Aphorisms Unplugged: Charity Begins at Home

many hands joined with heart shape painted in the middle the group

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ometimes that well-worn adage doesn’t really mean what our literal-minded, text-focused, Google-driven world thinks it means. One reason this happens is that, quite simply, language evolves.

To further complicate matters, as with books, all too often the context of these popular wisdoms has been forgotten. Though these aphorisms may still contain some good advice, their original message is typically richer and more profound than our contemporary interpretation.

This Book is Banned proffers a few proverbs, sayings, and other pearls of wisdom that have been unplugged,” as it were. We’ve rebooted, gone back-to-basics, and re-discovered their intended message. For example:

Charity Begins at Home

“Charity begins at home.” We’ve all heard the expression. Usually in response to financial aid going to other nations. Or when we’re asked to donate to an organization that serves people outside our immediate circle.

“Charity begins at home” is effectively understood to mean charity ends at home. Once again, however, that is precisely the opposite of what this aphorism is actually meant to convey.

Misunderstanding of the adage “charity begins at home” hinges on a shift in the interpretation of the word charity. These days, charity is understood as almsgiving, monetary donations to provide help for those in need – typically through organizations set up to do so.

But charity’s original meaning can be traced back to the 4th Century, when St. Jerome translated the Bible from Greek into Latin. [1] And, he translated the Greek agape (ἀγάπη) into the Latin charitas.

Charity is described as “a state and disposition of the heart.”[2] It is defined as the spirit of universal good-will that promotes a concern for the welfare of others, and as a result, calls good deeds into action. Monetary contributions are the manifestation of this altruistic state.[3]

The phrase “Charity begins at home” is often thought to have biblical origins, but it does not. The original understanding of charity is, however, considered a theological virtue. Sir Thomas Browne is credited with coining the phrase in his 1643 spiritual testament titled Religio Medici.[4]

Browne begins his observations on the virtue of charity by stating that, without it, “Faith is a meer notion.”[5] He continues by noting:

I have ever endeavoured to nourish the mercifull disposition, and humane inclination I borrowed from my Parents, and regulate it to the written and prescribed Lawes of Charity.[6]

In short, he learned the virtuous disposition known as charity, and received instruction about how to put it into practical action from his parents. Hence, “charity begins at home.”

Browne also points out that an unwillingness to help those in need is nothing short of sinful. That sin being pride, you know, one of the seven deadlies. Because it’s only “nimbler & conceited heads, that never [look] a degree beyond their nests.”[7]

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Check out more unplugged proverbs, sayings,
and other pearls of wisdom here.

#aphorisms unplugged            #the art of reading

Endnotes:

[1] Taggart, Deborah R. “Charity.” Learning to Give.org    https://www.learningtogive.org/resources/charity

[2] Rev. T. H. Stokoe, M.A. The Use and Abuse of the Proverb, “Charity begins at home.” London: John Henry and James Parker, 1859. Pg 9.

[3] Rev. T. H. Stokoe, M.A. The Use and Abuse of the Proverb, “Charity begins at home.” London: John Henry and James Parker, 1859. Pg 8.

[4] Kastan, David Scott. “How This World Goes: On Shakespeare and Charity.” April 23, 2020. Beinecke Rare book & Manuscript Library.
https://beinecke.library.yale.edu/article/how-world-goes-david-scott-kastan-shakespeare-and-charity

[5] Sir Thomas Browne. Religio Medici. 1642.The Second Part. Section 1.
https://penelope.uchicago.edu/relmed/relmed.html

[6] Sir Thomas Browne. Religio Medici. 1642.The Second Part. Section 1.
https://penelope.uchicago.edu/relmed/relmed.html

[7] Sir Thomas Browne. Religio Medici. 1642.The Second Part. Section 8.
https://penelope.uchicago.edu/relmed/relmed.html

Image:

Charity Begins at Home:  Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash      Edited.




Power of Books Author Series: Jamie Jo Hoang

vintage typewriter with This Book is Banned's Power of Books logo

E
fforts to ban books during the 2022-2023 school year are up 33 percent from the 2021-2022 academic year. And the number of titles targeted for censorship in public libraries has skyrocketed, increasing by 92% in 2023.

And, the books being banned are consistently those of marginalized voices. Books with diverse characters, primarily characters of color and LGBTQA+ characters were overwhelmingly targeted.[1] And continue to be.

Throughout this collection of conversations with authors, we talk about the power of books, and the question of why it’s important for stories containing characters that have diverse backgrounds and life experience to be told.

In considering this vital question, we also touch on the dangers of restricting or erasing these narratives – what damage is being done when books about diversity are banned and reading is restricted?

Needless to say, each of the authors in this series brings s different perspective and life experience to the conversation, adding nuance and depth to the combined answer of why it’s important for stories about diverse lives to be told… as well as the dangers that arise when they’re expunged from our national discourse.

In this edition of our Power of Books Author Series we talk with Jamie Jo Hoang, author of My Father the Panda Killer.

this book is banned -- power of books series_jamie jo hoangJamie Jo Hoang is the daughter of Vietnamese refugees who grew up in Orange County, California — not the rich part. She worked for MGM Studios and later as a docuseries producer. Now she writes novels and blogs full-time. Her first novel, Blue Sun, Yellow Sky is a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year. Her recent release My Father the Panda Killer, is a touching and insightful coming-of-age story told in alternating voices. The first is a California teenager railing against the Vietnamese culture of her parents. Her voice is juxtaposed with that of her father as an eleven-year-old boat person making the harrowing and traumatic refugee journey from Vietnam to the United States.

this book is banned - Power of books author series jamie jo hoang

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As an author who is the daughter of Vietnamese refugees and grew up in Orange County, California, I feel that it is important to highlight the diverse perspectives and experiences represented in literature. This includes the works of bipoc authors and biopic books, which can shed light on underrepresented communities and offer insights into different cultures.  —  Jamie Jo Hoang

Your book opens with a statement that this is not a history lesson. Obviously there’s a lot of history in there though. As you point out, most histories are basically a delineation of military conquest, that it’s about the generals and the soldiers. So, I like the quote by the musician Sun Rah, “history is only his story. You haven’t heard my story.” Your book fills out a people’s story, not a military story, and I really like that. Bearing in mind that we don’t hear people history, as it were, why do you think it’s important for stories like the one you wrote to be told?

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Honestly, when I was learning about the Vietnam War in school, I never saw my family in it. When I was looking at the images that were in our history books, and the contextual history and dates of when things happened, I didn’t see civilians. I didn’t see my parents. I didn’t see their story.

Growing up, I watched a lot of World War II movies, and I remember this one movie, Life is Beautiful. I remember watching it and thinking this film really captured the Italian essence within a war movie. Within the context of this enormous tragedy, they were able to capture the essence of a people.

And that has always been my goal, to show that there may be two sides within wars, but both sides are human beings. Behind every bomb and bullet are ramifications for what happens after the war. And that’s really important to talk about.

I really wanted to highlight that, when we talk about history and war. We so rarely include the human story, the civilian story. That’s why this book is really important to me. And it’s why I wrote it.

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It’s true. We very seldom hear about the fallout of war, you know, the after the fact. My experience in history class was the same – dates, military, what new tools we used in this war. History is a social science, but we don’t really get the social part of that science most of the time. So, thank you for that.

I like the idea of you saying you put more information in the pot of knowledge. It’s so important for us to see each other as people. Not with big holes in our knowledge. Or to stick with your metaphor, when we have a thin stew it’s easy for us to look at each other as Others, or with a lack of understanding.

And not even the way you talk about your “fobby” cousins (fresh off the boat), that’s one thing. But then there’s the extreme idea, like that mom in your Times article… “my daughter can’t have lunch with your kind.” That just, I can’t put a word on it, but that makes me crazy.

I’m obviously coming at things from a banned book perspective. Yours has not been banned, but a lot of the books being banned right now are discussing topics like the ones you write about. And bearing what we had just said in mind, what dangers do you see in banning authors of color, or anything that’s uncomfortable? What’s the danger of having that thin stew or the holes in our knowledge?

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Well, it’s a tragedy to lose every book we have that adds a piece to the puzzle. In life we never really get the full picture, but each tiny puzzle piece helps us empathize with the human condition and each other. Books about color and differences bridge the gap between us, right?

I might not be African American, but when I read about an African American story, it becomes a journey. That’s what I hope people will get from my story as well. “I understand this person so much better through this book.” When we remove these books from shelves, we take away the opportunity to connect with people in a very kind deep and visceral way. I get chills almost, because it’s painful to think that all of the information you can acquire from a book on a shelf is no longer available.

People often talk about how books are their friends. To be able to walk into a library and really learn about somebody through the course of 250-300 pages is a powerful thing. And, the removal of it is so painful because you’re really erasing people. You’re, erasing humanity by taking out the best parts of it.

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Well said. Boy, you pinpointed it. You’re erasing people when you ban books.

On a similar note, when you talk about your grandma pointing out that it isn’t government who does the cleanup after the fact, would you then say that addressing generational trauma is part of that cleanup? It isn’t just buildings and roads, it’s ordinary people, authors like you, authors addressing other similar forms of trauma. They’re the ones doing all the cleanup. Would you speak to that?

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Growing up, I don’t think I really understood what generational trauma was because my parents were so focused on survival. They were focused on creating a life for us in this new place, that everything I was taught growing up was really about how difficult their journey was and how lucky I was to not have gone through what they went through.

What was really important to me, was to show that their trauma does get passed down and they’re completely unaware of it. It makes sense. If people don’t have time to process their trauma – which I do believe is a luxury for a lot of people who endure wars – the ramifications of that become pretty clear.

 Jane’s story is really meant to highlight how one generation’s trauma gets passed on to the next generation. If we don’t bridge this gap between each other, we just continue to pass it on. There’s a moment at the end of the story where Jane slams the door on Paul’s hand, and that was very difficult for me to write because it’s such an honest moment. When you are someone who’s been abused and then you abuse someone else, you feel the power in that.

There’s a moment when you really have to make a choice and decide, am I going to continue this or am I going to make a change?  This book is really about how we make shifts. I think the way each person comes to that shift is different. So, it was really important for me to highlight that. Jane’s not perfect, and she can’t expect her parents to be perfect. But she should absolutely look at the things they’re doing that are not right and course correct. That’s how we learn. That’s how we grow. And, I think that’s how we break the cycle.

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I will say not having your life experience, reading your book really crystallized the idea of exactly what generational trauma is, and the forms it showed. It always made sense intellectually to me, but as we said earlier about reading a book and actually getting to know a person, there’s an emotional connection. Your book really made that click for me. Thank you. And I get it now beyond just intellectually. I get it empathetically, which is where change really happens. From the heart, and that’s what it takes to make the change really happen.

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Thank you for saying that.

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I really appreciate generational trauma being clarified for me. So thank you. It also me realize that it isn’t limited to individuals or families either. We can apply what you just said to our entire country. I mean the history of our country, the ramifications that we’re still dealing with as a result of slavery. So many people I know feel like that was so long ago. Just move on. But that’s not so easy.

Or, let’s call it what it is, genocide of native Americans. And yet again, those are the books that are being targeted so often because we don’t want kids to feel bad, you know? Am I wrong in drawing that parallel? Do you see that parallel as well?

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I think that’s absolutely true. It goes back to erasure. If you can pretend it didn’t happen, if it doesn’t show up in text, then it didn’t exist. That’s really the danger in having history be told by a select number of people — it’s extremely dangerous because that’s what propaganda is.

It changes what the truth is so people are not aware of what happened. It’s why people today often say things like, “slavery was so long ago, why are we still talking about it?” We’re still talking about it because, obviously generations of slavery leads to generations of trauma, and we never corrected it.

I think we’re trying, but in many ways we’re failing. There are people who are really pushing for progress, for real change. And I do think we can get there. I am a hopeful person. I definitely think like there’s a path, but we cannot get there if we erase the history.

We cannot get there if we take books off the shelves and people don’t understand why this or that is happening. Things don’t make sense without context. And, if you remove the context, it explains why we don’t understand something as basic as thinking “aren’t we all equal now?” when we’re clearly not.

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Absolutely. And what’s the line? It doesn’t take bad people doing a lot. It just takes good people to do nothing for awful things to continue… whatever awful thing you’re talking about. So, if you can make “good people” that a given injustice happened long enough ago, and we should just move on, there’s no progress. And, if they’re missing the information, they don’t understand why just moving on isn’t possible. That’s, the frustrating part about book banning.

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I also think that when you really connect with people on a human level, race doesn’t matter. When it comes down to war and we’re talking about lives on either side, people who have knowledge of the other side will empathize with these human beings. That’s how we teach ourselves war is horrible and we should not enter into it. Dehumanization of the other is how we teach people that war is okay. It’s how we rally people into doing atrocious things they would never do to their friend.

When you find a friend in a book, you cannot do these things. You just couldn’t. They become a part of you. They’re your friends. They are your neighbors. They become your companions. You would automatically think, no, I cannot. I’m not going to kill my neighbor. I’m not going to kill my friend. That’s the power of books. And, if we remove the books, we are in danger of creating larger divides. It takes us backwards, and we just can’t do that.

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That’s why I’m at least giving it a shot with This Book is Banned. I may be one tiny individual, but I can align with the American Library Association, for example, they’re big. And if you get enough of us coming together, it makes a difference. Because it’s like accretion — small particles accumulate and come together to form a larger mass. And thanks for talking to me and helping make that happen.

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I completely agree. When people feel that, as an individual they can’t make a difference, we get into trouble. Because each person really does make a big difference. It’s like Pointillism — each dot is essential to the whole picture. Without every dot, the picture doesn’t exist. Each person is a dot, and a point of view. When we collectively come together, the image is amazing. So… each point matters.

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Yes. Each point does matter. And if you talk to enough of the people at the American Library Association and other like-minded, as you said, it’s hopeful because we all know that. And that’s the work that needs to be done at the moment. Because, like you said, leaving holes in our history is just propaganda.

I don’t know whether that was intended to be an explicit message from your book, but it’s certainly one I saw how toward the end. You say this family was broken in half – in Vietnam. One part of the family listened to the propaganda of the North, other parts of the family listened to the propaganda of the South.

And look what happened to them, the country, and now the generational trauma that’s the fallout from all of that. So yeah, it’s, an alarm for current events. Is there anything I missed or did I get anything wrong on the questions? 

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I don’t think so. One thing I really try to talk about with this book – when people look at it in classroom settings or talking about it in book clubs –  something I would really love to see is a discussion about whether or not people think Jane should forgive her father.

 My point of view in the book is obviously that Jane builds this bridge of empathy. But I think a great discussion is still to be had about some people deciding that personally they can’t, that they need to sever ties. That doesn’t mean not understanding the history, but I think some people would choose to protect themselves and choose differently than Jane.

And that’s okay too. That’s why this book is just one book in a giant pot of books that I would love to see. Because I really believe there is no no single path to healing. I would love to see a book that takes a similar experience and handles it differently, but comes out whole and happy.  We should have open discussions about the different ways we can heal — that there really isn’t just one.

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Very true. The knee-jerk reaction for an awful lot of people is that of Jackie’s character:  “Oh, this must stop” without understanding, once again, holes in the information. A shallow level of understanding is another way to put it. Then, as with any good book, the more you think about it the more you see all the really subtle connections that you make, it’s well done.

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Thanks for noticing that.

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That’s one thing I try to do. Because… it’s true that over the last book banning has become explicitly political. But it’s easy to rope people into banning books when, I think it’s safe to say, so many people read simply for plot – at a pretty shallow level. Not because they lack the ability. But because they haven’t been taught how, and why it’s important, to read more deeply that plot.

What’s underneath the water of that proverbial iceberg is often making book banners’ point for them. You know, “there shouldn’t be such violence in the world, and children shouldn’t have to go through this.” That’s right. And, that is what’s under the surface. So, I do readings of books that’ve been banned, interpretations that address what’s under the surface. 

Needless to say, I don’t want to any of your works on a banned books list. But, I’ll choose a book, talk about why it was challenged, and address those very issues in the reading.

Take Salinger’s classic, The Catcher in the Rye, for example. “Teenagers shouldn’t act like that and engage in these types of behaviors,” is frequently cited as a reason to remove this book from shelves. And I agree, Holden Caulfield’s behavior is problematic. But writing about a particular behavior, doesn’t mean the author is endorsing it.

The questions that don’t get asked in book banning situations is: Why does this character engage in this unacceptable behavior? And, what point is the author actually making? But in order to consider these questions, you have to understand that there’s more to a book than it’s plot. And, again… this scenario isn’t due to a lack of ability. It’s because, by and large, we aren’t taught how to read beyond simple narrative.

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Yeah. Books are very personal. So, what connects with one person might not connect with someone else. This is why we should read widely, because so many books cover similar topics. It may just take finding the right author who, for whatever reason, you really connect with. One who allows you to fully understand the same point another author might have made, but you didn’t connect with in the same way.

Having a mass of information allows you to find books and authors you connect with, those that give you the framework for understanding things, points you might not understand if they were presented in a way you don’t connect with. That’s why removing any book from the shelf is so frustrating.

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Right. To your point, Sandra Cisneros describes books as prescriptions. As with medicine, not every prescription is for every person. So if this is not your prescription, put it back on the shelf for someone else and find the one that is your prescription. 

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Yes. Can I ask you… how did you get to this point? What led you into creating this whole career for yourself?

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I was working on my Doctor of Liberal Arts degree, and began to see the implications and significance of literature – and how important it is to really learn to read it. So, for the reasons we talked about a minute ago, I decided to address book banning.

And, I could do it in a way that supplies resources for middle-school and high school students. Teachers are absolutely heroes. But, they’re hamstrung by state achievement tests and a focus on comprehension, grammar, and spelling… all of which are important, of course. But reading for what’s in the bottom of the literary iceberg gets limited because of testing requirements, as well as the multiple-choice way these tests are structured.

I also want to keep This Book is Banned, and the resources on it free. Because lack of funding is another way teachers are hamstrung. So, that’s where I ended up, and I’m really pleased that you’re helping me move that ball forward.

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Well, thank you. And thank you for the work you do. Your work is really important. I think it’s vital and I am so appreciative.

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I know you’ve got a busy day today getting your next book going. Is it your third book?  Any projections on when that might happen?

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We’re talking about the spring of 2025.

I’ll definitely keep my eyes open for it. And thank you again for making time to chat about books, and why they’re so important.

Be sure to see what the other authors in our Power of Books Series
have to say about the importance of books: 

Dr. Michael Datcher,
author of Harlem at Four

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And for all you educators, download this My Father the Panda Killer Discussion and Project Guide.

#Power of Books Author Series        #Jamie Jo Hoang         #Vietnam War         #Women’s History Month        #The Art of Reading 

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Endnotes:

[1] Bruinius, Harry. “Banning Books: Protecting kids or erasing humanity?” October 6, 2023. The Christian Science Monitorhttps://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2023/1006/Banning-books-Protecting-kids-or-erasing-humanity

Rado, Diane. “In 2024, more censorship and bans: FL, TX removing large batches of books in public schools.” December 21, 2023. News From The States. https://www.newsfromthestates.com/article/2024-more-censorship-and-bans-fl-tx-removing-large-batches-books-public-schools

Unite Against Banned Books 2023 Censorship Numbers.

Images:

Power of Books: Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash    Edited: Added Power of Books Author Series text.

Jamie Jo Hoang:  Dust jacket of My Father the Panda Killer.

Cover of My Father the Panda Killer.




Power of Books Author Series: Dr. Michael Datcher

power of books author series

E
fforts to ban books during the 2022-2023 school year are up 33 percent from the 2021-2022 academic year. And the number of titles targeted for censorship in public libraries has skyrocketed, increasing by 92% in 2023.

And, the books being banned are consistently those of marginalized voices. Books with diverse characters, primarily characters of color and LGBTQ+ characters were overwhelmingly targeted.[1] And continue to be.

Throughout this collection of conversations with authors, we talk about the power of books, and the question of why it’s important for stories containing characters that have diverse backgrounds and life experience to be told.

In considering this vital question, we also touch on the dangers of restricting or erasing these narratives – what damage is being done when books about diversity are banned and reading is restricted?

Needless to say, each of the authors in this series brings s different perspective and life experience to the conversation, adding nuance and depth to the combined answer of why it’s important for stories about diverse lives to be told… as well as the dangers that arise when they’re expunged from our national discourse.

In the inaugural edition of our Power of Books Author Series we talk with Dr. Michael Datcher, author of Harlem at Four.

power of books author series dr michael datcherDr. Datcher is an engaged scholar and the author of the critically acclaimed New York Times bestseller Raising Fences: A Black Man’s Love Story, (a Today show Book of the Month pick). He is also the author of the Pulitzer Prize-nominated Animating Black and Brown Liberation and co-editor of Tough Love: The Life and Death of Tupac Shakur. His play Silence was commissioned by and premiered at the Getty Museum. And most recently, Harlem at Four, illustrated by Coretta Scott King Award-Winning illustrator Frank Morrison.

power of books author series dr michael datcher

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Teaching is important to me because my life was changed by great teachers. I had been on a very corporate track in my first couple years of college. I come from a very poor family, and I wanted, I guess, just to make money. Then I had these literature professors one semester as an elective who were so amazing that I changed, literally, my entire life. So, I believe in the power of education being transformative. That’s my story, and why I completely believe in education.

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I couldn’t agree more about the transformative nature of education.

 Your children’s book Harlem at Four is gorgeous, but it’s only disguised as a children’s book. It’s for all ages. I learned so much from reading it. I bet your daughter (who the book is named for) is tickled.

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Yeah, she loved it. She was really excited. And it really was a gift for her, so I’m excited that it’s out and that it was published, frankly. It was a chance to surprise her, and honor her and honor our relationship. That’s important to me.

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Congratulations to both of you. It’s an important book to have out there.

As you know, this website is about banned books and pushing back against book banning. So, clearly that’ll be the topic of conversation today. In keeping with a series of interviews I’m doing on the subject of book banning, why do you think it’s so important for stories about diversity to be told? Especially since those are the types books that are most targeted.

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For Harlem at Four, that book’s important because it reveals a not well-known story about the Harlem Renaissance and so-called Great Black Migration. In the history of America, and probably every country, change happens because individuals make a decision.

This man, Philip A. Payton, bought two buildings around 135th street in Harlem, at what is now Malcolm X Boulevard – then it was called Lenox Ave. His desire for Black folks to have a place to live in that part of the city was important to him, because at the time Blacks could not live in that part of New York.

He was able to buy these two buildings, and he rented them to Black families. His building was the first building which Blacks could actually live in, in Harlem. So, literally this one man’s decision to buy these buildings gave Blacks making their migration from the South, fleeing racial terror, a place to go.

Eventually he bought over twenty buildings. So, he was the foundation of what became the Harlem Renaissance. Because those folks heard by word of mouth that “there’s a guy who bought these buildings in Harlem, and we can live there, etc.” Because when Blacks lived anywhere in New York, their rents were increased. There was a premium, a “Black tax,” basically. And it seems as if Mr. Payton didn’t use that system to put Black people in his buildings.

I wanted to tell that story, so there’s that aspect of Harlem at Four. But also secondly, on a much more personal level, the story of my daughter and I. Harlem and her sister are really “daddy’s girls,” and the discourse around Black men as fathers is that we’re not present. Now, in my life, among my friends, the fathers who I know are very present. They’re great dads.

And, of course, there are non-great dads in every community. But the discourse around Black men is that we’re not present. So I wanted to offer a real-life story of just one Black dad – me – and my youngest daughter.

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That’s the best way to move things forward is to do what you have done, to put a face on whatever the concept we’re addressing is. There are a lot of different names for it – The Mother Theresa Effect is one. The insight being, when we address issues that affect vast numbers of people, it’s simultaneously ambiguous and overwhelming. But when we focus on an individual story, like you have done, it clicks psychologically and sparks empathy.  

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That’s right. I agree.

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Harlem at Four
is also a history lesson. I learned a lot about the Father of Harlem. That’s a history I never learned, and your book opened a door for me. The first thing I did when I finished Harlem at Four was consult “the almighty Google” to see what else I could learn about him.

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And to that note… I wanted to have that glossary in the back, and my editor at Random House had the same idea. I’m a professor, so I believe in education. I wanted the book to be an educational resource for parents, and also for teachers.

You’re right, the book is aspirational in terms of its age range. It’s targeted at kids who are four to eight, but some information is a little older than that. And that’s on purpose. We wanted the kids to have an aspirational approach to the book.

We thought Frank Morrison’s images were so great that even a kid who didn’t know what Malcolm X was could figure out via the pictures. And with the glossary in the back, having his or her mother or father tell him or her about that information, it would all work out. So that was the idea behind the book’s back matter, the glossary about these people and places in Harlem.

Harlem is an interesting place. So many people who are important in Black history have been born there or had a major part of their life there. The glossary talks about Tupac Shakur, Afeni Shakur, all these people, Sonia Sanchez, Malcolm X. And if you didn’t know that, you wouldn’t know how important Harlem is.

I live in the lower east side in New York, but I’m in Harlem at least twice a week. I go to a writing workshop on Saturdays. Then on Wednesdays, I go to a café or bar in Harlem to write. And, you wouldn’t know how important that place is unless you knew some of this history.

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We all need to know as much of the history of our country as possible. Otherwise, we get a myopic view of what the world should be. So, let’s turn the initial question on its head… what are the dangers of restricting or exempting these stories from the conversation?

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When people don’t know a nuanced history of a people, they tend to treat people in non-nuanced ways, as stereotypes. There are informational sources in America, be it the internet or certain types of news sources that put out an image, for example, of Black people that’s extremely negative.

Oftentimes folks who will hold anti-Black views don’t have anyone in their life, in a significant way, who are Black. They have almost no personal one-on-one experience with a Black person. Almost none, maybe someone who’s served their coffee, or at a café, or someone who is working for them or whatever. But as a peer, they don’t have that experience. So, if you restrict information that could offer a more nuanced, more replete understanding of Black people, what you’re doing is having non-Black people base their understanding of Black people on erroneous information.

I’m a professor. And I’m at a school where I teach mostly white kids – I’m at NYU. In my whole career, on the first day of class, I come early to class, I shake every student’s hand, and have a series of rituals. But on several occasions, students have walked into the class, seen me in the front of the class, and they’ve had an outburst. They’ve said, “You’re the professor?”

And this has happened several times. Because they don’t have experience with Black people, for example, in charge of them. A professor of record, a person with power over their grade, for example. Then they have an engagement with someone like me, whose a Black professor who has a Phd, but also from a very urban background. And I bring my full self into the classroom.

So, by the end of the semester – and this happens every semester – they’ve spent fifteen weeks with me in class, and they’ve had a very wide-ranging exposure to this one African-American man, who is complex and complicated, as everyone is.

What happens a lot in these course – because it’s a seminar and we do writing – eventually they begin to open up too. Because I do a pretty good job in the class, and they tend to like me in the class. They tend to befriend me, and come to office hours. And they will say, “Wow, I have to tell you, in my family people are pretty racist and say these things about Black people.”

And I will say to them, “I wonder how many Black people they’ve actually known in their lives. You’ve known me for fifteen weeks here (or whatever point it is in the semester), and you’ve got some real information, some data about a real person, not some stereotype, or some TV show.

So, the danger in banning books, like my book Harlem at Four, or any other book that deals with important topics around race, is that people who could read these books and gain a better understanding of, for example, the Black experience are robbed of that experience. And they’re basing their information on faulty information. As a result, there’s a continued tension in the country – divisiveness, conflict, and that’s bad for the country. That’s the negative externality of banning the book is that it’s bad for the country.

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I absolutely agree with that. Banning books is bad for the country, for all the reasons you laid out.

 The other thing I try to do on This Book is Banned revolves around how to read beyond plot. Because reading on that level is like the internet version of the subject at hand – lacking nuance. And, a significant number of the challenges, at least before book banning became so political, stemmed from a misreading of the book in question.

 For example, people wanted to remove The Catcher in the Rye from classroom shelves and libraries because teenagers shouldn’t talk and behave like Holden Caulfield. But they failed to consider why the author might have written that character the way he did. What was Salinger actually saying by making those choices? If they had asked that simple question, “why,” it would be apparent that Salinger agreed with them, teenagers shouldn’t act like Holden Caulfield, that something is indeed very wrong here. So, what is the book actually about?

 Given that you are the professor that you are, would you speak to that a little bit, the importance of reading beyond plot and surface narrative?

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I believe in the power of a good story. And, it’s really hard to tell a good story. Plot and story aren’t the same thing, but plot and story are related – I just want to say that. Some authors who write adult fiction, for example, will say “Well, I don’t really worry about the plot, just kind of get my ideas in there.” I think that’s a cop out for a writer who’s writing a novel not to make your story engaging enough. So there’s that.

I agree… for me, the best books are books that have a great story, have certain plot elements but also are trying to offer some insight into the human condition. How people love, how people get their hearts broken, how people have hope when there’s no reason to hope. How people survive tragedy and bounce back, say something about what it’s like to be alive on the planet. I think that’s what makes literature important.

And that’s why I was drawn to books. I really love to read. Although I’m a professor and I write books, I’m really a fan. I’m just a reader who happens to do other things. I really, really, really love to read. I could literally spend ten hours a day, seven days a week reading and never get tired. Never. I could do that and be very happy. I have other things I have to do, unfortunately. But I could do that and be very contend, reading ten hours a day every single day, seven days a week… I could do that and be totally happy.

Because when I’m reading, I’m learning, and I’m growing, and I’m having my mind stretched. I’m being challenged. I’m thinking about my own life, and about what it’s like to be human. So, I think that’s why it’s important to read beneath the story, to read beneath the plot. Because, when books are done well and are thoughtful, books can really be transformative.

Again, that’s my story. That year that I took those two electives, I still recall this, we read The Bluest Eye in one class. We read James Baldwin, we read Go Tell it On the Mountain, and Richard Wright. These are books I hadn’t read before, and I was so blown away. I was like, “Oh my God, this is incredible.” You know? I recall calling my mother and saying, “Ma, there’s been a change in the master plan.”

So, that’s why I think we need to read beneath the surface, because there’s so much there.

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There is so much there. And, it can be about experiences you’ll never have in your own life, so it can bridge the divisiveness. You’re absolutely right, it has to be a good story to draw you in, but there’s so much more to it than that. It’s like the proverbial iceberg, the bulk of it’s under the surface.

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That’s right.

power of books author series dr michael datcher

I also picked up your book, Liberating Black and Brown Liberation. And, returning to your point about the students who come into your class and have never had a Black professor before… I can relate, having grown up in a homogenous environment myself. And that experience was the most significant part of my education, a world-view-changing realization about what the real world looks like and how I fit into it.

power of books author series dr michael datcher.
Yeah, experience matters. As African-Americans, because we live in a world that’s run by folks who don’t look like us, we have to…  [For example] as a professor, my training is literary theory, so I know all the French theorists, I know all the German theorists. And, I do American Literature so I know all the great American books. That’s part of my job, and I like those books, actually. Those are great books.

And, as someone who’s Black, I’m interested in stories that deal with Black subject matter… people of color. The book that you raised a second ago, that book deals with Black and brown people, Black and Latinx individuals. So, I also know a great deal about Latin literature as well. I want to be conversant in stories that deal with black and brown people as well.

So, we always have these two jobs. I have to know all the “white stuff,” basically, the dominant group stuff. Because that’s part of the job, which again, I like those books – there’s a lot of good literature. I like theory. I’m a fan. But I also want to understand my own history, culture, and think about how theory can engage ideas by Black thinkers and deal with the Black experience.

The book that you mentioned is all about that. It’s me using my academic training, applying those techniques, those ideas to books by Black and brown writers. And trying to think through how we can more fairly adjudicate the value of a work of literature.

Because in my field, the authors who are famous, who are respected, are so because critics write about them, and they deify certain people. And, frankly, some of the folks who are deified don’t deserve to be deified – as much. But, it’s because the folks who are deifying them are from that experience. Whereas, African-American writers may come forward and write these great books, and their books are not – in my opinion – fairly adjudicated and they’re not as respected.

So, in terms of being in the canon, The Norton Anthologies and all the other important anthologies, there’s very, very few of the many, many great Black writers, for example. Because the authorities, the gatekeepers, don’t have that shared experience.

In the American canon of literature, one requirement is that the book has to be universal. But really, universal is kind of a misnomer for the interests, concerns, ideas, likes of white men. And then you stack universal on top of that. That’s what it really, really is. If you don’t fit in that narrow box, your work isn’t universal.

So, Liberating Black and Brown Liberation is about challenging that idea of universality, and kind of get at, “let’s talk about what’s really universal.”

I could go on all day. Because this is all important to me.

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And it is all important. In addition to the question of book banning – what’s going with K-12 curriculums and public libraries – is the question of how to read literature, as well as which books get presented in arenas that matter. They’re all part of why it’s important for stories about diversity to not only be told, but be heard and acknowledged. Because these books are no less universal than anything else in American canon… they’re still about human experience and people making their way in the world.

Thank you for your time. This has been fabulous.

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And thanks for your service and your work about banned books. We need it.

Be sure to see what the other authors in our Power of Books Series
have to say about the importance of books: 

Jamie Jo Hoang,
author of My Father the Panda Killer

#Power of Books Author Series   #Dr. Michael Datcher    #Black History Month   #Harlem Renaissance   #the art of reading

Endnotes:

[1] Bruinius, Harry. “Banning Books: Protecting kids or erasing humanity?” October 6, 2023. The Christian Science Monitor. https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2023/1006/Banning-books-Protecting-kids-or-erasing-humanity

Rado, Diane. “In 2024, more censorship and bans: FL, TX removing large batches of books in public schools.” December 21, 2023. News From The States. https://www.newsfromthestates.com/article/2024-more-censorship-and-bans-fl-tx-removing-large-batches-books-public-schools

Unite Against Banned Books 2023 Censorship Numbers.

Images:

Power of Books: Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash    Edited: Added Power of Books Author Series text.

Dr. Michael Datcher: michaeldatcher.com 

Cover of Harlem at Four:  Datcher, Michael. Harlem at Four. New York: Random House, 2023.

Cover of Animating Black and Brown Liberation: Datcher, Michael. Animating Black and Brown Liberation: A Theory of American Literatures. Albany: State University of New York, 2019.




I Took the Road Less Traveled By…

This Book is Banned-Scarlet S.
ometimes that well-worn adage doesn’t really mean what our literal-minded, text-focused, Google-driven world thinks it means. One reason this happens is that, quite simply, language evolves. To further complicate matters, all too often the context of these popular wisdoms has been forgotten.

In the case of  “I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference,” the aphorism comes from a poem that is typically misinterpreted.

The closing lines of Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken are ubiquitous in American culture as an anthem of independence. We’ve seen this verse printed on t-shirts, coffee mugs, and refrigerator magnets just to name a few.

These words have been borrowed for everything from high-school commencement speeches to product advertisements, to episode titles of over a dozen television series, and more.[1]

But, The Road Not Taken isn’t actually a paean of bold self-assertion and uniqueness. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. As Frost himself warned audiences, “you have to be careful of that one; it’s a tricky poem – very tricky.”[2] Even the person who inspired the poem didn’t “get it” at first.

open field with a cottage and clouds

What Inspired The Road Not Taken?

As with prose literature, when engaging poetry the author and their life experience comes into play.  Inspiration for The Road Not Taken came from Frost’s mirth over a personality trait of his closest friend in England, Edward Thomas.

While Frost was living in Gloucester, he and Thomas would take long walks through the countryside together. Repeatedly, Thomas would choose a route on the promise of showing his American friend rare wild-flowers or birds’ eggs, only to have the walk end in laments and self-reproach when his chosen path failed to produce any such marvels. Ribbing Thomas after one of their best flower-gathering walks, Frost chided, “No matter which road you take, you’ll always sigh, and wish you’d taken another.”[3]

After Frost returned to the U.S., where he finished The Road Not Taken, he sent a copy to Thomas. Frost’s expectation was that his friend would understand the poem as a joke, and respond with something along the lines of “very funny”…  “stop teasing me.” But as noted above, that isn’t what happened.

Instead, Thomas praised the poem, his remarks indicating he missed the joke. Much to Frost’s chagrin, he would have to explain to Thomas that he’d been the butt of a joke. And, not surprisingly, Thomas didn’t find it the least bit funny. Frost’s joke had pricked Thomas’ already wavering confidence.

None too pleased, Thomas declared he doubted anyone would see the poem as a joke unless they had Frost to personally guide them through it. Frost came to realize just how tricky The Road Not Taken is when he read it for a group of college students – who didn’t get it either. Frost ultimately extended a “Mea culpa” to his good friend.[4]

illustration of how a thaumatrope works

It’s a Tricky Poem… Very Tricky

A careful reading begins with Frost’s title. His poem isn’t called The Road Less Traveled, though it’s often mistaken to be. Rather, it is titled The Road Not Taken. So, the poem is definitely not about the road the narrator chose to walk, less-traveled or otherwise.

When The Road Not Taken is read carefully, it becomes apparent that the poem functions on a fluctuating rhythm, one that reflects indecisiveness. More significantly, it is evident that the narrator isn’t simply telling us about these vacillating perspectives, he’s experiencing these emotions in real time.

But, here’s where Frost’s trickiness can trip up a reader. Given the way Frost structured The Road Not Taken, when read superficially it can act as a verbal thaumatrope – rotating two opposed visions in such a way that they, deceivingly, seem to merge.

Much like the Victorian-era toy in which two objects drawn on opposite sides of a card – a bird and a cage for instance – are, by quick spinning motion, made to appear as a single image of the bird in a cage.[5] In the case of The Road Not Taken, the illusion is that the poem is from a consistent viewpoint rather than fluctuating perspectives.

But if we engage Frost’s work deeply, and take it line-by-line, we can see the shifts in perspective that lead to the more nuanced understanding Frost indicated.

An old fashioned typewriter

Taking it Line by Line

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.[6]

Line 1: Frost introduces his primary symbol, diverging roads in the woods.

Lines 2-3: The speaker expresses regret for the human limitation that restricts his travel to one road, forcing him to choose between them. It’s clear that making a choice isn’t easy for him, since “long I stood” before reaching a decision.

Lines 4-5: He examines one road as well as he can, but information is limited because the road takes a turn into an area covered by low-lying vegetation.

Lines 6-8: At first blush, these lines seem to suggest the speaker finds the second path a more attractive choice because it appears no one had traversed it recently.

Lines 9-12: Here’s a tricky bit. The speaker backpedals, pointing out that this road is no more or less worn that the first one, that they both “equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black.”

Lines 13-15: Another slippery passage – the speaker tells himself he’ll take a walk on the first road another day. Given the exclamation point at the end of this line, he’s clearly excited about having solved his dilemma.  But, “knowing how way leads to way,” he immediately reverses himself, doubting if “I should ever come back.”

Lines 16-20: The tone clearly shifts here. The speaker is no longer in the moment. Rather, he imagines himself in the future, near the end of his days, talking about the life he’s lived. In perhaps the most subtle nugget of all, the speaker will be telling his audience that “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

The “I—I” ever-so-deftly suggests a pause before the speaker recounts the story, as if he’s taking a beat to remember/decide how to characterize his choice.[7]

hand holding a glass sphere that is reflecting a wooded area

Psychologically Speaking

The Latin origin of the verb “to decide” means to cut off (de=off, caedere=cut). The act of deciding is supposed to cut off the deliberation process after a choice has been made. But psychologically, that isn’t the way it works. Instead, the deliberation process actually binds the options together in our memory, and the unchosen option lingers in our minds.

This psychological development leads to an inverse inference of value. What this means is…  after we realize the consequences of our decision, the perceived value of the unchosen option is inversely related to that outcome. And the stronger our memory is of deliberating between options, the greater the disparity between the value attributed to the chosen and unchosen options.

For example, if Frost’s speaker ended up having a lovely walk on the road he ultimately chose, he’ll remember the other road as having been inferior in some way even if it wasn’t.[8] This is, of course, precisely what occurs in the closing lines of The Road Not Taken.

Remember, he told us both roads were equally fair and equally traveled. And don’t forget the speaker’s pause, as he mines his memory before recounting his story in the future. Plus, we end where we began our examination of The Road Not Taken, by noting that Frost’s title refers to the road his speaker didn’t choose.

So, rather than being an anthem of independence, Frost’s The Road Not Taken is an ode to the decision-making process, and how that activity effects memory.

#aphorisms unplugged           #the art of reading

Endnotes:

[1] Orr, David. “The Most Misread Poem in America.” September 11, 2015. The Paris Review.

[2] Thompson, Lawrance. Selected Letters of Robert Frost. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1952. Pg xv. https://ia801500.us.archive.org/15/items/in.ernet.dli.2015.111084/2015.111084.Selected-Letters-Of-Robert-Frost_text.pdf

[3] Thompson, Lawrance. Robert Frost: A biography. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1981. Pg 234.

Thompson, Lawrance. Selected Letters of Robert Frost. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1952. Pg xiv. https://ia801500.us.archive.org/15/items/in.ernet.dli.2015.111084/2015.111084.Selected-Letters-Of-Robert-Frost_text.pdf

Hollis, Matthew. “Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the road to war.” July 26, 2011. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/jul/29/robert-frost-edward-thomas-poetry

[4] Hollis, Matthew. “Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the road to war.” July 26, 2011. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/jul/29/robert-frost-edward-thomas-poetry

[5] Orr, David. “You’re Probably Misreading Robert Frost’s Most Famous Poem.” August 18, 2016. Literary Hub. https://lithub.com/youre-probably-misreading-robert-frosts-most-famous-poem/#:~:text=Because%20the%20poem%20isn’t,the%20road%20he%20never%20tried.

[6] Frost, Robert. “The Road Not Taken.” The Atlantic Magazine. August 1915, Pg. 223.

[7] “The Road Not Taken.” Encyclopedia.com https://www.encyclopedia.com/arts/educational-magazines/road-not-taken

[8] Natalie Biderman, and Daphna Shohamy. “Memory and decision making interact to shape the value of unchosen options.” Nature Communications. 12, 4648 (2021). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41467-021-24907-x

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Images:

The Road Not Taken. iStock.com/credit: Alex

What Inspired The Road Not Taken? Boulter, Liz. “Roads taken: the Gloucrstershire footpaths that were the making of Robert Frost.” The Guardian. June, 2021.  https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2021/jun/14/walking-gloucestershire-footpaths-making-of-robert-frost-and-revolutionary-poets

It’a a Tricky Poem… Very Tricky  https://teacherswebresources.com/2016/03/28/victorian-thaumatrope/  

Taking it Line by Line Photo by Johnny Briggs on Unsplash

Psychologically Speaking  Photo by Yeshi Kangrang on Unsplash




Literary Devices: The Author’s Toolbox

hand tools on a wooden table

hy is it important to know about literary devices? Like symbolic language, literary devices are techniques that authors use to take their writing beyond its straightforward, literal meaning. They’re tools to guide the reader in how to read a particular work for more than simple plot.

Literary devices are often employed for emphasis or clarity. They’re also used to get a reader to connect more strongly with the story as a whole, specific characters, or even particular themes. And sometimes, they just make the reading more fun… but even that tells us a lot about the author and what they have to say.

Here’s a crash course in some of the more common literary devices:

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Alliteration:

A series of words that start with the same sound. These sounds are typically consonants, so there’s more stress on that syllable. Think tongue twisters, book titles and often poetry.

Example: “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” In this tongue twister, the “p”  sound is repeated at the beginning of all major words.

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Allusion:

No, this isn’t an illusion, though the two are often confused with one another. An allusion is a reference to a person, place, thing, or even an event outside the text. Many allusions refer to other works of literature.

Example: The title of Steinbeck’s work Of Mice and Men is an allusion to a line in Robert Burn’s 1785 poem To a Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough… “The best-laid schemes of Mice and Men Go oft awry.”

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Anachronism:

This is when someone or something associated with a particular historical time is put in the wrong time period for effect.

Example: The entire premise of Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court hinges on this literary device.

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Anaphora:

When a word or phrase is repeated at the beginning of successive clauses or sentences to create rhythm or emphasis.

Example: J.D. Salinger employed anaphora in The Catcher in the Rye: “It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place.”

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Anecdote:

A brief story or narrative used to engage the reader, provide real-world context, or humanize abstract concepts.

Example: In Nora Robert’s Dark Witch, Meara relays an anecdote that provides the audience with insight into the relationship between the book’s main characters:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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I’ll tell you they were in love. Young and wild for each other. Happy in it, though they scraped and squabbled. She was going into seventeen when they came together the first time. It was after they’d been together the mark came on him. He didn’t tell her. I don’t know whether to blame him for that, but he didn’t tell her. And when she found out, she was angry, but more, she was devastated.

 

Anthropomorphism:

When nonhuman figures become human-like characters.

Example: A lot of cartoon characters function on this device, think SpongeBob Square Pants – kitchen sponges just don’t do the things he does. For that matter, starfish don’t behave like Patrick does either.

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Colloquialism:

The use of informal language and slang, which gives a sense of realism to the way characters speak. But this devise isn’t restricted to dialogue, it can also make any text more relatable… as if the reader is having a conversation with the author.

Example: It’s more colloquial to say “What’s up?” instead of “How are you doing?”

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Double Entendre:

A form of word play where a word or phrase has two possible meanings.

Example: Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Earnest functions on the double-meaning of the word earnest. Protagonist Jack Worthing leads a double life. To his lover in the countryside, he’s Jack, while his lover in the city knows him as Ernest. After a series of deceptions, this character realizes the necessity of being true to himself. In the final line of the play, Jack comes to understand the importance of being “earnest,” a double entendre on “Ernest.”

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Enjambment:

A literary device used in poetry. Simply put, it’s when the end of a phrase extends past the end of a line.

Example: T. S. Eliot uses enjambment in The Waste Land to evoke the changing seasons. He ends most lines with verbs to describe and emphasize the metamorphosis that is taking place.

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

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Epigraph:

A famous quotation or short passage placed at the beginning of a larger text. As an introduction to a book, or as the header to a chapter. They’re typically written by a different author (with credit given) and serve to introduce overall themes in the work or messages within the chapter in question.

Example: At the beginning of The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway included a quote from poet Gertrude Stein, “You are all a lost generation.” Stein’s words came to define the literary community Hemingway belonged to (which also includes F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, and Archibald MacLeish).

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Flashback:

An interruption in the narrative that portrays events that have already taken place… either before the work’s established “present” time, or before the time when the narration is taking place. It’s typically used to give the reader more background information about particular characters, plot points, and so on.

Example:  Most of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights is a flashback, as Nelly Dean tells the Lockwood character about the childhoods of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, their budding romance and tragic demise.

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Foreshadowing:

When the author hints at what’s going to happen later in the story, through things like description, dialogue, or characters’ actions.

Example: Atticus Finch’s explanation of courage to his children:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.”

This passage foreshadows the outcome of Finch’s legal case.

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Hyperbole:

An exaggerated statement, one not meant to be taken literally by the reader. Used for emphasis, or often for comedic effect.

Example: “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.” The speaker isn’t actually going to eat an entire horse. That’s a ludicrous proposition, but it serves to emphasize how hungry the speaker is.

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In Medias Res:

This latin phrase is used to describe when a story opens with the main character already in the middle of things, bringing the reader front and center into the fray.

Example: Within the first lines of Homer’s Iliad, the reader is dropped directly into the midst of the Trojan War, the actions of warring Greeks and Trojans unfolding around them.

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Irony:

The colloquial use of this word highlights the difference between “what seems to be” and “what is.” Someone having a bad day, for example, might say that they’re doing “greaaat.” But, when it comes to literature, the irony is typically conditional, creating situations that unfold in ways contrary to what one would expect.

Example: O. Henry’s short story The Gift of the Magi is a classic example of situational irony.  The story revolves around a couple who can’t afford to buy Christmas gifts for each other.  They each sell their most treasured possession, so they buy a gift for the other one. However, they both discover that, because of what each of them chose to sell, their gifts for each other are now unusable.

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Jargon:

A word or phrase specific to a profession or industry, typically only understood by members of the group who use these terms as part of their field of expertise. When used in dialogue, this device can help define a text’s characters.

Example: In 1950s-diner-speak, scrambled eggs on toast is “Adam and Eve on a raft and wreck ’em.”

In the case of George Orwell’s 1984, however, jargon serves to establish Oceania’s dystopian nature.

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.

We wouldn’t understand the highlighted words without context, because we’re not part of the world Orwell created.

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Juxtaposition:

Placing contrasting ideas next to each other, typically to produce a thought-proving or ironic effect.

Example: The opening lines of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…  

Dickens situates his characters into a world of contrasts, reflecting the extreme wealth disparities of pre-Revolution France.

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Metonym:

When a related word of phrase is substituted for the thing it’s referring to.

Example: “The pen is mightier than the sword.” Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s statement contains two examples: “the pen” referring to the written word, and “the sword” which refers to military force/violence.

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Mood:

The general atmosphere and emotional complexion, designed to evoke particular feelings in the reader. This can be achieved through setting, description, dialogue, and word choice.

Example: Hamlet is about death, grief, and madness. Shakespeare establishes an ominous mood by setting the first scene at night, and there’s a lot of dialogue about being fearful. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, on the other hand, uses fantastical imagery, and lighthearted language set a whimsical mood.

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Motif:

A recurring theme or element in a literary work, typically used to emphasize or reinforce a particular idea or concept.  Motifs can be images, symbols, actions, or phrases, that appear throughout a text.

Example: The color green in Shakespeare’s Othello represents jealousy. And, fire is a motif that appears throughout Jane Eyre, appearing around situations dealing with strong emotions.

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Onomatopoeia:

A word, or group of words, that imitates the sound it stands for.

Example: Honk, pow, meow, bow-wow, boom, clip-clop, plop are just a few.

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Oxymoron:

A figure of speech where contradictory terms appear together. They’re useful in creating unexpected or comical contrast.

Example: In The Call of the Wild, Jack London describes the Aurora Borealis as “flaming coldly.” Jumbo shrimp, and deafening silence are a couple of others.

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Paradox:

A statement that seems illogical or self-contradictory, but upon investigation, might turn out to be true.

Example: Hamlet’s line, “I must be cruel only to be kind.” Or Yogi Berra’s observation “nobody goes there anymore – it’s too crowded.”

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Paronomasia, better known as a pun:

A form of word play that functions on multiple meanings of a term or similar-sounding words to create humor, or a sense of playfulness.

Example: “I used to be a baker, but I couldn’t make enough dough.” Here’s another one for ya’: “Time flies like an arrow; and fruit flies like a banana.”

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Personification:

When a nonhuman figure or abstract element is described as having human characteristics. This differs from anthropomorphism, where non-human figures become  human-like characters.

Example: A rug that’s tired of being stepped on. When Rita hears the last piece of pie calling her name. Or when lightning dances across the sky.

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Satire:

A genre that criticizes something, such as a person, belief, government, or society, typically employing humor, irony, and hyperbole to make the author’s point.

Example: In Gulliver’s Travels when Jonathan Swift depicts Lilliputians as being at war with the empire of Blefuscu over religious doctrine that mandates which end of an egg should be broken.

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Soliloquy:

A type of monologue often used in dramas, when a character speaks to themself, and in doing so, reveals their inner thoughts and feelings to the reader/audience.

Example: Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” speech is probably the best-known soliloquy in the world.

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Synecdoche:

When part of something is used to represent the whole. It’s similar to a metonym, the difference being that a metonym doesn’t necessarily represent the whole – merely something associated with the word used.

Example: “The crown” is a synecdoche for the monarchy. Shouting “all hands on deck” is clearly a call for whole human beings.

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Tone:

This device has the power to shape the entire narrative. It’s closely related to mood. While mood is the overall feeling of a text, however, tone conveys the narrator’s attitude, opinion, or feelings about the situation being described.

Example: When describing the setting of a party, does the narrator characterize the red light falling a door as “fallen rose petals” or as “a smear of blood”? Needless to say, the difference between these two phrases lets the reader know whether the narrator is looking forward to this event, or terrified of it.

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Verisimilitude:

The appearance of being real or true in a literary work. It’s employed to make stories more believable and convincing.

Example: Realistic dialogue that reflects how people actually speak, or spoke during a particular period in history. Detailed descriptions of settings create a sense of place. Accuracy is key when describing an actual location.

Check out these companion articles on The Art of Reading:

We may Read for Enjoyment,
But Literature isn’t Written Just to Entertain Us.

Novels Are Like a Layer Cake,
Be Sure to Get Every Bite.

#the art of reading      #literary devices     #symbolic language

Sources:

Muniz, Hannah, “The 31 Literary Devices You Must Know.” January 25, 2020. PrepScholar.
https://blog.prepscholar.com/list-of-literary-devices-techniques

Glatch, Sean. “112 Common Literary Devices: Definitions, Examples, and Exercises.” January 26, 2023. Writers.com.
https://writers.com/common-literary-devices

“Literary Devices: 55+ to Enrich Your Writing.” Self-Publishing School.
https://self-publishingschool.com/literary-devices/

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Image:

Photo by Hunter Haley on Unsplash




The Crucible: A serving of literary layer cake.

Cover of The Crucible with a lock and chain

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he Crucible
is a notable example of how literature is like a layer cake. Arthur Miller’s account of why he came to write this play also touches upon how it is written, outlining the multi-layered nature of the work. Miller’s delineation of his play’s layers demonstrates why it’s important to get every bite of literary confections like The Crucible.

When The Crucible first opened on the Broadway stage in 1953, America was in the midst of what’s known as the Red Scare, a period of public hysteria about a perceived internal Communist threat.[1] The American psyche was fixated on the Congressional investigations being conducted by the House Un-American Activities Committee.[2]

Crucible a literary layer cake-environment of the day

The Environment of the Day

The House Un-American Activities Committee targeted the Hollywood film industry, ushering in an era of blacklisting media workers. In order to promote their patriotic credentials, Hollywood studios implemented a blacklist. Scores of writers and media workers were banned from employment because of their perceived political leanings. And all it took was a rumored association with so-called “subversives” to ruin a career.[3]

In fact, Miller himself was called to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee (in 1956). And he was cited for contempt of Congress for refusing to point a proverbial finger in any other writers’ direction.[4]

Miller was motivated to write The Crucible in large part by what he describes as the “paralysis that had set in” among those who were unsettled by the committee’s violations of civil rights, but fearful of being identified as a covert Communists themselves if they protested too strongly.[5]

“In one sense,” Miller has stated, “The Crucible was an attempt to make life real again, palpable and structured.”[6] His hope was that the play “might illuminate the tragic absurdities” of what was going on in America during this period.[7]

Crucible a literary layer cake - reference to American history

Reference to American History

The Crucible, as Miller characterizes it:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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straddles two different worlds to make them one, but it is but it is not history in the usual sense of the word, but a moral, political and psychological construct that floats on the fluid emotions of both eras.
[8]

He further notes that writing a play about the Salem witch trials probably wouldn’t have occurred to him if he hadn’t noticed “some astonishing correspondences with the calamity” of the period.[9]

While both historical moments involved the menace of concealed plots, the most startling thing for Miller were the similarities in their investigative routines, and “rituals of defense.”[10] Prosecutorial practices of the Salem witch trials were remarkably similar to those employed by the congressional committees.[11]

They were 300 years apart, yet both prosecutions charged membership of a clandestine, disloyal group. And, even if the accused confessed, their honesty could only be proven by naming others who were in league with them.[12]

Miller also noticed corresponding behaviors between members of the two communities. For example, avoiding old friends so as not to be seen associating with them, and zealous confirmations of loyalty. Not to mention a despairing pity for the accused mixed with an underlying sentiment that they “must have done something.”[13]

With this realization, Miller explains:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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My basic need was to respond to a phenomenon which, with only small exaggeration, one could say paralyzed a whole generation and in a short time dried up the habits of trust and toleration in public discourse.
[14]  

Crucible a literary layer cake - the personal level

The Personal Level

Miller was only certain a play about the Salem witch trials was possible, however, when a particular entry in the documents he was researching “jogged” the thousands of pieces of information he had found into place.[15]

It became apparent to him that Abigail Williams was fired from domestic service in the Proctor household because Elizabeth’s husband John had “bedded” the young woman. He saw the bad blood between the two women as being what prompted Abigail to accuse Elizabeth Proctor of witchcraft.

“All this I understood,” Miller points out, “I had not approached the witchcraft out of nowhere, or from purely social and political considerations.”[16]

His own marriage of twelve years was teetering, and he was painfully aware that the blame lay with him. He had “at last found something of [him]self in it.”[17]

So, Miller began to build the play around the character of John Proctor. That Proctor might overturn his personal guilt and emerge as the most forthright voice against the lunacy that had a grip on the community was a reassurance to Miller. For him, it demonstrated that a “clear moral outcry could still spring” from a tarnished soul like his own.[18]

Crucible a literary layer cake - symbolism of the title

Symbolism of the Title

Miller sought a title that would literally indicate the burning away of impurities, “which,” as he explicitly states, “is what the play is doing.”[19] And the term crucible… well, it crystalizes that concept in a single word.

As Miller states, he couldn’t have written The Crucible simply to write a play about blacklisting – or about Salem’s witch trials for that matter.  His play centers on “the guilt of John Proctor and the working out of that guilt,” exemplifying “the guilt of man in general.”[20] And there we have the fourth layer in our literary cake… universal themes.

Crucible a literary layer cake - ongoing relevance

Ongoing Relevance

Though many people still consider The Crucible to be a tract-like against McCarthyism, it’s more than a political metaphor. It’s also more than a simple morality tale. As Miller maintains:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet

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On its most universal level, The Crucible is about community hysteria, fear of the unknown, the psychology of betrayal, the cast of mind that insists on absolute truth and resorts to fear and violence to assert it, and not least about the fortitude it takes to protect the innocent and resist unjust authority.
[21]

He draws a comparison between turning to Salem and looking in a petri dish. Three centuries before the cold-war, as Miller points out, Salem village displayed what he describes as a human “fatality forever awaiting the right conditions for its always unique, forever unprecedented outbreak of trust, alarm, suspicion.”[22]

And, he calls attention to the fact that this “fatality” isn’t about “just a crazy situation in a far-off place.”[23] Such events could (and often do) occur in a corporate boardroom, for example, or anywhere else unchecked power is prodigious. So, we can add ongoing relevance to the list of layers in our literary cake.

Crucible a literary layer cake - civic themes

Beyond Themes of Paranoia

It’s important to remember that, as Miller makes abundantly clear, literary works like The Crucible function on multiple levels. As such, they aren’t intended to be read on a single level, whether that’s for plot and simple enjoyment, or the exploration of universal themes at the expense of historical and societal context.

Either of these common approaches flattens literary works, minimizing the diverse perspectives of unique identities, as well as the histories of various communities. Not to mention the fact that flattening a work hinders engaging it through the filter of current pressing civic issues.[24]

Where we arrive at what the reader “bring[s] to the party,” as Toni Morrison puts it.[25] This perspective also contributes to the layer count of our literary confection (which at this point is tall enough to resemble something out of Dr. Seuss.)

For example, educators have recently been teaching The Crucible with a view toward how mass hysteria, patriarchy, sexism, and scapegoating continue to operate today.

Some teachers use Miller’s play to initiate conversations about prison and bail reform. Still others employ The Crucible as a way to examine systems of privilege and power that marginalize people of color and other marginalized populations. [26]

When we examine all the layers within works like The Crucible, we begin to comprehend the real power of literature – to build understanding about the world we live in, to provoke questioning power structures that produce inequality, to foster empathy for those whose life circumstances are different than our own. And as a result, perhaps make our piece of the world a little better for everyone.[27] Which is why it’s so important to get every bite of these literary confections.

#the art of reading      #banned books      #witch trials     #published 1950s     #english literature   #Benefits of the Humanities

Endnotes:

[1] Navaskh, Victor. “The Demons of Salem, With Us Still.” Sept. 8, 1996. The New York Times.
https://www.nytimes.com/1996/09/08/movies/the-demons-of-salem-with-us-still.html

“Red Scare.” April 21, 2023. The History Channel  https://www.history.com/topics/cold-war/red-scare

“McCarthyism and the Red Scare.” University of Virginia Miller Center.  https://millercenter.org/the-presidency/educational-resources/age-of-eisenhower/mcarthyism-red-scare

[2] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[3] Perlman, Allison. “Hollywood blacklist.”Sept. 22, 2023.  Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/topic/Hollywood-blacklist

“A look back at the Hollywood blacklist.” July 8, 2018. BrandeisNOW. https://www.brandeis.edu/now/2018/june/blacklist-qa-tom-doherty.html

[4] “Excerpts from Arthur Miller’s testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee.” American Masters. April 2020. PBS. https://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/excerpts-from-arthur-millers-testimony-before-the-house-un-american-activities-committee/14006/

[5] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[6] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[7] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[8] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[9] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[10] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[11] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[12] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[13] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[14] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[15] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[16] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[17] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[18] Miller, Arthur. “Why I Wrote ‘The Crucible.’” Oct. 13, 1996. The New Yorker.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1996/10/21/why-i-wrote-the-crucible

[19] Mel Gussow and Arthur Miller. Conversations with Miller. New York: Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, 2002. Pg 185.

[20] Mel Gussow and Arthur Miller. Conversations with Miller. New York: Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, 2002. Pg 7.

[21] Navaskh, Victor. “The Demons of Salem, With Us Still.” Sept. 8, 1996. The New York Times.
https://www.nytimes.com/1996/09/08/movies/the-demons-of-salem-with-us-still.html

[22] Miller, Arthur. “Are You Now Or Were You Ever?” The  Guardian/The Observer (online), June 17, 2002. https://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/50s/miller-mccarthyism.html

[23] Mel Gussow and Arthur Miller. Conversations with Miller. New York: Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, 2002.Pg 37.

[24] Mirra, Nicole. Reading, Writing, & Raising Voices: The Centrality of Literacy to Civic Education. 2022. NCTE: National Council of Teachers of English. Pg 5.

[25] Morrison, Toni. “The Reader as Artist.” O, the Oprah Magazine. Vol. 7, Issue 7. (July 2006), 174.

[26] Torres, Julia E. “Chat: Disrupting The Crucible.” June 12k 2018. DisruptTexts
https://disrupttexts.org/2018/06/12/disrupting-the-crucible/

[27] Ebarvia, Tricia. Disrupting Texts as a Restorative Practice.
https://triciaebarvia.org/2018/07/11/disrupting-texts-as-a-restorative-practice/#:~:text=%23DisruptTexts%20is%20a%20type%20of,choices%20we%20make%20as%20educators

Images:

First Edition Cover with “banned” lock.

The Environment of the Day: Senate Hearings http://www.senate.gov 

Reference to American History: Cauldron-Photo by Matt Benson on Unsplash

The Personal Level: Broken pocket watch-Photo by Gaspar Uhas on Unsplash

Symbolism of the Title: A crucible https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crucible 

Ongoing Relevance: Fanned Book-Photo by Anastasia Zhenina on Unsplash

Beyond Themes of Paranoia: Silhouette and bird-Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash




Reclaiming Claims: What English Students Want from English Profs

Why study literature?

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“So you like therapy, eh?”

I was in the Jellema Room, an intimidating chamber of dusty philosophical tracts, stale coffee, slow e-mail, and a coterie of would-be philosophers. As a philosophy major, I had earned the right to enter; as an English major, my presence had been challenged.

“What do you mean, therapy?”

“Isn’t that all you do in English classes?” my friend quipped. The coterie laughed. “You come to class and the teacher says, ‘OK, kiddies, what did you think of that? Did you liiiike that? How did it make you feeeel?’ ” He was on a roll.

I’m sure, in his self-amusement, my friend considered himself rather witty and original; in reality, his view of English fit neatly into a tradition of suspicion that fills the various halls and chambers of the academy as if gassed through the ventilation system: “Everyone knows,” as Andrew Delbanco (1999: 32), an English professor himself, writes, “that if you want to locate the laughingstock on your local campus these days, your best bet is to stop by the English department.” “After all,” my friend wound up his spiel, “that’s why so many people take English. It’s easy. It isn’t real.”

But the sentiment, it would seem, is not confined to the academy. Unless your parents happen to be English professors, telling them that you’ve settled on an English major can be a rather unsettling affair—ranging anywhere from nerve-racking to family-splitting. (One friend I know who decided on a Great Books program at a major university had such a falling out with his father that they haven’t spoken in two years.) Nor has it been easy since graduation to justify the decision I have made. Seeing old faces or being introduced to new ones, now with a degree in hand, I am continually asked the same question: “And what do you do now?”

At first, I began by answering with the truth: that I’m working a few part-time jobs, waiting on grad school, and trying to write. The reactions, I began to notice, could be classified Aristotelian style into two species: horror and romance. The first is by far the more common: Feigning a smile, the entrepreneuring-investment-banking-Lexus-driving-twenty-eight-year-old- lawyer thanks what deities she believes in that English never enticed her, says “Ohhh” rather awkwardly, and excuses herself to use the restroom. The other, the romantic, thinks I’m living in a cardboard box among the poor and outcast, writing words that will outlive our mortal, feeble flesh, changing lives in a future none of us will see. These, apparently, are the only two responses available for non–English majors attempting to understand what exactly I’m doing with my life.

Recently, I went through the same ordeal in meeting the family of a new friend. The father—a banker, of course—was lounging in a plush recliner behind his copy of Forbes magazine as the Asian Market Watch rambled on above a rush of stock quotes skimming across the screen. “And writing,” I said. He looked up. “Fake stuff or real?” I blinked, my mouth opened slightly in the universal expression of incomprehension. “I mean, are you writing fiction or non?” Now, I’m not so careful a judge of character as, say, Sherlock Holmes, Columbo, or the lady from Murder She Wrote, but I’m pretty sure that my questioner was not joking. Fiction, apparently, was fake.

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

Inside and outside the academy, the English professor and the English pupil run into a common problem: the rest of the world thinks what we do and what we study is fake. English ranges anywhere from “entertainment” to “therapy,” but it seldom enters the realm of the real—the “real,” I suppose, meaning a productive contribution to society yielding tangible, green results.

Thus the “So what?” of English rattles in the back of our minds like an empty can attached to an exhaust pipe. Why read fiction? Why spend one’s life teaching it? As another acquaintance once asked me, “What’s the point?” Some teachers deal with the question by ignoring it. A few might answer in strictly utilitarian terms: it pays the bills. Most, however, probably believe that literature has something important to impart—and it’s that importance, that something, that keeps them in the business. As Italo Calvino (1993: 1) writes, “My confidence in the future of literature consists in the knowledge that there are things that only literature can give us, by means particular to it.” What are those things?

Back in the late fourth century, a lusty intellectual pondering his state of affairs to the point of great distress happened to hear a child chanting, “Pick up and read. Pick up and read.” Augustine, figuring it a divine command (as he was wont to do), picked up a Bible, read Romans 13, and found the experience somewhat refreshing (“it was as if a light of relief from all anxiety flooded into my heart” [VIII.29]). Next thing you know, he converted to Christianity, became a bishop, and was posthumously proclaimed a Doctor of the Church. The point is not to suggest that reading the Bible (or any other piece of literature) will necessarily make converts of us all. Rather, I mean to suggest that conversion, whether to Christ or to Camus, is held forth in every text as a distinct possibility—that is, that literature can act as the undiscovered fifth element, the alchemist’s stone offering those who touch it the possibility of leaving changed.

Moreover, I would argue, it is the possibility that literature can change us that draws most students in to hear it speak.[1] Many students—those not disillusioned by bad teachers—come to literature with a kind of brimming anticipation, waiting for what will appear. Another Augustine, one a bit more contemporary, illustrates such anticipation beautifully. Augustine (Gus) Orviston, the narrator of The River Why, is an angler so obsessed with fishing that he’s hardly read a book in the first twenty years of his life. When a tutor, Titus, finally convinces him to start reading, this is what occurs:

Scholar though he was, Titus was no academician: accuracy and intricacy of knowledge were to him not just secondary but twentysecondary to the love one felt for the things one studied, so whenever I was unable to love a book, even if I wanted to struggle with it, Titus whisked it away and proffered another. And when I challenged him on this he explained that philo meant “love” and Sophia meant “wisdom,” that every book he gave me was full of wisdom, but that in order for my reading of them to be truly philo-sophic I must not just read but love them. It seemed to work: at least I soon found myself eyeing the covers of unknown books with the same sense of expectancy I felt when scrutinizing the waters of a new stream. (Duncan 2002: 200–201)

Some might object at first to Titus’s whisking books away, offering sound arguments for the good of struggle despite a lack of pleasure. Of course, the objectors would be right: abandoning the struggle is no way to progress properly. But I read in this passage something far more fundamental occurring. Titus is teaching Gus to read, and the first part of reading is loving literature, and the greatest part of loving literature is approaching it with expectancy. It is that expectancy most English majors possess—an expectancy that something of substance will rise from the pages, and in catching it, the students themselves will be caught.

Still, say others, Gus is reading philosophy, not literature. Granted that the distinction between the two is often about as clear as the difference between Scottish and Irish accents to the ears of a Chinese farmer, the objectors are basically right: Gus reads nonfiction. Two responses should be made. First, Gus’s allusions to works of literature throughout The River Why (together with the fact that it’s a story he chooses to write) reveal a reading list filled with at least as much literature as philosophy.[2] Gus’s “philosophizing” is broader than the borders of the academic discipline called philosophy. But second, the manner of reading Gus is learning in this passage has nothing specific to do with philosophy. To put it in a way that sounds almost stupid in this context, Gus is discovering precisely what lovers of literature have always known: that literature is important.

Pick yourself up off the floor. Let us continue.

This Book is Banned_ Reclaiming Claims-.why read fiction

It is not just that literature is important; it is that the importance of literature is precisely what students of English take English to experience—a subtler point seemingly lost on many academics. Students do not take literature to learn only what constitutes a metaphor or a simile; they take literature because metaphors and similes say something. In other words, the answer to the question “What do students of literature want a literature class to teach?” is the same answer that ought to have put professors in the business to begin with: that it matters for their lives.

I remember my first day of English 311. I was a sophomore bent on a philosophy degree, fulfilling my literature requirement by taking a professor I had heard was a decent guy. When the clock struck 9:00, a tall, middle-aged man with a gray beard strode into class, his dark green sweater swinging down above his black pants and brown shoes. It was the day affectionately known as “Syllabus Day,” the do-nothing day, the day when the most important event of each class was figuring out whom you knew and where to sit. Our professor did not care where we sat. He plopped down his heavy Norton anthology on the front podium and turned around.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. We gazed up at him, a bit shocked. Some students had just rolled out of bed, and their greasy hair still stood on end. “Why are you in college?” he asked. “What are you in this English class for?” The questions came at us like bullets fired from a twelve-gauge shotgun. These were not the questions of Syllabus Day that we had come to know and love; we were not prepared to defend our purposes in life.

But the professor did not wait for any answers (good move). Instead, he began to run through a long list of statistics and quotations pointing to a culture sinking into mindlessness, into an inability to reflect and to question, into an incapacity to even consider the existence of a good life and a bad life, let alone know the difference between the two. He concluded: “The world is in need of people who can think. Let what you read this semester be the beginning of your thoughts, and above all things, let the stories you run across run across you. Saul Bellow once said, ‘The worst thing you can omit from your studies is yourself.’ These stories are all, in some way, yours.”

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why study English

I realize teaching is not necessarily about giving students what they want—that might amount to little more than free pizza. Still, a student’s desires are not entirely insignificant, particularly those desires students didn’t know they had. Good teachers have a way of eliciting those deep passions that students are either too embarrassed or too busy or too distracted to realize they possess. One of those deep passions is a desire for substance, for some weight other than a letter grade to hang on what we do, for some importance attached to our hours of study beyond a possible degree, career, house, family, and life of flat success. Sure, the numbers tell us that college is financially a good investment; but most eighteen-year-olds I’ve met are not interested in financial investments. They’re far more interested in understanding the world in which they live and determining for themselves whether it’s worth an investment of their lives.

Students, in other words, are ardent creatures—a claim that may surprise many professors who have noted only the drooping eyelids, the late papers, and the characteristic smirk or shrug of the shoulders that “proves” another case of apathy. Often, however, apathy is merely latent ardency, a desire for substance possessed without knowledge of the possession, a caring that relies on others to draw it out. The more professors treat students as if they do care—and as if they should—the more they will discover students who actually do. Latent ardency depends on the overt ardency of others to sneak out of its shell and take a look around.

Examine, for example, the case of Dorothea Brooke in George Eliot’s Middlemarch.

The intensity of her religious disposition . . . was but one aspect of a nature altogether ardent, theoretic, and intellectually consequent: and with such a nature, struggling in the bands of a narrow teaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in maze of small paths that led now whither, the outcome was sure to strike others as at once exaggeration and inconsistency. The thing which seemed to her best, she wanted to justify by the completest knowledge; and not to live in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on. Into this soul-hunger as yet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted her was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take her along the grandest path. (2000: 24–25)

Her desire for Mr. Casaubon, an old and ugly but intellectually eminent man, can be described as a desire for substance. Explaining the possibility of marriage to her sister, she says, “I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here—now—in England” (25). The point is not that Dorothea is exceptional in her desires, but that she is quite normal. Many students find themselves full of “soul-hunger,” of a “youthful passion,” of an ardent desire to be told that the stories they are in the process of living somehow matter to the wider world in which they’re lived. Literature, with its array of stories, has the possibility of showing these students both how their lives matter and how to make them matter—a point I will illustrate soon.

But first, Dorothea has a sister, Celia, who cannot be ignored. Whereas Dorothea is full of passion to escape the constrained ignorance of her social norms, Celia is all too prepared to accept them. Her life is fulfilled not by large projects of social justice, but by marriage to the right person and a perfect-looking child. She does not have the “soul-hunger” that characterizes her sister and leads to her sister’s struggles. Though many students identify with Dorothea (and many would, if they could be shown that the source of their restlessness is a desire for substance), many others identify with Celia.

A classroom, therefore, is filled with both Dorotheas and Celias. The problem is that they cannot be sorted out. Many teachers, it would seem, notice the way a certain student dresses, or slouches, or writes, or whatever else, and assume they have the student pinned. If the professor then teaches literature as though the student does not care, the result will be a student who fulfills the professor’s expectations: she will not care a whit. What students of English want from their professors is the opening assumption that everyone is Dorothea, that everyone might care if they were shown a reason to—and the literature they are about to read might actually be the means to open them precisely to that possibility.

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

In Middlemarch we are given the opposite scenario. Mr. Casaubon, after marrying Dorothea, treats her as if she were Celia. As a result, Dorothea withers. Her life whittles away, lightened and expanded only when—occasionally—she finds reprieve from the clutches of her husband. Of Mr. Casaubon, Eliot writes: “There is hardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than that of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in a blank absence of interest or sympathy” (188). Her casual remark concerning the old man echoes down to teachers as a proclamation and a prediction. Unfortunately, many seem to have substituted knowledge for passion, filling themselves with facts they fire off above the heads of students, who in turn stare blankly through the windows in the room.

When my professor in English 311 finished firing directly at us in his opening day salvo, I looked over to find tears in the eyes of a friend. Corny, I know; almost unreal. Yet there it is. It happened. This guy—middle-aged, gray-bearded, dressed as only professors dress—strolls into class and tells us all to think, tells us literature can begin our thoughts, tells us, in essence, that our lives are implicated in the lives we read about, and that both, ultimately matter. It’s all my friend had needed to hear.

Which is not to conclude that that is all a teacher has to say. And here, the subject grows a bit trickier. For if we grant a (latent) desire in students to hear that the literature in which they are engrossed matters for the lives they live, we still have not established what a teacher is supposed to teach. How does a teacher mediate between a text and the (ardent) student who reads it?

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

Perhaps we should begin with what it seems is being taught. The answer, it seems to me, is some form of New Criticism—the text as a detached, lifeless body, lending itself to all sorts of interesting autopsies but never quite raising a finger to resist the scalpel at its chest. The reasons for New Criticism’s dominance in pedagogy (despite its decline in theory) are beyond the scope of this essay (and largely beyond the scope of my knowledge). Perhaps it amounts to little more than a lack of alternatives. Many schools of criticism and theory have arisen, but most have been too ideologically narrow to be adopted as a general pedagogical method (e.g., Marxism, feminism, and the like). Deconstruction, on the other hand, makes more universal claims concerning language but ends ultimately in a hopeless play of signifiers that yields little substance for a professor attempting to teach. Suffice it to say, as David Richter (1998: 708) writes, that “even today the critical practice of many American teachers of literature owes a great deal to Cleanth Brooks and William Empson.”

Thus we come to the crux of the problem. Texts, as taught, have lost the life that led students into English classes to begin with. How, then, without resorting to gushy, therapeutic questions of “feeeeling,” do teachers reattach a text and its significance to the lives of those who read it? How can literature matter enough to transform its students?

First and foremost, claiming that literature matters assumes that literature makes claims. It would appear, from my amateur observations, that philosophy is still considered a legitimate discipline because it’s in the business of sorting out truth-claims—universal statements made to change the way someone approaches any number of a range of subjects. Literature, on the other hand, has lost its claim to claims. As Robert Scholes writes in The Rise and Fall of Literature, “We are in trouble precisely because we have allowed ourselves to be persuaded that we cannot make truth claims but must go on ‘professing’ just the same” (qtd. in Delbanco 1999: 35). That need not be the case. Texts make claims whether professors explicate them or not, and it is the manner in which texts make them that reveals a bridge whereby the life of the text and the life of the reader may touch.

Yet the claims of literature differ vastly in form from the claims of philosophy. Where philosophy attempts to be explicit and clear (especially in the Anglo-Analytic arena), literature approaches through the indirect. Emily Dickinson (1963: 792) advised,

Tell all the truth,
but tell it slant.
Success in circuit lies.

It would seem that novelists listened. As Walker Percy (1991b: 304) notes, “Novelists are . . . disinclined to say anything straight out . . . since their stock-in-trade is indirection, if not guile, coming at things and people from the side so to speak, especially the blind side, the better to get at them.” That indirection comes through the construction of a world where claims dominate as natural laws. In other words, instead of using symbolic logic to elucidate truth-claims in the world, fiction uses symbols to intimate truth-claims within a worldview. The claim of each work is the guiding perception, the whole work as a whole claim, unparaphraseable, universal, and philosophically applicable to the world in which the reader lives. In essence, each text says to the reader, “This is the way things are,” and (occasionally), “This is the way things ought to be.”

Perhaps an illustration may help. Understanding the claim of a text involves entering the textual world where that claim dominates by natural law. In John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi, for example, the natural law seems to be tragedy beyond the reach of hope as each character flickers out of existence like a candle caught by the wind. The world is a place where redemption does not exist. Darkness descends immediately as the house- lights dim and continues until the final curtain falls and the stage lights are blacked out. Good and bad alike are indiscriminately destroyed. As Antonio lies dying he utters these words, reflective of the play:

In all our Quest of Greatnes . . .
(Like wanton Boyes, whose pastime is their care)
We follow after bubbles, blowne in th’ayre.
Pleasure of life, what is ’t? onely the good houres
Of an Ague: meerely a preparative to rest,

To endure vexation. (1927: 120)

The quote is not meant to state the “claim” of The Duchess of Malfi, for the claim of The Duchess of Malfi is simply The Duchess of Malfi itself—its world as a presentation of the world. Yet Antonio’s words seem to let us in on the guiding natural law: The Duchess of Malfi presents a reality dominated by reckless cruelty—one in which individual lives are doomed to fade away and disappear. Thus the dying Bosolo reflects on the imminent death of the Cardinal lying beside him:

I do glory
That thou, which stood’st like a huge Piramid
Begun upon a large, and ample base,
Shalt end in a little point, a kind of nothing. (123)

As the Cardinal goes, so shall all others: ambition and nobility alike erased. The piled bodies in the final scene represent the inescapable law’s natural progression—a progression that leaves nothing to do but “make noble use / Of this great ruine” (124). Yet on the basis of this play alone, even that “noble use” seems doomed to fail. Tragic failure, inescapable and hopeless, descending on the good and bad alike, making useless human ambition and human nobility—this is the worldview of The Duchess of Malfi. To fully grasp that worldview, along with its concomitant views of human nature, one has to engage the entire drama, with all of its characters and all of its results. All paraphrases will in some way cheat the worldview they attempt to describe.

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

The important point in all this, however, is that the worldview of The Duchess of Malfi is the basis for a claim that extends beyond the borders of the drama, for the play’s claim is nothing less than an extension of its worldview into the world of its reader.[3] The Duchess of Malfi, like all literature, is proclaiming that its reality is reality. The bleak end is a prediction for the world of the spectator as much as an occurrence on the stage. The world of the text and the world of the reader overlap, and only in that overlapping does literature gain its significance, its possibility of effecting any change, its chance to speak to the one who reads. The Duchess of Malfi says, in effect, “These are the laws that govern our lives,” and in the end, it raises the crucial question for the student who engages with it: “Are these really the laws that govern my life?”

What this reattachment of textual worlds and textual claims requires of professors is a method distinguishable from New Criticism more in its ends than in its means. That is, instead of teaching The Duchess of Malfi as something strictly autonomous—examining its structures, wordplay, and the like in a system closed off from both the author and the reader—professors would teach The Duchess of Malfi as a world dominated by claims: that is, explorations of the text act as explorations of claims to which the reader must respond. To ask, “Can characters really change within this story?” is also to ask, “Can human beings really change?” To ask whether grace is available within the story is to ask whether grace is available to us. Each story, as a claim, declares that the reality of its characters is the reality of its readers.[4]

If texts are treated as realities meant to interpret the reality of their readers, then literary tools become absolutely indispensable. Students must know what a metaphor is, what a simile is, what rules govern various genres, and the like. A strictly therapeutic classroom—asking students only how they felt while reading or whether they liked what they read—does less to connect students to the text than teaching the intricate constructions that undergird it. Therapy-based English classes answer students knocking at the door not by opening it, but by asking them how they liked knocking: how did it make them feel? The more a student understands language and how it works, the more a student will be able to enter the literature that is read. The difference, however, is that what defined the telos for New Critics is changed into a means that serves another end. In other words, the typical disillusionment of students in literature classes could be countered by showing them that the “dry, boring, scholarly” activity of the English discipline is intimately linked to literature’s transformative powers. Understanding the claims made by a text (including the debate concerning what those claims actually are) relies upon the use of textual tools.

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

Consider, for example, “Nausicaa,” the thirteenth chapter of James Joyce’s Ulysses. One can read the chapter without any knowledge of genre. But understanding genre transforms the chapter and the claims that the chapter makes. Throughout, Joyce employs the language of a cheap romance novel to undercut such romance and reveal its inherent violence. He writes, for example, “She would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow, the cry of a young girl’s love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages” (1986: 300). The irony, of course, is that Leopold Bloom is voyeuristically gazing at a woman on the beach, so that the love they eventually make is nothing but masturbation, self-pleasure at the expense of another.[5] When the woman rises, Bloom notes with horror, “She’s lame! O! . . . Glad I didn’t know it when she was on show” (301). The limp bespeaks a violence, and the scene dashes notions of love established in romance novels through use of the very same genre. Understanding the literary genre is absolutely crucial to understanding the claim being made. A teacher connects the dots—connects the genre to the undercutting of the genre and finally to the claims made concerning love, violence, and voyeurism. Students are free to disagree with the final analysis, but such a final analysis will seldom even be reached without a teacher to guide. Those who lack the insight that a teacher can offer will see in this text little more than a pornographic scene.[6]

In the same way, new insights are discovered and new meanings encountered with the accumulated knowledge of each literary device. Such knowledge expands perception, so that the same text that once ran across a student’s mind like a river over rocks begins to seep in like rain into the soil. Some students bring their own ardency—their own “soul-hunger”—to the literature they read, some discover a dormant ardency awakened by their professor, but almost all students require the guidance and the knowledge a teacher offers to fill the hunger that they bring, to not only delight in literature but also to find in it the possibility of utter transformation—the possibility, each time, of conversion.

Such substantive reading leads to substantive reflection. In the same English 311 class where we were told to think as if for the first time, we read early twentieth-century American literature. Early twentieth-century American literature is nearly enough to cause a suicide or two. Prozac ought to be distributed as freely as hard candy to students subjected for a semester to the full brunt of naturalism. And yet, even naturalism, in all its doom—I always envision a foot slowly descending heel to toe on a helpless individual—could not annihilate a certain student’s sense that lives might matter, her life in particular. At one point, discussing the William Dean Howells story “Editha,” this classmate asked our professor a cutting question: “Why,” she asked, “did these naturalists bother to write? Writing itself seems to me a sign of hope. Editha, even if she is crushed, matters to me now where she never would have had no one bothered to write. Maybe because of Editha, I won’t end up an Editha myself.” Did the naturalists, though dooming, still hope despite it all? Regardless of how much or how little they thought human lives might matter, their fiction evoked a sense of worth decades after the authors were deceased. And this much I can affirm: that question would never have come if our teacher, from the start, had not thought the literature we were reading was making claims upon our lives.

This Book is Banned_Reclaiming Claims-Why read fiction?

To conclude, let me digress. Each year at the University of Chicago, incoming freshmen experience a sixty-minute oration titled “The Aims of Education”—an experience most of them probably consider an ordeal rather than an opportunity. In 2002, Andrew Abbott, a professor of sociology, spoke. After successfully annihilating any claim to the instrumental uses of education, he defined education as “the ability to make more and more complex, more and more profound and extensive, the meanings that we attach to events and phenomena” (2002: 7). As such, education is “the emergence of the habit of looking for new meanings, of seeking out new connections, of investing experience with complexity or extension that makes it richer and longer, even though it remains anchored in some local bit of both social space and social time” (7). In other words (and in the realm of English), education means the ability to read the same passage as one once did uneducated and find in it more implications for one’s life; it means the ability to bring more of one’s life to bear on more of one’s text, though reading the actual words takes no longer than it ever did; it means expanding experience, broadening it so that literature has the space to settle in; it means not only wanting to be transformed each time one reads, but being able to open oneself to such conversion. And the teacher that teaches this—not to dissect a text, but instead to cut its readers open—will teach students what they most wanted to learn: how literature matters for their lives.

In the end, students enter English classes because they believe that English matters, that it has something to say, and that, ultimately, their lives are implicated in and affected by what is said. This ardency (however latent) cannot be squelched by teachers who never attach texts and their claims to students and their lives. No author ever wrote who had nothing to say, and no text, however distant from its author’s intention, is silent. Students seek professors of English to be taught how to listen, how to hear with open ears the literature that they read. What brings many students to English classes is a substance greater than the weight of any grade and too important to be treated as a set of pedantic rules or an ungoverned territory of free and meaningless play; it is a substance that inspires the words of texts—that is, that breathes life into them—so that texts sit up and point their fingers at the lives of the students who read them, demanding a response. That is the substance that students seek; good teachers reveal how it is found.

Essayist bio:

Abram C. Van Engen is associate professor of English at Washington University in St. Louis, where he is also associate professor (by courtesy) at the John C. Danforth Center on Religion and Politics.  Professor Van Engen has published widely on religion and literature, focusing especially on seventeenth-century Puritans and the way they have been remembered and remade in American culture. Books include: City on a Hill: A History of American Exceptionalism,Sympathetic Puritans: Calvinist Fellow Feeling in Early New England,A History of American Puritan Literature, as well as Feeling Godly: Religious Affections and Christian Contact in Early North America.

https://www.abramvanengen.com 

Photo credit: Joe Angeles/WUSTL Photos

Please note: This essay first appeared in
Pedagogy: Critical Approaches to Teaching Literature,
Language, Composition, and Culture

(Volume 5, Issue 1, Winter 2005).

Pair with This Book is Banned’s section on The Art of Reading.

#literary criticism    #the art of reading     #liberal arts   #benefits of Humanities      #critical thinking

Page Capper copy

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Endnotes:

[1] Sir Philip Sidney laid out three goods of literature: it teaches, delights, and moves. In this essay, I do not mean to deny the power of delight in attracting readers to texts and students to English classes. After all, as Walker Percy (1991a: 246) says, “When all is said and done, a novel is only a story, and, unlike pathology, a story is supposed first, last, and always to give pleasure to the reader.” At the same time, I believe it is the possibility of changing readers (a mixture of both teaching and moving) that draws most students—wherein I understand students to be a group of people roughly between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, unsure what exactly life has in store for them or they for it, and so existing in a state of (relative) openness, sorting out plausible reasons to move in one direction or another.

[2] So, for example, describing two boys wrestling with him only two pages later, he writes, they “disdained deodorant, and delighted in mashing my face into their armpits for the sheer Walt Whitmanesque celebration of it, and . . . roared extempore Songs of Their Selfs afterward, gloating over how much older and taller I was” (2002: 203).

[3] One is free to disagree with my interpretation of The Duchess of Malfi and its worldview, but in so doing, the debate will have been begun as to the claims of The Duchess of Malfi. I do not mean to imply that one will be right and the other will be wrong, as if texts had only one claim to make and once it was discovered the text itself could be shucked. A text exhibits many claims cast by its overarching worldview—a worldview that itself is open to debate. What I am attempting to maintain, however, is the attachment between debates concerning the text itself and the claims that the text makes upon its readers.

[4] Notice, please, that I am not suggesting that professors answer such questions on behalf of their students, or use literature as a set of didactic tracts to teach students how to live the life a certain professor considers best. Questions must be raised within the bounds of the text; let students answer such questions on their own grounds.

[5] “And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of Oh! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, soft!” (1986: 300).

[6] I once heard of an Irish fellow who first bought and read Ulysses because he spotted it in a store that sold pornographic books. A good teacher could explain that Ulysses criticizes precisely the fiction it was placed with on the shelf.

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Works Cited:

Abbot, Andrew. 2002. “The Aims of Education Address.” University of Chicago Record, 21 November, 4–8.

Augustine. 1991. Confessions, trans. Henry Chadwick. New York: Oxford University Press.

Calvino, Italo. 1993. Six Memos for the Next Millennium. New York: Vintage International.

Delbanco, Andrew. 1999. “The Decline and Fall of Literature.” New York Review of Books 46: 32–38.

Dickinson, Emily. 1963. The Poems of Emily Dickinson, ed. Thomas Johnson. Vol. 2. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University.

Duncan, David James. 2002. The River Why. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books.

Eliot, George. 2000. Middlemarch. New York: Modern Library.

Joyce, James. 1986. Ulysses. New York: Vintage Books.

Percy, Walker. 1991a. “Accepting the National Book Award for The Moviegoer.” In Signposts in a Strange Land, ed. Patrick Samway, 245–46. New York: Picador.

———. 1991b. “Why Are You Catholic?” In Signposts in a Strange Land, ed. Patrick Samway, 304–15. New York: Picador.

Richter, David. 1998. The Critical Tradition: Classic Texts and Contemporary Trends. 2nd ed. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s.

Webster, John. 1927. The Complete Works of John Webster, ed. F. L. Lucas. Vol. 2. London: Chatto and Windus.

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Images:

1) Title image: Photo by Dollar Gill on Unsplash (lightly retouched)
2) Library Stacks: Photo by Ali Bergen on Unsplash
3) Fanned Book: Photo by Mishaal Zahed on Unsplash
4) Students: Photo by Alexis Brown on Unsplash
5)Middlemarch cover: George Eliot, Public domain via Project Gutenberg- https://www.gutenberg.org/files/145/145-h/145-h.htm
6) Stacked books: Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash
7) The Duchess of Malfi – Title page: John Webster, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
8) Ulysses 1st edition cover: James Joyce, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
9) In conclusion/Scattered Books: Photo by Gülfer ERGİN on Unsplash




Back to School in Plato’s Republic: Lesson Plan, or Censorship?

Plato's Republic censorship
Plato's Republic censorshipe live in a culture spellbound by censorship.  The terms, of course, have changed, but “cancelling,” “boycotting,” “embargoing,” etc. all lead to a similar result —suppressing works of art from full and free consideration by the open-minded.  And, of course, the central actor in the drama is no longer the federal government. Now, non-state actors with social media bullhorns amplifying their views, stand at the ready to keep books under lock and key.
In the past, it was far easier to weigh in on censorship.  But now, the considerations have grown more complex. Maybe the behavior of certain artists justify “cancelling” them wholesale.  Maybe only controversial works from authors should be banned.  Maybe some works of art (shaped by the era they were composed in) should still be read, even if they insult our sensibilities.  Maybe a certain word should be struck from a work; the author’s intentions be damned.  With each passing day, more “maybes” appear, both buttressed with strident claims and rebuffed by a comparable flow of counterclaims.  In this day and age, it’s truly difficult to get past the many particulars and reaffirm a principle for, or against, censorship.  How refreshing it would be if we could just momentarily stand above the din and examine what grounds, if any, justify pulling a curtain over a particular work of art.
Maybe we might want to consider one of the first proposals to censor works of art, one suggested close to 2,500 years ago.  This attempt occurs in Plato’s Republic, where Socrates makes the case for why the works of Homer should not be taught in the city he and his friends construct in speech. Although thousands of years removed from our world, maybe stepping back in time to the conversation of that night can help us see through the storm of demands to censor books in our era.
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Plato's Republic censorship

What is Justice?
The Question at the Heart of Plato’s Discussion.

Many have an opinion of what the Republic is, but here’s an opinion of what it is not.  It’s not “Plato’s blueprint for politics.”  For starters, Plato never lends his own voice to what’s described in these pages. Socrates does the heavy lifting here.  Is Socrates’ voice Plato’s?  Perhaps.  But is Hamlet’s voice Shakespeare’s?  Or Lear’s?  Or Cleopatra’s?  Or MacBeth’s?  Or Juliet’s? The easy assumption to make is that a character “speaks” for an author. But it is an assumption, and one we might want to be wary of here, especially since Socrates — in one famous passage — claims that all learning is recollection, and his role is to help others recollect rather than “instruct.”[1] For stark contrast, consider how Plato’s student Aristotle shares his normative and descriptive views about politics in a book fortuitously named The Politics.

More telling, however, is the context of the dialogue.  The discussion in The Republic doesn’t begin as an examination of politics.  This conversation starts because the participants wish to understand what justice is. So, Socrates presents the following claim:

since justice in a human being resembles justice in a city, and since a city is much larger than a human being, if we examine a city from its birth we’ll locate this image of justice.[2]

Modern readers are understandably put off by what Socrates and company suggest will bring harmony to this ideal city. It certainly seems like a roadmap to totalitarianism. But, we should be attentive that this city is hypothetical (perhaps in the most literal sense of its Greek roots[3]) as we examine Socrates’ attack on Homer.

What Does a City Require?

The first city Socrates and his fellow guests scrutinize provides little more than basic needs.[4] In this community, one person provides food for all, another provides clothing, and another shelter.  With only four or five pitching in together, a city can arise.[5] Soon, however, a need for artisans emerges. But, as long as one person takes care of one job and supplies goods or services to others, the community will endure.  Naturally, Socrates adds, this city would want herdsmen and importers, so check off two more groups of providers.  And, since a common item is needed to exchange the value of labor, we now have the birth of money.[6] Merchants and laborers are soon added to make the city even more self-sufficient.

At this point, Socrates asks if justice is now visible in the city.  Before the question is answered, a young participant chimes in and claims no one would ever want to live in such a city. It lacks the luxuries that all people (well, probably those in the refined class of men having this discussion) desire.  So, Socrates suggests that the project will remain the same, but rather than seek justice in the city of basic need, they’ll examine it in the city of luxury.[7]

The dialogue then embraces an undeniable principle of political economy. If the city must provide for the wants of its citizens and not just their needs, it will need to expand and take resources away from other cities.  This means war.  And now, a new group is required in the city – “guardians.”[8]  These warriors will both attack other cities, and defend the home city. But, their existence causes a huge problem.

Guardians must be aggressive to fight off enemies abroad, but gentle to citizens at home.  Socrates suggests that in disposition, these soldiers must be like dogs who are loving to family members but violent towards those outside the family.[9] Such a combination of attributes is rare, if not impossible, to find naturally in human beings, so the guardians’ education requires great care. Since they’re encharged with the city’s survival (and growth), the guardians cannot grow up being exposed to just anything.  And it is here, finally, that Socrates takes on Homer.

How Should a City’s Guardians Be Educated?

In addition to “gymnastics” for the body[10], Socrates insists the education of future guardians requires “music” for the soul.[11] Immediately, Socrates asks the question that guides all that follows: “Will we really allow the children to hear formative stories by just anyone, and take into their souls opinions mostly opposite to what we think they need to know when they become adults?”[12]

Socrates soon declares that the city will “supervise”[13]  the poets, and either permit or dispose of works based on this principle.  Then, Socrates brings up the name that will haunt the next section of the dialogue – Homer.

It’s not a problem that Homer (and Hesiod) has created false tales, but the content matters.  From the start, Socrates takes aim at the content in the formative poems of the Greeks, specifically the depiction of gods and human beings.  Hesiod’s tales of the wars between Uranus and Cronus, and the later fables of Cronus fighting Zeus and others, need to be kept from the young, even if they’re true.[14] In a word, no stories of infighting should cross the ears of the future guardians. They need to be told that it is most shameful[15] for a member of the community to attack another. The only sanctioned stories are ones that reinforce loving bonds in the city – not Zeus throwing Hephaestus off Olympus.[16]

Socrates pushes ahead, and says the only works the poets can compose must show the gods as the source of all that’s good in the world but not as the cause of strife.[17] Likewise, no stories of gods shifting their shapes are permitted. Since gods are beautiful to begin with, any change would constitute a step away from their physical perfection.[18] Moreover, anything that smacks of a lie from the mouth of a god would also have no place in the guardians’ education.[19] As this section (the end of book two) comes to a close, Socrates sums up his argument so far:

 …to any [poet] saying such things about the gods…we will not allow our teachers to use him in the education of the young, if our guardians intend to be godlike and god fearing, insofar as that is possible for human beings.[20]

If a work doesn’t contribute to revering the gods of the city, that work needs to be banned, Socrates seems to say.[21]

After instilling the virtue of piety in future guardians, Socrates moves on to courage.  The guardians must learn not to fear death, otherwise they will never defend the city (i.e. give up their lives) with zeal.  At this stage, Socrates provides seven quotes from the Iliad and the Odyssey[22] that would have no place in the guardians’ education. All but one describe the degradation in Hades. And, interestingly enough, all but one deal with Achilles, the great warrior who turns his back on his Greek allies at the start of the Iliad.[23] In fact, from what follows, we almost get the sense that Homer is less of a hindrance to infusing the guardians with courage than the charismatic Achilles is.  Not only should these passages about Hades be excised, but also those that deal with Achilles’ lament about human finitude,[24] and his potential love of riches when accepting rewards from Agamemnon to rejoin the battlefield.[25] And you can imagine what Socrates will do with passages when Achilles, the child of a god, threatens to do battle with gods he disdains.[26] To make sure the guardians will defend the city at all times, Socrates needs to “cancel” Achilles.

The dialogue continues with an examination of the melodies, harmonies, and rhythms acceptable for the ears of future guardians. However, Socrates leaves out particular works of art and focuses on these elements more in the abstract.  He does tie up many loose threads at the end of this section with a somewhat circular claim. In order to educate the guardians correctly — i.e. to instruct future poets (after Homer and company are banned from this city) — we must first delineate the virtues that will shape the guardians’ character. And those virtues are moderation, courage, liberality, and magnificence.[27] Remember that the birth of this city is for the sake of determining the virtue of justice. But, now it seems we need a handle on many other virtues before we’re able to ascertain this one.  Regardless, Socrates’s claim for censorship is now complete. Homer, the putative author of Greece’s two most formative works, needs to be removed from the education of the young.

The Shape of Socrates’ Argument.

Let’s step back from The Republic for a moment and consider what we’ve seen.  In order to make sure that future guardians both love their fellow citizens and are willing to sacrifice their lives against enemies of the city, they cannot be allowed to read either the Iliad nor the Odyssey. (Achilles is disloyal to members of his “city,” as it were. And domestic duplicity lurks around every corner of the Odyssey, not to mention its depiction of the gods is far from wholesome.)  For Socrates, exposure to the attractive works of Homer do nothing to instill the guardians with piety or courage, the virtues needed to love fellow citizens, and attack those from other cities.

Whether or not one agrees with Socrates here (and the long line of those opposed to this view of art begins with Aristotle[28]), undeniably we understand the shape of Socrates’ argument.  He presents the overarching principle that guardians must be taught to love the city and be ready to die for it. Then, he bans the art that prevents this goal.  Again, whether we subscribe to the principle in question or despise it, it’s pretty clear how this argument works. It starts at the top (guard the education of the guardians), and works its way “down” to the particulars (take a hike, Homer).

Do Modern Day Defenders
of Censorship Follow Such a Model?

Do our modern-day defenders of censorship follow the same model?  Are they starting “at the top,” and then concluding that a certain book or author needs to be whisked from sight?  Or do they begin with a hated work or author in mind, and then proceed “upwards” to justify their wish to censor?

In The Republic, Socrates sees a “whole,” and then asks if individual parts threaten it — in this case, the greater unit is the city.  In 21st century America, do we see a “whole”?  Is it something abstract?  Something concrete?  Is it geographically wide or narrow?  How inclusive is it?   Without these questions answered satisfactorily, how can we decide what works menace the “whole”?  The rush to censor this book or that artist without a serious meditation to articulate what art is meant to contribute to our regime, seems premature at best and lacking justice at worst. This gauge for judgment also applies to why specific authors may have chosen both the language they used and the actions or opinions of their characters.

In Conclusion.

If we’re unwilling or incapable of engaging in that project, maybe we need to reconsider our zeal in demanding books and authors be tossed aside.  Without giving a lot more thought as to the governing principles that ensure the survival of our “city,” maybe all claims to censor should be indefinitely cancelled.

Essayist bio:

Boaz Roth is Chair of the English Department at Thomas Jefferson School in St. Louis, MO. He has taught English, Greek, and math at TJ for nearly 30 years.

#Banned   #On Censorship   #Plato    #the art of reading           #guest essayist

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[1] Meno, 81d.
[2] 368e-369b (These are the Stephanus numbers that allow readers to find the text in any translation.)
[3] Hypothetical is derived from ὑπό (“hypo”) which means “under” and the a verb τίθημι (“tithemi) which means “to place” or “to put.”  Etymologically speaking, then, something hypothetical is a contention upon which something else stands.
[4] The phrase Plato uses here is ἀναγκαιοτάτη πόλις which can mean something like “the least that could be called a city.”  Note: all translations are mine unless otherwise cited.
[5] 369e.
[6] 371b.
[7] Τρυφή is the first word used by Socrates to describe this city, and it means “luxurious” or “soft.”  Later in the passage he employs φλεγμαίνουσαν, which means a city that has been “heated” or “inflamed.”  While the historical Plato comes from the elites of Athens, as do most in the Republic (with the significant exception of Socrates), the diction here perhaps suggests some disdain for the luxurious city they’re residing in.
[8] φύλαξ is the term here (etymologically connected to “phylacteries” or “prophylactic”). It’s important to recall a governing principle from earlier: one person for one job.  Shoemakers will make shoes and not invade cities as their side hustle.
[9] 375d.
[10] Although Socrates later contends that gymnastics also deals with the soul as it teaches us to practice moderation when it comes to bodily pleasures: cf. 403d.
[11] “Music” here means any art overseen by the muses (just think about the overlap in sound of these words).  Greek poetry has a metrical aspect to it, so it naturally falls under the aegis of μουσική.  Socrates makes sure to rope speeches—prose for us—in this category too (376e).
[12] 377b.
[13] The word is derived from ἐφίσταμαι, which means “to stand nearby.”
[14] 378a.
[15] The word here, ​​αἰσχρός, can also mean “ugly.”
[16] See Iliad, book one lines 586-594 for a vivid account.
[17] 379c and 380a.  At 379d, Socrates recites significant lines from book 24 of the Iliad in which Zeus is described as having two jars from which blessings and curses are heaped upon the heads of mortals.
[18] 381c. It’s hard to imagine how Odysseus would ever get within leagues of Ithaca were it not for Athena’s constantly changing her shape to guide and counsel him (and Telemachus for that matter).
[19] 383a.
[20] 383c.
[21] Curiously, not believing in the gods of the city was one of the charges brought against Socrates in the Apology (24b),
[22] 386c through 387b.
[23] I wouldn’t have noticed this repetition were it not for Allan Bloom’s essay in his translation of The Republic (Basic Books, 1991 edition, page 354).
[24] 388a.
[25] 390e.
[26] 391c.
[27] 402c.
[28] In his Poetics, Aristotle seems to claim that works of art don’t distort the insides of viewers but rather purge them.  Art—for Aristotle—is therapeutic.  Consider especially 1449b21-28 in the Poetics.

Images:

> Platonis Codex Parisinus A. Oeuvres Philosophiques des Platon. Fac-simile en phototypie, a la grandeur  exacte de l’original du Ms. Greg 1807 de la bibliotheque nationale. Edited by Ernest Leroux. (Du Ministere de L’Instruction Publique et des Beaux-Arts et de l’institut de France: Paris, 1908). Facsimile of page #5 via HathiTrust Digital Library. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=ucbk.ark:/28722/h23t57&view=1up&seq=1&skin=2021
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> Plato by Silanion ca. 370 BC. Public Domain via © Marie-Lan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons / CC-BY 2.5 Original image has been slightly altered and cropped.

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We May Read for Enjoyment, but Literature Isn’t Written Just to Entertain Us.

the purpose of literature

hy are books written, if not for a reader’s enjoyment? People have been telling stories since the dawn of time.  As Ursula K. Le Guin points out, “There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories.”[1] That said, as much as some of us like to just kick back and ride a good narrative, storytelling has never been just about entertainment.

Narrative is so important because stories have always been the best way to pass on essential knowledge. It’s important to know the best place to look for grubs, for example, or the rules and expectations of the clan. Putting this information in an entertaining package not only helped it take root in young minds, a message embedded in an enjoyable story was more likely to be passed on.[2] And narrative continues to serve such a  purpose.

The Celtic tale about a supernatural woman winning the footrace she was forced to run against the king’s chariot despite being in the throes of birth pangs, is a fantastic story to be sure.[3]  But the underlying message in The Curse of Macha is that we should treat our mothers well. It isn’t called the “Curse” of Macha for nothing. Yarns about the child-snatching arctic sea monster Qallupilluk are exciting on their face, but the lesson is clear. “Inuit children, ‘it is never safe to play on the beach alone!’”[4] And the warning imbedded in the fairy tale thriller Little Red Riding Hood is quite simply, “don’t talk to strangers.”[5]
_________

the purpose of literature

Legends and Epic Poetry
Shape History and Cultural Beliefs.

Take Gilgamesh for instance, said to be the oldest written story in the world.[6] The epic’s hero was a historical king of the Mesopotamian city Uruk, and versions of his legendary deeds had been handed down in oral fashion for hundreds of years. Gilgamesh’s exploits involve the face-changing monster Humbaba, a pantheon of gods and goddesses, not to mention the wild man Enkidu. Though they are indeed gripping tales of adventure, they were “printed” during the reign of King Shulgi (of the Third Dynasty of Ur) for a political purpose. King Shulgi claimed the gods and ancient Kings of Uruk as ancestors in order to strengthen the legitimacy of his own kingship.[7] Literally setting the epic in stone, or in this case clay tablets, gives King Shulgi’s claim an authority impervious to challenge. And given the permanent nature of the written word, he gets to control what is now an incontrovertible narrative.

When it comes to Virgil’s Aeneid who doesn’t love a good battle scene, especially one fueled by a vindictive goddess? But once again, there’s more to it than that. There is a longstanding view that Virgil was commissioned to write his epic poem by Emperor Augustus, in an effort to unite the Roman people after a long period of civil conflict. The Aeneid not only depicts the founding of Roman society, it hearkens back to a period of strength and glory in Rome’s past. Virgil uses the long-running conflict between Rome and Carthage to unify the Roman people by reminding them of a time when their greatest threat was from a foreign power.[8]

Merlin, and the references to dragons in Arthurian legend are great fun. But yet again, the reason for their existence is not entertainment. During the period following the Norman conquest of England, Celtic literature exploded.  And much of it revolved around triumphs of Celtic Britons against their new masters, clearly sending a political message to the Normans. All such stories need a hero for the troops to rally around, which is where Arthur comes in. But the Normans were there to stay and ultimately, Arthurian legend served to introduce them to the culture and past of the Celts.[9]
_________

the purpose of literature

Literature is a Fundamental
Source of New Insights.

Literature, and a liberal arts education generally, is a fundamental source of cultivating new insights.[10]  L. Frank Baum may have claimed that The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is simply a “wonder tale” written to bring pleasure to children of his era, but the fact that he characterizes his work as a “modernized fairy tale” confirms its function as commentary. Baum reveals one newly discovered insight by stating that the “fearsome morals” in the Grimm and Anderson tales are no longer necessary because “modern education includes morality.”[11]

Published in 1951, the insights expressed in J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye are in response to a newly nuclear world, post-World War II uniformity, and the numbing malaise produced by materialism. Catcher’s teenaged protagonist, Holden Caulfield, is the quintessential anti-hero. He considers just about everyone to be “phony,” as mindlessly falling in line with artificial conventions, and amiability is simply camouflage for self-interest. In a generation defined by conformity, Caulfield has been described as “an icon of restlessness, discontent, rebellion, opposition to the status quo.”[12] Holden Caulfield was a lightning rod for such sensibility, opening the door to the anti-establishment culture that defined the following decade (1960s).[13]

But what about The Zombie Survival Guide and its companion World War Z? Surely those are intended as entertainment. Nope. Needless to say, all writers want their books to be well-received, and Max Brooks is no different. But it is important to note that Brooks had the HIV epidemic in mind when he wrote those.  Not to mention that the CDC was inspired to form a zombie task force, and to establish a Zombie Preparedness page on their website. The campaign is tongue-in-cheek of course, but the CDC put Brooks’ insights to use, in order to educate people about very real hazard preparedness.[14] More broadly, the first of these books is about responding to tragedy when it inevitably strikes, whether that tragedy takes the shape of a tornado, a flood, or the death of your mother, things “that come into your life without prejudice, and destroy it.”[15] The follow-up work, World War Z, is essentially how not to deal with such “zombies.”
_________

the purpose of literature

Books Allow us to See the World
Through Someone Else’s Eyes.

Perhaps the most important function literature serves is to enable us to see the world through someone else’s eyes. This viewpoint not only broadens our horizons, it helps us realize as Neil Gaiman phrases it “that behind every pair of eyes, there’s somebody like us.”[16] Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man specifically deals with this issue, of not being seen as a unique individual, but merely as a stereotype and therefore not fully human. Books like Ellison’s, that is works that facilitate a shift in perspective by shedding light on uncomfortable situations, may not be “fun,” but as you know by now, literature isn’t written just to entertain us.

Concisely put, literature cultivates empathy. According to John Steinbeck, a base theme runs through “every bit of honest writing in the world,” and that theme is we should “try to understand men (and by that he means people).”[17]  Elaborating on his point Steinbeck further stated, “if you understand each other you will be kind to each other.”[18] In keeping with his observation, the concept of understanding forms the foundation of Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men. Bearing literature’s function of cultivating empathy in mind offers significant insight into other books like this one as well, those with a less than joyful plotline. Franz Kafka sums it up nicely, “If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?… A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.”[19]

The understanding and kindness Steinbeck was referring to goes beyond the “be nice” variety we all learned about in kindergarten. As H. G. Wells observed, the success of civilization itself “amounts ultimately to a success of sympathy and understanding.”[20] Fittingly, Wells indicated that if it had been up to him, every candidate applying for the post of Workhouse Master would be required to pass an exam on Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.[21] For Dickens was a master at revealing the humanity in characters typically seen as unsympathetic during the Victorian era. And in doing so, he exposed how inhumane the social institutions of his day were.
_________

the purpose of literature

Novels are a Powerful Platform
for Examining Societal Ills.

As Dickens’ work shows us, literature provides a powerful platform for examining societal ills. Novelists of every generation have put unjust, and inappropriate conduct on display. It is critical to remember, however, that depicting such behavior does not mean endorsing it. Sadly, the vast majority of “banned books” are deleted from school curriculums or removed from libraries, because those who challenge them fail to understand this very important point. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is a perfect example of such unfortunate misinterpretation. Readings of this novel are all too often limited to plot, as a period piece set in the decadent “Roaring Twenties,” glorifying alcohol, adultery, and wealth obtained at any moral cost. Fitzgerald, of course, belonged to the World War I-era “Lost Generation.” In a clear Gatsby reference, Beat author John Clellon Holmes described the Lost Generation as “discovered in a roadster, laughing hysterically because nothing meant anything anymore.”[22] Fitzgerald is not condoning the self-destructive practices he depicts. Rather, he shines a light on this conduct as commentary on how devastating The Great War was, in the hope of waking people up to the fact that those lost on the battlefield were not the only casualties.[23]

Authors and their works continue to present, analyze, and illuminate social maladies through and through. Words may appear innocent and powerless when we see them in the dictionary, but as Nathaniel Hawthorne observes, they become incredibly potent “in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.”[24] Some social wounds are so cruel, and so deeply ingrained that, as Toni Morrison points out, unlike reparations, vengeance, or even the justice victims of societal ills seek, it is only writers who can turn such trauma and sorrow into meaning. Only writers can sharpen our moral imagination. Once again, and more emphatically than ever, literature is not written simply for a reader’s gratification. To quote Morrison precisely, “a writer’s life and work are not a gift to mankind; they are its necessity.”[25]

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Be sure to check out these companion articles:

Novels are Like a Layer Cake,
Be Sure to Get Every Bite.

If You’re Not Engaging a Book’s Symbolic Language,
You Aren’t Really Reading It.

Literary Devices:  
Literary Devices: The Author’s Toolbox

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#literary criticism     #The Art of Reading   #liberal arts      #critical thinking


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Endnotes:

[1] Le Guin, Ursula K. The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction. (New York: Harper Collins, 1992), 22.
[2]Gaiman, Neil. “How Stories Last.” The Long Now Foundation.  Video Seminar. (June 9, 2015).
[3] Gantz, Jeffrey. Early Irish Myths and Sagas. (New York: Penguin Books, 1981), 128-129.
[4] Qallupilluit. http://www.inuitmyths.com/story_qua.htm ; Doucleff, Michaeleen and Jane Greenhalgh. “How Inuit Parents Teach Kids To Control Their Anger.” NPR.org.
[5] Perrault, Charles. Tales of Passed Times. (London: J. M. Dent & Co, 1900), 23.
[6] Mitchell, Stephen. Gilgamesh: A new English version. (London: Profile Books Ltd., 2005), 8.
[7] Kovacs, Maureen Gallery. The Epic of Gilgamesh. (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1989), xxii-xxiii.
[8] “Making Rome great again: fake views in the ancient world.” University of Cambridge, Research.
[9] The British History of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Translated by A. Thompson, Esq. (1842 edition); Wood, Michael. “King Arthur, ‘Once and Future King.’” BBC History.
[10] Taylor, Charles. A Secular Age. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 732.
[11] Baum, L. Frank. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. (New York: Harper Collins, 1987), 1.
[12] Shields, David and Shane Salerno. Salinger. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2013), 260.
[13] Castronovo, David “Holden Caulfield’s Legacy.” New England Review. Vol. 22, No 2 (Sprint, 2001), 180; Shields, David and Shane Salerno. Salinger. (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2013), 260.
[14] Brodesser-Akner, Taffy. “I can’t think of anything less funny than dying in a zombie attack.” The New York Times. June 23, 2013; https://www.cdc.gov/cpr/zombie/index.htm
[15] Brodesser-Akner.
[16] Gaiman, Neil. “How Stories Last.” The Long Now Foundation.  Video Seminar. (June 9, 2015).
[17] Steinbeck, John. Journal entry quoted in Steinbeck Center director Susan Shillinglaw’s introduction to the 1993 Penguin Classics edition of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men.
[18] Ibid.
[19] Kafka, Franz. Letters to Friends, Family and Editors. Translated by Richard and Clara Winston. (New York: Schocken Books, 2016), 16.
[20] Wells, H. G. “The Contemporary Novel.” The Atlantic Monthly. (January, 1912), 1.
[21] Wells.
[22] Holmes, John Clellon. “This is the Beat Generation.” The New York Times. Nov. 16, 1952.
[23] Licari, T. S. “’The Great Gatsby’ and the Suppression of War Experience.” The F. Scott Fitzgerald Review. (Vol. 17, 2019), 207-208.
[24] Nathaniel Hawthorne. Quoted by William Safire. “On language; Gifts of Gab for ’99.” New York Times Magazine. Dec. 13, 1998.
[25] Morrison, Toni. “Peril.” Burn this Book: notes on literature and engagement. Ed. Toni Morrison. (New York: Harper, 2009), 4.

Images:

[1] Legends and Epic Poetry.  The Gilgamesh Flood Tablet is a Mesopotamian clay artifact created in 700 BCE. It lives at the The British Museum in London. The image is in the public domain, and tagged epic poem, cuneiform and artifact. Source:  https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/W_K-3375

[2] Literature is a Fundamental Source of New Insights. Photo by Kari Shea on Unsplash. https://unsplash.com/photos/QfAX7_xjxm4?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

[3] See the World Through Someone Else’s Eyes. Photo by jesse orrico on Unsplash.
https://unsplash.com/photos/OqQyk8vN30k?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

[4] Platform for Examining Societal Ills. Photo by The New York Public Library  on Unsplash. https://unsplash.com/photos/fMFqbGVP2is?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink




Novels are Like Layer Cake – Be Sure to Get Every Bite.

Like birthday cake, layers give a book substance.

he first thing we notice about a birthday cake is the icing. And who doesn’t love a good butter cream or chocolate ganache. But there’s more to these delicious delicacies than just frosting. Without the rich, baked layers upon which it rests, a cake’s icing would be little more than a puddle of sugary goo. Admittedly delicious, but definitely lacking substance.

The same goes for novels. The first thing we notice is the plot. And who doesn’t enjoy reading about a couple guys on a cross-country rager, or a spooky old haunted mansion with an ancestral curse. Hermann Hesse describes this type of reader as “naïve.”[1] They relate to books like a horse to its driver: the book leads, and the reader simply follows. The book’s substance is accepted without question.

But, as Hesse also points out, a book’s content is not the only consideration![2] Just like a birthday cake and its icing, there’s more to a novel than its surface narrative. This is important to keep in mind because, human storytelling has never been only about entertainment. It’s the layers beneath the compelling plot that contain the novel’s meaning.

It may be easy to figure out the “don’t talk to strangers” message underpinning Little Red Riding Hood’s storyline but reading a novel beyond plot-level is a complex and often challenging undertaking. Bearing that in mind, here are a few tools for delving below a novel’s surface plot. Tools that will help you engage and interpret a novel rather than just follow the dotted line from one plot point to the next. Tools designed to make sure you “get every bite.”

Carl Sagan’s insight into reading books is spot-on. It’s also a good place to start for reading beyond plot:

 …you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you.[3]

It’s an intriguing thought. And especially thought-provoking in the context of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s observation, “You don’t write because you want to say something; you write because you’ve got something to say.”[4] Hesse describes those who read from this perspective as engaging a book the way “a hunter follows his prey.”[5] In this case, the prey is a glimpse of what lies beyond the work’s surface narrative.

So, who is the person speaking to you from the pages of the book you’re reading? What was going on in the world at the time they were writing it? And what is it they were compelled to say?
..

Novels are like birthday cake-layers give a book substance

Who’s Doing the Talking?

For instance, a reader doesn’t need to know very much about Jack Kerouac before it is apparent that his novel On the Road is about more than a couple guys getting their kicks on an extended road trip.

Kerouac was part of The Beat Generation, a literary movement that emerged in the early 1950s. Like the Lost Generation of the 1920s, The Beats are a post-war phenomenon. Having experienced the shock and carnage of the world’s first mechanized war, the Lost Generation was born of a sense that nothing meant anything anymore.

The Beat Generation on the other hand has been described as a “seeking” generation. And their essential question was how to live rather than what is there to live for. They faced post-war disillusionment with what Beat poet John Clellon Holmes described as “an almost exaggerated will to believe in something…even in the face of an inability to do so in conventional terms.”[6]

On an individual note, Kerouac considered writing his “duty on earth.”[7] And he is renowned for the writing style he described as “spontaneous prose.”[8] Kerouac’s method is shaped by the notion of rhythm and breath, like meditative breathing or that of a jazz musician.[9]

His style is characterized by a free association of the subconscious mind and an undisturbed flow of words. This method is doubly intriguing when combined with the fact that On the Road was typed on a 120-foot scroll so Kerouac’s stream of consciousness writing wouldn’t be interrupted by the need to insert a new sheet of paper into the typewriter.

Writing is clearly a meditative practice for the literary iconoclast. Knowing this about Kerouac, as well as understanding the historical environment he was operating in, sparks the realization that On the Road is about more than a meaningless cross-country rampage.

When reading from this perspective, we keep our eyes open for phrases and literary devices that enable us to interpret the novel we’re reading rather than simply follow its plot. Our minds are open to the nuanced phrasing and symbolic language that guide us to what (in this case) Kerouac was compelled to say.

Though Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty travel back and forth across the country, it is clear that their journey is actually an inward one. And this, of course, is a much richer and more satisfying read than a story about two guys getting their kicks on a cross-country road trip.
..
..

Like birthday cake, layers give a book substance.

What’s Going on in the World?

Familiarity with a novel’s author and their historical circumstances clearly results in a more meaningful interpretation of the books we read. But it works the other way  around as well. Being receptive to the literary work that takes place below the narrative also gives us insight into historical events of the period. Which in turn, not only leads to a greater understanding of American culture and how it developed, but also our place in it.

Take Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book The House of the Seven Gables for example, the haunted mansion novel mentioned above. Even in his day, Hawthorne’s works were characterized as “full of brooding over the past.”[10] (Being descended from magistrates of the Salem witch trials will do that to you.)[11] Hawthorne himself was described as having an “affinity with the weird, the mysterious, the supernatural,” a “passion for exploring the crypts and caverns of the soul.”[12]

And The House of the Seven Gables contains plenty  of mystery, shadowy shapes, and gloom. The old Pyncheon house is indeed haunted by a bona fide ghost. One of its rooms has a mirror in it “fabled to contain within its depths all the shapes that had ever been reflected there.”[13] Not to mention the Pyncheons’ multi-generational curse.

As to the history at work beneath Hawthorne’s narrative, the work’s protagonist, Mr. Holgrave, is a daguerreotypist by trade. Daguerreotypy was the first widespread form of photography, and in an age of selfies it’s easy to lose sight of just how revolutionary this new technology was. Which is precisely the point.

If we’re only reading at plot level, Hawthorne’s decision to have the descendent of a convicted wizard earn his living as a daguerreotypist is little more than good fun. But the audience of Hawthorne’s day would definitely have understood the significance of pairing wizardry and daguerreotypy.

Unlike drawings and paintings which are products of the human hand, photography has a seemingly magical ability to reproduce life.  And a lot of people found this frightening. [14]  The first article on daguerreotypy published in the United States, described it as a “real black art of true magic.”[15] The author goes on to say:

 What would you say to looking in a mirror and having the image fastened!! As one looks sometimes, it is really quite frightful to think of it.[16]

Granted, you probably wouldn’t know about of articles like this one unless you’re a historian. That said, a Google search and a little initiative can turn up a lot of useful material for informing a deeper understanding of the book we’re reading at the moment.

Not only that, when we read with the mindset to get all a book has to offer, we’re on the lookout for literary choices like the one Hawthorne made. Why did he pair wizardry and photography?

Such decisions are worth digging into. A literary choice like Mr. Holgrave’s occupation may reflect something about this point in history you never knew, didn’t realize the significance of, or hadn’t considered from the perspective the author presents. And like glasses for a near-sighted person, such insights help us see what’s right in front of us more clearly.
..

Like birthday cake, layers give a book substance.

How About the Reader?

This is not to say that the reader has nothing to “bring to the party,” as Toni Morrison puts it.[17] I am in no way suggesting that there is an ultimate meaning to be discovered within any text. A reader’s life experience most certainly goes into the making of our proverbial cake.

As the historical circumstances of the author shapes what they write, those of the reader inform their interpretation. For example, hardly anyone talked about The Scarlet Letter in terms of gender, sexuality, and feminism until roughly the late 1960s. Though these themes are prominent in Hawthorne’s work, they simply weren’t on people’s radar until the Women’s Liberation Movement came on the scene.[18]

Speaking of themes… most of us have been taught that a literary theme is a given work’s main topic, what the piece is about. Theme has also been defined as a book’s underlying message, or what the work means. It’s also been boiled down to being the moral of the story.

Many educators consider theme to be one of the most complicated aspects of fiction to discuss, because (as we’ve seen) there’s no simple definition. But there’s one thing these similar but varied renditions have in common – they’re all statements. But themes don’t have to be.

Formulating themes as statements leads to restrictive thinking. Seeing theme as a question, on the other hand, sets up an open-ended thought process, inducing us to ponder larger considerations. For example, noting gender as a theme in The Scarlet Letter ends the discussion… “Hawthorne’s theme is ‘the Puritans were patriarchal tyrants.’”

But considering theme as a question sparks larger thinking, such as “what prompted Hawthorne to choose gender as a means of calling out Puritan theocratic tyranny?” which inevitably leads to “is anything like that happening now?”

Analyzing themes in this manner facilitates a greater understanding of the work itself. But more importantly, the reader can utilize insights they’ve gained to grasp a better sense of the world they live in and their place in it.

That’s what makes stories “true,” even when they’re fiction. It’s what also keeps literature relevant, no matter when it was written.[19]

Like birthday cake, layers give a book substance.

Individual experience also plays a role in how a reader interprets a particular book by coloring how they interpret the symbolic language within the work. For example, if you’re a social studies teacher you might interpret L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz as a “parable on populism,” seeing the Scarecrow as a Kansas farmer and the Tin Woodman as a dehumanized laborer.[20]

A student of mythology might see Joseph Campbell’s monomyth at work in the same text.[21] And any number of contemporary women might interpret Dorothy’s courage, strength and cleverness as a feminist journey. [22] Not only is Baum’s protagonist female, Dorothy saves both the Tin Woodman and the Scarecrow (who happen to be male) from their states of confinement. She also defeats the Wicked Witch of the West, and sets the Winkies free in the process.[23]

Engaging a book strictly through individual experience constitutes another of Hesse’s reading types. This reader doesn’t read to educate themselves, to examine the author’s interpretation of the world. Rather, they confront reading with complete freedom, books are simply sources of stimulus. [24] 

This type of reader, as Hesse points out, doesn’t actually read what the author has written. Rather, they “swim in a stream of impulses and inspirations” that reach them from what they are reading.[25] These impulses may emerge from the text, but they might just as easily be triggered by the type face. If there’s no concern for the author’s intent and meaning, you might as well be reading instructions on how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture. [26]

_________
Like birthday cake, layers give a book substance.

When Horizons Merge.

Interpretations deriving from readers’ life experience shouldn’t stand alone any more than the biographical/ historical interpretations we explored earlier. The best way to get every bite of literary cake, is a fusion of the different horizons we’ve been talking about. Which is simply realizing that both ends of the Author background: Reader response/Contemporary culture spectrum are significant.[27]

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is one example of how such a fusion can play out. When Gatsby is read from the perspective of the Author’s background and history, insight into the disoriented and directionless mindset of post-World War I’s “Lost Generation” may be interesting, but is it relevant?

Those guys are all dead, and prohibition is over… what does it matter. When read from a 21st century reader’s point-of-view, does it resonate? Maybe, but void of a historic context, it is likely to devolve into nothing more than rich people having affairs, drinking too much, and driving too fast.

With a fusion of the respective horizons, however, Jay Gatsby can be seen as suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), which we didn’t have the language for at the time it was written. The Great Gatsby is among the novels currently being used in the treatment of returning soldiers. Fitzgerald’s work clearly remains relevant, and it definitely resonates.

Arthur Miller’s The Crucible is another good example.  On its face, the play recounts a pretty accurate depiction of the Salem witch trials. And Miller tells us he had McCarthyism and the post-World War II “red scare” in mind when he wrote it. A contemporary reader, however, may see parallels between the Puritan church’s abuse of power and oppressive institutions of today, like the American prison system.[28]

In addition to what is contained in the text, however, this fusion of horizons opens the door to discussions about what isn’t there. What types of characters are missing? Why are certain characters depicted the way they are? Whose perspective is privileged? And more importantly, who ends up being marginalized as a result? Questions like these can open our eyes to societal ills like racism, sexism, and vestiges of colonialism. In doing so, they begin unwinding the subconscious thought patterns that perpetuate them.[29]

As we said earlier, like icing on a birthday cake, a book’s plot is what we notice first.  But as we have seen, novels are much more than that. “Getting every bite” not only results in a richer, more substantial experience, reading beyond surface narrative ensures that a literary work is never finished saying what it has to say.[30]
_________

___________________________________

Be sure to check out these companion articles:

We May Read for Enjoyment,
But Literature Isn’t Written Just to Entertain Us.

If You’re Not Engaging a Book’s Symbolic Language,
You Aren’t Really Reading It.

Literary Devices:  
Literary Devices: The Author’s Toolbox

Page Capper copy

#literary criticism      #The Art of Reading       #critical thinking     #literacy


Endnotes:

[1] Hesse, Hermann. “On Reading Books.” in My Belief: Essays on Life and Art. Edited by Theodore Ziolkowski. Translated by Denver Lindley. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1974), 101.
[2] Hesse, 101-102.
[3] Sagan, Carl. Cosmos. Episode 11. “The Persistence of Memory.”
[4] F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Crack-Up. Edited by Edmund Wilson. (New York: New Directions, 1993), 111.
[5] Hesse, 103.
[6] Holmes, John Clellon. This is the Beat Generation.” The New York Times. Nov. 16, 1952.
[7] Brinkley, Douglas. Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954. (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), xii.
[8] Kerouac, Jack. “The Essentials of Spontaneous Prose.” The Black Mountain Review. Issue 7 (Fall 1957), pp 226-228.
[9] Ibid.
[10]More, Paul Elmore. “The Solitude of Nathaniel Hawthorne.” The Atlantic. (November, 1901).
[11] Conway, Moncure Daniel. Life of Nathaniel Hawthorne. (London: Walter Scott, 1890), 171.
[12] Hillard, G. S. “The English Note-Books of Nathaniel Hawthorne.” The Atlantic Monthly. Vol. 26, No. 155. (September 1870), 265-266.
[13] Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The House of The Seven Gables. (New York: Penguin Books, 1986), 20.
[14] America’s First Look into the Camera: Daguerreotype Portraits and Views, 1839-1862.
https://www.loc.gov/teachers/classroommaterials/connections/daguerreotype/history.html
[15] “The Pencil of Nature: A New Discovery.” The Corsair: A Gazette of Literature, Art, Dramatic Criticism, Fashion, and Novelty. April 13, 1839; Vol. 1, 71.
[16] Ibid.
[17] Morrison, Toni. “The Reader as Artist.” O, the Oprah Magazine. Vol. 7, Issue 7. (July 2006), 174.
[18] Milder, Robert. “The Scarlet Letter—Again???” Nathaniel Hawthorne Review, Vol. 40, No. 1 (Spring 2014), 106.
[19] Kramer, Lindsay. “A Guide to Themes in Writing and Literature.” June 29, 2022. Grammarlyblog.
Wrede, Patricia C.  “The Question of Theme.”
Bushnell, J. T. “What is a Theme in Literature?” The Oregon State Guide to Literary Terms.
“Theme.” Literary Devices: Definition and Examples of Literary Terms. 
[20] Littlefield, Henry. “The Wizard of Oz: Parable on Populism.” American Quarterly. Vol. 16, No.1 (Spring 1964), 52, 53.
[21] Gutierrez, Jene’. “Psychospiritual Wizdom: Dorothy’s Monomyth in ‘The Wizard of Oz.’” The Universe of Oz: Essays on Baum’s Series and Its Progeny. Ed Kevin K. Durand and Mary K. Leigh. (London: McFarland & Co, Inc., 2009).
[22] Kent, Paula. “A Feminist Stroll Down the Yellow Brick Road: Dorothy’s Heroine’s Adventure.” The Universe of Oz: Essays on Baum’s Series and Its Progeny. Ed Kevin K. Durand and Mary K. Leigh. (London: McFarland & Co, Inc., 2009).
[23] “We’ve all come a long way from Kansas! Feminism in The Wizard of Oz.” Her Story Arc blog. herstoryarc.com
[24] Hesse, 103.
[25] Hesse, 104.
[26] Hesse, 104-105.
[27] Gadamer, Hans-Georg. Truth and Method. Trans. Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. (New York: Continuum, 2006), 578.
[28] Torres, Julia E. “Disrupting ‘The Crucible.’” DisruptTexts.org.
[29]
Ebarvia, Tricia. Disrupting Texts as a Restorative Practice.
[30] Italo Calivno defined a classic as “a book that has never finished saying what it has to say” in his article “Why Read the Classics?” published in The New York Review of Books. October 9, 1986.

Images:

[1] Who’s Doing the Talking?  Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash.    https://unsplash.com/photos/59lC6TgZAbQ?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

[2] What’s Going on in the World?  Photo by Sophie Louisnard on Unsplash.
https://unsplash.com/photos/uXzYu8Pxcqc?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

[3] What about the Reader?  Photo by Seven Shooter on Unsplash.
https://unsplash.com/photos/hPKTYwJ4FUo?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

[4] The Individual Reader.  Photo by Lilly Rum on Unsplash.  https://unsplash.com/photos/iyKVGRu79G4 

[5] When Horizons Merge. Photo by Mary Bartling.




If You’re Not Engaging a Book’s Symbolic Language, You Aren’t Really Reading It.

Like luggage, symbolic language needs to be unpacked... here's how.

eading literature is more than being swept along by the charm of the characters, anticipation for the next shocking twist, or the thrill of the events on display. But it can be tricky.

After all, as Hermann Hesse points out, the same language employed by poets and novelists is also used in school and business, to dispatch telegrams, and conduct lawsuits. It’s easy to get stuck reading “naïvely,” to assume that a book is to be judged according to its substance. “Just as a loaf of bread is there to be eaten and a bed to be slept in.” [1]

A book’s content, however, is not the only consideration. As pointed out in a previous article, there’s more to a novel than surface narrative. One of the layers that gives meaning to a novel’s narrative is the symbolic language imbedded in it. So, if you’re not engaging a book’s symbolic language, you aren’t really reading it.

A novel’s symbolic language does indeed carry a message beyond simply what happens in the plot. But, like luggage, symbolism needs to be unpacked.  The numerous chapters of a novel, as Virginia Woolf advised, “are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more impalpable than bricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing.”[2] So, no matter how enjoyable a book may be, if you’re just reading for plot and an entertaining story, you aren’t even getting half of what it has to offer. So, here are a few forms of symbolic language to be on the look-out for the next time you pick up a book.
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This Book is Banned- Symbol - Scylla Charybdis

Symbol:
What is it and how does it work?

Strictly speaking, symbol is defined as something that represents something else by association. But, be sure not to confuse symbol with sign. Symbol differs from sign because signs are straightforward. For instance, 👈  means turn left no matter where you are in the world.  Symbols, on the other hand have more than one layer, with the literal meaning “pointing the way” to a second, fuller meaning. So, in order to really read a book, you need to unpack this second layer. Take the sea monsters in Homer’s Odyssey, Scylla and Charybdis, for instance.

In an earlier post, we talked about the fact that literature isn’t written just for our entertainment, that the story is consistently a vehicle for a larger point. And, so it is with the Odyssey. On its face, Homer’s epic is an adventure story about Odysseus, king of Ithaca, and his ten-year journey home after the Trojan War. The Odyssey is chockfull of fantastic creatures, such as the giant Cyclops, and Sirens who lure men to their doom with song, not to mention the six-headed sea monster Scylla and the whirlpool creature Charybdis already mentioned.  Now, Scylla and Charybdis live in close proximity to each other, making it nearly impossible to safely navigate between them. If you steer clear of Scylla’s cave, you get sucked in by Charybdis. On the other hand, if you maneuver away from Charybdis, man-eating Scylla jumps out of its cave and… well, you get the idea. So, what’s a Greek sailor to do?

Odysseus’ dilemma is precisely the point. The literal reading of these two sea monsters “points us” to the realization that this is a situation where there is no good choice. And that is what Scylla and Charybdis symbolizes, the impossible choice we’ve all had to make at one time or another in our lives. While Scylla and Charybdis are a fantastic pair in and of themselves, engaging the symbol, understanding the paired monsters’ deeper meaning gives Homer’s Odyssey continued relevance. Odysseus’ journey gives us insight into our own.

The important thing to remember about symbolic language is that the advent of the written word changed human storytelling. We no longer automatically engage with symbolic language like we did when we lived in an oral culture.  This is not to say the ability to decipher symbol is lost forever. But these days it takes a conscious effort to do so, to do more than simply process text.
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This Book is Banned - Myth - Zeus in Olympia

Myth:
What is it and how does it work?

The next form of symbolic language we’re going to take a look at is myth, and the first thing we need to do is establish what myth is not.  Myth is not folklore, legend, or tall tales, though it is often confused with all of them. If myth isn’t any of these, then what is it? Myth is essentially symbol in narrative form.[3] This form of symbolic language relates how a reality came into existence, be it the whole of creation, a specific species, or a particular human behavior.[4] For example, you’re probably familiar with Prometheus. His is the myth about how human beings acquired the ability to make fire. Though Zeus was withholding fire from humans, Prometheus stole it and gave it to mankind. Needless to say, he was punished for his trouble.[5]

While it’s important to recognize myth when we see it, the discussion at hand leads us to another important factor in the evolution of human storytelling. The recitation of myth that was prevalent in traditional societies has been replaced by the reading of prose narrative, especially the novel. In the context of symbolic language, this turn of events is significant because mythological themes and characters are frequently reflected in modern day novels. So, it helps to “know your myths,” to at least have a passing acquaintance with the classic catalog.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a perfect example of the convergence of myth and literature. In fact, the full title of Shelley’s work is Frankenstein; or the Modern Prometheus. While the plot does indeed revolve around a “monster,” there is much more to it than that. The parallel drawn to a myth about forbidden technology stolen from the gods transforms Shelley’s work from a sleep-over worthy horror story to a narrative that speaks to the ethics and morality of scientific experimentation. And we haven’t even gotten to the consequences of “playing God” yet. Clearly, engaging Frankenstein’s symbolic language results in a more profound reading of Shelley’s work, one more pertinent than ever.

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This Book is Banned - Allegory - Hare and Tortoise

Allegory:
What is it and how does it work?

Like myth, allegory is both representational and in narrative form. While myth is a means of understanding the world and how it came to be, allegory’s purpose is rhetorical in nature. By employing allegory, the author transforms a phenomenon they wish to address into figural narrative.[6] This of course begs the question, if the author transforms the target of their commentary, how does the reader know what the actual subject is?  For starters, the novel’s structure is itself a guiding principle. And ultimately, the author’s message emerges from the details of the text.

Allegory functions on a this equals that formula, and unlike symbol, the secondary meaning is directly accessible. In short, allegory functions rather like a cryptic key. And, knowing at least a little about the author is beneficial. An awareness of the political environment and significant events that occurred during the period the work was written, also helps crack the code.

George Orwell’s commentary on Communist Russia, Animal Farm, is a prime example of allegory. It is highly unlikely that a reader would mistake this book as actually being about talking farm animals in conflict, so what is it really about? The political environment of the period, combined with the character traits of the work’s personified animals, enable the reader to understand the novella as the criticism it is. And Orwell’s choice to convey his political warning through fiction rather than a straightforward political essay conforms to the principle that narrative is the most effective way to circulate critical information. Case in point, a story about authoritarian pigs definitely holds our attention better than straightforward political commentary.

Allegory’s defining this equals that formula is reflected in the direct correlation between Orwell’s farm animals and specific Russian political figures. Old Major, the oldest boar on the farm, embodies Karl Marx. A younger pig named Snowball, represents Leon Trotsky, Vladimir Lenin’s second-in-command. And Joseph Stalin is clearly recognizable as the ruthless boar named Napoleon.[7] In addition to the animal-politician overlay, frequent use of the term “comrades,” makes the theme difficult to miss.[8]
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This Book is Banned - Metaphor - Black Butterfly

Metaphor:
What is it and how does it work?

The last symbolic device we’re going to consider is metaphor. Like myth and folktale, metaphor and simile are often confused. Though they seem similar, the difference is significant. To help clarify between the two devices, let’s take a look the following excerpt from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, which includes both. While setting a book-filled house aflame, the fire chief directs Bradbury’s protagonist to:

Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh?  [9]

The way simile works is quite simple. It directly states that one thing is like another thing, that this is like that. But simile is descriptive and nothing more. And as much as simile indicates likeness, it also acknowledges difference. If one thing is like another thing, then these two things cannot be identical. Bradbury’s simile exemplifies this formula, suggesting that the pages of a book Montag and Beatty just set on fire are like the petals of a flower.

Metaphor, on the other hand, functions on a double intentionality much like symbol does. But they too are very different from one another. The distinguishing factor between metaphor and symbol is that rather than having a primary layer that points the way to a second meaning (as in symbol), the concepts at work in metaphor overlap (rather like a Venn diagram) and a new entity is born of the common characteristics.

Bearing this in mind, let’s return to the Bradbury quote. In the metaphor he employs, each page of the burning book becomes a black butterfly, each page is a black butterfly. Clearly, a charred page being a black butterfly is a much more powerful image than if the page just looked like a butterfly. But the reason metaphor is more potent than the other devices we have talked about, is because of the way our brain processes them.

Through what is known as “cross-domain mapping,” information stored in our brain about one concept (in this case charred paper) crosses from its original domain to a different area in the brain, where information about the second element of the metaphor (in this case butterflies) resides.[10] This overlap of domains allows us to utilize what we know about butterflies to think about the charred pages Bradbury refers to.Tapping into our “butterfly information,” we envision each burned page transform (like caterpillars do), emerging from its chrysalis/book, in its new delicate form to waft away on the air. As a result of cross-domain mapping, we relate to metaphor in a way that doesn’t happen with simile. We engage the image invoked rather than merely visualize it.
_________

Theme:
What is it and how should we think about it?

Technically speaking, a theme is not a form of symbolic language. Theme is, however, a literary device that informs the interpretation of a novel, short story, or poem.

Most of us have been taught that a literary theme is a work’s main topic, what the piece is about. Theme has also been defined as a book’s underlying message, or what the work means. And, theme has been boiled down to being the moral of the story.

Many educators consider theme to be one of the most complicated aspects of fiction to discuss, because (as we’ve seen) there’s no simple definition. But there’s one thing these similar but varied renditions have in common – they’re all statements. But themes don’t have to be.

Formulating themes as statements results in restrictive thinking. Seeing theme as a question, on the other hand, sets up an open-ended thought process, inducing us to ponder larger considerations. For example, noting gender as a theme in The Scarlet Letter ends the discussion… “Hawthorne’s theme is ‘the Puritans were patriarchal tyrants.’”

But considering theme as a question sparks larger thinking, like “what prompted Hawthorne to choose gender as a means of calling out Puritan theocratic tyranny?” which leads to the inevitable question “is anything like that happening now?”

The inimitable Chekhov said it best:

This Book is Banned_Scarlet Alphabet It seems to me that the writer should not try to solve such ques­tions as those of God, pes­simism, etc. His busi­ness is but to describe those who have been speak­ing or think­ing about God and pes­simism, how and under what cir­cum­stances. The artist should be not the judge of his char­ac­ters and their con­ver­sa­tions, but only an unbi­ased observer.

You are right in demanding that an artist approach his work consciously, but you are confusing two concepts: the solution of a problem and the correct formulation of a problem. Only the second is required of the artist. [11]

Analyzing themes in this manner facilitates a greater understanding of the work itself. But more importantly, the reader can utilize insights they’ve gained to grasp a better sense of the world they live in and their place in it.

That’s what makes stories “true,” even when they’re fiction. It’s what also keeps literature relevant, no matter when it was written.[12]

                   

As you can see by the literary devices we have examined, a novel’s symbolic language does indeed carry a message beyond merely what happens in the plot. And more often than not, it’s hauling a significant load. So, I’ll wrap up this excursion into symbolic language where I began, with the admonition that if you are not engaging a book’s symbolic language, then you aren’t really reading it.

But now you know what is meant by “symbolic language,” and you have a few tools to unpack it with.

_____________________________________

Be sure to check out these companion articles:

We May Read for Enjoyment,
But Literature Isn’t Written Just to Entertain Us.

Novels are Like a Layer Cake,
Be Sure to Get Every Bite.

Literary Devices:  
Literary Devices: The Author’s Toolbox

Page Capper copy

#literary criticism     #The Art of Reading      #symbolic language

#critical thinking     #literary devices    #literacy


Endnotes:

[1] Hesse, Hermann. “Language.” and “On Reading Books.” in My Belief: Essays on Life and Art. Edited by Theodore Ziolkowski. Translated by Denver Lindley. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1974), 26, 101-102.
[2] Woolf, Virginia. “How Should One Read a Book?” The Common Reader, Second Series. (1935). (Gutenberg of Australia eBook. 0301251h.html).
[3] Ricoeur, Paul. Symbolism of Evil. (Boston: Beacon, 1978), 18.
[4] Eliade, Mircea. Myth and Reality. Translated by Willard R. Trask. (Prospect Heights, Ill: Waveland Press, Inc., 1963), 5.
[5] Hansen, William. Classical Mythology: A Guide to the Mythical World of the Greeks and Romans. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 48.
[6] Johnson, Gary. The Vitality of Allegory: Figural Narrative in Modern and Contemporary Fiction. (Columbia: Ohio State University Press, 2012), 8.
[7] Orwell, George. Animal Farm. (New York: Penguin, 1996), vi.
[8] Johnson, 25.
[9] Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2013), 72.
[10] Lakoff, George. “Contemporary theory of metaphor.” Metaphor and Thought (2nd edition). Edited by Andrew Ortony. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 203.
[11] “Learning from Chekhov.” In Writers on Writing. Edited by Robert Pack, jay Parini.   Hanover: University Press of New England, 1991. Pg 229.
[12] Kramer, Lindsay. “A Guide to Themes in Writing and Literature.” June 29, 2022. Grammarlyblog.
Wrede, Patricia C.  “The Question of Theme.”
Bushnell, J. T. “What is a Theme in Literature?” The Oregon State Guide to Literary Terms.
“Theme.” Literary Devices: Definition and Examples of Literary Terms.

Images:

[1] Introductory Photo. Photo by Koala on Unsplash . https://unsplash.com/photos/P0NuBF6nA7A?

[2] Scylla and Charybdis. Gillray, James, Artist. Britannia between Scylla & Charybdis. or – The vessel of the Constitution steered clear of the Rock of Democracy, and the Whirlpool of Arbitrary-Power / Js. Gy. desn. et fect. pro bono publico. Great Britain, 1793. [London: Pub. by H. Humphrey, April 8th] Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/94509857/

[3] Standbeeld van Zeus in Olympia. Anonymous, after Philips Galle, after Maarten van Heemskerck, 1638. Public Domain via Rijksmuseum.nl   http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.114919

[4] Aesop, Walter Crane, Elizabeth Robins Pennell Collection, and Oliver Wendell Holmes Collection. The baby’s own Aesop: being the fables condensed in rhyme, with portable morals pictorially pointed. London ; New York: George Routledge & Sons, 1887. Pdf. https://www.loc.gov/item/04017584/.

[5] Black Butterfly. Photo by Millie Greaves on Unsplash.
https://unsplash.com/photos/GKdeGSTlayM?

[6] Crystal Ball. Photo by Alvin Lenin on Unsplash
https://unsplash.com/photos/2ta8OjluZuI?




A Caboodle of Fun & Fancy Words

Words can be fun

.
ust as Mary Poppins taught us, words can be fun! Remember supercalifragilisticexpialidocious? And let’s not forget King Lear’s flibbertigibbet. Then there’s the magical incantation abracadabra.

But these are just a start, take a gander below.

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Discombobulated:

The word discombobulate sounds like you feel when discombobulation takes place. If you’re so confused and flustered you can’t think straight, you’re discombobulated. And what you need…  is to get recombobulated. Which is easier said than done. It’s a bit of a tongue-twister so it isn’t that easy to say, much less do.

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Bamboozle:

It means to be hoodwinked, flimflammed, hornswoggled — all fun & fancy words that mean to be tricked, deceived in underhanded ways. Like the way Tom Sawyer bamboozled his friends into whitewashing that fence for him, so he could play all day.

It may be a Fun & Fancy Word, but being bamboozled can be very serious.
Discover why this locution is more important than ever. 

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Hobbledehoy:

An adolescent boy whose transition to adulthood is as gawky and awkward as the word hobbledehoy itself.  Think Neville Longbottom in his first year at Hogwarts.

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Zaftig:

Zaftig means to be beautifully full-figured, voluptuous, and curvaceous – like Ashley Graham, Danielle Brooks, and Christina Hendricks. Also termed Rubenesque, after the sensuous goddesses depicted in the paintings of Flemish Baroque artist Peter Paul Rubens.

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Malapropism:

They’re always hilarious. That is, unless you’re the one guilty of the ludicrous misuse of a word in place of one that sounds similar, then it’s embarrassing. Just ask heavyweight boxer Mike Tyson, who said he was “fading into Bolivian” (instead of oblivion).

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Abibliophobia:

It means the fear of running out of things to read, and given your obvious interest in books, you may suffer from this frightful word. If so, alleviate your fear by availing yourself of the resources for free banned books on the bottom of our home page.

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Sycophant:

Also known as a “suck-up,” “bootlicker,” or “toady.” A sycophant is a fawning parasite who gets in the good graces of their target with groveling, ego-stroking praise. Some literary sycophants are: Othello’s Iago, Uriah Heep from David Copperfield, and nearly everyone who works for Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada.

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Liminality:

A state that’s betwixt & between. No, not Colorado in relation to Utah and Kansas. Liminality is the middle phase in rites of passage, the transition from one mode of being to another. From childhood to adulthood, for example. From living the single life to being married. Or from partying it up in college to paying off student loans. Liminality is full of potential, but disorienting because you’re no longer this but not yet that. In short, your average high school experience.
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Widdershins:

You could just say counter-clockwise, or that something’s moving in the wrong direction. But that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun…   now would it?
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Autodidact:

Do you suffer from autodidactism? Do you have an insatiable thirst for knowledge? Do you take pleasure in learning everything you can about things you are interested in? Are you a self-learner? If so, congratulations, you are an autodidact.
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Pulchritudinous:

Although pulchritude sounds like something you’d scrape off your shoe, pulchritudinous actually means beautiful. Not just attractive, good-looking or “hot,” but overwhelmingly beautiful, to the point of leaving onlookers awestruck.
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Gobsmacked:

No… gobsmacked is not a never-ending candy made by Willy Wonka. It means to be utterly astounded, astonished, overwhelmed by surprise. Like you’ve been slapped in the face. Gobsmacked is how Brad Pitt described himself when he won his best supporting actor Oscar for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.
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#the art of reading     #liminality

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