plato's Athens longed for, we are burdened by the same things as the people of Shakespeare's England.
I am skeptical as to whether we learn anything new from the writers of our immediate past--for what is there to say that has not already been said? (This, even I admit, is a bit harsh and pessimistic. I hope that we have more to learn about ourselves, but I wonder whether we have reached the limit of what we are allowed to know.) I think that what we gain from the poets of the past is not new knowledge, but a new way of approaching or articulating truth.
We (humans) are so awfully arrogant some (most) times. We look back on the past with condescension and pity, confident that we know so much more in 2008 than was known in 1998 or 1898 or 98 BC. We think that because we have split the atom and created flat screen televisions and know that the world is round--we think this makes us better, more advanced, more intelligent, more worthwhile than past generations. We think: 'how did people survive without cell phones' or wonder how scientists got anything done without the equipment we have available today.
Eliot's response to our arrogant assertion that "we know so much more" than the writers of the past was to remind us that those writers are our new knowledge; their works are the new chapters in the history of human knowledge.
While I enjoy the manner in which Eliot burst our bubble of pride, I would argue whether we do "know" anything more from reading the poets of the past. Now, this is not to say that I do not think their works valuable or their voices important. What I mean is that truth does not change. Human nature has not changed much since Adam and Eve left that garden; our desires, our emotions, our pitfalls have not changed much either. We long for the same things that citizens of Plato's Athens longed for, we are burdened by the same things as the people of Shakespeare's England.
I am skeptical as to whether we learn anything new from the writers of our immediate past--for what is there to say that has not already been said? (This, even I admit, is a bit harsh and pessimistic. I hope that we have more to learn about ourselves, but I wonder whether we have reached the limit of what we are allowed to know.) I think that what we gain from the poets of the past is not new knowledge, but a new way of approaching or articulating truth.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Passive Reading?
A question, or thought, was raised today in Lit Crit that really set the mental wheels a-turning. It was suggested that the process of reading may make the reader "passive in the face of someone else's imagination."
As always seems to be the case, I found myself both agreeing and disagreeing with that statement. For me the passivity of reading falls into the category of "it all depends." Naturally I can agree that what we are reading when we pick up a book, or poem, or newspaper, or journal, etc. was created out of the imagination of another. So of course their imagination influences what is created. Nevertheless, in order to truly read and interact with a text (whatever type of text it might be) we must also use our imaginations. You can't just read a passage like: "The hunchback stood at the end of the pit, his pale face lighted by the soft glow from the smoldering oak fire...the hunchback's ears were wiggling furiously on his head...He fluttered his eyelids, so that they were like pale, trapped moths in his sockets. He scraped his feet around on the ground, waved his hands about, and finally began doing a little trotlike dance" (McCullers, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, 48-49) without picturing the hunchback in your own mind, taking the words from the page and molding them with your own imagination until you have your own version of the author's vision "doing a little trotlike dance" in your head. In fact, many times I find that the author is more at the mercy of our imaginations than we are at his or hers! After all, if we do not agree with a text, or find it distasteful in any way, we can put it down and never bother with it again. But an author has no such measure of control over how his (or her) work is interpreted and changed by the imagination of the readers.
Of course, although I think it essential to use one's imagination when reading, I do realize that there are some people who choose not to, out of laziness, or want of practice, I do not know. I do know that it is possible to get through a book or poem without adding anything of your own to the reading, but I feel that it is a conscious decision on the part of the reader not to participate. I think that reading is only passive if we make it passive. In its truest state, I do not think reading is at all passive.
As always seems to be the case, I found myself both agreeing and disagreeing with that statement. For me the passivity of reading falls into the category of "it all depends." Naturally I can agree that what we are reading when we pick up a book, or poem, or newspaper, or journal, etc. was created out of the imagination of another. So of course their imagination influences what is created. Nevertheless, in order to truly read and interact with a text (whatever type of text it might be) we must also use our imaginations. You can't just read a passage like: "The hunchback stood at the end of the pit, his pale face lighted by the soft glow from the smoldering oak fire...the hunchback's ears were wiggling furiously on his head...He fluttered his eyelids, so that they were like pale, trapped moths in his sockets. He scraped his feet around on the ground, waved his hands about, and finally began doing a little trotlike dance" (McCullers, The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, 48-49) without picturing the hunchback in your own mind, taking the words from the page and molding them with your own imagination until you have your own version of the author's vision "doing a little trotlike dance" in your head. In fact, many times I find that the author is more at the mercy of our imaginations than we are at his or hers! After all, if we do not agree with a text, or find it distasteful in any way, we can put it down and never bother with it again. But an author has no such measure of control over how his (or her) work is interpreted and changed by the imagination of the readers.
Of course, although I think it essential to use one's imagination when reading, I do realize that there are some people who choose not to, out of laziness, or want of practice, I do not know. I do know that it is possible to get through a book or poem without adding anything of your own to the reading, but I feel that it is a conscious decision on the part of the reader not to participate. I think that reading is only passive if we make it passive. In its truest state, I do not think reading is at all passive.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Oh Reason...
"But poets have been challenged to resign the civic crown to reasoners and mechanists on another plea. It is admitted that the exercise of the imagination is most delightful, but it is alleged that that of reason is more useful." -Shelley in "A Defence of Poetry" (Norton, 710)
Last semester I took a course on Worldviews, during which I finally gained a working knowledge of modernism. Through reason we can know the truth about everything? (Simplistic, I know.) I still find it absurd. It would be wonderful if it were true, but I just do not believe it to be true. We cannot possibly see enough and experience enough in our lifetimes to know the truth. Yes, the "exercise of the imagination" IS "most delightful," but I believe that it is also most necessary; necessary to make up for our lack of experience and knowledge. To understand others we must be able to utilize our imagination. And to come up with the fascinating technologies that we cherish so much, we need to utilize imagination (an i-pod doesn't appear out of thin air, you know). I even believe that to love, we need to utilize our imagination.
Reason is all well and good, but I wouldn't poo-poo imagination.
Last semester I took a course on Worldviews, during which I finally gained a working knowledge of modernism. Through reason we can know the truth about everything? (Simplistic, I know.) I still find it absurd. It would be wonderful if it were true, but I just do not believe it to be true. We cannot possibly see enough and experience enough in our lifetimes to know the truth. Yes, the "exercise of the imagination" IS "most delightful," but I believe that it is also most necessary; necessary to make up for our lack of experience and knowledge. To understand others we must be able to utilize our imagination. And to come up with the fascinating technologies that we cherish so much, we need to utilize imagination (an i-pod doesn't appear out of thin air, you know). I even believe that to love, we need to utilize our imagination.
Reason is all well and good, but I wouldn't poo-poo imagination.
Reading Responsibly?
I was looking through my notes for class, trying to find that little star that, at the time, I thought would be attention grabbing enough to remind me where I had jotted down a reminder of what I wanted to blog about. Needless to say, I'll be making those little stars a little bigger next time.
Anyway. The star, once found, was marking a list of questions about the nature of reading. The question that caught my blogging fancy was, "is reading dangerous?"
I'm sure we're all familiar with the notion of banning books. Over the past year I've participated in a few book drives that refuse to take Harry Potter books, or any other book that promotes the practice of witchcraft. Schools and libraries have been banning The Catcher in the Rye ever since its publication in 1951, citing everything from the language to Holden being a poor role model. (Of course, the fact that John Lennon's murderer was obsessed with the novel probably didn't help matters.) In Google-ing about banned books for this search, I discovered that many of my childhood favorites have been banned or contested: A Wrinkle in Time (L'Engle), Julie of the Wolves (George), Bridge to Terebithia (Paterson), To Kill a Mockingbird (Lee), and James and the Giant Peach (Dahl).
I constantly wonder about the dangers of reading, especially in light of my preparations to become a teacher. Because, when I'm being honest, I don't think the problem lies with the books, I think the problem lies with the reader. The Catcher in the Rye did not kill John Lennon, Mark David Chapman killed John Lennon. In the hands of a mature, responsible reader, who knows the difference between fiction and real life, and who knows that the thoughts and actions of the author or characters are not blueprints for life, a book should not be dangerous. But in the hands of someone who cannot evaluate the credibility of a narrator, who cannot distinguish between right and wrong, or between fiction and reality--a book can be a dangerous thing.
So perhaps I do see the logic behind banning books, because really, how can you know who will read the book or poem and get the wrong ideas? How can I know, as a teacher, which of my students can handle To Kill a Mockingbird and which can't?
Regardless of the logic, however. I still find it sad, for as I said in a previous post: I love reading characters with flaws. But characters with flaws often do bad things, and think bad things, and say bad things. Must we resign ourselves to two-dimensional, unrealistic, characters in the name of safety?
Anyway. The star, once found, was marking a list of questions about the nature of reading. The question that caught my blogging fancy was, "is reading dangerous?"
I'm sure we're all familiar with the notion of banning books. Over the past year I've participated in a few book drives that refuse to take Harry Potter books, or any other book that promotes the practice of witchcraft. Schools and libraries have been banning The Catcher in the Rye ever since its publication in 1951, citing everything from the language to Holden being a poor role model. (Of course, the fact that John Lennon's murderer was obsessed with the novel probably didn't help matters.) In Google-ing about banned books for this search, I discovered that many of my childhood favorites have been banned or contested: A Wrinkle in Time (L'Engle), Julie of the Wolves (George), Bridge to Terebithia (Paterson), To Kill a Mockingbird (Lee), and James and the Giant Peach (Dahl).
I constantly wonder about the dangers of reading, especially in light of my preparations to become a teacher. Because, when I'm being honest, I don't think the problem lies with the books, I think the problem lies with the reader. The Catcher in the Rye did not kill John Lennon, Mark David Chapman killed John Lennon. In the hands of a mature, responsible reader, who knows the difference between fiction and real life, and who knows that the thoughts and actions of the author or characters are not blueprints for life, a book should not be dangerous. But in the hands of someone who cannot evaluate the credibility of a narrator, who cannot distinguish between right and wrong, or between fiction and reality--a book can be a dangerous thing.
So perhaps I do see the logic behind banning books, because really, how can you know who will read the book or poem and get the wrong ideas? How can I know, as a teacher, which of my students can handle To Kill a Mockingbird and which can't?
Regardless of the logic, however. I still find it sad, for as I said in a previous post: I love reading characters with flaws. But characters with flaws often do bad things, and think bad things, and say bad things. Must we resign ourselves to two-dimensional, unrealistic, characters in the name of safety?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Ugliness
"For as it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God that makes things ugly, the poet, who re-attaches things to nature and the Whole,--re-attaching even artificial things and violation of nature, to nature, by a deeper insight, --disposes very easily of the most disagreeable facts."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The Poet" (Norton, 730)
Any "good" English major knows not to look at a line out of its context. If I am to be a "good" English major, I should not merely tangent off of this line; instead, I should incorporate the following lines into my response to the above passage. However, what struck me was not Emerson's description of nature adopting technology/industrialization "into her vital circles." What caught my attention was the line quoted above.
In the fashion of a true poet, Emerson has presented me with a new insight: "it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God that makes things ugly." It is a simple thing for me to agree with his statement after reading it. From a Christian standpoint, the truth of his statement is quite obvious. Detachment or dislocation from the life of God could easily be renamed sin, and sin, by its nature, is ugly. Simple? But I could not have explained it, written it, penned it as Emerson did.
While I am struck by the truth nestled at the beginning of his sentence, what really caught my attention was the end: "the poet, who re-attaches things to nature and the Whole,--re-attaching even artificial things and violation of nature, to nature, by a deeper insight, --disposes very easily of the most disagreeable facts." Earlier we outlined and discussed our definitions of Literary Theory, and Reading, and Author, etc. for class and in class, and during our discussion we raised many possible definitions and facets of what makes for Literature. Though my initial definition will undergo countless revisions as we learn and grow in class, one portion of my definition that I will stand behind is my belief that literature must contain truth about the human condition, its vices as well as virtues.
Have you ever read a book where the characters are just so good that you can't stand it? As a fan of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, I was delighted when my cousin loaned me a copy of Alcott's first novel, The Inheritance, written when she was just a teen. Although I enjoyed reading her first novel, I was aggravated to tears by the protagonist, who was so perfect it set your teeth on edge. Readers were reminded almost every line of Edith's goodness and humility and kindness and beauty. Beauty is all well and good, but for me, I prefer reading a text where the characters are flawed, are ugly in some way. I cannot relate to total goodness, to angelic perfection. It is not something I can find on this fallen earth, it is not a quality I possess. I am a fallen creature, made ugly by my separation from God. I can relate to and learn from characters who are flawed like I am. (The don't have to have my exact flaws, mind.)
To me, it is more important, more "interesting" (for lack of a better word), more truthful to write of ugliness and imperfection. One of my favorite authors is Flannery O'Connor. I read a few of her short stories for a class in high school, and was drawn to her depiction of ugly, flawed, twisted characters. Though I was partially repulsed by the characters I found in "Redemption" and "A Good Man is Hard to Find," I was also partially drawn to them, drawn to their vices, drawn to her honesty in writing the characters she did. I think we can learn more from her flawed characters than we can from characters such as Edith. Whether we take away a simple template of What-Not-To-Do, or whether we take hope from a flawed character's redemption, or whether we take away something else entirely, I believe we take more away from a work that presents fallen characters for our pity, amusement and edification.
My fascination, and problem, with the second half of Emerson's quote, is that I am not sure how it relates to my beliefs on "Literature," mainly because I am not sure what--precisely--he means by it. Could he mean that the poet, by writing of ugliness, by addressing it, by dealing with it in some manner, re-attaches it to nature? By illuminating it for those of us with blurred sight, does the poet redirect us towards the proper path? Or does he mean that the poet, using his (or her) greater insight, using her (or his) talent with language and truth--transform the ugly? Does the poet hide the ugly from view, and present us only with that which is whole with nature?
Perhaps it is because I have stared at this passage too long, or perhaps it is because I have not the poet's sight, or perhaps it is because of the late hour--but I cannot come to any conclusion.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The Poet" (Norton, 730)
Any "good" English major knows not to look at a line out of its context. If I am to be a "good" English major, I should not merely tangent off of this line; instead, I should incorporate the following lines into my response to the above passage. However, what struck me was not Emerson's description of nature adopting technology/industrialization "into her vital circles." What caught my attention was the line quoted above.
In the fashion of a true poet, Emerson has presented me with a new insight: "it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God that makes things ugly." It is a simple thing for me to agree with his statement after reading it. From a Christian standpoint, the truth of his statement is quite obvious. Detachment or dislocation from the life of God could easily be renamed sin, and sin, by its nature, is ugly. Simple? But I could not have explained it, written it, penned it as Emerson did.
While I am struck by the truth nestled at the beginning of his sentence, what really caught my attention was the end: "the poet, who re-attaches things to nature and the Whole,--re-attaching even artificial things and violation of nature, to nature, by a deeper insight, --disposes very easily of the most disagreeable facts." Earlier we outlined and discussed our definitions of Literary Theory, and Reading, and Author, etc. for class and in class, and during our discussion we raised many possible definitions and facets of what makes for Literature. Though my initial definition will undergo countless revisions as we learn and grow in class, one portion of my definition that I will stand behind is my belief that literature must contain truth about the human condition, its vices as well as virtues.
Have you ever read a book where the characters are just so good that you can't stand it? As a fan of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, I was delighted when my cousin loaned me a copy of Alcott's first novel, The Inheritance, written when she was just a teen. Although I enjoyed reading her first novel, I was aggravated to tears by the protagonist, who was so perfect it set your teeth on edge. Readers were reminded almost every line of Edith's goodness and humility and kindness and beauty. Beauty is all well and good, but for me, I prefer reading a text where the characters are flawed, are ugly in some way. I cannot relate to total goodness, to angelic perfection. It is not something I can find on this fallen earth, it is not a quality I possess. I am a fallen creature, made ugly by my separation from God. I can relate to and learn from characters who are flawed like I am. (The don't have to have my exact flaws, mind.)
To me, it is more important, more "interesting" (for lack of a better word), more truthful to write of ugliness and imperfection. One of my favorite authors is Flannery O'Connor. I read a few of her short stories for a class in high school, and was drawn to her depiction of ugly, flawed, twisted characters. Though I was partially repulsed by the characters I found in "Redemption" and "A Good Man is Hard to Find," I was also partially drawn to them, drawn to their vices, drawn to her honesty in writing the characters she did. I think we can learn more from her flawed characters than we can from characters such as Edith. Whether we take away a simple template of What-Not-To-Do, or whether we take hope from a flawed character's redemption, or whether we take away something else entirely, I believe we take more away from a work that presents fallen characters for our pity, amusement and edification.
My fascination, and problem, with the second half of Emerson's quote, is that I am not sure how it relates to my beliefs on "Literature," mainly because I am not sure what--precisely--he means by it. Could he mean that the poet, by writing of ugliness, by addressing it, by dealing with it in some manner, re-attaches it to nature? By illuminating it for those of us with blurred sight, does the poet redirect us towards the proper path? Or does he mean that the poet, using his (or her) greater insight, using her (or his) talent with language and truth--transform the ugly? Does the poet hide the ugly from view, and present us only with that which is whole with nature?
Perhaps it is because I have stared at this passage too long, or perhaps it is because I have not the poet's sight, or perhaps it is because of the late hour--but I cannot come to any conclusion.
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