Even more link dumping: Literature Edition

Three more:

1) A student brought this up in class today and it reminded me that I had a bookmark about it: A new portrait of Shakespeare?

2) Lots of folks are discussing the sad news about Nicholas Hughes, son of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. This certainly demonstrates the lingering power of mental illness and depression on a family.

3) On a lighter note, be sure to check out this awesome blog that recently came to my attention: How a Poem Happens. And I might as well give another shout-out to my former grad-school colleague, Dan Albergotti, who has an entry there.

End-of-Summer Syllabizing

I haven't gotten nearly as much work done as I wanted to this summer, but I am rather proud of this accomplishment: as of today, 2 August 2008, I have all my syllabi ready for the Fall semester. Not bad, right? I just put the Xerox requests in and everything. My webpages are ready to go. Go me!

You can check out the fruits of my labor here, if you are so inclined. While I've taught ENG 102 and ENG 204 before, I had to do some re-arranging on two counts. First, each course has switched to new editions of its respective textbook,* which meant adjusting page numbers and, in some cases, reading selections for each. Second, the days both courses meet have changed. In the past, I taught ENG 102 as a MWF class. Now it's a TR. In the past, I've taught ENG 204 as TR. Now it's a MWF. Those kinds of changes do require some reconceptualization, especially for ENG 102, which is a writing course. I rather like the changes made to the 204 syllabus--I've even included three new writers (Richard Wright, Maxine Hong Kingston, and Jhumpa Lahiri). I am not so sure yet about 102. It looks a bit rushed at certain points in the semester (at least on the page), but maybe it will be okay.

ENG 346 is the new one for me--and I am pretty excited about it. It's a version of a class I taught at Richmond, but whereas that course stopped in 1865, I am framing this course as a study of the American novel from the beginning until 1900 (well, technically 1896, ending with Sarah Orne Jewett's The Country of the Pointed Firs). The reading schedule is a bit ambitious, I know. I've already had one student email me and say "You don't believe in light reading, do you?" However, they can handle it--especially if they want to be English majors.

*Don't even get me started on this whole "new edition" issue. I understand the need to keep updating things, but some of these prices are insane. I don't get to choose the books for the gen. ed. classes I teach (101, 102, 204)--and if I did, there's no way I'd pick the hugely over-priced Perrine's. It's a great book, but not worth over $100.

Persepolis

One of the books I've managed to get through so far this summer is Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis, a graphic memoir that tells of the author's coming-of-age in Iran after the 1979 revolution. The book had been on my radar for sometime, but I finally made myself get around to reading it because it is the Common Reading selection at Shepherd this fall and I am including it in my English 102 class.

Persepolis is a great choice for students--it's interesting, informative, and different (because of its setting, its genre, and even its point-of-view). It also helps that there's a recent movie adaptation that received good reviews.

As an English teacher, I love the idea of teaching a "comic book"*, especially in a general eduaction literature class. For me, one of the central goals in these courses is to simply get the students reading and get them excited about doing so. Another goal is to get them to see that they are surrounded by all different kinds of texts and that developing good reading skills will translate across genres, across disciplines, and ultimately, across career choices. Thus a book like Persepolis, which invites students to read images as well as words, helps them on so many levels.

Beyond all of that, though, it's just a great read. I can't quote from it so much, like I usually do in these kinds of entries, because the words alone don't convey the full power of the pages. Take a look at these images from the publisher's site, though, if you are interested. One scene that stands out in my mind is of a young Marji in her room, singing Kim Wilde's "Kids in America" at the top of her lungs after being accosted and threatened by fundamentalists on the street. Marji's parents--once so hopeful about the revolution--are also fascinating characters. The final chapter is heart-breaking, especially the very last frame.

*Seems like too dismissive a label for the book, but "graphic novel" doesn't work either since it's not a novel...even "graphic memoir," the term I used in the first paragraph seems strange.

Alice Walker and her daughter...

I teach Alice Walker's "Everyday Use" in my ENG 204 class every semester. I've taught it in ENG 102, as well. It's always a crowd-pleaser, a story students love talking about, in part because of what it says about mothers and daughters. I could go on about Walker's other works about these themes, but it's enough to say that many people think about relationships between mothers and daughters when they think about Alice Walker.

So it's quite sad, I think, to read this article by Rebecca Walker, her daughter. I won't say much at all about the claims Rebecca makes about feminism--except to say that we see the personal price children pay when parents work for some larger cause. (I imagine politician's children sometimes feel this way, too.) Regardless of who is wrong or right here (and if it's "appropriate" for Rebecca to air her dirty laundry in this way), the fact that these two are so estranged is most unfortunate.

Shakespeare in graphic novel form...

An interesting concept, especially for younger students or non-majors. We've just started Othello in my ENG 102 courses and it can be a real struggle for these students to break through Shakespeare's language. I've actually told them to go ahead and use Cliffnotes if they need to. Does that make me a bad teacher? I don't think so--I want them to get something out of this text, and if study aides help make that possible, then that's okay. As I've said before, when I teach these introductory or general education classes, one of my main goals is appreciation: I want students who wouldn't read these kinds of works on their own to realize that these texts are actually pretty good--and that they can talk about and understand them. If graphic novel adaptations of Shakespeare can help accomplish this, then they aren't a bad idea at all.

Of course, someone has to rain on the parade:

"'If you want to use them as an introduction or a taste, that's fine," says Leila Christenbury, English education professor at Virginia Commonwealth University and past president of the National Council of Teachers of English. 'But they cannot be equated with seeing the play.'"

[Ummm...who is suggesting that? Talk about an overreaction.]

"She believes the United States as a whole has 'an affinity for superficial knowledge of the classics' and is often unwilling to stick out challenging works from beginning to end, preferring to get just the gist of the story for 'cocktail-party knowledge.' Couple this tendency with teenagers' crowded schedules, she says, and you're likely to get a bunch of students who toss the original texts (even if they've been assigned) in lieu of the more exciting abridged versions."

Again, this is true, but consider why we want students exposed to Shakespeare and the classics. The sophomore sociology major doesn't need to be a Shakespeare expert, and it's foolish to act like he should be. After all, not every English major is expected to be an expert in Sociology. And "cocktail-party knowledge" is better than no knowledge at all.

Incidentally, my students have also introduced me to something called "No Fear Shakespeare". Have y'all seen this? It would make the woman I've quoted above pass out, I think, but it's been a lifesaver for many of my students. I have mixed feelings about it, but here's what I told my classes: first, read the text as is, then go ahead and use "No Fear Shakespeare" or whatever if you need to, and then finally, look at the original again. I know I am being idealistic to assume they'll take all those steps, but once I've told them that is what they should do, I know they know what I expect of them. What they do from that point on is up to them.

Yes, I know that part of the beauty and power of Shakespeare comes from that original language. You don't need to convince me of that. But most non-majors aren't going to see that on their own. That's what class time is for. Let them do their best to get through the reading for homework and then we'll talk about the art of it all during class. And yes, maybe someday they'll be able to leave "No Fear Shakespeare" behind, but if not, at least they tried and at least they know the basic story. I've got to say, these classes are loving reading Othello, and if I have Sparknotes or whatever to thank for at least part of that, than that's fine.

Finally, here's an excerpt from that article that sounds a lot scarier than it is probably meant to:

"Writer and longtime college professor Adam Sexton is a believer — and not just because Wiley hired him to adapt the Shakespearean texts for its 200-or-so-page manga editions. When he was just 8 years old, a neighbor lent him a comic-book adaptation of "Julius Caesar" by Classics Illustrated. 'I was so taken by it that I pulled 'The Complete Works of William Shakespeare' down from the bookcase in my parents' living room and actually forced my two brothers to perform the assassination scene from the play,' Mr. Sexton says."

And now Mr. Sexton is an only child...

Raymond Carver's "Cathedral"

Last week, we read Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral” in my English 102 class. In preparation for class that day, I did a little online reading to brainstorm for some discussion topics and stumbled upon this article by Samantha Gillison from January 2000.

“What would you do if you made the uncomfortable discovery that the most imitated writer in America might have lifted the plot, characters and theme of one of his most famous stories?

Well, for starters, you might try to dismiss the charges. Any old literary saw would do the trick. After all, everyone knows that Shakespeare cribbed his plots, that good writers borrow and great ones steal, and that all literary artists struggle under what Harold Bloom calls "the anxiety of influence." Maybe, as some have said, there are really only a few basic narratives, and a writer can only come up with different ways of telling them. But what if the similarities between two stories by two acknowledged masters were just too close to be easily brushed aside? If you were D.H. Lawrence scholar Keith Cushman*** and believed you had stumbled upon a brilliant rewrite of one of the master's tales you might draft a letter to the most influential short-story writer of your time. And Raymond Carver just might write you back.”

Great hook, right? It’s a fascinating read, as Gillison discusses how Carver’s most famous story might have been influenced (perhaps too light a word in this case) by D.H. Lawrence's “The Blind Man,” a story I haven’t read myself (or even heard of before this article).

As she examines what Carver said about the Lawrence story and puts together a bit of a literary criticism detective tale for us, Gillison also makes some smart points about the (ultimately impossible) quest for originality with which writers often struggle. She also asks great questions about what difference it makes to readers when we find out the “original” texts we loved are, in fact, influenced by other texts:

“But unacknowledged, unconscious ‘borrowing’ or no, what does all of this matter when Carver's fiction has given so many people so much pleasure? All artists (from great to lousy) in all media from time immemorial have borrowed and stolen, reinterpreted and reworked the art and ideas of their predecessors and contemporaries. It's the nature of creativity. So who cares if Carver shoplifted some ideas? Isn't Lady Chatterly herself a descendant of Emma Bovary? Isn't the most famous blind man of them all Oedipus Rex? And, as Professor Cushman suggests, isn't Lawrence himself working closely with Sophocles' ideas in his story? Yet, in the end, isn't there a line between being influenced and knocking off someone else's work?

Nevertheless, to suggest such an influence and to note Carver's denial of it can't fail to be seen as throwing down a gauntlet. Even in our era of sampling, of pastiche as high art and of the endless Hollywood remake, we still cherish originality as a cultural ideal, especially when it comes to the hallowed practice of literature.”

By the end of the article, there’s pretty convincing proof that, despite his denials, Carver had read Lawrence’s story, although that’s not really the important question. More important is why he felt the need to deny doing so. Again, by examining just what “Cathedral” and its acclaim meant to Carver, his reputation, and his place in the canon, she comes up with some interesting answers.

In the end, it’s kind of sad that Carver felt the need (apparently) to deny lawrence’s influence, especially if, as Gillison speculates, he does so because he feared estimation of his own story would suffer. “Cathedral” is an amazing story, whether influenced by Lawrence or not. In fact, the Lawrence connection almost makes it more interesting to me. For the record, my students enjoyed it, too—no small feat for a group of non-majors. I’ll end with Gillison’s conclusion:

“What then to make of this man who clearly saw himself as first and foremost a writer of literature, an art that he in turn claimed was of little more significance than bowling a rubber on a Saturday night? Nothing Carver himself didn't already identify and write in his stories for us: ambivalence, insecurity, ambition, need, cowardice and hope -- all the demons that beset the soul who wants to be Somebody. But judging from Carver's enduring popularity and beloved status with a whole new generation of short-story writers and readers, he needn't have worried.”

***Another reason this article really caught my eye? Dr. Cushman teaches at UNCG. I never worked with him while I was there, but I did know him and once wrote a short review of a collection of essays on D.H. Lawrence that he edited. I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty cool to think he wrote a letter to Carver—and that Carver wrote back. When you write about nineteenth-century American authors, that never happens.

Just in time for Valentine's Day...

...A thoroughly depressing Atlantic Monthly article with advice for single women age 30 and up: Settle! Ugh.

I will admit, though, that I related to this passage, even though I never watched Will and Grace:

"It’s not that I’ve become jaded to the point that I don’t believe in, or even crave, romantic connection. It’s that my understanding of it has changed. In my formative years, romance was John Cusack and Ione Skye in Say Anything. But when I think about marriage nowadays, my role models are the television characters Will and Grace, who, though Will was gay and his relationship with Grace was platonic, were one of the most romantic couples I can think of. What I long for in a marriage is that sense of having a partner in crime. Someone who knows your day-to-day trivia. Someone who both calls you on your bullshit and puts up with your quirks."

Actually, I think that what the author describes here (changing notions of romance) isn't settling at all, so much as it's growing up. Than again, maybe growing up is about settling into reality, whatever the heck that is.

Interestingly, I have just re-read Joyce's "Araby," a text we'll discuss in my ENG 102 course on Wednesday, and a story all about idealistic, romantic notions being crushed and put away:

"Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger."

Wake me up on February 15, okay?

Introduction to literature and Jhumpa Lahiri

Although my PhD. is in American literature before 1900 and I should, therefore, really love teaching courses in that area more than anything else (especially to English majors), I’ve got to say that there’s a certain joy in teaching an introduction to literature class to non-majors. When I teach these kinds of classes, my main goals are simply to get the students to realize that studying literature can be fun, that it does have some connection to their everyday lives, and that they can say smart things about it. Those aren’t particularly lofty goals, but they are awfully fun to guide students towards. To help along the way, I pick texts that are fun—surefire crowd pleasers.

This semester at Shepherd, I am teaching English 102, Writing for the Humanities, for the first time, a course that asks instructors to do a lot—it serves as the second half the of the freshman composition sequence and thus stresses research-based writing. Right now the department has it structured as an introduction to literary analysis, too, and the textbook we use is Literature: Structure, Sound, and Sense, one of these mammoth hard-cover books that contains a lot of the “greatest hits” of literature. You can take a look at my syllabus here. Most of the works I’ve chosen are works I’ve taught before or that I simply love.

And here’s why a course like this is such a blast for me to teach: as a nineteenth-century Americanist, how else am I going to have the opportunity to teach John Donne or Shakespeare or Robert Browning?

Now, though, I am also wondering if I shouldn’t have pushed myself towards teaching a few more works that I haven’t taught before, mostly because of the lovely hour or so I spent with a brand new story (brand new to me) yesterday afternoon. One of the few works I put on the syllabus without reading it beforehand is Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Interpreter of Maladies.” I haven’t read all that much by Lahiri, but everything I read just knocks my socks off. This story was no exception. For those who don’t know much about her, you can read more here and here.

My first encounter with a work by Lahiri was several years ago, when I read a short story called “This Blessed House,” which was included in Convergences, a reader I was using in an English 101 class at UNCG. (The story was originally in Interpreter of Maladies, Lahiri's 1999 short story collection.) “This Blessed House” is a great little story about an Indian-American couple who keep finding Christian-themed kitsch all over the house they just bought. The wife is delighted by the finds, the husband is annoyed—and the whole thing is just a great read. I remember being particularly struck by this passage:

“Though she did not say it herself, he assumed then that she loved him, too, but now he was no longer sure. In truth, Sanjeev did not know what love was, only what he thought it was not. It was not, he had decided, returning to an empty carpeted condominium each night, and using only the top fork in his cutlery drawer, and turning politely away at those weekend dinner parties when the other men eventually put their arms around the waists of their wives and girlfriends, leaning over every now and again to kiss their shoulders or necks. It was not sending away for classical music CDs by mail, working his way methodically through the major composers that the catalogue recommended, and always sending his payments on time. In the months before meeting Twinkle, Sanjeev had begun to realize this.”

This passage sums up what I think Lahiri does so well—captures the image, the gesture, the simple thoughts that make us human--and that in some way translate across lines of race and class.

My next encounter with Lahiri came through The Namesake, her first novel, published in 2003 and made into a pretty great movie in 2007. I won’t say too much about it, other than that you should read it (or at least see the film).

Anyway, as I mentioned, for my class on Wednesday, we are reading “Interpreter of Maladies,” the title story from Lahiri’s 1999 Pulitzer-prize-winning collection. This story, about an Indian tour guide who takes a young Indian-American family to the Sun Temple at Konorak, once again shows us everyday people who seem to be living happily enough on the surface, but dream of better things and harbor secrets and regrets. And that’s a clichéd and oversimplified way to talk about the story, I know.

Particularly moving are the passages where the tour guide, Mr. Kapasi, imagines that he and the young wife, Mrs. Das, will begin an important correspondence with each other and that he has found someone who will appreciate and value him:

“The paper curled as Mr. Kapasi wrote his address in clear, careful letters. She would write to him, asking about his days interpreting at the doctor’s office, and he would respond eloquently, choosing only the most entertaining anecdotes, ones that would make her laugh out loud as she read them in her house in New Jersey. In time she would reveal the disappointment of her marriage, and he his. In this way their friendship would grow and flourish….As his mind raced, Mr. Kapasi experienced a mild and pleasant shock. It was similar to a feeling he used to experience long ago when after months of translating with the aid of a dictionary, he would finally read a passage from a French novel, or an Italian sonnet, and understand the words, one after another, unencumbered by his own efforts. In those moments Mr. Kapasi used to believe that all was right with the world, that all struggles were rewarded, that all of life’s mistakes made sense in the end. The promise that he would hear from Mrs. Das now filled him with the same belief.”

Of course, the story doesn’t end in this happy fantasy—not by any means, but that’s part of what makes it worth reading. The state of mind this put me in—that wonderful time after you’ve read a great story for the first time and you are still running through it in your head—left me in a great mood for the rest of the day. I only hope I can get my students to hold onto a fraction of that feeling when they read it.

The point of all this? Well, I guess there are three: 1) I am happy to be teaching introduction to literature, 2) it is great to know that I can still get that excited over a new story and 3) I wish I had time to read more Lahiri.