Zora Neale Hurstons of the modern canon

Our wedding photographer is a Mary Cassatt fan.

That's what she told me last week while snapping our engagement photos. She's in the process of pursuing her master's in art history, and happened to mention her disgust over the lack of modernist attention on women. She said that as she worked on her thesis - which involved a lengthy compilation and analysis of all known modernist painters - she grew increasingly frustrated over the inattention shown to talented female artists. "I'm not even a feminist," she said. "I don't really get into that stuff. But, I mean, give the girl a shout-out."

I empathize with that sentiment. Regardless of one's feminist leanings, it's difficult to deny that men have controlled artistic (and probably every other kind - theological, scientific, etc.) canon formation since there were canons to form. Cixous, Kolodny, and Woolf attest to it.

So I read Zora Neale Hurston's essay "What White Publishers Won't Print" with a deep respect for doubly-restricted black women writers. I can't imagine writing in an era that limited - perhaps 'banned,' in many senses - the expressions of not only minorities but also women. I would hope that we are past the point when statements like these are necessary: ". . . it is urgent to realize that the minorities do think, and think about something other than the race problem" (1161). But, then again, I don't know.

How many modern minority writers do we read today?

Thinking through the past four years of curriculum, I'm thankful that I've read black writers from many eras of literary history: Equiano, Frederick Douglass, to Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes. Still, which black (female) authors pop up on current bestseller lists, on Barnes and Noble must-read tables?

Just to feed my curiosity, I'll keep my eyes peeled for the next few days.

. . . Maya Angelou, that's all I got right now.

Hughes: 'Must Negroes always write about Negroes?'

Yet Do I Marvel

by Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning,
kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors
Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured
Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit,
declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

Admittedly, I always read Cullen's poem with an inference of confused pride over God's ordaining. Seemed to me that he wrote confidently - though questioningly - about his poetry and his blackness. I guess Langston Hughes interpreted Cullen differently. Perhaps with good reason.

I appreciate Hughes' essay "The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain" for its encouraging message about being true to one's self. 'Don't try to become what you are not,' he sees to say. And I like this - it's comforting. Especially for young writers who might feel inadequate; Hughes seems to say that one possesses all one needs to write. One need only embrace one's existing identity, not attempt to fashion a new one.

However, Hughes himself begs a question I've wondered myself: "Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes?" (1316). Or, for that matter, must all poetry written by blacks be termed "black poetry" or music be termed "black music"? Does Hughes advocate group identity over individual identity?

Even if a modern black poet doesn't subscribe to the "white is best" mentality, does he necessarily produce "black poetry"? What if his poetry is about something other than being black? What if it's about nature or women on a bus? Will literary critics forever analyze his poetic topics through an assumed black lens?

And, if so, how does a poet escape those assumptions? For surely - and I don't believe Hughes would argue against this (maybe he would?) - a writer's identity amounts to more than his/her whiteness or blackness. If it's self-honesty that makes a promising writer, than he/she has many other facets of him/herself to be honest about. Race is only one component of self. Hughes, however, (perhaps without meaning to), seems to imply that race is whole self, the summation of self.

Or maybe, in the era in which Hughes wrote, race was the most important aspect of self. And it was the most important because adherence to it solidified a community, a support system, protection against prejudiced forces. Perhaps, in Hughes' context, a black writer needed to identify himself by his blackness in order to maintain that much-needed support of the black community. Hughes seems most concerned with preserving what he calls "Negro life in America" (1316), and all of his writing works toward that end. It may be, however, that other writers - Cullen, perhaps - had moved past group identity and adopted a more individualistic (more 'white American'?), unique self identity.

On breaking codes

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.

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.

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?

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.