Hypothesis, Observations, Confusion: The Science of Reading Literature

My I-search was not unlike some English papers I've written for other classes–although maybe a little less coherent and a fair bit more me-focused. My writing process has developed into something quite routine, though still painful, over my university career. First, I look through books, jotting down observations on a scrap piece of paper until parallels and contrasts begin to surface. After this, I wrack my brain until a conclusion is produced to explain those observations. Sometimes I'm amazed at my ability to make bricks without straw, so long as the whip is at my back. More usually, I have to confess that my summative theses are at least a little bit contrived, somewhat like the confessions of a tortured criminal.

I was surprised by you, my classmates, to find that many of your presentations focused much more on observations than conclusions. After some thought, I supposed that this was not so bad. After all, meta-narratives and explanations are rarely (if ever) so true as what is observed itself. At the same time, explanations, though they are generally misleading, are always more illuminating.

Since I'm currently feeling disillusioned with conclusions, I won't make one here. However, I will say that it is a useful exercise to learn to catalogue our observations in their own right–to wait and not feel the need to understand right away. I think this goes back to "learning to embrace confusion" and approaching the truth with humility, allowing texts and ideas to be present on their own terms and to assert their own value. Of course, we will always be drawing conclusions and assigning value according to some form of authority, but at least we can be patient with that process and take some time to smell the roses (or the dung, as it may be).

Jackson Pollock - Convergence

"No one looks at a flower garden and tears their hair out trying to figure out what it means."

-Jackson Pollock

Doing What We're Already Doing, But Doing It Openly

"Every English teacher acts on the basis of theory. Unless teaching is a random series of lessons, drills, and readings, chosen willy-nilly, the English class is guided by theories of language, literature, and pedagogy."

- W. Ross Winterowd (Appleman, 133)

I mentioned in my post on deconstructionism that students are already engaged in applying theory, but let me extend that assertion here in two directions: 1) not only are students applying theory to texts, they are applying it to their world daily; and 2) teachers, as the quote explains above, are also engaged in applying theory through their pedagogy, whether they are open about it or not. These are both points Deborah Appleman makes in her chapter on "Reading the World." If considered true, these statements about our classrooms and our students make a claim for responsible teachers to apply theory openly. When I began constructing my own lessons I found that I was continually applying theories, asking "who is at the centre of this text? who is at the periphery?" To fail to alert students to the method I was using to extract meaning from a text seemed to me like the unjustified withholding of information. How could I teach students to understand this text without showing them the tools that I was using to understand it? When we teach without theory, we infer that the "right" way to extract meaning from a text is mysterious and accessible only through the instructor. Teaching theory is an expression of academic honesty and the endowment of students with the tools to discover textual meaning for themselves. Likewise, it allows students to approach understanding the world systematically instead of limiting them to the more common emotionally-charged, reactionary approach I've observed in High School students over the course of my placement. If students understand the tools they are already using to make judgments, they will be able to more easily evaluate and defend their positions when challenged. Is teaching these skills not the mandate of any English-Language Arts class?

Instead of putting a piece of literature on a pedestal, as if it is some pristine work of art, so perfectly formed that it is capable of communicating truth with a clear voice in a universally comprehensible way, I am advocating something more like Baroque history painting. Take for example the painting below, Saint Jerome Reading by Georges de La Tour (1622). The centuries-old saint is anachronistically depicted in cardinal's costume, lowering his spectacles to examine a manuscript. The title of this painting could as easily be "Reading Saint Jerome," for La Tour unabashedly places the ancient teacher in his own time period, inferring his place and the claim of his writings on contemporary life. Unlike Classical painting, which typically bounds its action entirely within the canvas, Baroque art suggests that there is a life outside the work of art, of which the image is only a snapshot. I suggest that we take the same level of openness and continuity with the world found in Baroque history painting and apply it to teaching English. Teaching English responsibly and effectively requires instructors to be open about the ways they are infusing texts with contemporary significance and to give students the opportunity to see how the meaning in those texts is not bounded to the classroom, but informative for understanding the world.

Georges de La Tour - Saint Jerome Reading

"[H]istorical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence"

- T. S. Eliot

Preparing to Answer Why

We, as student-teachers, are continually preparing to answer the question, "why are we reading this book?" While the question appears straight forward enough, I do not suspect that we will be checking back to our EDUC 498 notebooks for the answer when the time comes for it to be asked of us; nor, as we might be tempted to presume, will the answer be found in Gallagher or Appleman. No, like usual, it seems that instead of learning something straightforward or pragmatic, we are learning the only thing one seems ever to learn in the humanities, i.e. that we will need to keep learning.

Gallagher hints as much with a slight reformulation of the question that might typically inform our response to the why-are-we-reading-this question. He suggests that instead of teachers asking themselves "Why am I teaching this book?" they should instead be asking, "What do I want my students to take from this book?" (154). This subtle change requires educators to pursue a pedagogy informed by its goal instead of its means. In a grade 9 English class I've overheard two teachers comment on their material saying, ". . . well it's not the best piece of literature, but it's in the curriculum." In contrast, an enthusiastic intern began teaching last Wednesday on Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven," hoping to ignite the students' passions for literature based on aesthetic value alone. They didn't get it. While it is good to appreciate a work of literature for itself (these things do have value on their own), we must be well versed in its practical value for our students as well. I'm not advocating merely for the pragmatic value of literature via reader-response but for its role in the development of the kind of social and cognitive competencies that are most coveted in the job world (for more on that, check out a short article by one of my former professors). If we are to adequately understand the goal of our teaching so that we can explain to students why read it, we need to keep learning for two reasons: 1) we will be choosing new texts, each of which has a value all its own, waiting to be discovered, and 2) we will be applying these texts to a new body of students under new circumstances in each and every semester. If we really believe that the study of literature, or of the humanities in general for that matter, has both practical and aesthetic value for our students, we will be all the more eager to seek out wherein that treasure lies. Even teaching the same text over and over requires life-long learning, reading deeper, and deeper still as our world, our students, and our identities continue to change. 

Claude Lefebvre - A Teacher and His Pupil