A Theory of Literature
My theory postulates that there are two opposite approaches to life: approach 1 regards life as a matter of perception, a series of mentally-created constructs; life is relative and largely a matter of what is in our heads; whatever you think could be the truth. Approach 2 tackles life as a collection of tangibles: what we see, touch, hear, etc.; these things remain true even when you aren't there to perceive them. The tree in the forest makes a sound; the cat in the box is dead by now.
Now, oddly enough these two positions do not pit religious folks versus materialistic folks. Most people, I think, adopt a combination of the two. My theory about literature is that the first approach is currently more common in humanities programs, and I think it stinks.
If there is such a thing as merit or goodness or value or truth (scientific or otherwise), then to study that goodness or value or truth, for its own sake, is (a) possible; (b) meritorious.
But if art and literature are social constructs whose meaning is relative, their value can only exist in how they are used. Unless grad students are going to sit around staring at their navels and contemplating "that thing we call life," art and literature must have an external purpose in order to warrant study.
"What does Shakespeare mean to you?" becomes the catchphrase. Followed by "What can Shakespeare do to help the global community, families, gender wars, politics, etc. etc. etc.?" "What insight does this book, piece of art give us about us?"
It's Star Trek, without the groovy aliens.
Archibald MacLeish proclaimed that a poem doesn't have to "mean but be" and although he was kind of pompous about it, he had a point (although he didn't figure in that meaningless poems are kind of boring, no matter how "being-ful" they are.) There is something refreshing about the idea that you can read a story without having to find the PURPOSE AND MEANING IT HAS TO YOUR LIFE on every other page.
After all, if what you want is PURPOSE AND MEANING, you don't need literature to generate the kind of intense, worrisome discussions associated with grad students (the state of the environment! the state of the economy! the state of our political system!) You could read Shakespeare. You could also read a Driver's Manual and, if you were really intent, get the same discussions rattling along. If people are hell-bent on using language to discover overarching and expansive explain-all theories, any piece of work will do.
And ultimately, with this approach, the text itself becomes unimportant. Now, if you've had to listen to literal fundamentalists for longer than, say, two minutes, you may think this is a good thing, but it is also a sad thing. Umberto Eco once described books as talking to each other down the ages, but they can't do that unless they retain their validity as texts. (I'm not talking about story—I don't care how many different versions of Beauty & the Beast are created, I'm talking about the validity of a work itself.) A text is a made and created object; a failure to appreciate it as a made and created object renders it more and more unimportant (vice versa, in the case of Van Goghs, it renders them more and more expensive). And while a lot of people simply don't care, I postulate that it's a crying shame.
Like the pigs in Animal Farm who changed the rules in the middle of the night, as the text loses validity, the discussion of it becomes pointless. Why bother? Why care? Why not just throw it on the junk heap and discuss HOW MANY PROFOUND THOUGHTS I HAVE TODAY in the middle of Medieval Lit class? Once the object in itself becomes merely a springboard for philosophy, the object is no longer necessary.
The irony is that the reverence given the object becomes, often, merely the reverence for the discussion it renders rather than the object itself. Shakespeare becomes merely a password for "I'm going to grouse about my thoughts on mortality" than an actual discussion about Hamlet. The second irony is that in an attempt to find usefulness and meaning for, say, Jane Austen, the text become useless and meaningless. One's opinion about Darcy & Elizabeth no longer matters, so long as one can discuss gender relations in terms of Darcy & Elizabeth.
My point being: you can also discuss gender relations in terms of gear shifts and glove compartments: so what?
Now, oddly enough these two positions do not pit religious folks versus materialistic folks. Most people, I think, adopt a combination of the two. My theory about literature is that the first approach is currently more common in humanities programs, and I think it stinks.
If there is such a thing as merit or goodness or value or truth (scientific or otherwise), then to study that goodness or value or truth, for its own sake, is (a) possible; (b) meritorious.
But if art and literature are social constructs whose meaning is relative, their value can only exist in how they are used. Unless grad students are going to sit around staring at their navels and contemplating "that thing we call life," art and literature must have an external purpose in order to warrant study.
"What does Shakespeare mean to you?" becomes the catchphrase. Followed by "What can Shakespeare do to help the global community, families, gender wars, politics, etc. etc. etc.?" "What insight does this book, piece of art give us about us?"
It's Star Trek, without the groovy aliens.
Archibald MacLeish proclaimed that a poem doesn't have to "mean but be" and although he was kind of pompous about it, he had a point (although he didn't figure in that meaningless poems are kind of boring, no matter how "being-ful" they are.) There is something refreshing about the idea that you can read a story without having to find the PURPOSE AND MEANING IT HAS TO YOUR LIFE on every other page.
After all, if what you want is PURPOSE AND MEANING, you don't need literature to generate the kind of intense, worrisome discussions associated with grad students (the state of the environment! the state of the economy! the state of our political system!) You could read Shakespeare. You could also read a Driver's Manual and, if you were really intent, get the same discussions rattling along. If people are hell-bent on using language to discover overarching and expansive explain-all theories, any piece of work will do.
And ultimately, with this approach, the text itself becomes unimportant. Now, if you've had to listen to literal fundamentalists for longer than, say, two minutes, you may think this is a good thing, but it is also a sad thing. Umberto Eco once described books as talking to each other down the ages, but they can't do that unless they retain their validity as texts. (I'm not talking about story—I don't care how many different versions of Beauty & the Beast are created, I'm talking about the validity of a work itself.) A text is a made and created object; a failure to appreciate it as a made and created object renders it more and more unimportant (vice versa, in the case of Van Goghs, it renders them more and more expensive). And while a lot of people simply don't care, I postulate that it's a crying shame.
Like the pigs in Animal Farm who changed the rules in the middle of the night, as the text loses validity, the discussion of it becomes pointless. Why bother? Why care? Why not just throw it on the junk heap and discuss HOW MANY PROFOUND THOUGHTS I HAVE TODAY in the middle of Medieval Lit class? Once the object in itself becomes merely a springboard for philosophy, the object is no longer necessary.
The irony is that the reverence given the object becomes, often, merely the reverence for the discussion it renders rather than the object itself. Shakespeare becomes merely a password for "I'm going to grouse about my thoughts on mortality" than an actual discussion about Hamlet. The second irony is that in an attempt to find usefulness and meaning for, say, Jane Austen, the text become useless and meaningless. One's opinion about Darcy & Elizabeth no longer matters, so long as one can discuss gender relations in terms of Darcy & Elizabeth.
My point being: you can also discuss gender relations in terms of gear shifts and glove compartments: so what?
posted by Kate Woodbury at 10:08
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