This piece, "The Canon?" presents the view of the relativist literary critic. “Who determines a classic?” it asks; “If it pulls at my heart and brings me joy, then let [it] be brought forth and my ignorance be dashed on the rocks.” According to this author there is no set definition of what makes a piece of literature classic, let alone ‘good’. He continues, saying “Authors are praise-worthy and great not because of awards, but of the heart and understanding they have put into their books, poems, stories, etc.” This is an interesting point, but one that I believe is fundamentally contradictory to the concept of a literary canon.
It is probably true that to many authors, James Joyce excluded, awards and public acclaim are generally regarded as worthless fluff. Writing, as is any form of art, is primarily a mode of expression for the author’s thoughts and emotions. To the author of this piece, all writing which has been infused with the artist’s heart and understanding should always be regarded as praise-worthy, even great. Yet he goes on to state that the beauty of literature loses its presence as it ages, and becomes eventually stagnant. “Going from these well-known authors to these up and coming [authors] is only natural”, he says. As I interpret this, it seems to say that essentially there comes a time when the viewer of literary art must admit that he has been viewing the same beauty for long enough, and must take up an exploration to find new beauties in writing. At these times, in order to stay up-to-date his personal canon must change. If beauty in writing is thus fleeting and not classifiable as a pertinent quality of canonization, what aspects of writing are?
According to this author the true beauty of good literature, above all else, is cultural relevance: “New voices,” he claims, “[which bring greater exposure of ideas, backgrounds, and lives] must be heard.” Consistent with the relativist concept of beauty in art, it matters little whether these voices are generally regarded as good and meaningful; as fillers of the void of cultural irrelevance left by the fleeting texts of old, they should be studied because they are new and will presumably be more positively applicable than bygone texts written by bygone artists. As this author says, “Our professors’ [choosing of new works], [we must trust] to help us become better people.” Here I do tend to agree, as I still trust the doctorate degrees of my professors. However, the continuance of this worship of modern writing can become a concept tortured with abuse to imply that, ‘Old ideas, because of their cultural irrelevance, are no longer worth reading. They do not contain heart and understanding; they cannot make us think; and therefore, they cannot make us better people.’ The author of this piece of course does not say this, yet his romanticism of modern writing essentially implies this continuance. Cultural relevance as a valid quality of canonization is therefore flawed as well.
I hold that there is more to ‘classic’ or ‘canon-quality’ literature than artists’ application of heart and understanding and cultural relevance. Lasting beauty exists in literature just as it exists in other forms of art. Great works of literary art are those which best display the most artistic qualities of writing: use of creative technique, balance between intended meaning and allowance for interpretation, creation of novel ideas or concepts whose application spans generations, and others. A canon is not just a collection of all the literature that has ever been given “heart and understanding”. Rather, it is a collection of the best of it. Cultural or personal relevance might be an important factor to some degree, but there is more to canon-quality literature than mere newness. I believe that relativism in literary criticism misses this important aspect of literature.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Barring all pretension...
The question of canonicity as it relates to Wabash is multi-dimensional. The question of what qualifies a work as “great” and worthy of joining the coveted and highly esteemed Great Books List, is separate from the secondary question of which of these supposed great texts should be included in upper level senior Colloquium curriculum. Neither of these questions provides straightforward answers.
The first question should be assessed through blind eyes. Never in the equation should enter race, gender, or any other social construct. The debate of great literature, I believe, should have nothing to do with authorship. In the best sense of things, the fact that the majority of canonized works are written by white males should be a mere coincidence (although whether or not this is the case is legitimately debatable).
A piece of literature is canon-quality if it, well, is canon-quality, and if it reserves this mark over the test of time. If over time its applause fades and its quality turns debatable, its qualification for canonization should obviously be put in dire limbo. The test of time and hot debate among literary elite, a group in which I would include many Ph. D. professors at Wabash, ensures the integrity of the great works canon and keeps it from becoming painfully stagnant in changing times.
It’s a different conversation that surrounds the debate of what canonized works should be included in the senior Colloquium curriculum. This discussion should also have nothing to do with authorship, but rather with which canonized works are most worth the worn-out senior’s careful reading through and studying. By the time the spring semester of their senior year comes around, many students might agree that they have close-read enough random books and put up with enough random discussion through their previous seven semesters, that if their senior seminar proves no different, they, like the author of this Bachelor article, would not be very excited about it at all. However, it shows a remarkable lack of insight to think that this is all senior seminar amounts to and reflects a pretentious ignorance that is, in fact, enraging to many Colloquium professors.
I, too, might not like the thought of professors picking out for me the books that they think I should read, especially in my senior Great Works Colloquium, unless I have first learned the value in surrendering my childish arrogance. If I consistently believe that I have somehow attained the rare ability to pick through the annals of time and genres of all sorts and know the essence of a great work when I see one, and have the enlightened insight to know which of these texts are most worthy of my honored position as a pompous second-semester senior, something along my education track has gone terribly wrong.
Hopefully by the end of my college career I will have come to appreciate more fully the knowledge and insight of my Ph. D. professors. This is, at least, the hope.
The first question should be assessed through blind eyes. Never in the equation should enter race, gender, or any other social construct. The debate of great literature, I believe, should have nothing to do with authorship. In the best sense of things, the fact that the majority of canonized works are written by white males should be a mere coincidence (although whether or not this is the case is legitimately debatable).
A piece of literature is canon-quality if it, well, is canon-quality, and if it reserves this mark over the test of time. If over time its applause fades and its quality turns debatable, its qualification for canonization should obviously be put in dire limbo. The test of time and hot debate among literary elite, a group in which I would include many Ph. D. professors at Wabash, ensures the integrity of the great works canon and keeps it from becoming painfully stagnant in changing times.
It’s a different conversation that surrounds the debate of what canonized works should be included in the senior Colloquium curriculum. This discussion should also have nothing to do with authorship, but rather with which canonized works are most worth the worn-out senior’s careful reading through and studying. By the time the spring semester of their senior year comes around, many students might agree that they have close-read enough random books and put up with enough random discussion through their previous seven semesters, that if their senior seminar proves no different, they, like the author of this Bachelor article, would not be very excited about it at all. However, it shows a remarkable lack of insight to think that this is all senior seminar amounts to and reflects a pretentious ignorance that is, in fact, enraging to many Colloquium professors.
I, too, might not like the thought of professors picking out for me the books that they think I should read, especially in my senior Great Works Colloquium, unless I have first learned the value in surrendering my childish arrogance. If I consistently believe that I have somehow attained the rare ability to pick through the annals of time and genres of all sorts and know the essence of a great work when I see one, and have the enlightened insight to know which of these texts are most worthy of my honored position as a pompous second-semester senior, something along my education track has gone terribly wrong.
Hopefully by the end of my college career I will have come to appreciate more fully the knowledge and insight of my Ph. D. professors. This is, at least, the hope.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Poetic Utility of Language
In doing a close textual analysis of Toomer’s poem “Georgia Dusk”, I was struck immediately by the poem’s remarkable display of utility of language. I became increasingly aware of the consistently careful choice of words, and the level of attention the poet must certainly have paid to the seemingly minor language details of non-rhyming sounds in sentences and the mere spelling of words, all of which I will later explain in greater detail.
Although this masterful use of language became apparent to me through this piece, it first caught my eye while I was reading over the first lines of “Reapers”, another famous Toomer piece:
“Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes…” (1, 2)
Toomer’s powerful use of alliteration here reinforces the underlying tone of reapers’ blood-stained, slicing scythes. This prepared me as I then turned to “Georgia Dusk” to read with eyes aware and ready to notice any more of the poet’s other such subtle uses of language.
I began noticing instances of pleasurably poetic non-rhyming sounds, such as in line 2 of the first stanza, “…too indolent to hold”, and in the fourth stanza, “Sawdust pile…/Curls up…/Where only chips and stumps…/The solid proof…” The use of language thus creates a hidden fluidity of motion that the casual reader likely will not pick up.
Toomer also plays with similar spelling in his words, to a similar affect. In stanza 3 he toys around with words containing double ls.
“The sawmill blows its whistle…/And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill/Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill…”
I find this use of consonance terribly clever.
And further, in the sixth stanza once again he plays with spelling, using in quick succession
“…the pine trees are guitars/Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain…”
Notice once again the repetition of double letters in these words, here a nifty combination of consonance and assonance.
Although the clever play of sounds in this poem is not so noticeable in reading as the alliteration seen in “Reapers”, it certainly adds a similarly subtle sense of poetic flow to the greater rhythm of the piece.
Although this masterful use of language became apparent to me through this piece, it first caught my eye while I was reading over the first lines of “Reapers”, another famous Toomer piece:
“Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes…” (1, 2)
Toomer’s powerful use of alliteration here reinforces the underlying tone of reapers’ blood-stained, slicing scythes. This prepared me as I then turned to “Georgia Dusk” to read with eyes aware and ready to notice any more of the poet’s other such subtle uses of language.
I began noticing instances of pleasurably poetic non-rhyming sounds, such as in line 2 of the first stanza, “…too indolent to hold”, and in the fourth stanza, “Sawdust pile…/Curls up…/Where only chips and stumps…/The solid proof…” The use of language thus creates a hidden fluidity of motion that the casual reader likely will not pick up.
Toomer also plays with similar spelling in his words, to a similar affect. In stanza 3 he toys around with words containing double ls.
“The sawmill blows its whistle…/And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill/Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill…”
I find this use of consonance terribly clever.
And further, in the sixth stanza once again he plays with spelling, using in quick succession
“…the pine trees are guitars/Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain…”
Notice once again the repetition of double letters in these words, here a nifty combination of consonance and assonance.
Although the clever play of sounds in this poem is not so noticeable in reading as the alliteration seen in “Reapers”, it certainly adds a similarly subtle sense of poetic flow to the greater rhythm of the piece.
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