A quick thought on Young Alumni Achievement Award recipient Tiffany Eberle Kriner's presentation - "Ascent, Continuance, and Immersion : Hope in the Poetry of Denise Levertov" - tonight: I appreciated her comment that she wasn't attempting to revolutionize Levertov's poety by over-analyzing it; she wanted the poetry to speak for itself.
Her refreshing comment relieved me in an 'Oh, you can actually do that?' sort of way.
In recent weeks, especially while writing the critical analysis essay, I've felt pressure to devise relevatory theories on the nature of literature, feeling discouraged to find that my puny "good" ideas have been beaten to pulps by minds much more intelligent than mine. What else is there to say? (I mean, I know there's always more to say, but there might be some truth in our inability to say anything but what has already been say. Maybe the power we possess is of saying it better? That alone provides endless writing material.)
In her book The Cloiser Walk, poet Kathleen Norris writes of her experiences teaching poetry to elementary school students. She writes of one teacher who, afraid that Norris might introduce the concept of metaphor, cautioned "they don't know that yet, they haven't been taught." To which Norris replies, "Oh, they know it. They just don't have the words for it yet." Like those students, I guess I have to learn how to do literary criticism even though, as sometimes professors remind us, we've been doing it all along. We have to be taught to "code" of which Bourdieu writes, for "the capacity to see (voir) is the function of the knowledge (savoir), or concepts, that is, the words, that are available to name visible things, and, which are . . . programmes for perception" (1810). Maybe, even, we have to learn the code in order to subvert it?
In the dance realm, ballet is the code, the standard form, to which every dancer must adhere. Budding ballerinas spend years upon years slaving over terms like arabesque, attitude en l'air, battement, and fouette, coordinating them with textbook perfect body movement. Precision, adherence to the code, strength in the executing the code makes one a "good" dancer in those early years. Yet, once the proper form has been established, once the code has been cemented, the mature dancer begins exploring forms like jazz and modern. Forms which deliberately break the code. Forms with challenge the code. The lifted center becomes the contracted abdomen, the irregular rhythms interrupt precise waltz structures. Great dancers break the codes well. Great dancers like the legendary Martha Graham, mother of modern dance. (Check out that YouTube video - her choreography is amazingly unconventional.)
Maybe that's what literature requires, too.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Ngugi: Timeliness confirms authorship?
Weeks ago, Peter Wasamba, professor of oral literature at the University of Nairobi, spoke in our postcolonial literature class. We had been reading Ngugi's novel Devil on the Cross, and Wasamba, in his lecture, shed light on the Kenyan cultural contexts which (should) affect its reading. He described the conflicting traditional and imperial tides which, to this day, pull formerly-colonized Kenyans to breaking points. He spoke of the cult following Ngugi garnered with the publication of his novel, how he became a sort of national hero, Kenya's writer. "Ngugi is the best writer to come from Kenya," Wasamba said. He described Ngugi's radicalism, his advocacy of offensive force to accomplish social change, his Marxist leanings. All of this clarified the novel for me - it gave me the contextual information I needed to understand the novel's purpose.
(And then, I wonder, it's an interesting thing that context makes such a difference to my understanding. In this case, knowing the author helps me know the literature. Without it, significant holes in my historical understanding prevent me from "getting it." It's clear that we've been molded to think Romantically [Formalistically?] on the topic of author's pertinence to work. For example, we're preparing a presentation for Thursday - an analysis of Roy's novel The God of Small Things; of course, we'll spend about a fourth of the time discussing Roy's biography. An author's essential to the work, right? That's what we've learned.)
Anyway, Wasamba went on to describe Ngugi as "a writer produced by a specific historical epoch," and noted that students imitated him because they found him "relevant."
This very comment addresses a question I've had since the beginning of the semester: need a writer acquire some eternal value in order to be considered an author, or need he be simply/merely/only contextually relevant? How accessible should a writer be to his present history and to his eternal history to be considered a writer? Need an author possess an element of historical endurance to claim the title? Ngugi, after all, was relevant for postcolonial, newly-liberated Kenyans searching for identity. Yet, as Wasamba himself mentioned, Ngugi's popularity - the popularity of his novels - has fallen by the wayside in the past decade. So, is Ngugi still an "author"? And, I don't read Ngugi with the same understanding and empathy as Dr. Wasamba does; my cultural and historical contexts prevent me from experiencing that connectedness - thus, Ngugi isn't as "relevant" to me. Is he still an "author"? What kind of time-value relationship should a true author have?
In his essay "On the Abolition of the English Department," Ngugi himself equates relative contextuality with excellence, writing "For any group it is better to study representative works which mirror their society rather than to study a few isolated 'classics,' either of their own or of a foreign culture." According to him, contextual relevance - of time and place, both - determine literary excellence. Perhaps one need not achieve an enduring 'classics' status to excel to authorship.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Re-routing the essay
I'm starting to believe I never properly learned to formulate questions. As I've honed my ideas for this critical analysis essay, I've struggled to pose decently thoughtful questions. Here are my recent thoughts - feel free to offer suggestions.
My original idea for the essay focused on Emerson's concept of Poet as seer, a "sovereign . . . [who] stands on the centre" (725). I was - have been - drawn to Emerson's concept of transcendence. That is, his assertion that Poets are sent into the world as "the only teller of news" (726). I questioned who gave the Poet such authority. What allows him to perceive other-worldly Truth? How is he able to transcend the body, the present life? (Is it a learned skill or an intrinsic perception?) Those questions led to others: is an 'author' one who transcends? Emerson writes that the true Poet "shalt not know any longer the times, customs, graces, politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse" (738). A poet isn't concerned with context, but with the eternal value of Truth. Reject the world, he seems to say; or, better yet, transcend it. Thus, is transcendence superior to contextual relevance? That is, is transcendence what makes an author an author? How does an author relate to context?
However, as I reread Emerson's essay "The Poet," my original questions expanded. I'm reminded that Emerson, because he believes that the Poet has a divine responsibility to represent untainted Truth (to transcend the world), seems skeptical of reading. He asserts that "language is the archives of history . . . a sort of tomb for the muses" (731). Expression, as contained in poetry - images and tropes, loses meaning because, though it once represented brilliance, now exists lifeless, as "fossil poetry" (731). He asserts that nature is the superior poetry, for it "baptizes [it]self" (731) and doesn't need another to name it; in this way, it always preserves its transcendent meaning. Reading others' works, however, does nothing for revealing Truth. It is too limited, to confined to context, too contained in the individual. Instead, he seems to suggest that one must seek out one's own revelation, not rely upon another's. Furthermore, Emerson states outrightly that the Poet's obligation is to say and articulate, not to hear and absorb. (Or, the Poet is to hear and absorb Truth for himself, not hear and absorb other mortals' perceptions of Truth.) He writes of the "accidency and fugacity of the symbol" compared to the "stability of the thought" (730). Language, though Poets wield it, limit transcendence. Reading others' poetry, therefore, isn't necessary for understanding. Rather, one should 'read' the universe for understanding.
Considering that Emerson believes that "adequate expression is rare" (725), reading is unessential to understanding. Why waste one's time reading other's poorly-expressed pseudo revelations?
I've always been taught that reading is a valuable exercise, essential if you want to be educated. "Leaders are readers,"a speaker once told us at a youth conference. And I've agreed with them.
Ok, so here's my attempt at an enthymene that may or may not show up in my paper: I used to believe that Emerson's skepticism of reading was unmerited, but, after reading Annette Kolodny's essay "Dancing Through the Minefield ," I have come to see that limiting reading - or filtering reading or practicing discernment/skepticism of reading - can prevent us from being manipulated by the ones Emerson calls the "umpires of taste" (724). Kolodny suggests that undiscerning reading limits our tastes and restricts us to the approved canon.
Thoughts on the matter:
-If Kolodny argues that our present thought shapes and changes our perceptions of the past, then, as Emerson might have concurred, our own Truth - our personally-sought revelations - becomes the valuable item, not the present expressions - poetries - of that Truth. (2154) We transform text into "more current and recognizable shapes" (2154). In this way, thoughtful and selective reading positively shapes our perception of Truth.
- Kolodny writes that reading, though it can be "constantly relearned and refined" (2155), often isn't; therefore, it often leads readers into stagnation. When reading habits become fixed, they no longer serve their purpose in providing variations - continuing revelations - on the same text. Emerson probably feared the stagnation, too. Why read and grow dependent on old perceptions?
- Both Kolodny and Emerson imply that reading impacts the thought processes; it is not a passive act. Rather, it instructs the reader in how one should think. It is not mere absorption. Reading shapes our perceptions of both the past and the present. Therefore, one should read cautiously, with discernment.
- Kolodny writes, "We read well, and with pleasure, what we already know how to read" (2156). Learning the canon - the code - limits us, teaches us to limit ourselves to exclusive, circular, single-definition repertoire. Readers must be receptive to new reading languages - not just the canonically-acceptable ones - and not limit one's self to the gatekeepers' tastes.
Where am I going with this? Central to this issue is the question of reading the power it wields. Both Emerson and Kolodny assert that it wields great influence; Emerson, therefore, is skeptical of it entirely, and Kolodny advocates expansion of its territory ('read everything you can, even works outside the canon,' essentially). Both, however, seem to strive toward a similar purpose: pursue individual revelations of Truth. Emerson seems to avoid (?) reading to focus on individual, unique perceptions of Truth. Kolodny seems to expand reading to individually arrive at a more holistic perception of Truth. I argue that Kolodny's solution offers a true Poet the opportunity to 'entertain the possibility that different readings, even of the same text, may be differently useful, even illuminating" (2161); this potential illumination makes reading worthwhile.
I think I just re-routed my essay. Any thoughts?
My original idea for the essay focused on Emerson's concept of Poet as seer, a "sovereign . . . [who] stands on the centre" (725). I was - have been - drawn to Emerson's concept of transcendence. That is, his assertion that Poets are sent into the world as "the only teller of news" (726). I questioned who gave the Poet such authority. What allows him to perceive other-worldly Truth? How is he able to transcend the body, the present life? (Is it a learned skill or an intrinsic perception?) Those questions led to others: is an 'author' one who transcends? Emerson writes that the true Poet "shalt not know any longer the times, customs, graces, politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse" (738). A poet isn't concerned with context, but with the eternal value of Truth. Reject the world, he seems to say; or, better yet, transcend it. Thus, is transcendence superior to contextual relevance? That is, is transcendence what makes an author an author? How does an author relate to context?
However, as I reread Emerson's essay "The Poet," my original questions expanded. I'm reminded that Emerson, because he believes that the Poet has a divine responsibility to represent untainted Truth (to transcend the world), seems skeptical of reading. He asserts that "language is the archives of history . . . a sort of tomb for the muses" (731). Expression, as contained in poetry - images and tropes, loses meaning because, though it once represented brilliance, now exists lifeless, as "fossil poetry" (731). He asserts that nature is the superior poetry, for it "baptizes [it]self" (731) and doesn't need another to name it; in this way, it always preserves its transcendent meaning. Reading others' works, however, does nothing for revealing Truth. It is too limited, to confined to context, too contained in the individual. Instead, he seems to suggest that one must seek out one's own revelation, not rely upon another's. Furthermore, Emerson states outrightly that the Poet's obligation is to say and articulate, not to hear and absorb. (Or, the Poet is to hear and absorb Truth for himself, not hear and absorb other mortals' perceptions of Truth.) He writes of the "accidency and fugacity of the symbol" compared to the "stability of the thought" (730). Language, though Poets wield it, limit transcendence. Reading others' poetry, therefore, isn't necessary for understanding. Rather, one should 'read' the universe for understanding.
Considering that Emerson believes that "adequate expression is rare" (725), reading is unessential to understanding. Why waste one's time reading other's poorly-expressed pseudo revelations?
I've always been taught that reading is a valuable exercise, essential if you want to be educated. "Leaders are readers,"a speaker once told us at a youth conference. And I've agreed with them.
Ok, so here's my attempt at an enthymene that may or may not show up in my paper: I used to believe that Emerson's skepticism of reading was unmerited, but, after reading Annette Kolodny's essay "Dancing Through the Minefield ," I have come to see that limiting reading - or filtering reading or practicing discernment/skepticism of reading - can prevent us from being manipulated by the ones Emerson calls the "umpires of taste" (724). Kolodny suggests that undiscerning reading limits our tastes and restricts us to the approved canon.
Thoughts on the matter:
-If Kolodny argues that our present thought shapes and changes our perceptions of the past, then, as Emerson might have concurred, our own Truth - our personally-sought revelations - becomes the valuable item, not the present expressions - poetries - of that Truth. (2154) We transform text into "more current and recognizable shapes" (2154). In this way, thoughtful and selective reading positively shapes our perception of Truth.
- Kolodny writes that reading, though it can be "constantly relearned and refined" (2155), often isn't; therefore, it often leads readers into stagnation. When reading habits become fixed, they no longer serve their purpose in providing variations - continuing revelations - on the same text. Emerson probably feared the stagnation, too. Why read and grow dependent on old perceptions?
- Both Kolodny and Emerson imply that reading impacts the thought processes; it is not a passive act. Rather, it instructs the reader in how one should think. It is not mere absorption. Reading shapes our perceptions of both the past and the present. Therefore, one should read cautiously, with discernment.
- Kolodny writes, "We read well, and with pleasure, what we already know how to read" (2156). Learning the canon - the code - limits us, teaches us to limit ourselves to exclusive, circular, single-definition repertoire. Readers must be receptive to new reading languages - not just the canonically-acceptable ones - and not limit one's self to the gatekeepers' tastes.
Where am I going with this? Central to this issue is the question of reading the power it wields. Both Emerson and Kolodny assert that it wields great influence; Emerson, therefore, is skeptical of it entirely, and Kolodny advocates expansion of its territory ('read everything you can, even works outside the canon,' essentially). Both, however, seem to strive toward a similar purpose: pursue individual revelations of Truth. Emerson seems to avoid (?) reading to focus on individual, unique perceptions of Truth. Kolodny seems to expand reading to individually arrive at a more holistic perception of Truth. I argue that Kolodny's solution offers a true Poet the opportunity to 'entertain the possibility that different readings, even of the same text, may be differently useful, even illuminating" (2161); this potential illumination makes reading worthwhile.
I think I just re-routed my essay. Any thoughts?
Friday, April 11, 2008
A few unanswered questions on gender roles
After reading Helene Cixous' The Laugh of the Medusa, I'd just like to ponder a few historical background questions regarding gender and writing/reading roles. 1) Where did the man-as-writer role originate? and, related, 2) where did the woman-as-reader role originate? and 3) when did those roles switch?
Many critics draw the corporal connection with the male anatomy and the pen. Obvious enough. An "analog for creating," writes Dr. Mary Klages in her article "Helene Cixous: 'The Laugh of the Medusa'." And that originates with ... well, Adam. And, speaking of Adam, there's the naming role God gave him. The book of Genesis portrays Adam dubbing animals, creating terms, names, words, to call them, associate them, order them. And isn't that what writing is, after all - naming? Writing amounts to articulating, expressing, recognizing and terming. Critics also associate writing with power, the ability to wield, the potency to create. This, too, makes sense.
But what about woman as reader? When did that happen? If women have been, historically, 'absorbers' of knowledge, not creators of knowledge, it would follow that they specialized in reading. Above are Mary Cassatt's "Woman Reading" and Monet's "Woman Reading," both impressionist works. I scoured the internet for paintings of men reading, and they are few and far between. A 2007 USA Today poll found that "More women than men read every major category of books except for history and biography." Also, "among those who said they had read books, the median figure — with half reading more, half fewer — was nine books for women and five for men." The trend in role, however it originated, seems to have stuck.
Still, today my English classes are dominated by females. Few males choose to pursue writing, accepting - I think - the social stereotype of being verbally impaired. A man - especially the college student version - who writes poetry in private is 1) either "emo," mentally disturbed, or depressed or 2) super attractive for his rarity. (Either extreme depends upon the man's strange uniqueness.) Women are the creative ones, the expressive ones, and writing seems to suit this modern woman. They swoon over poetry, articulate thought, compose letters, song lyrics, and absorb themselves in the (flimsy) gender-restricted genre known as "chicklit." They've certainly carved out space for themselves. When did that change? Cixous - among others - crusaded for women's literary space, penning battle cries like "Write! Writing is for you, you are for you . . . Write, let no one hold you back, let nothing stop you: not man, not the imbecilic capitalist machinery. . . " (2041). Now, it sometimes seems, women dominate literary space, especially capitalist-driven literary space. Book clubs and chicklit make for prosperous markets. Why? Men still write, yes, many of them prolifically, but why aren't there more male writers in our generation? Where'd the male English majors go?
These wanderings are inconclusive. More later.
Woolf lives on in Desai's fiction
A few months ago, in a postcolonial literature class, we read Anita Desai's book Fasting, Feasting, a contemporary fiction set in liberated India. Desai divides her story among two protagonists, or, I would like to argue, between the heroine and her foil: Uma and her brother Arun. Like many post-colonial Indian tales, the sister experiences an unfulfilled life of subordination while the (often ungrateful) brother experiences privilege in abundance. Fasting, feasting. (Though, of course, Desai divides these binaries not-so-neatly, and not without ironies.) It occurred to me while reading the novel that, whether Desai intended the correlation or not, her fiction almost exactly mirrors Virginia Woolf's essay "Shakespeare's Sister."
Uma, like Woolf's imagined Judith, endures of life of unfulfilled potential; her life amounts to a story left untold, the "book that isn't there," according to Woolf. Deprived of education, limited to household duties, used as a pawn for socially profitable marriages, both females experience oppression. Adding insult to injury, her brother Arun, like Judith's William the famed, enjoys the privileges of education and the veritable guarantee of a profitable career. Uma, perpetually trapped, can only imagine the impossibilities: "A career. Leaving home. Living alone . . . Sometimes, miraculously, they sprouted from an idea: run away, escape . . . What was a career? She had no idea" (131).
I appreciate most that Desai, following Woolf's recommendation, allows her protagonist to find solace in writing and reading literature. Although Uma never experiences the complete liberty of her own space - the "room of one's own" that Woolf requires for writing - but she does escape through poetry. Writes Desai, "But she will read a poem or two and find the pleasure they deny her" (135).
I find it fascinating that early feminist writers like Woolf encouraged women to claim literary territory for themselves. With all this talk of the male-dominated, patriarchal literary tradition, some extreme feminists seem to call for a complete abandonment, a sabotage of sorts. I find it much more dignified that writers like Woolf - and descendants like Desai - carve out territory for the gender, claiming it, and insisting to write it. It seems like a progressive definition for them, literature, and rather than subvert the entire thing, they write into the future, affecting a present.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Lamps and Bourdieu
Gotta say, I used to find some value in Kant's theory that intrinsic ethical value determines art, but Bourdieu's pretty convincing. Found myself agreeing with his social observations, so he hooked me on the assertions. His emphasis on essentially capital-motivated distinctions didn't bother me as it has in other essays by other thinkers - in fact, I found his observations to be mainly true and inoffensive.
I wonder, however, if his context in French culture presents a purer case study for art as social distinguisher. Now, I know less about authentic French culture and more about stereotypical French culture ('all stereotypes founded in truth'?), so I can't ponder on the French side of the quandary. But of our contrasting United States social structure, that I know a bit about. Here's the catalyst for the thought: today I visited a friend's senior art show, a creative display of her designed prints upholstered (if that's the right word) to lamp shades. A marriage of aestheticism and function. Her thesis indicated that she aimed for this very effect. Noting the trend of mass-produced, aesthetically-pleasing housewares by chain stores like Ikea and Target, she desired to address the growing alliance of beauty and practicality. Essentially, art (though admittedly not "high art,"or legitimate art, as Bourdieu would say) available to the bourgeois masses.
This type of art certainly seems to fall into the "popular taste" category of which Bourdieu writes. It recognizes necessity, makes no attempt to sublimate primary needs, and refuses to shy away from the banal and ordinary. (After all, everyone loves lamp. Who doesn't need light?) It participates, actively, in the systematic reduction of the things of art to the things of life, quoth Bourdieu. It favors function over form. Or, at least, unifies the two.
So, do the French experience this trend also? The mass-production of aestheticism, the essential leveling of the artistic playing field? And if, in our country, members of all socioeconomic strata consume the same goods (Even the wealthy enjoy a bargain - why else is WalMart still kickin'?), does art still distinguish our social classes? In our age of availability, is the definition of "legitimate art" - and thus, the Elite - simply narrowing in scope?
I wonder, however, if his context in French culture presents a purer case study for art as social distinguisher. Now, I know less about authentic French culture and more about stereotypical French culture ('all stereotypes founded in truth'?), so I can't ponder on the French side of the quandary. But of our contrasting United States social structure, that I know a bit about. Here's the catalyst for the thought: today I visited a friend's senior art show, a creative display of her designed prints upholstered (if that's the right word) to lamp shades. A marriage of aestheticism and function. Her thesis indicated that she aimed for this very effect. Noting the trend of mass-produced, aesthetically-pleasing housewares by chain stores like Ikea and Target, she desired to address the growing alliance of beauty and practicality. Essentially, art (though admittedly not "high art,"or legitimate art, as Bourdieu would say) available to the bourgeois masses.
This type of art certainly seems to fall into the "popular taste" category of which Bourdieu writes. It recognizes necessity, makes no attempt to sublimate primary needs, and refuses to shy away from the banal and ordinary. (After all, everyone loves lamp. Who doesn't need light?) It participates, actively, in the systematic reduction of the things of art to the things of life, quoth Bourdieu. It favors function over form. Or, at least, unifies the two.
So, do the French experience this trend also? The mass-production of aestheticism, the essential leveling of the artistic playing field? And if, in our country, members of all socioeconomic strata consume the same goods (Even the wealthy enjoy a bargain - why else is WalMart still kickin'?), does art still distinguish our social classes? In our age of availability, is the definition of "legitimate art" - and thus, the Elite - simply narrowing in scope?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Literature today, gone tomorrow
Richard Ohmann's essay sparks an idea (and not an original one). For kicks, here's my experiment, an inventory of my motivations for reading a few completed books:
"Love in the Time of Cholera," Marquez - saw the television preview of the novel's movie version
"Fasting, Feasting" Desai - a professor-required read for a postcolonial literature class
"The Cloister Walk," Norris - a professor-suggested read for a writing seminar class (also, it's not fiction - it's memoir, maybe that characteristic disqualifies it).
"Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West," Maguire - saw the play
"Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," Twain - required for American literature class, plus it's bona fide canonical
Though I'd like to believe that free will and independent thought motivated my reading selections, I admit that I didn't read anything in the past...erm, ever...which wasn't first suggested to me by a superior source. The media, educated friends, professors, etcetera dictate my literary leanings. Granted, I choose from what they offer, but I rarely (never) choose outside their meticulously-compiled lists. Even givers of Barnes and Noble gift cards, though they don't direct me to specific books, certainly direct me to a specific, market-dictated/dictating source; once at the source, I am directed by advertisements and best-seller tables, pointing me to novels I probably wouldn't think to select of my own volition. Without their direction, I possess no knowledge of good taste.
Anyway, I arrive at an ordinary and unimpressive conclusion: Ohmann's got a point. I am, we are, in fact, influenced by a sort of capitalistic, top-down, funneled system of choosing which dictates good taste long before we know to think of it ourselves. (Surprise!) Most of 0ur literary choices, like most of the rest of our consumer choices, are chosen for us. Reminds me of the scene from the movie "The Devil Wears Prada" in which Meryl Streep's ice queen character lectures Anne Hathaway's character on the origin of her cerulean sweater and her utter lack of choice in donning it.
However, Ohmann specifies that these principles pertain to the period 1960-1975; he also qualifies that the canon of this period, though established for a period of 15ish years, reserves a fluidity of definition. Many of these books "have as yet a chance of becoming canonical," he writes. That is, time - and its many factors - continually alter, shift, evolve, transform the contents of the canon.
Ok, so what about now? What determines our modern literary canon now? Or, what is literature now? Has our society changed so much in the past decades that the same market (and other) principles don't wield the same power? Ohmann references the boom of the advertising industry, namely mass-circulation magazines, as influential in the canon-shaping shift, but modern morphings aren't his point.
At a brainstorming level, here are some contemporary canon-shaping powerhouses:
the Internet. Obviously. And its implications on the "literary" definition merit a canon of essays itself.
Oprah. I'm not kidding. A shout-out by this media maven most certainly boosts book sales. Consider the recent "Eat, Pray, Love," "A Million Little Pieces," and, well, her entire book list network.
For that matter, TV talking heads in general.
Cinema. Movies have a strange way of working to a novel's advantage in reverse. Novel gets published, popularity minor, novel spawns movie, popularity exponentially increases. As if the novel only gains merit from a shortened, sensationalized (always? another thought...) counterpart. (More on that assertion later. Not so sure.)
But here still I join Ohmann: does economic popularity necessarily determine literary quality? (Surely not, I'd assert.) Does it guarantee canonical admittance? Can a novel maintain literary status one day and forfeit it the next? Is it always "literature"? After all, if Ohmann asserts that novels can be added to the canon as time progresses, then novels can also be subtracted from the canon as time progresses. If, like the novel "Love Story" he references, a novel enjoys popularity in literary circles for a span of a decade and then falls from its reign, is it 'literature for a day, gone tomorrow'?
In high school, my parents felt bothered by our curriculum's failure to embrace "classic"-ly canonical works in favor of modern novels. Maybe, however, it amounts not to a fall from culture but a revision of the literary canon?
"Love in the Time of Cholera," Marquez - saw the television preview of the novel's movie version
"Fasting, Feasting" Desai - a professor-required read for a postcolonial literature class
"The Cloister Walk," Norris - a professor-suggested read for a writing seminar class (also, it's not fiction - it's memoir, maybe that characteristic disqualifies it).
"Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West," Maguire - saw the play
"Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," Twain - required for American literature class, plus it's bona fide canonical
Though I'd like to believe that free will and independent thought motivated my reading selections, I admit that I didn't read anything in the past...erm, ever...which wasn't first suggested to me by a superior source. The media, educated friends, professors, etcetera dictate my literary leanings. Granted, I choose from what they offer, but I rarely (never) choose outside their meticulously-compiled lists. Even givers of Barnes and Noble gift cards, though they don't direct me to specific books, certainly direct me to a specific, market-dictated/dictating source; once at the source, I am directed by advertisements and best-seller tables, pointing me to novels I probably wouldn't think to select of my own volition. Without their direction, I possess no knowledge of good taste.
Anyway, I arrive at an ordinary and unimpressive conclusion: Ohmann's got a point. I am, we are, in fact, influenced by a sort of capitalistic, top-down, funneled system of choosing which dictates good taste long before we know to think of it ourselves. (Surprise!) Most of 0ur literary choices, like most of the rest of our consumer choices, are chosen for us. Reminds me of the scene from the movie "The Devil Wears Prada" in which Meryl Streep's ice queen character lectures Anne Hathaway's character on the origin of her cerulean sweater and her utter lack of choice in donning it.
However, Ohmann specifies that these principles pertain to the period 1960-1975; he also qualifies that the canon of this period, though established for a period of 15ish years, reserves a fluidity of definition. Many of these books "have as yet a chance of becoming canonical," he writes. That is, time - and its many factors - continually alter, shift, evolve, transform the contents of the canon.
Ok, so what about now? What determines our modern literary canon now? Or, what is literature now? Has our society changed so much in the past decades that the same market (and other) principles don't wield the same power? Ohmann references the boom of the advertising industry, namely mass-circulation magazines, as influential in the canon-shaping shift, but modern morphings aren't his point.
At a brainstorming level, here are some contemporary canon-shaping powerhouses:
the Internet. Obviously. And its implications on the "literary" definition merit a canon of essays itself.
Oprah. I'm not kidding. A shout-out by this media maven most certainly boosts book sales. Consider the recent "Eat, Pray, Love," "A Million Little Pieces," and, well, her entire book list network.
For that matter, TV talking heads in general.
Cinema. Movies have a strange way of working to a novel's advantage in reverse. Novel gets published, popularity minor, novel spawns movie, popularity exponentially increases. As if the novel only gains merit from a shortened, sensationalized (always? another thought...) counterpart. (More on that assertion later. Not so sure.)
But here still I join Ohmann: does economic popularity necessarily determine literary quality? (Surely not, I'd assert.) Does it guarantee canonical admittance? Can a novel maintain literary status one day and forfeit it the next? Is it always "literature"? After all, if Ohmann asserts that novels can be added to the canon as time progresses, then novels can also be subtracted from the canon as time progresses. If, like the novel "Love Story" he references, a novel enjoys popularity in literary circles for a span of a decade and then falls from its reign, is it 'literature for a day, gone tomorrow'?
In high school, my parents felt bothered by our curriculum's failure to embrace "classic"-ly canonical works in favor of modern novels. Maybe, however, it amounts not to a fall from culture but a revision of the literary canon?
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