Thursday, February 24, 2011

Week 5, Fiction -- Contexts. Flannery O'Connor, C. P. Gilman

NOTES ON CONTEXTS: FLANNERY O'CONNOR AND CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN

Chapter 7. Exploring Contexts — The Author's Work: Flannery O'Connor (294-99). Flannery O'Connor. "Good Country People" (310-23). Mary Gordon. From "Flannery's Kiss" (337-39). Eileen Pollack. From "Flannery O'Connor and the New Criticism" (343-45). Chapter 8. Cultural and Historical Contexts — Women in Turn-of-the-Century America" (347-52). Charlotte Perkins Gilman. "The Yellow Wallpaper" (354-65).

NOTES ON FLANNERY O'CONNOR'S LIFE (1925-64), WORK, AND "GOOD COUNTRY PEOPLE"

O'Connor's work invites biography and psychological study because she was indebted to the formalist notions of her teachers at the U of Iowa Writing Program, R.P. Warren among them. New Criticism foregrounds the medium of language, and somewhat de-emphasizes biographical, historical, and other dimensions of artistic creation and analysis. Above all, it borrows from Romanticism an insistence that you simply can't treat artistic form like a container into which you can then pour some meaning or content, and afterwards draw a little cartoon bubble outside the container and write the extractable "moral" therein. That's blasphemy, as far as Brooks, Warren, and Company are concerned. Why the insistence? Well, I suppose they're fending off marginalization at the hands of scientific discourse and methods, which were becoming dominant even in their day: so while the study of literature shouldn't be thought of as strictly "scientific," it nonetheless has a kind of rigorousness of method based on an intense focus on the complexities and rich potential of the literary medium: language not in its descriptive or dictionary dimension, but in its connotative, poetical dimension. There's a lot of pedagogical and general value in taking such a stance -- it's better than simply writing off literary works as social and historical documents with no further interest. If you know how to read sensitively, chances are that you've been brought up in some approximation of the New Critical interpretive tradition: you've learned how to attend to the particularities, the twists and turns, of language itself. Not a bad thing to be able to do, even if it's much undervalued in these days.

But with regard to staying with the text, as the old experiment goes, "Don't think of a golden mountain or a unicorn." And voilà, you think of a golden mountain and a unicorn.  And that's for the best since when a method hardens into dogma, it loses most of its value.

For one thing, O'Connor writes about her own milieu, the places where she grew up and spent her life. She became ill with lupus, an autoimmune disease, and didn't get to travel all over the world the way so many authors have done. She lived with her Southern aristocrat mother in Georgia most of her life, and may well have felt some resentment about that.

Her work is suffused with and structured by her Catholic religious beliefs, though not in a heavy-handed or didactic way because she's skilled enough to avoid tipping her hand as an author. But she focuses pretty intently on what has to happen for a given eccentric, defiant character to become open to redemption, open to receiving grace from God. O'Connor is clearly aware of her designs on an audience, formalist ideals or no.

We should have a look at her critical principles, which I should have assigned since they're only a few pages long in our excerpts. Then we can ask the following: if you had to go against the New Critical grain and extract a theme or a moral from this story, what would it be? And then to make amends to good old Robert Penn Warren and Cleanth Brooks (the leading lights of New Criticism), how does O'Connor enlist her skill to make our theme/moral seem kind of hollow, as if we really shouldn't be extracting, abstracting, and separating out chunks of meaning that way? How is the point deeply embedded in the tale itsef?

"Good Country Folk" displays O'Connor's mordant sense of humor – "Joy-Hulga's" wooden leg is a crutch, and of course that's sort of what a prosthesis is in the first place: something to lean on in place of something you've lost. So while it may be a metaphor for Joy's atrophying or wooden soul, there's something literal about it, too: her crutch is a crutch! The story's title invokes a Southern category and dwells in it, questions it. I think the spiritual struggle centers on Joy and is cast in terms of a medium-range con job (a long con involves making the sucker think he or she is actually in on a scam): Joy thinks she is more sophisticated than others and can therefore seduce the simple-minded Bible salesman, but the fellow has his own con job going, his own sexual/fetishistic agenda. In his own strange way, he's a predator. Joy the philosopher didn't see that coming. The loss of Joy's leg is probably the catalytic "violence" in this story – when the salesman takes her leg, she is left raw, incomplete, open – though not in a simple-hearted state of innocence because, I suppose, she's too jaded for that. One thing that comes through is the inadequacy of fallen human cleverness, of intellect as a means of asserting one's own independence or self-sufficiency.

Notes on Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1925-64), work, and "good country people"

The story is a testament to the constrictive, definitional power of ideology.  The medical-psych profession is a system of words and practices that go together to define human nature into male and female, and then to call out or provoke behaviors that can be classified and used as a means of control.  (This is why Foucault says ideology works more by eliciting and naming than by sheer repression, though obviously both may play a role.)  The unnamed woman's husband is downright unctuous in his good intentions.  Well, that's what ideology does: it makes oppression seem only natural and right.  You can torture Aztecs and Mayans and destroy their culture while believing fervently that you're saving souls for Christ, as the Conquistadores did, and you can drive an isolated woman utterly mad by refusing her any creative or behavioral outlet, by confining her to her role as homemaker and wife and mother, and by subtly convincing her that she's somehow a bad person for wanting to pursue a career.  Not to get this point, by the way, is to impoverish your ability to analyze and talk about social issues and political events in a convincing manner.  I mean, no doubt Mubarak and Qaddafi and other chaps in their leadership positions believe protesting citizens are "greasy rats," traitors, or simply misguided children who need to be punished and controlled lest chaos ensue.  No doubt certain American governors believe they're doing right by their states when they try to gut the power of public and private employee unions; viewed from another angle, their actions may well appear to do the bidding of ruthless corporate interests who hate the very name "union" because they want all employees isolated and completely powerless to demand things like a safe workplace and reasonable wages and benefits.  The power of ideology is that it lets you do bad things righteously, and to ignore what's really happening – it's easier and more "useful" to replace reality with orderly visions that suit your moral and economic imperatives.  And it often works for quite a long time.  One thing that literature teaches us to watch out for is exactly this peril of becoming the thrall of ideology.  Shows the process of building up illusions and then stripping them, along with the cost of that stripping away and even an assessment of the extent to which it's achievable.

A brief quotation from S. Weir Mitchell, creator of the so-called "rest cure":
American woman is, to speak plainly, too often physically unfit for her duties as woman, and is perhaps of all civilized females the least qualified to undertake those weightier tasks which tax so heavily the nervous system of man. She is not fairly up to what nature asks from her as wife and mother. How will she sustain herself under the pressure of those yet more exacting duties which nowadays she is eager to share with the man? (Mitchell 141)
For further discussion, refer to the audio mp3 file of my comments in class, available from www.ajdrake.com/wiki.

Week 4, Fiction -- Symbol and Figurative Language, Theme

Chapter 5. Symbol and Figurative Language. Read this chapter's introductory material (208-13). Edwige Danticat. "A Wall of Fire Rising" (239-49). Chapter 6. Theme: read this chapter's introductory material (251-54). Stephen Crane. "The Open Boat" (255-71). Gabriel García Marquez. "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" (271-76).

Go over a few of the main points in the introduction: round or flat characters, dynamic or static. Aristotle's drama theory has it that action reveals character, but of course in modern times, we've come to focus on character as primary, not secondary as he would have told us it should be. That's bourgeois individualism at work, as opposed to a more ancient, collective way of defining the individual person as the sum of his or her functions and responsibilities in a community. But note that these two "ways" still operate side by side – we know that our striving for full individuality is partly an illusion, and good authors know that, too.
Round isn't necessarily better, though sometimes it is. Roundness doesn't always connote the scriptor's empathy or agreement with a given character – you get a pretty strong sense of who Madame Bovary is, but in the end her stab at full individuality seems to get crushed by external circumstances and moral standards. Maybe the same goes for Anna Karenina, though I get the sense that Tolstoy is sympathetic to her plight and her desires. (Levin in War and Peace an example of a dynamic character even though a relatively minor one.) It's worth keeping in mind that sometimes we express our "individuality" in strikingly banale, conformist ways – and authors can take any number of views of such attempts, no?

The authors mention Dickens' caricatures – parodic presentations can sometimes "limn" people in a way that makes us understand them better than if they were served up "round" in all their rich sordidness or glory. You can learn a lot from exaggerations and outlines, or silhouettes, and it's fairly easy because there aren't many details to sort through. More broadly, the fact that a master artist can create a character with a few strokes of the pen or keyboard speaks to the power of the imaginings, expectations, and assumptions we ourselves bring to any reading we do. It doesn't take a million words to bring the sense of a person to life for us.

One of the main ways we get a handle on "character" in fiction and even in real life is classification, which in truth is pretty much the way we deal with everything. Nietzsche on the way substantives invariably deceive us; well, we may flatter ourseves that we judge people by their actions, but it seems more accurate to say that we mostly delineate people as "who they are" by means of categories: we make them fit into some kind of pattern or group. Nearly everybodys see the problems that can arise from this operation of defining and reducing to order the acts and utterances and gestures that make us who we are. Race and ethnicity are among the most troubling of all categories, and Morrison's story is dedicated to making things hard for readers with regard to that category. On the one hand, the story's backdrop demands that we consider race – Civil Rights, busing, and so forth – but on the other, it at least partly frustrates our attempts to sort out "who's who." It makes race seem like a preoccupation, an interpretive device – but that's sort of the point, I think. We keep wanting to blurt out, "Oh, so Twyla's black or Roberta's mother must be white because –".

Group Work:

Freytag: exposition, rising action, climax or turning point, falling action, conclusion. Try that at least briefly, then move on to the main article, which is to consider how best to come at the issue of character delineation and interpretation in Toni Morrison's short story: given that Morrison more or less brackets out race as a defining characteristic, how does she make her narrator define Twyla and Roberta? What do we learn about their situations their habits of thought, speech and action, that makes them come to life for us? And finally, what can we discern about race in this story? Is it completely gone, or are there some moments that seem fairly straightforward in that regard?

Setting (163-69) and Anton Chekhov's "The Lady with the Dog" (169-80).

Go over the highlights in the intro briefly. Then

The setting seems to be important because both characters are in a liminal state, somewhere between their normal, anchored state and free-floating or open to experience. Place and experience seem closely interrelated here, though one doesn't want to be rigid about such assertions. I mean that sometimes we can say, "this or that experience was made possible or encouraged by this or that locale," but for me, this story is at least as much about character as place. There's a defamiliarization effect to consider – the male protagonist finds Yalta a suitable place to seek an affair with this attractive young woman, Anna Sergeyevna, then finds his old haunts in Moscow at first comforting, then discomfiting when the memory of her doesn't fade as he had expected it to.

Group Work:

There are three main settings – the resort locale Yalta, the capital Moscow where Gurov lives, and S--, where Anna Sergeyevna lives with her husband of two years. What does each setting open up and shut down for the main characters – what does each setting encourage, discourage, or change for them as they pursue and reflect upon their lives and their mutual affair? At what points does the narrator slow down and offer us a strong or dilatory description of the surroundings, and why so at that point?

For further discussion, refer to the audio mp3 file of my comments in class, available from www.ajdrake.com/wiki.

Week 2, Fiction -- Plot, Narration

NOTES ON FICTION: PLOT, NARRATION.  WHARTON, POE, KINCAID

Chapter 1: Plot. Read this chapter's introductory material (50-58). Edith Wharton. "Roman Fever" (85-95). Chapter 2. Narration and Point of View: read this chapter's introductory material (96-100). Edgar Allan Poe. "The Cask of Amontillado" (101-05). Jamaica Kincaid. "Girl" (116-17).

Edith Wharton – try rearranging this after the Freytag model. There's an unfolding plot which yields an insight that revives a past conflict and entails the revelation of two perspectives on a secret.  The two women remain civil at the end, but there's no final resolution.  Not much happens in the usual sense – they are sitting on a terrace, with Grace knitting contentedly and Mrs. Slade brooding.  Silence opens up a space for contemplation about themselves and their relationship.  Slade has supposedly led the more exciting life since she was the wife of a celebrity corporate lawyer, but clearly she's dissatisfied.

Grace Ansley's daughter Barbara, or Babs, is the more "brilliant."  The implication is that this is actually her daughter by Delphin Slade, as we find out at the end.

Alida Slade's daughter Jenny is "perfect" but doesn't offer an exciting futurity to her mother, either.  Not a project, I suppose.

In the end, Mrs. Slade's dissatisfaction has ended up reordering her sense of the past and its meaning.

A competition to make life mean something; both are now superfluous women, but one clearly has the edge over the other: Ansley.  That's the surprise revealed towards the end.


For further discussion, refer to the audio mp3 file of my comments in class, available from www.ajdrake.com/wiki.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Week 3, Fiction -- Character and Setting

E300 WEEK 3. 02/09. Wed. Chapter 3. Character (119-26). Toni Morrison. "Recitatif" (139-52). Chapter 4. Setting: read this chapter's introductory material (163-69). Anton Chekhov. "The Lady with the Dog" (169-80).

Character (119-26) and Toni Morrison's "Recitatif" (139-52)

Go over a few of the main points in the introduction: round or flat characters, dynamic or static. Aristotle's drama theory has it that action reveals character, but of course in modern times, we've come to focus on character as primary, not secondary as he would have told us it should be. That's bourgeois individualism at work, as opposed to a more ancient, collective way of defining the individual person as the sum of his or her functions and responsibilities in a community. But note that these two "ways" still operate side by side – we know that our striving for full individuality is partly an illusion, and good authors know that, too.

Round isn't necessarily better, though sometimes it is. Roundness doesn't always connote the scriptor's empathy or agreement with a given character – you get a pretty strong sense of who Madame Bovary is, but in the end her stab at full individuality seems to get crushed by external circumstances and moral standards. Maybe the same goes for Anna Karenina, though I get the sense that Tolstoy is sympathetic to her plight and her desires. (Levin in War and Peace an example of a dynamic character even though a relatively minor one.) It's worth keeping in mind that sometimes we express our "individuality" in strikingly banale, conformist ways – and authors can take any number of views of such attempts, no?

The authors mention Dickens' caricatures – parodic presentations can sometimes "limn" people in a way that makes us understand them better than if they were served up "round" in all their rich sordidness or glory. You can learn a lot from exaggerations and outlines, or silhouettes, and it's fairly easy because there aren't many details to sort through. More broadly, the fact that a master artist can create a character with a few strokes of the pen or keyboard speaks to the power of the imaginings, expectations, and assumptions we ourselves bring to any reading we do. It doesn't take a million words to bring the sense of a person to life for us.

One of the main ways we get a handle on "character" in fiction and even in real life is classification, which in truth is pretty much the way we deal with everything. Nietzsche on the way substantives invariably deceive us; well, we may flatter ourseves that we judge people by their actions, but it seems more accurate to say that we mostly delineate people as "who they are" by means of categories: we make them fit into some kind of pattern or group. Nearly everybodys see the problems that can arise from this operation of defining and reducing to order the acts and utterances and gestures that make us who we are. Race and ethnicity are among the most troubling of all categories, and Morrison's story is dedicated to making things hard for readers with regard to that category. On the one hand, the story's backdrop demands that we consider race – Civil Rights, busing, and so forth – but on the other, it at least partly frustrates our attempts to sort out "who's who." It makes race seem like a preoccupation, an interpretive device – but that's sort of the point, I think. We keep wanting to blurt out, "Oh, so Twyla's black or Roberta's mother must be white because –".

Group Work 15 minutes:

Freytag: exposition, rising action, climax or turning point, falling action, conclusion. Try that at least briefly, then move on to the main article, which is to consider how best to come at the issue of character delineation and interpretation in Toni Morrison's short story: given that Morrison more or less brackets out race as a defining characteristic, how does she make her narrator define Twyla and Roberta? What do we learn about their situations their habits of thought, speech and action, that makes them come to life for us? And finally, what can you discern about race in this story? Is it completely gone, or are there some moments that seem fairly straightforward in that regard?
Setting (163-69) and Anton Chekhov's "The Lady with the Dog" (169-80).

Go over the highlights in the intro briefly. Then

The setting seems to be important because both characters are sort of in a liminal state, somewhere between their normal, anchored state and free-floating or open to experience. Place and experience seem closely interrelated here, though one doesn't want to be rigid about such assertions. I mean that sometimes we can say, "this or that experience was made possible or encouraged by this or that locale," but for me, this story is at least as much about character as place. There's a defamiliarization effect to consider – the male protagonist finds Yalta a suitable place to seek an affair with this attractive young woman, Anna Sergeyevna, then finds his old haunts in Moscow at first comforting, then discomfiting when the memory of her doesn't fade as he had expected it to.

Group Work 15 minutes:

There are three main settings – the resort locale Yalta, the capital Moscow where Gurov lives, and S--, where Anna Sergeyevna lives with her husband of two years. What does each setting open up and shut down for the main characters – what does each setting encourage, discourage, or change for them as they pursue and reflect upon their lives and their mutual affair? At what points does the narrator slow down and offer us a strong or dilatory description of the surroundings, and why so at that point?