The Fireside Debate

I don't particularly pride myself on eavesdropping, but the other day at the coffee shop down the street from my house, I just couldn't resist; a man can only take so much. I walked in, ordered my cup of joe, sat down with the homework that I was planning to work on, and immediately caught on to a heated debate between a gentleman and gentlewoman sitting by the fireplace. After listening for only a few minutes, I unraveled the core of this debate from the entanglement of comments it had been covered in.

The core of their argument was: is reader response theory a valid literary theory or not, based on the way most people use it.

Immediately this brought me back to a class I took last year with Jack. He and I enrolled in a 20^th century British Literature course, and one of our assignments was to pick from five literary theories – Stanly Fish's reader response theory being one of them – analyze a text with our chosen theory, and present it to the class. Needless to say, almost every single student enrolled in that class chose reader response theory; it was considered the 'easy way out.' Because of that, the presentations given by our fellow students turned into, what seemed to me as, journal entries expressing why the presenter saw their mom or dad in some of the characters, or why this made them really like certain characters over others, or sympathize with the antagonist rather than the protagonist. It was bad. Jack took no hesitation in expressing his dislike towards these types of presentations as well as, and though it was only the tip of the iceberg for me, the reader response literary theory.

Now let me clarify. Both the debaters in the coffee shop, as well as Jack and I did not have a problem with the theory because of what it proclaimed, but rather with the way that people misunderstand and misuse the theory. I am going to go out on a limb here and say that it seems to be one of the most widely misused literary theories out there, out least from my experience.

So with that said I want to open the floor to the readers. Jack and I's quarter ended, and that coffee shop closed and the two debaters went home, but that doesn't mean that this discussion has to. I want to hear all of your opinions on reader response theory, its shortcomings, its strengths, if it is and should be considered a valid literary theory. And anything else that you see pertinent to this debate. I look forward to reading your responses.

Until next time,

Nick

Stop Playing with Yourself or You'll Go Mute

I agree with you Jack; Non-native speakers are definitely better students than apathetic native ones. It really was a good blog, and I admit that I’m nitpicking with this response, but I know you’re a good sport so here it goes. I don’t like that you are insulting people who have trouble communicating with others, while putting writers on this ‘more highly-evolved’ pedestal.

Something’s been bothering me lately too, Jack. It has come to my attention that a majority of English majors are grossly pretentious – or at least that’s what they start to sound like after their years and years of schooling make them think that they are better than the rest of the world because they can write. I have to say I’m with you on the depression. I’m depressed at the verbal masturbation that I seem to witness on a day-to-day basis from all of the “English experts” around me. This goes out to those who think that people who can’t write are just monkeys. Let me tell you a story of a student that I consistently worked with over the last year.

Some of you might be surprised to know that I teach Tae Kwon Do, a Korean martial art that’s a bit like Karate. Often times, I work with students whose parents have moved their families to America from Korea to work here for a few years. All of my students know that I am an English major, and in a few different cases, I’ve been hired to tutor middle-aged Korean men, the fathers of my students, in English. Now, I’m not talking about struggling immigrants here; I’m talking about people who work for large corporations as engineers or marketing directors or even teachers who want to learn how to speak to Americans. These men are very intelligent – they just can’t speak English, let alone write it.

One of the men I tutored was named Chingu, which translates to “friend” in English. He went by Jeff in his office, but he really should’ve kept his Korean name because he was one of the most amiable souls I have ever encountered. He worked for Hyundai as an environmental data analyst and wanted to learn to speak to his American colleagues. I came to his home twice a week, where I’d eat dinner with his family and speak with him about pretty much anything. “How was your day?” “Any plans for the weekend?” Small talk mostly, but sometimes we’d touch on some deeper topics. “What do you miss most from Korea?” “Do you remember anything about the war from your childhood?” “Are you worried about your children being taken away from their first culture?” He didn’t always have the right words, but he answered with my help. We’d work through it until his ideas could come to the table. The thoughts were there in his mind; he just couldn’t get them out of his mouth.

Sometimes as we’d sit, struggling with meaning, trying to pin down exactly what it was he was saying, I’d toss him a few words to see which one he’d bite. “Do you mean ‘upset’?”, “’Disappointed’?”, “’Afraid’?” “’Anxious’?” He would toss them all back. One day as we went through this little routine, Jeff, chewing on his tongue as he forced out his thoughts, and me, searching my brain for better words to offer him, he taught me something that I’ll never forget. He shook his head, and in not-so-perfect English basically told me, “Nothing I say will be exactly what I mean – in English or in Korean.”

I took a lot from his frustration that day. He was completely right; we can never say exactly what we mean. And those of us who get the closest with our language should consider ourselves lucky – not better. So here’s my point, finally. Jack, I think you’re wrong to be so judgmental of those who can’t write well. You obviously have a great gift; you can easily plan what it is that you’d like to write or say so that it is very close to what you are thinking. That’s a talent that has taken practice and probably some natural skill. But that doesn’t make you better than anyone. Frankly, you’re blog was a bit intimidating, putting off those who might be afraid to be seen as a monkey by the editors of AFewLinesMagazine.

I say that we are not better than others because we know how to write, but that we are a special breed; not better, just more easily understood. However, when we, the easily understood, spend our time admiring our own skills and taking pride in our abilities, we are terrible communicators… It is shameful when our heads are too far up our own asses for anyone to hear what it is that we are trying to say.

In love and friendship,

S. Pine

Bury Your Fucking Dead, But Not Really...

Hey all,
So I know I kind of went off on a tirade about what an English major ought to be; however, I only talked about the genesis of becoming one. A strong foundation needs to be established in order to successfully accomplish anything in the field, whether it be teaching composition or writing poetry. Exploring the point further, though, I believe a strong classical base simply is not enough. Yes - Ovid, Homer, Dante, and all the other old boys are fantastic, and they provide us with so much. Yes - we need to know about them in order to further comprehend the subtleties of the authors we claim to love and adore. But, really, we need to take a step back, tuck Ovid up our sleeve - once we're very familiar with him - and re-examine how we go about understanding literature in today's world.

Being a part of a magazine as well as a fledgling poet, I think I'm beginning to see more clearly what today's literature is about; this is a unique experience, though, and I would say most English majors I know are fossilized in some far-off century. This is not necessarily a bad thing - as those highly specialized scholars are needed in our school systems - but I think we, generally speaking, study the classics for enrichment above anything else. The classics for many are essentially tools for an English major's utility belt. As most, if not all, canonized poets have said time and time again, the tradition is a sort of domino effect of poet learning from preceding poet. So why is it that many people who have no real intentions of becoming university professors dedicate scholarly lives to studying the ins and outs of Whitmanian poetry or Joyceian prose? My answer is simply, "I don't fucking know."

Don't get me wrong, I love my dead poets. Everyone who knows me knows my love for all things Whitman. Leaves of Grass is essentially my religious text, but it isn't the basis for my being (Yep...that sentiment sounds about right....), nor is it, more importantly, the basis of my scholarly endeavors. I mean, I'm going to pursue my masters in 19th Century American Literature, but, really, it's only a stepping stone in my career as an English scholar; and, connecting back to what I was initially saying, my studies in 19th Century American Literature are solely for enrichment purposes. So why is this enrichment important? Simple: by better knowing the tradition, I can better know what it means to read and, more importantly, write today.

So here it is, folks - my call. My barbaric yawp, if you will. We need to embrace the past, but keep it in theory rather than in practice. Literature is alive, people, and it's growing with every day that passes. We cannot come to know it if we first do not come to know its history, but the focus should be to take it head on. Please. Read your Ovid. Your Sturluson. Your Chaucer. Fuck, read the Aneid if you're into that sort of thing, but remember folks - that's foundation for what's going on now. Be active and read what's out there - especially in literary magazines. Today's Hemingway is in American Short Fiction  and the new Whitman is out there publishing something in Hayden's Ferry Review, stopping somewhere, of course, waiting for you.             

        
JF