The Necessary Evils of Literary Criticism

In “What Ails Literary Studies; Leaving Literature Behind, (The Professionalization of the Field is Turning Students Off)”, Bruce Fleming examines the difference between reading literature and the practice that has come to be called literary studies. Literary studies entails reading what experts have to say about literature, instead of actually reading the work and deciphering it on the reader’s own. Fleming says that most English students, at least those planning on continuing in the field, got into literature classes originally because of their love of reading. However, once they are in the classroom, “We are killing that experience with the discipline of literary studies, with its network of relations in which an individual work almost becomes incidental” (Fleming 1). Literature classes today have made the individual work less important than the theories and relations of genres and types of works. It is more important in many classrooms today to understand the insinuations in a work of literature, rather than simply understanding the story behind it as a whole.
The point in Bruce Fleming’s essay that I agree with the most, is the statement that, (as Literature teachers) “We’re not scientists, we’re coaches. We’re not transmitting information, at least not in the sense of teaching a discipline. But we do get to see our students react, question, develop, and grow” (6). As an English teaching major, I hope that I can always remember this when I am in front of a classroom. The point of being an English teacher, particularly a Literature teacher, is to encourage students to formulate their own ideas using the information that we present to them, not telling them what something means, or reciting endless notes to a bored class. There is a huge leap, for me at least, between Literature and English teachers, and any other kind of teachers. We are asked to present things in different ways, teach things in different ways, and encourage reading, the basic fundamentals of life for any student.
One main point of Fleming’s essay is teaching lessons through literature that are applicable in real settings outside of the classroom. He states that most students don’t want to be teachers, and therefore we must make sure that they get something out of a book to use in their real lives. He uses Madame Bovary taught at the U.S. Naval Academy, to a freshman class, as an example. By connecting a character such as Emma, who on the surface is nothing like the students, to the exact situations that the students may find themselves in, they are able to put themselves in the character’s shoes. The role of a good teacher is to open their students’ minds to new possibilities that individually they would not have noticed. Getting a student to put themselves in the shoes of a character that they feel they have nothing in common with is one of the most effective ways to achieve this. I feel that the role of a teacher is not to have their students examine other people’s thoughts on a work, but to encourage them to read the work and form their own thoughts and ideas about it, and arrive at their own conclusions. It is much more important to get something consequential from reading a work yourself, than to understand what all the experts have decided to say about it.
The best way for a teacher to enable their students to get the most from reading an individual work of literature is to find a way for them to identify with it, or relate it to something that they enjoy. This is only applicable to high school students, perhaps a few college students. Hopefully by college, students have realized that they enjoy reading, and don’t need to be encouraged and threatened in order to get them to read literature. When I was in seventh grade, my class was informed that we were going to read The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton. If I had read the back of the book on one of my fishing trips to the library, I would have promptly placed it back on the shelf. “Ponyboy can count on his brothers. And on his friends. But not on much else besides trouble with the Socs, a vicious gang of rich kids whose idea of a good time is beating up ‘greasers’ like Ponyboy. At least he knows what to expect – until the night someone takes things too far” (Hinton). However, my teacher managed to get me interested enough in it to go home and read the whole book in one night. She told the class that it was written by a 16-year-old girl, using the abbreviation of S. E. Hinton to disguise her gender. Considering that the book is about adolescent boys, gangs, rumbles, and all of the incredible drama that goes along with that lifestyle, learning this made me want to read that book. As a writer, I wanted to know if I could possibly learn a lesson or two about how to put myself in such radically different shoes from my own. As a reader, I wanted to see if a 16-year-old girl could convince me that she understood how men and boys think and behave. Having read the book, did I not already know better, I would definitely assume S. E. Hinton was a man. The teacher used other ways to get the class interested in the book as well. She explained the “gang” affiliations in the book; the Socs and the Greasers, told us about some of the more interesting names, and for the less enthusiastic readers, told us we would watch the movie once we finished the book. None of the useful, life-altering ideas that I have had from reading have come from reading a criticism of a work of literature; it has come from experiencing the story, the characters, the foreshadowing, the plot twists, the climaxes, and the ever dramatic, always changing ending. Reading literary criticism is only relevant once the reader has already formed an individual idea about the work; otherwise the reader focuses on the ideas that other people have had about the work instead of the actual story. If teachers are successful in getting their students to understand and relate to a piece of literature, then the students will form their own ideas, and literary criticism will not be necessary, at least in the high school level and possibly the undergraduate level in college.
When is literary criticism worthwhile? Is there a time when reading what is written about a work of literature is just as important as reading the work? Bruce Fleming says that there is no place for it in the classroom. He is disdainful of all literary criticism in the classroom setting.
Literary studies split off from reading in the early-to-mid-20th century as the
result of science envy on the part of literature professors. Talking about books
somehow didn’t seem substantial enough. Instead of reading literature, now
we study ‘texts.’ We’ve developed a discipline, with its jargon and its method-
ology, its insiders and its body of knowledge. What we analyze nowadays is
seen neither as the mirror of nature nor the lamp of authorial inspiration. It
just is - apparently produced in an airless room by machines working through
permutations of keys on the computer. (4)
Mostly I agree with Fleming. I have always found in-class discussions to teach me better than reading literary criticism. However, I disagree with Bruce Fleming that literary criticism does not ever belong in the classroom. Fully understanding a piece of literature, including the thoughts that experts have had about it, is extremely important to the future teacher. The “professional study of literature” is necessary for those who wish to teach literature. Sometimes we all need to read or hear a different point of view or way of seeing something in order to truly understand what it means. Also, how can we expect to teach students any kind of criticism, especially expecting them to write it themselves, if we don’t first study it thoroughly ourselves?
Bruce Fleming compares at one point, the teaching of literature to giving Martians a tour of a grocery store.
“Nowadays we teach literature as if we were giving a tour of a grocery store
to Martians who’ve just touched down on Earth. We professional storekeepers
explain the vegetable section, the dairy section, the meat section, note similar-
ities and differences among our wares, variations of texture and color, the fact
that there’s no milk where the applesauce is, and perhaps the fact (which we
bemoan) that there are no papayas. We’re teaching the store, not what’s in it.
… All this fixation by the storekeepers on the store misses the point: People
grow food in order to eat it. Similarly, books are meant to be read. Reading is
the point of a book, not integrating it into a discipline.” (5)
I agree with this idea wholeheartedly. We focus, sometimes, too much on examining a piece of literature for hidden meanings and nuances, instead of just reading it, and enjoying it as it washes over you. Too often, teachers focus too strongly on making sure their students understand every word and little idea, instead of focusing on ensuring they understand why this canon needs to continue to be read.
Overall, I agree with a lot of Bruce Fleming’s ideas. I do not personally like reading literary criticism, and I seldom have gotten anything out of it. When my studies progress, and I must read more literary criticism in order to fully understand what I will need to know about a piece of literature in order to teach it, I will have no problem with focusing intently on what someone else has to say about it. Until then, I will try to pretend that it does not exist. However, unlike Bruce Fleming, I do recognize the need for literary criticism in the classroom, particularly for graduate students that intend to teach literature or reading.

English Curriculum

1. Heroes and Villains in Literature
2. Female Leads in Literature
3. Religious Literature
4. Modern/Pop Culture Classics
5. Young Adult Literature
6. Spanish and Mexican Literature
7. Black and Asian Literature
8. Author Specific Close Reading (Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, Jane Austen, Alexandre Dumas)
9. Interpreting (Poetry, Short Stories)
10. Writing (Poetry, Short Stories)
11. Reading and Writing Non-Fiction
12. Writing Advanced Essays
13. Approaches to Grammar
14. Technical and Professional Writing
15. Original Student Writing
16. Peer Editing and Tutoring

Scissortail Festival

I attended the readings by Julie Hensley of Eastern Kentucky University, Jenny Cropp of Oklahoma State University, and Jerry Brigham of East Central University. Julie Hensley read an excerpt from her book in progress, The Recklessness of Water. Her story, at least the part that she read, was about a summer that the main character of the story and her sister spent at their grandparent's house in the country. Hensley told the audience that much of the inspiration for her story came from the real life actions of her sister. The theme seemed to be the expanding relationship between the main character and her sister. The description was wonderful. My favorite part of her story is the description of the ugliest duck. She and her grandma are feeding the ducks, and she spots one who has bulbous growths all over its head. The image reminded me of the hideous ducks that wagged their tails at my dad's church growing up. They were hideous, and sounded and acted like dogs. But they were sweet, and tame, and everybody loved them. Jenny Cropp read from her collection of short poems. Her work was titled String Theory, because many of her poems have a scientific subject matter. She read seven poems, String Theory, Orbit, Dragon and Snow, To Joel Henry Hendricks, Food for the Dead, and Head of Duire Pauli. I am not sure about the spelling of the last one. All of Cropp's poems were rather morbid, and several had a distinct Korean influence. They were good, although I am not a big fan of poetry, nor am I a critic. Food for the Dead seemed like a very personal story. I loved the small details that Cropp tells that make her poems sound almost off the cuff, and very real. She mentions in Food for the Dead that her brother doesn't like to let her drive because her wheels turn slightly when she checks her blind spot. This is such a mundane part of life that it almost seems like it doesn't fit in a poem, but it works, and gives the poem a certain honesty. My favorite poem by Cropp was Subatomic Black Holes. The concept is that miniature black holes could be anywhere, even right next to us. Cropp uses this as an excuse for missing socks, keys, moved objects, forgotten memories, and a lack of concentration. This was actually a great poem, and I don't usually like any poems. Jerry Brigham read three of his short stories, one called Uncle Luke, which took place in Stonewall and was about the town drunk, Southern Gothic, about Mr. Finley and his Monkey, and Bad Bootlegger, which needs no description. I liked all of his stories, but my favorite by far was Southern Gothic. Professor Brigham uses a sort of frame story to delve into the antics of the crazy monkey. The untitled main character is visiting Mr. Finley, and while looking at all the pictures of dead relatives in their coffins, comes across one who he thinks is a very ugly baby. Turns out it is really a monkey sent home by a son in the military. The monkey was indeed part of the family, but it never acted right, until it finally went too far, and Mr. Finley chopped his head off. This story had me fighting not to laugh out loud and disrupt Professor Brigham. Bad Bootlegger was very funny also. Basically a bootlegger who had terrible booze dies and the scene takes place at his funeral. Everyone is talking about how bad he acted and terrible his booze was, when the furnace booms loudly, and everyone is very uncomfortable, thinking that the bootlegger is getting in one last laugh. Though I liked all of the readings at the Scissortail Festival, the one that inspired me the most was The Recklessness of Water by Julie Hensley. She drew from a lot of personal experiences, first and second hand. She used what she watched other people go through, and what she felt herself to write a wonderfully descriptive and extremely drawing story. I hope to be able to draw upon my experiences in order to be a better writer.

On Reading Montaigne

I really enjoyed reading On Books by Montaigne. There were several funny spots and interesting tidbits of information that made his essay enjoyable to read, unlike some of the works that he discusses. One of the points that Montaigne made that I agree with, and I think makes the difference between good writing and okay writing is,"I would rather choose to know truly the conversation he [Brutus] held in his tent with some of his intimate friends on the eve of the battle than the speech he made the next day to his army; and what he was doing in his study and his chamber than what he was doing in the public square and in the Senate." (52). I really like the way that Montaigne talks about books also. He treats them with reverence, and bestows favor on specific ones almost like he cares for them as people. However, he doesn't get all melodramatic and sappy about it.
Of A Monstrous Child was a disturbing essay. The subject matter is so gnarly that it takes away from the writing and writer. The description is very lifelike, almost too much. It evokes sympathy for the child and the deformed man.

My Obsession

I am hunkered down in the dark, waiting, just waiting. I am watching the wild movements around me, squinting through the cloying dark, trying to distinguish the distant shadows that draw my attention. I can't quite make them out. The darkness is so thick I can taste it. I can feel it clog my mouth and nose, suffocating me with its sweet cancerous ways, stuffing its extremities down my throat, perversely caressing my face. I imagine the darkness as a living entity. I personify it, giving it a will and thoughts. The Dark is a being with its own ideas, and they are not amiable. I know now that the darkness is after me, chasing me, following me forever, fighting to never relieve me of its grasp. I am Everyman; fighting to throw off the oppression of My Obsession.
I am walking down the road. Cars whiz by me going way over the speed limit, rush hour commuters worrying about their own problems; ignoring the lonely girl on the side of the highway. As I walk, I am drawn to the discernable differences in my opposite fields of vision. On the right, there is gray. Shiny metal, bright lights and plenty of speed. On my left is green. Beautiful trees, perfectly manicured lawns and individually glorified flowers. Industrial and rural, city and country. Good and bad, right and wrong. Can everything break down into these neat little compartments? Can I label and file my thoughts away neatly, to be ever organized, perfect, and impenetrable? Can I do this with people, places, and emotions? Can I let my thoughts wander without losing track of myself?
I am lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, scrutinizing the water stains above where I lay my head. Each stain morphs into one specific morbid thought in my mind. The possible death and suffering of my parents, my sister, my friends... myself. If Peter Pan suddenly appeared at my window, there would be no flying in my story. It is so effortless for me to envision evil things; hatred, suffering and despair. All pleasant musings however, have been ripped from my mind, replaced with fear and paranoia, anxiety and foreboding. I am so dejected; I have run out of tears to spill.
I am standing in my bathroom, looking down as my blood spirals contentedly around the sides of the tub, slightly diluting as it washes away, only to be replaced by fresh drops moments later. I am lost in the endless rush of my life force spilling out of my body from the strawberry gashes that cover my arm. Moments ago I was overwhelmed with this destructive, violent urge. Now I wonder why. The angry slashes speak to me of contempt and anger, hatred of myself. I do not enjoy the pain, nor do I enjoy the hate. I enjoy nothing. I hate everything.
I am preparing. I am preparing myself for the dark ritual that has taken my soul and my heart. This ritual is a self sacrifice. I give myself over to the inhalation of spirits and ghosts into my mind, into my senses. Soon, I will be taken over, inhabited by the dark force that is my obsession. I have the tools of my trade laid out before me. Some are sharp. Some are soft. Some are glass. Some are metal. Some are big. Some are small. Some are hot. Some are cold. They all are evil.
I am doing all these things, but I still ask myself, "What are you doing?" I am conscious of my actions, aware of the physical movements I make, the contributions I make to conversations, but it is as if I am on the outside looking in. I can see what I am about to do, yet I cannot stop myself from doing it. I reason with myself. I convince myself that while I may be bad, everyone else around me is worse. As long as I am the best it will be alright, right? As long as I am not as bad as she is, it will be okay. Right? As long as I keep it under control, I'll be just fine. Right? As long as I rest tomorrow, I will be okay today... right? Right?
My life has become a never ending cycle of lunacy and neurosis, my thoughts are always moving, not wandering aimlessly, but fleeting willfully from one subject to another, never resting, never stopping. Normal life ceases to exist without the mortal routine of sleep and food. Normal thought goes out the window without human reason to keep it in check. Normal people disappear from my life, no one wanting the responsibility that is now me. I am little more than an animal, surviving on instinct and determination alone. My mind has become twisted; my thoughts are no longer under my own control. There is an unseen hand guiding me, a force pushing me, telling me I am right, that everyone else is wrong. This still small voice... I have convinced myself it is God, but sometimes I question this decision. Could it be the devil, convincing me to stray from the path of righteousness?
Partaking in my obsession is literally like entering another world. Everything you have come to know and understand is flipped upside down, shaken sideways, and put back crooked. The social structure is altered, the hierarchy turned around. Importance placed on objects and items, favorite things, and even people is skewed, disregarded and discounted. Something small enough to disappear in the palm of your hand takes the place of your children, your friends, your loves and values. It feeds you and nourishes your body solely on its lies and deceptions, giving you just enough pleasure to want more. It takes everything. Nothing is off limits. Nothing can be saved. It takes your pride, your love, your diligence and vigilance, everything you care about, and everything you don't care about. My obsession does not discriminate.
As I lie awake, the warm embrace of sleep eluding me, disturbing images flash behind my eyes. I see the bewildered faces of children whose parents no longer want them. I see a twisted and broken lump of flesh that just minutes before was a living, breathing human being. I see a row of men walking down the street, armed with makeshift weapons, chanting a name over and over; hunting for the hunter. I see a woman, bent over her child to protect him from the rage of her husband, under the influence of my obsession, unknowingly, or uncaringly, scarring his offspring for life. I see once promising young people with dead eyes and dead hearts. Most of all, I see myself. I see myself falling into an endless pit of despair and evil desires. I watch as I slip farther and farther away from the person I once was. At this moment, I realize that I will never get that person back. I will never be the same. In the wake of this realization comes a decision; the decision to let my obsession dissipate. I may not be the same, but I will recover. I will be better. I will no longer be obsessed.

Vocabulary Expansion

Profanation p. 167 (A Chapter On Ears)
1. The action or an act of profaning; desecration or violation of that which is held to be sacred; defilement.
2. In extended use: the degradation of anything considered worthy of reverence or respect; a cheapening or vulgarization of something.
Copiously p. 165 (A Chapter On Ears)
1. Plentifully, abundantly; in or with abundance.
2. With fullness of treatment or expression; fully, profusely.
Tippling p.215 (The Lantern Bearers)
1. The retailing of ale or other strong drink; the business of a ‘tippler’. Obs.
2. The drinking of intoxicating drink, esp. in small quantities and often; habitual indulgence in liquor (to some degree of excess, but usually not amounting to positive drunkenness).

First Paragraphs of Five Essay I Would Like To Write

1. Essay Title: Escape
First Paragraph: My paternal grandfather owns a beach house off of Highway 1 on the California Coastline. I spent much of my childhood on the beautiful white and dark sand beaches that surround it. The ocean is literally twenty five feet out and one hundred feet down from the back step. My dead relatives ashes have all been spread there, and most of my family have gone on their honeymoon there. For me, it is the ultimate Escape.
2. Essay Title: On Sunshine
First Paragraph: I have always had an intense love/hate relationship with sunshine. I grew up in California, a short distance from the beach, surrounded by blond-haired, tan-skinned beauties. I love spending time in the sun, but with my red hair and fair skin, I have always burned very easily, and then my freckles get darker. So, I learned to stay out of the sun, and enjoy the beach at night.
3. Essay Title: On Dating a Man With Long Hair
First Paragraph: I never thought I would date a guy with hair longer than mine, but I seem to find new benefits every day. For one, he actually owns a hairbrush. In fact, he has three. Also, I can take showers at his house, because he has decent shampoo and conditioner. Also, I can steal his hair bands whenever I can't find one of my own. The best thing though, is that when we wake up in the morning, we both have crazy, curly bed hair, so he doesn't make fun of me.
4. Essay Title: My Own Personal Jesus
First Paragraph: I simply cannot understand how such genius can come from one mortal man. It boggles my mind that such an empire could come from the imagination of one human being. I am speaking of course, about the master, George Lucas.
5. Essay Title: Black
First Paragraph: Why do we accept that black is not a color, in fact it is the absence of color, when it invokes such strong and varied emotions? Black has always been my favorite color, and has definitely always best expressed my personality and moods. Black has depth, endless coldness, and immense passion. It is not the absence of anything.