I’ve loved poetry since childhood just for the pleasure of it—the sounds, rhythms, images, stories, wordplay, not to mention its magical way of saying the unsayable, expressing the inexpressible, and thinking the unthinkable.
Studying poetry, I learned to appreciate the technical side of it, the art and craft, the virtuoso performance, the display of skill, the tricks and verbal sleight of hand that it took a trained eye to see.
As a professional in literary studies, I learned to apply every theory from psychoanalysis to deconstruction to Marxism to feminism to draw out hidden meanings and significance that only a trained mind could find. Poetry analysis was as pleasurable as working a crossword puzzle, playing a complicated hand of Bridge, or solving an elaborate code.
Yet I also learned to recognize and appreciate the power of poetry, not only to provide hours of pleasure, but also to change consciousness, to motivate and inspire, to shape attitudes, and even to influence behavior. Such power is not innocent entertainment, but a power to be understood, reckoned with, and sometimes resisted, a power calling for a critical mind as well as a strong sensibility, social awareness as well as psychological acuity.
And such skills developed and honed in the study of literature could be practically applied to the crass poetry of advertising, to political discourse, to public media and all attempts to use language with design. Practice in uncovering the hidden meanings of poetry could help one expose the hidden agendas and subliminal messages of everyday rhetoric.
From delight to enlightenment, from the sublime to the ridiculous, poetry lends itself to the full range of verbal experience.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Daisy Miller and Doubt
Now that I have Netflix, I’ve been watching a lot of movies, some of which remind me of famous books (see previous post). This time it was the 2008 film Doubt about a very severe nun who accuses a priest of child abuse on very flimsy, though compelling, evidence. The priest resigns his position, which the nun takes as his confession, but in the end she breaks down and confesses to another nun that she has “such doubt” about his guilt.
Most friends that I talked to about the film thought the priest was guilty, but I was not so sure; indeed, at the end of the film, I leaned toward his innocence, at least in this case.
The film is deliberately ambiguous, as are many great works of literature. I was struck by the theme of gossip and the use of the wind blowing around the autumn leaves as a symbol of suspicious talk, speculation, and allegations about others based on ambiguous appearances.
I was reminded of the 1878 novella Daisy Miller by Henry James about a young American woman in Europe who is destroyed by malicious gossip about her sexual activity, gossip that is based on unconventional, but completely harmless, behavior.
Daisy dies of malaria, which she catches while out at night unchaperoned with a man at the Roman Coliseum. Literally, “malaria” means “bad air,” a symbol, like the wind in Doubt, of malicious gossip. Like those who were sacrificed in public at the ancient Coliseum, Daisy serves as a modern-day sacrificial victim of social judgment.
Whenever I have taught the book, it has stirred heated discussion, some seeing Daisy as an innocent victim, others seeing her as a shameless “flirt” and “tease,” if not entirely a “slut.” Some readers complain about the ambiguity: “Why can’t he say what he means?” “Why leave us in such doubt?”
Indeed, what is the value of ambiguity and doubt, whether it be in literature or film? My answer is that the fictional situation is a rehearsal, if you will, or reenactment, of our actual life experience, so often full of ambiguity and doubt, despite our frequent, sometimes desperate, clinging to certainty.
Most friends that I talked to about the film thought the priest was guilty, but I was not so sure; indeed, at the end of the film, I leaned toward his innocence, at least in this case.
The film is deliberately ambiguous, as are many great works of literature. I was struck by the theme of gossip and the use of the wind blowing around the autumn leaves as a symbol of suspicious talk, speculation, and allegations about others based on ambiguous appearances.
I was reminded of the 1878 novella Daisy Miller by Henry James about a young American woman in Europe who is destroyed by malicious gossip about her sexual activity, gossip that is based on unconventional, but completely harmless, behavior.
Daisy dies of malaria, which she catches while out at night unchaperoned with a man at the Roman Coliseum. Literally, “malaria” means “bad air,” a symbol, like the wind in Doubt, of malicious gossip. Like those who were sacrificed in public at the ancient Coliseum, Daisy serves as a modern-day sacrificial victim of social judgment.
Whenever I have taught the book, it has stirred heated discussion, some seeing Daisy as an innocent victim, others seeing her as a shameless “flirt” and “tease,” if not entirely a “slut.” Some readers complain about the ambiguity: “Why can’t he say what he means?” “Why leave us in such doubt?”
Indeed, what is the value of ambiguity and doubt, whether it be in literature or film? My answer is that the fictional situation is a rehearsal, if you will, or reenactment, of our actual life experience, so often full of ambiguity and doubt, despite our frequent, sometimes desperate, clinging to certainty.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Heart of Darkness, Apocalypse Now, and The Last King of Scotland
Speaking of Westerners seeking adventure in non-Western countries (see previous post), I recently watched The Last King of Scotland, a film based on the book about Uganda by Giles Foden, and was reminded of the novel Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. When I googled the two titles, I got 12,400 hits. When I googled those two titles along with Apocalypse Now, a contemporary film roughly based on Heart of Darkness, I got 820 hits. Obviously, I am hardly the first to see the parallels between Conrad’s 1899 novel about the Belgian Congo, the 1979 film about the Vietnam War, and the 2006 film about brutal Ugandan dictator Idi Amin.
All three feature a white Western male who goes to a non-Western country and confronts, not only the “darkness” to be found in a foreign land but the darkness to be found in his own heart. Critics have long debated whether Kurtz’s final words “The horror! The horror!” in Heart of Darkness refer to the native culture, European imperialism, human corruption, or all three. Both he and Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now lead Western expeditions into non-Western territories under banners of heroic idealism and proceed to self-destruct as they confront their own roles in the raw exploitation of native resources, culture, and people.
In The Last King of Scotland a Scottish doctor exploits post-colonial Uganda to satisfy his own fantasies of adventure, accidently becomes the private physician to Idi Amin, and finds himself an unwitting accessory to the brutal dictator’s savage murder of his own people.
Despite the differences, all three works dramatize the disillusionment that ensues when the white Western “heroes” discover their own human capacity for corruption and, by implication, the capacity of their Western homelands for exploitation and brutality under the guise of idealism and innocence.
Similarly, Heart of Darkness, a classic Western novel that confronts the universal theme of the darkness in the human heart and the political theme of evil in the heart of Western imperialism, has itself been critiqued as a literary masterpiece that perpetuates the racist attitudes and stereotypes of its day.
To what extent does The Last King of Scotland, by focusing on the horrific acts of Idi Amin, perpetuate the popular and well established Western myth of African savagery? By comparison, The Camel Bookmobile (see previous post) offers a much more balanced view of the non-Western world.
All three feature a white Western male who goes to a non-Western country and confronts, not only the “darkness” to be found in a foreign land but the darkness to be found in his own heart. Critics have long debated whether Kurtz’s final words “The horror! The horror!” in Heart of Darkness refer to the native culture, European imperialism, human corruption, or all three. Both he and Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now lead Western expeditions into non-Western territories under banners of heroic idealism and proceed to self-destruct as they confront their own roles in the raw exploitation of native resources, culture, and people.
In The Last King of Scotland a Scottish doctor exploits post-colonial Uganda to satisfy his own fantasies of adventure, accidently becomes the private physician to Idi Amin, and finds himself an unwitting accessory to the brutal dictator’s savage murder of his own people.
Despite the differences, all three works dramatize the disillusionment that ensues when the white Western “heroes” discover their own human capacity for corruption and, by implication, the capacity of their Western homelands for exploitation and brutality under the guise of idealism and innocence.
Similarly, Heart of Darkness, a classic Western novel that confronts the universal theme of the darkness in the human heart and the political theme of evil in the heart of Western imperialism, has itself been critiqued as a literary masterpiece that perpetuates the racist attitudes and stereotypes of its day.
To what extent does The Last King of Scotland, by focusing on the horrific acts of Idi Amin, perpetuate the popular and well established Western myth of African savagery? By comparison, The Camel Bookmobile (see previous post) offers a much more balanced view of the non-Western world.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Camel Bookmobile
This 2007 novel by Masha Hamilton stirred some debate in my Book Group, mostly over whether pre-literate cultures should be left alone so they can preserve their traditional way of life or whether individuals in those cultures could benefit from access to the opportunities that literacy and formal education can provide in a global society.
Afterwards, I went back to see if I could find a basis for claiming that the novel itself takes a position one way or the other.
The novel does not romanticize the experience of living "close to nature." Its opening chapter dramatizes the attack of a hyena on a toddler in Northeastern Province, Kenya, leaving the child severely disfigured for life. Throughout the novel, the local nomadic tribe in Mididima struggles with hunger and the fear of an oncoming drought. Yet, the tribe and its traditional ways have survived for much longer than most human societies, much as the ubiquitous mosquitoes, referenced in headings before each of the six parts of the book, have survived since long before homo sapiens appeared.
A good case can be made that the novel supports the decision of the tribal leaders to move away from the camel bookmobile, a lending library run by a white, American woman librarian from Brooklyn. Just as the coming drought threatens the physical survival of the tribe, the coming of literacy and exposure to Western culture threatens the survival of tribal traditions. Yet, the American librarian has formed human bonds with members of the tribe, including a romantic bond with a male teacher, whose wife wants a divorce so she can marry someone else. The librarian offers educational opportunities to a young girl who longs to see the outside world and to that disfigured boy who shows a remarkable artistic talent that only the American librarian seems to recognize and value.
The conflict between tradition and change is a major theme of the novel. In the end it seems that tradition wins out, as the American librarian is left grieving the loss of the tribe that has moved away. Yet the seeds of literacy and exposure to the outside world have been planted, and the reader senses that the internal tribal struggle between tradition and change will continue, whether the camel bookmobile finds the tribe in its new location or not.
And so I concluded that the novel takes an ambivalent stance in the debate over preservation of tradition vs. openness to change. For every loss of tradition, there is the possibility of gain in the embrace of new ideas and practices. For every gain in individual and social opportunity there is the loss of traditional stability and cultural cohesion.
The triumph of tradition at the end of the novel is temporary. Change is inevitable and will overtake the tribe eventually. When that happens there will be losses to grieve, but there will also be gains to celebrate.
Afterwards, I went back to see if I could find a basis for claiming that the novel itself takes a position one way or the other.
The novel does not romanticize the experience of living "close to nature." Its opening chapter dramatizes the attack of a hyena on a toddler in Northeastern Province, Kenya, leaving the child severely disfigured for life. Throughout the novel, the local nomadic tribe in Mididima struggles with hunger and the fear of an oncoming drought. Yet, the tribe and its traditional ways have survived for much longer than most human societies, much as the ubiquitous mosquitoes, referenced in headings before each of the six parts of the book, have survived since long before homo sapiens appeared.
A good case can be made that the novel supports the decision of the tribal leaders to move away from the camel bookmobile, a lending library run by a white, American woman librarian from Brooklyn. Just as the coming drought threatens the physical survival of the tribe, the coming of literacy and exposure to Western culture threatens the survival of tribal traditions. Yet, the American librarian has formed human bonds with members of the tribe, including a romantic bond with a male teacher, whose wife wants a divorce so she can marry someone else. The librarian offers educational opportunities to a young girl who longs to see the outside world and to that disfigured boy who shows a remarkable artistic talent that only the American librarian seems to recognize and value.
The conflict between tradition and change is a major theme of the novel. In the end it seems that tradition wins out, as the American librarian is left grieving the loss of the tribe that has moved away. Yet the seeds of literacy and exposure to the outside world have been planted, and the reader senses that the internal tribal struggle between tradition and change will continue, whether the camel bookmobile finds the tribe in its new location or not.
And so I concluded that the novel takes an ambivalent stance in the debate over preservation of tradition vs. openness to change. For every loss of tradition, there is the possibility of gain in the embrace of new ideas and practices. For every gain in individual and social opportunity there is the loss of traditional stability and cultural cohesion.
The triumph of tradition at the end of the novel is temporary. Change is inevitable and will overtake the tribe eventually. When that happens there will be losses to grieve, but there will also be gains to celebrate.
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin
Speaking of the American success story (see previous post), Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography is a classic of the type.
Franklin was one of the first to secularize the American personal narrative, which, whether it took the form of historical adventure (Columbus, John Smith), spiritual autobiography, captivity narrative (see post on Mary Rowlandson), or travel narrative, until the 18th century could not be separated from the religious world view.
While Franklin somewhat perfunctorily invokes the "Creator" and "Providence," his primary focus is on material success in this world, not salvation in the next. He quite explicitly proclaims himself a Deist, not a traditional Christian, and seems to view morality in practical, utilitarian terms, rather than in terms of divine command. He offers himself as a role model and his autobiography as a kind of self-help book for those who want to emulate his success. And success is not the result of God's grace so much as the result of one's own efforts. "God helps those who help themselves" is one of the maxims in Poor Richard's Almanac.
As one of the first, now iconic, American success stories, Franklin establishes the classic formula: poverty and obscurity--hard work and virtue--opportunity--wealth and fame. Franklin did not actually start out in poverty. He was born to a middle class family and was apprenticed to his older brother, a printer. He ran away, though, and did start out in Philadelphia with no home, no job, and just a few pence in his pocket. From there he rose to become a successful businessman, writer, inventor, civic leader, and eventually delegate to the Constitutional Convention and ambassador to France. And, yes, he was very hard-working and ethical. However, he also was very lucky. His Autobiography records as many coincidences in his favor as it documents his work ethic.
As for virtue, he confesses to having frequent "Intrigues with low Women that fell in [his] Way." His "Project of arriving at moral Perfection" is, perhaps, the best known part of the Autobiography. It is a masterwork of subtle satire, revealing both his moral seriousness and his tongue-in-cheek mockery of moral seriousness. What could be less humble than his precept for the virtue of humility: "Imitate Jesus and Socrates"?
The autobiography is a literary form that allows writers to present themeselves as they want to be seen rather than as they truly are, though a certain amount of candor is necessary to establish credibility. And Franklin is very successful in creating an image of himself that has stood the test of time.
Franklin was one of the first to secularize the American personal narrative, which, whether it took the form of historical adventure (Columbus, John Smith), spiritual autobiography, captivity narrative (see post on Mary Rowlandson), or travel narrative, until the 18th century could not be separated from the religious world view.
While Franklin somewhat perfunctorily invokes the "Creator" and "Providence," his primary focus is on material success in this world, not salvation in the next. He quite explicitly proclaims himself a Deist, not a traditional Christian, and seems to view morality in practical, utilitarian terms, rather than in terms of divine command. He offers himself as a role model and his autobiography as a kind of self-help book for those who want to emulate his success. And success is not the result of God's grace so much as the result of one's own efforts. "God helps those who help themselves" is one of the maxims in Poor Richard's Almanac.
As one of the first, now iconic, American success stories, Franklin establishes the classic formula: poverty and obscurity--hard work and virtue--opportunity--wealth and fame. Franklin did not actually start out in poverty. He was born to a middle class family and was apprenticed to his older brother, a printer. He ran away, though, and did start out in Philadelphia with no home, no job, and just a few pence in his pocket. From there he rose to become a successful businessman, writer, inventor, civic leader, and eventually delegate to the Constitutional Convention and ambassador to France. And, yes, he was very hard-working and ethical. However, he also was very lucky. His Autobiography records as many coincidences in his favor as it documents his work ethic.
As for virtue, he confesses to having frequent "Intrigues with low Women that fell in [his] Way." His "Project of arriving at moral Perfection" is, perhaps, the best known part of the Autobiography. It is a masterwork of subtle satire, revealing both his moral seriousness and his tongue-in-cheek mockery of moral seriousness. What could be less humble than his precept for the virtue of humility: "Imitate Jesus and Socrates"?
The autobiography is a literary form that allows writers to present themeselves as they want to be seen rather than as they truly are, though a certain amount of candor is necessary to establish credibility. And Franklin is very successful in creating an image of himself that has stood the test of time.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Raisin in the Sun
The other day I attended a meeting where people of color talked about problems they face living in the local community. They told stories of their experiences with individual and stystemic racism in the schools, the job market, and the criminal justice system; limited access to public transportation; lack of adequate and affordable housing; and barriers in the health care system.
Having grown up in the South during the Civil Rights Movement and having seen significant progress in race relations during my lifetime, I found it extremely disheartening to hear these stories of racial prejudice, cultural ignorance, and institutional norms that continue to favor whites over people of color. It almost felt like we were living in an unofficial and informal system of apartheid. It was hard to believe that one year ago we were celebrating the inauguration of our first US President of color.
The 1957 play A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry seems a lot less dated to me after hearing these stories. When it opened in 1959, it was the first play by a black woman ever produced on Broadway. Its dramatization of an African American family struggling with economic deprivation and aspiration, racial discrimination, cultural pride, and black manhood "sometime between WWII" and the late 1950's seems painfully similar to stories I heard from people of color a few days ago in 2010.
For all the progress I have seen in the last fifty years, it seems there has been just as much persistence of the same old patterns.
The title of Hansberry's play comes from a poem by Langston Hughes published in 1951:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Americans love the redemptive narrative and will prefer the stories of emancipation from slavery, of civil rights victories, and of the achievement of the American dream by such as Barak Obama, but the tragic stories of dreams deferred are just as much a part of our history and culture. We just don't want to hear them.
A Raisin in the Sun is itself a redemptive narrative. We could no doubt never have made the progress we have on racial issues without hope and faith on the part of people of color, but all Americans need to remember that for every triumphant story there are hundreds of tragic ones; for every American success story there are hundreds of unsung stories of American failure.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson
In a previous post (see The Danish Girl), the captivity narrative was cited as one example of the American story of redemption. Mary Rowlandson's bestselling personal narrative of this popular genre could also be studied as a spiritual autobiography. The wife of a minister, Mary Rowlandson and three of her children, were captured by Narragansett Indians on February 10, 1676, during King Philip's War. The youngest child, six-year-old Sarah, died within a week. Separated from her other two children, Rowlandson was finally ransomed on May 2, 1676; several weeks later Joseph, 14, and Mary, 10, were also released.
In her account, Rowlandson attributes her captivity to punishment from God for such sins as smoking and to a test of her faith. She holds fast to her Bible (which one of the Narragansetts had restored to her) and sprinkles her account liberally throughout with scriptural quotations. The narrative takes her from captivity, through suffering (especially the death of her child), remorse, faithfulness, and finally restoration to freedom, which she interprets as proof of God's forgiveness and blessing.
During her nearly three months of captivity, she complains bitterly of the food she is given to eat and other physical conditions of her ordeal. Every event is interpreted through a Biblical lens and the doctrine of Providence, that is, God controls history and all events are the result of His will. Though He puts His faithful to the test, ultimately He rewards His followers and punishes ungodly heathens. With this world view, she has a tough time explaining why the "heathens" manage to escape their English pursuers time after time. And when the "heathens" behave kindly toward her, it is not because of their own inherent capacity for goodness but because God was protecting her and made them do it. It is never quite clear why God gets the credit for their good behavior, but their bad behavior is their own fault, the result of their "heathenism."
The captivity narrative is a uniquely American genre and enjoyed considerable popularity both in North American and in Europe into the nineteenth century. It became secularized in such frontier novels as The Last of the Mohicans and other Leatherstocking Tales by James Fenimore Cooper, not to mention Hope Leslie by Catharine Maria Sedgwick. Though Cooper and Sedgwick reinforced many negative stereotypes of native people, they were much more sympathetic than Rowlandson. The ultimate irony though was the use of the genre by African American authors of the slave narrative (see previous post on Frederick Douglass), in which white Christians like Mary Rowlandson replace the ungodly "heathens" as the cruel captors.
Mary Rowlandson can be viewed as a heroic, Christian survivor of a horrific captivity during a brutal war, or as an ethnocentric white, Christian supremecist during early colonial America, or both. Her narrative helped raise the profile of white women in an oppressively patriarchal culture AND it helped reinforce Eurocentric oppression of native people--one example of many in the long history of American contradictions.
In her account, Rowlandson attributes her captivity to punishment from God for such sins as smoking and to a test of her faith. She holds fast to her Bible (which one of the Narragansetts had restored to her) and sprinkles her account liberally throughout with scriptural quotations. The narrative takes her from captivity, through suffering (especially the death of her child), remorse, faithfulness, and finally restoration to freedom, which she interprets as proof of God's forgiveness and blessing.
During her nearly three months of captivity, she complains bitterly of the food she is given to eat and other physical conditions of her ordeal. Every event is interpreted through a Biblical lens and the doctrine of Providence, that is, God controls history and all events are the result of His will. Though He puts His faithful to the test, ultimately He rewards His followers and punishes ungodly heathens. With this world view, she has a tough time explaining why the "heathens" manage to escape their English pursuers time after time. And when the "heathens" behave kindly toward her, it is not because of their own inherent capacity for goodness but because God was protecting her and made them do it. It is never quite clear why God gets the credit for their good behavior, but their bad behavior is their own fault, the result of their "heathenism."
The captivity narrative is a uniquely American genre and enjoyed considerable popularity both in North American and in Europe into the nineteenth century. It became secularized in such frontier novels as The Last of the Mohicans and other Leatherstocking Tales by James Fenimore Cooper, not to mention Hope Leslie by Catharine Maria Sedgwick. Though Cooper and Sedgwick reinforced many negative stereotypes of native people, they were much more sympathetic than Rowlandson. The ultimate irony though was the use of the genre by African American authors of the slave narrative (see previous post on Frederick Douglass), in which white Christians like Mary Rowlandson replace the ungodly "heathens" as the cruel captors.
Mary Rowlandson can be viewed as a heroic, Christian survivor of a horrific captivity during a brutal war, or as an ethnocentric white, Christian supremecist during early colonial America, or both. Her narrative helped raise the profile of white women in an oppressively patriarchal culture AND it helped reinforce Eurocentric oppression of native people--one example of many in the long history of American contradictions.
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