With Odysseus's return, the story is getting more and more gripping. Everything about his return is designed not to repeat the fate of Agamemnon, who was killed by his wife's lover, in some accounts, and by Klytemnestra herself, in other accounts. I don't think Odysseus expects Penelope to turn against him--but perhaps, wily as he is, he does not even take that for granted, but uses his days as a spy in his own home, to find out what she--and her serving girls--think about Odysseus and the suitors. All in pursuit of vengeance.
The book ends with an absolute blood bath.
Although I find revenge a despicable and destructive motive, both in personal relationships and politics, I am quite aware that there have been times when I wanted badly to avenge myself and where I indulged in fantasies of getting back at someone who had injured or somehow humiliated me. I see the attraction, even addiction, to revenge: is it about justice? Is it an archaic desire for a kind of catharsis, where you want to purge yourself of your violent hate of someone by hurting them in turn?
Now, as someone who has had to keep peace in a family, between friends, and, to some extent, at work, I recoil from vengeful impulses. I acknowledge their existince and then dismiss them (or try to dismiss them).
What i notice in The Odyssey, however, is that the Gods are fully involved in retributive justice, in revenge. Athene makes sure that the suitors behave more and more outrageously, almost as if she is worried that Odysseus's and Telemachus's violent anger might slacken, especially since some of the suitors, like Antinoos, are thoughtful and, it seems, "not so bad":
And Athene by no means allowed the bold suitors
To refrain from grievous outrage, so that still more pain
Might enter the heart of Odysseus (Book 20, page 226, lines 284-286).
I wonder to what extent such retributive justice still shapes contemporary politics and interpersonal relationships. Does it? And if so, how? And is that entirely a bad thing (as I tend to think)?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Homer's men dance and weep
Something that really struck me reading The Odyssey this time is the description of the young Phaeacians dancing (book VII). I remember going to Greek restaurants as a young woman (in Berlin) and being delighted by the dancing that sometime took place late at night: men in groups, their arms on each others' shoulders, dancing in a circle, starting our slow and becoming faster and faster. Women would participate, too, but even then I understood that in traditional Greek society, certain dances were danced by men alone.
In The Odyssey, dancing is part of the athletic games the Phaeacians put on to entertain their guest.
I am also interested in the many times that Odysseus and Telemachus are shown to weep; and while they conceal their weeping, nobody seems to think such weeping is "unmanly." There is indeed one time when Odysseus is, in his weeping, compared to a woman, a woman who weeps over her fallen husband and who is captured by the enemy (book VIII, p. 90). In other words, a woman who suffers precisely the fate that the Achaians brought on Troy, when they killed the Trojan men, destroyed the city, and took the women as slaves. This is curious to me, since you would expect that in as patriarchal a world as that of Homer's Odyssey, any comparison to women's behavior would be viewed as emasculating, or at least feminizing. But in this instance--and in others I have sinced encountered--the same is true. Perhaps there's a difference between being directly compared to a woman and simile in which a man's feelings are likened to those of a woman.
In The Odyssey, dancing is part of the athletic games the Phaeacians put on to entertain their guest.
I am also interested in the many times that Odysseus and Telemachus are shown to weep; and while they conceal their weeping, nobody seems to think such weeping is "unmanly." There is indeed one time when Odysseus is, in his weeping, compared to a woman, a woman who weeps over her fallen husband and who is captured by the enemy (book VIII, p. 90). In other words, a woman who suffers precisely the fate that the Achaians brought on Troy, when they killed the Trojan men, destroyed the city, and took the women as slaves. This is curious to me, since you would expect that in as patriarchal a world as that of Homer's Odyssey, any comparison to women's behavior would be viewed as emasculating, or at least feminizing. But in this instance--and in others I have sinced encountered--the same is true. Perhaps there's a difference between being directly compared to a woman and simile in which a man's feelings are likened to those of a woman.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Ezra Pound on The Odyssey
While reading along I am not always sure what to think about Odysseus and his world. I do not find Odysseus as heroic as I imagine the Greeks thought him; of course, he is very courageous, a great fighter (but I am not so impressed by physical might); he is also concerned, somewhat at least, for the wellfare of his companions, men from Ithaca, his (and their) homeland.
Pound compares the Odyssey to an adventure story: "The Homeric world, very human. The Odyssey high water mark for the adventure story, as for example Odysseus on the spar after shipwreck. Sam Smiles never got any further in preaching self-reliance. A world of irresponsible gods, a very high society without recognizing morals, the individual responsible for himself." (Norton edition, p. 304).
I agree with Pound about Odysseus as adventure hero. I am not as sure about the absence of "morals." What morals are there in the Odyssey? What values does the Homeric world embrace? What values--ethical, cultural, literary--can we draw from it?
At this point, I don't really have an answer.
I still don't know what to think about Odysseus.
Pound compares the Odyssey to an adventure story: "The Homeric world, very human. The Odyssey high water mark for the adventure story, as for example Odysseus on the spar after shipwreck. Sam Smiles never got any further in preaching self-reliance. A world of irresponsible gods, a very high society without recognizing morals, the individual responsible for himself." (Norton edition, p. 304).
I agree with Pound about Odysseus as adventure hero. I am not as sure about the absence of "morals." What morals are there in the Odyssey? What values does the Homeric world embrace? What values--ethical, cultural, literary--can we draw from it?
At this point, I don't really have an answer.
I still don't know what to think about Odysseus.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Odyssey, Books 1-6
I was worried about this reading. Who am I to assign The Odyssey to a group of seniors? I am not a classical scholar; I have never actually studied The Odyssey; I am just a reader. And why again did I have to choose this ambitious book? What did I think I wanted to accomplish?
Most of these doubts and fears vanished when I began reading. Not that I immediately "clicked" with the reading: I had forgotten that The Odyssey begins with Telemachus in Ithaca and the free-loading suitors. At first, I got confused by the many names, the place of the Gods in Odysseus's mishaps (why is Poseidon so against him? Why is Athene initially not for him or the other Achaians [hm, got to review my knowledge of the Trojan War and how it started...], and why does she so much turn things in his favor as The Odyssey begins? Or was she always for him? Always on the side of the Achaians in the conflict against Troy? Clearly, without Athene, neither Odysseus nor Telemachus would have a chance. Zeus seems to have forgotten him a bit and it's only Athene's advocacy that reminds him of Odysseus.
I must admit to really liking Athene. I like her grace--the golden sandals--her speed, her ability to assume the figure of men, her military prowess, her absolute intelligence, and her solicitude for Penelope, who has trouble sleeping. I am amused by how she "improves" on the looks, speech, and confidence of Telemachus; and how she transforms Odysseus, making him look taller and broader, even curling his hair! after he washes off the sea brine and reappears before the young Princess Nausicaa. Athene has a golden touch!
Reading Book One, I remembered being puzzled before about Odysseus's standing in Ithaca. He is the King. Shouldn't Telemachus become King? What gives the suitors the right to feast on Odysseus's sheep, bulls, and swine, to drink his wine and lounge around in his house? And why is Penelope obliged to marry one of them? Perhaps more modern notions of kingship don't apply. Odysseus is a tribal leader, and tribal leadership might not be inherited, automatically, to the son?
There are other things I love:
I love the language, the compound adjectives that describe major characters: clear-eyed Athene, sound-minded Telemachus, god-like Odysseus, etc.
I also like the way certain phrases are repeated almost exactly. For instance,
"And when the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn appeared." Or the way the mixing of wine and the offering of food is described. Always in the same terms. There is something reassuring about this. As there is, I imagine, in the law of hospitality itself. And what hospitality there was! Before one even knew the name or identity of a stranger, he was treated, most generously, as a guest, provided with food, drink, a bath and clothes.
I once heard that in Greek the word for stranger and guest is the same; the roots might be in ancient Greece, when a seafaring, traveling people absolutely depended on the generosity of others for survival. No questions asked--or not before you extended hospitality.
So here are some of the questions that interest me (so far):
1. Why does The Odyssey begin with three books in which Telemachus, Odysseus's son, is the protagonist and focus of attention?
2. What are we to make of Odysseus when we first encounter him, on Calypso's island? So far, we heard about him--as God-like and cunning. And now we meet him in person. What do we think? What would Greeks at the same time, listening to the poem, have thought?
3. I am intrigued by the different accounts we get of Agamemnon's death. Some say it was Aigisthos's doing: he ensnared Clytemnestra (against her will, it seems) and then killed not only Agamemnon but also Agamemnon's men plus the men who helped him kill Agamemnon (Book IV). Earlier, however, he says his brother was killed "through the cunning of his accursed wife." None of them mention, however, that Clytemnestra was enraged at Agamemnon because he had sacrified their daughter Iphigenia to the Gods--so that they would marshal the winds to send him to Troy. Is such lack of consistency typical, perhaps, of a culture in which "news" travels exclusively by stories, told and retold numerous times by individual guests, hosts, travellers?
It would be great if we could "hear" The Odyssey. I hope all of you will bring in a favorite passage and be willing to read it aloud.
Most of these doubts and fears vanished when I began reading. Not that I immediately "clicked" with the reading: I had forgotten that The Odyssey begins with Telemachus in Ithaca and the free-loading suitors. At first, I got confused by the many names, the place of the Gods in Odysseus's mishaps (why is Poseidon so against him? Why is Athene initially not for him or the other Achaians [hm, got to review my knowledge of the Trojan War and how it started...], and why does she so much turn things in his favor as The Odyssey begins? Or was she always for him? Always on the side of the Achaians in the conflict against Troy? Clearly, without Athene, neither Odysseus nor Telemachus would have a chance. Zeus seems to have forgotten him a bit and it's only Athene's advocacy that reminds him of Odysseus.
I must admit to really liking Athene. I like her grace--the golden sandals--her speed, her ability to assume the figure of men, her military prowess, her absolute intelligence, and her solicitude for Penelope, who has trouble sleeping. I am amused by how she "improves" on the looks, speech, and confidence of Telemachus; and how she transforms Odysseus, making him look taller and broader, even curling his hair! after he washes off the sea brine and reappears before the young Princess Nausicaa. Athene has a golden touch!
Reading Book One, I remembered being puzzled before about Odysseus's standing in Ithaca. He is the King. Shouldn't Telemachus become King? What gives the suitors the right to feast on Odysseus's sheep, bulls, and swine, to drink his wine and lounge around in his house? And why is Penelope obliged to marry one of them? Perhaps more modern notions of kingship don't apply. Odysseus is a tribal leader, and tribal leadership might not be inherited, automatically, to the son?
There are other things I love:
I love the language, the compound adjectives that describe major characters: clear-eyed Athene, sound-minded Telemachus, god-like Odysseus, etc.
I also like the way certain phrases are repeated almost exactly. For instance,
"And when the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn appeared." Or the way the mixing of wine and the offering of food is described. Always in the same terms. There is something reassuring about this. As there is, I imagine, in the law of hospitality itself. And what hospitality there was! Before one even knew the name or identity of a stranger, he was treated, most generously, as a guest, provided with food, drink, a bath and clothes.
I once heard that in Greek the word for stranger and guest is the same; the roots might be in ancient Greece, when a seafaring, traveling people absolutely depended on the generosity of others for survival. No questions asked--or not before you extended hospitality.
So here are some of the questions that interest me (so far):
1. Why does The Odyssey begin with three books in which Telemachus, Odysseus's son, is the protagonist and focus of attention?
2. What are we to make of Odysseus when we first encounter him, on Calypso's island? So far, we heard about him--as God-like and cunning. And now we meet him in person. What do we think? What would Greeks at the same time, listening to the poem, have thought?
3. I am intrigued by the different accounts we get of Agamemnon's death. Some say it was Aigisthos's doing: he ensnared Clytemnestra (against her will, it seems) and then killed not only Agamemnon but also Agamemnon's men plus the men who helped him kill Agamemnon (Book IV). Earlier, however, he says his brother was killed "through the cunning of his accursed wife." None of them mention, however, that Clytemnestra was enraged at Agamemnon because he had sacrified their daughter Iphigenia to the Gods--so that they would marshal the winds to send him to Troy. Is such lack of consistency typical, perhaps, of a culture in which "news" travels exclusively by stories, told and retold numerous times by individual guests, hosts, travellers?
It would be great if we could "hear" The Odyssey. I hope all of you will bring in a favorite passage and be willing to read it aloud.
The Cultural Construction of Reading
It was interesting for me to read Howe's essay on "The Cultural Construction of Reading in Anglo-Saxon England" in conjunction with your reading scene descriptions. Many of you recall reading scenes that reverberated with the luxurious sense of privacy evoked in Stevens's poem "The House was quiet and the world was calm," where the reader is so absorbed in the book that the world inside the book merges with the world outside. As a result the immediate scene of reading becomes, as Stevens says, "like the conscious being of the book."
It was neat to see how many of you engage in definite rituals of reading: the right place, the right time, a drink (less so food). So in many of your accounts I found evidence for what might be called contemporary western constructions of reading as primarily a private, individual activity. A reader is by her or himself, immersed in a text (is that nowadays still a book? for some of you it clearly is...).
Lili, who learned to read in China, associates reading with listening and repeating what a teacher says--and doing so as a group, sitting in a very specific, disciplined way, holding the book at a 45 degree angle from the body.
By contrast, In the US, reading instruction focuses on individual reading: it seems children don't know how to read unless they can read on their own. Makes sense, doesn't it? But still--Howe's essay makes me understand that what counts as "literate" is very much bound by the culture and the community in which such literacy functions. Being able to read a text on your own was not a literacy requirement in Anglo-Saxon England.
I found it equally interesting however that in some cases you, as readers, are still very aware of your surroundings: Pete's novel reading was "interrupted" or "enriched" (I imagine both) by voices of friends and neighbors; Kyle enjoys reading while listening to the voices of his wife and her friend,etc.
This makes me wonder if the communal roots of "reading" as speaking or giving councel or listening and reciting--or solving a puzzle--don't still somewhat inform even contemporary constructions of reading. Both Kent and Kylista described reading scenes through conversations; Lawrence recalls doing spiritual reading together with his mother; and isn't it true that while we might read on our own, we often do like to discuss what we read with others? And some of us might even enjoy discussing what we read while we read it? And doesn't poetry invite us to read it aloud to someone else?
And what about tv? Could we say watching tv is a form of "reading"? Often communal reading?
Or online surfing, chat rooms, blogs (like this one)--could we say that new technologies have reintroduced new forms of more collective forms of reading? (Is there something like begin tv literate? And is that a valuable literacy?
It was neat to see how many of you engage in definite rituals of reading: the right place, the right time, a drink (less so food). So in many of your accounts I found evidence for what might be called contemporary western constructions of reading as primarily a private, individual activity. A reader is by her or himself, immersed in a text (is that nowadays still a book? for some of you it clearly is...).
Lili, who learned to read in China, associates reading with listening and repeating what a teacher says--and doing so as a group, sitting in a very specific, disciplined way, holding the book at a 45 degree angle from the body.
By contrast, In the US, reading instruction focuses on individual reading: it seems children don't know how to read unless they can read on their own. Makes sense, doesn't it? But still--Howe's essay makes me understand that what counts as "literate" is very much bound by the culture and the community in which such literacy functions. Being able to read a text on your own was not a literacy requirement in Anglo-Saxon England.
I found it equally interesting however that in some cases you, as readers, are still very aware of your surroundings: Pete's novel reading was "interrupted" or "enriched" (I imagine both) by voices of friends and neighbors; Kyle enjoys reading while listening to the voices of his wife and her friend,etc.
This makes me wonder if the communal roots of "reading" as speaking or giving councel or listening and reciting--or solving a puzzle--don't still somewhat inform even contemporary constructions of reading. Both Kent and Kylista described reading scenes through conversations; Lawrence recalls doing spiritual reading together with his mother; and isn't it true that while we might read on our own, we often do like to discuss what we read with others? And some of us might even enjoy discussing what we read while we read it? And doesn't poetry invite us to read it aloud to someone else?
And what about tv? Could we say watching tv is a form of "reading"? Often communal reading?
Or online surfing, chat rooms, blogs (like this one)--could we say that new technologies have reintroduced new forms of more collective forms of reading? (Is there something like begin tv literate? And is that a valuable literacy?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Books as Bombs: Incendiary Reading Practices in Women's Prisons
I've read this piece before, with graduate students, but this time around, I read it differently. I was fascinated, this time around, by women prisoners' arguments that the urban fiction they love to read can be bad for other prisoners. Those others, apparently, cannot distinguish between "the books' elements of reality and fantasy," and stay hooked to a lifestyle that is destructive. By contrast, those that can distinguish, can enjoy novels which remind them of their own lives while thinking critically about them and thus about their own lives. Are they fooling themselves? What about the prisoner who reads the urban fiction because it "will assist her in doing prison ministry for incarcerated women." The books "'[help me] to really, really feel where these girls are coming from." The same woman, however, doesn't think it's good for the women themselves to read these works and would never use them as part of her prison ministry.
Somehow this reminded me of the British attitude toward native Indian readers within the context of colonialism. "Oriental tales," while entirely appropriate for English readers who knew to read them as fantasy, would prove morally destructive to Indian readers who, apparently, would not be able to make this distinction, but had to be taught first, by reading British Literature, how to read "their own."
Perhaps the British felt, like the prison administrators and guards, that giving Indians/Prisoners readings too closely aligned with their "culture" would jeopardize the mission of perfection, rehabilitation, and, in the context of the prison, punishment. This is what makes such readings "incendiary."
Yet Sweeney makes the great point that such readings are "incendiary" to the extent that they provide "powerful tools for sparking critical reflection, igniting insights, and catalyzing dialogue among incarcerated and non-incarcerated members of the community." Of course, within the colonial (and perhaps as well the penal) context, such purposes would have been viewed as "incendiary" as well, since they foster readers' agency and critical thinking. Too much of that would have threatened the colonial enterprise. And are prisons really committed to helping the incarcerated become critical readers and thinkers?
Somehow this reminded me of the British attitude toward native Indian readers within the context of colonialism. "Oriental tales," while entirely appropriate for English readers who knew to read them as fantasy, would prove morally destructive to Indian readers who, apparently, would not be able to make this distinction, but had to be taught first, by reading British Literature, how to read "their own."
Perhaps the British felt, like the prison administrators and guards, that giving Indians/Prisoners readings too closely aligned with their "culture" would jeopardize the mission of perfection, rehabilitation, and, in the context of the prison, punishment. This is what makes such readings "incendiary."
Yet Sweeney makes the great point that such readings are "incendiary" to the extent that they provide "powerful tools for sparking critical reflection, igniting insights, and catalyzing dialogue among incarcerated and non-incarcerated members of the community." Of course, within the colonial (and perhaps as well the penal) context, such purposes would have been viewed as "incendiary" as well, since they foster readers' agency and critical thinking. Too much of that would have threatened the colonial enterprise. And are prisons really committed to helping the incarcerated become critical readers and thinkers?
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Gauri Viswanathan, Masks of Conquest: Literary Study in British Rule in India
First, I need to say something about how much more difficult this was for me to read--and I am used to reading pretty difficult stuff. I had not read this before and adopted it for our course on the recommendation of a colleague who teaches postcolonial literature and theory (and whose work I respect and admire).
When I began reading yesterday, I was tired. I had been excited about getting started but found myself having a difficult time following the argument; I guess I had expected something simpler, more straight-forward, not as historically specific, perhaps not as carefully argued? Who knows? When I nodded off at least twice, I put it aside. Today, in the morning, my mind was considerably more alert and, this time around, I was prepared for the reading. I went over some of the passages I had marked, reacquainted myself with the argument, the terms, and some of the names, and finished the introduction.
Most of the times, when I read scholarly prose--e.g. an essay or chapter pursuing a specific argument--I try to put the main points into my own words. They may not be the central argument so much as the points I find of particular interest to my thinking, and, in this case, for the class--anything to do with reading in a colonial context. This was not so easy with regard to this piece. I learned a lot while reading, but most of what I learned (much of it new to me) I would have to reread, at least twice, before I can absorb it. What I instantly made sense of, by contrast, were the broader arguments that I had previously encountered:
1. That the teaching of English Literature played an important role in enforcing and maintaining colonial rule in India
2. More stunningly (but I had heard this before as well) it was in India that English literature was first taught in a systematic manner.
While reading, I was surprised by the wealth of information about the complexities and contradictions that marked British colonial attitude toward India, its literature, customs, beliefs, etc.
For instance, I was stunned by British (and I guess European) belief that "Oriental" tales were proper reading for British subjects but not for Indian natives who, it was argued, "lacked the prior mental and moral cultivation required for literature--especially their own--to have any instructive value for them." (5)
What, I wondered, does that say about ideas of reading, especially about reading "tales" meant to entertain? (Actually, now that I am writing about this, my own reading of the chapter is becoming much more interesting.) Is the assumption that Western readers (enlightened readers) learn to read the tales as nothing more than entertaining tales--about exotic lands and people. And perhaps the British were right to intuit that Indian readers would not have the same attitude toward these tales as British readers? But what would their attitude have been?
(I should probably reread the introduction)
Finally, I am intrigued by how Viswanathan's history of English Studies in India speaks to Robert Scholes's thoughts on the function of the humanities in a posthumanist world:
What would it mean to "teach" students to become fearless, critical reader of "foundational" texts, of the sort that British schools taught, in both Britain and India? And what sorts of readers did these schools, according to Viswanathan, seek to produce? And what sorts of readers do "we," in the USA, produce or hope to?
When I began reading yesterday, I was tired. I had been excited about getting started but found myself having a difficult time following the argument; I guess I had expected something simpler, more straight-forward, not as historically specific, perhaps not as carefully argued? Who knows? When I nodded off at least twice, I put it aside. Today, in the morning, my mind was considerably more alert and, this time around, I was prepared for the reading. I went over some of the passages I had marked, reacquainted myself with the argument, the terms, and some of the names, and finished the introduction.
Most of the times, when I read scholarly prose--e.g. an essay or chapter pursuing a specific argument--I try to put the main points into my own words. They may not be the central argument so much as the points I find of particular interest to my thinking, and, in this case, for the class--anything to do with reading in a colonial context. This was not so easy with regard to this piece. I learned a lot while reading, but most of what I learned (much of it new to me) I would have to reread, at least twice, before I can absorb it. What I instantly made sense of, by contrast, were the broader arguments that I had previously encountered:
1. That the teaching of English Literature played an important role in enforcing and maintaining colonial rule in India
2. More stunningly (but I had heard this before as well) it was in India that English literature was first taught in a systematic manner.
While reading, I was surprised by the wealth of information about the complexities and contradictions that marked British colonial attitude toward India, its literature, customs, beliefs, etc.
For instance, I was stunned by British (and I guess European) belief that "Oriental" tales were proper reading for British subjects but not for Indian natives who, it was argued, "lacked the prior mental and moral cultivation required for literature--especially their own--to have any instructive value for them." (5)
What, I wondered, does that say about ideas of reading, especially about reading "tales" meant to entertain? (Actually, now that I am writing about this, my own reading of the chapter is becoming much more interesting.) Is the assumption that Western readers (enlightened readers) learn to read the tales as nothing more than entertaining tales--about exotic lands and people. And perhaps the British were right to intuit that Indian readers would not have the same attitude toward these tales as British readers? But what would their attitude have been?
(I should probably reread the introduction)
Finally, I am intrigued by how Viswanathan's history of English Studies in India speaks to Robert Scholes's thoughts on the function of the humanities in a posthumanist world:
What would it mean to "teach" students to become fearless, critical reader of "foundational" texts, of the sort that British schools taught, in both Britain and India? And what sorts of readers did these schools, according to Viswanathan, seek to produce? And what sorts of readers do "we," in the USA, produce or hope to?
More on Robert Scholes's Humanities in a Posthumanist World
So, I was intrigued, and glad, when Scholes addressed, in more specific terms, what the humanities cannot do (make us better people, save the world, "humanize" us) and what they can do:
"We cannot make ourselves or anyone else virtuous, but we can illuminate the question of what virtue is. We cannot ... create a conscience for our society. But we can raise the consciousness of those around us--and ourselves--about the humane values on which conscience is based. We cannot interpret the crucial texts of our culture with fundamentalist certainty. But we can help those who study with us learn to read and interpret our foundational texts in ways that are careful, sensitive, and rational. This means that we must read and discuss the important religious and political texts in our classes." (731)
And then he goes on to say something that I absolutely agree with--so it was nice to see it articulated so strongly and clearly:
"We must show that the works we value are not merely beautiful objects from some lost past but tools for thinking and feelings, ways of understanding the world and its people. We should, however, resist the temptation to turn the works we love into sacred texts. Our lesson must be that there are no sacred texts that are beyond interpretation--for interpretation is at the heart of the humanistic enterprise." (732)
So, the value of the humanities, if I understand Scholes correctly, is that they allow us, even teache us, to interpret and re-interpret "foundational" texts of "our" culture? Perhaps, the humanities--and what do they precisely include?--are the place where we get to re-interpret who we are? Where we learn about the sources of "our" culture, and perhaps our cultures? And re-possess these by interpreting and re-interpreting them? But also getting to know them? Reading them (thus learning, perhaps Latin and Greek, and perhaps another ancient language? Sanscrit? Hindu?)
At any rate, I am very intrigued to find out what you all think about Scholes's presidential address.
Just for curiosity's sake, I checked the wikipedia definition of the humanities:
The humanities are academic disciplines which study the human condition, using methods that are primarily analytical, critical, or speculative, as distinguished from the mainly empirical approaches of the natural and social sciences.
Examples of the disciplines of the humanities are ancient and modern languages, literature, law, history, philosophy, religion, and visual and performing arts (including music and theatre).
"We cannot make ourselves or anyone else virtuous, but we can illuminate the question of what virtue is. We cannot ... create a conscience for our society. But we can raise the consciousness of those around us--and ourselves--about the humane values on which conscience is based. We cannot interpret the crucial texts of our culture with fundamentalist certainty. But we can help those who study with us learn to read and interpret our foundational texts in ways that are careful, sensitive, and rational. This means that we must read and discuss the important religious and political texts in our classes." (731)
And then he goes on to say something that I absolutely agree with--so it was nice to see it articulated so strongly and clearly:
"We must show that the works we value are not merely beautiful objects from some lost past but tools for thinking and feelings, ways of understanding the world and its people. We should, however, resist the temptation to turn the works we love into sacred texts. Our lesson must be that there are no sacred texts that are beyond interpretation--for interpretation is at the heart of the humanistic enterprise." (732)
So, the value of the humanities, if I understand Scholes correctly, is that they allow us, even teache us, to interpret and re-interpret "foundational" texts of "our" culture? Perhaps, the humanities--and what do they precisely include?--are the place where we get to re-interpret who we are? Where we learn about the sources of "our" culture, and perhaps our cultures? And re-possess these by interpreting and re-interpreting them? But also getting to know them? Reading them (thus learning, perhaps Latin and Greek, and perhaps another ancient language? Sanscrit? Hindu?)
At any rate, I am very intrigued to find out what you all think about Scholes's presidential address.
Just for curiosity's sake, I checked the wikipedia definition of the humanities:
The humanities are academic disciplines which study the human condition, using methods that are primarily analytical, critical, or speculative, as distinguished from the mainly empirical approaches of the natural and social sciences.
Examples of the disciplines of the humanities are ancient and modern languages, literature, law, history, philosophy, religion, and visual and performing arts (including music and theatre).
Friday, January 7, 2011
A note of explanation
Dear students,
I know that as a class we decided to keep our reading log low-tech. But after reading Scholes today, I wanted to try out what it's like to use my newly created blog, and, since I wrote my initial response to Scholes, I thought--why not try and send it to other class members.
Have a look and see what you think.
You are not obligated to comment--just to look. And, of course, don't feel pressured to start a blog yourself. Deal with your reading log the way you want--do whatever works best for you. Just make sure that you bring it to class so that you can read from it or otherwise share it with others.
This is my first reading journal experience, so I have no expectations. I imagine we'll figure out how to make it work for us.
I know that as a class we decided to keep our reading log low-tech. But after reading Scholes today, I wanted to try out what it's like to use my newly created blog, and, since I wrote my initial response to Scholes, I thought--why not try and send it to other class members.
Have a look and see what you think.
You are not obligated to comment--just to look. And, of course, don't feel pressured to start a blog yourself. Deal with your reading log the way you want--do whatever works best for you. Just make sure that you bring it to class so that you can read from it or otherwise share it with others.
This is my first reading journal experience, so I have no expectations. I imagine we'll figure out how to make it work for us.
Commens on Robert Scholes's "The Humanities in a Posthumanist World"
I read, and assigned, this piece before. It's his Presidential Address as President of the MLA (Modern Language Association). I assume it's the address a newly elected or appointed president of MLA delivers.
Of course, since I am reading this speech for a class for which I assigned it, I read it with the extra awareness of the teacher assigning her first reading in a new class: will this make sense to my students? Will they find it worth the effort? Will they find it relevant to their lives and studies? And what can I do to draw out what I think is relevant (after all, I chose it...)
As in past readings, I find myself immediately intrigued by Scholes's clear way of addressing "the crisis of the humanities," in other words: the current (and it seems longstanding) questions about their function, their value, their academic, social, moral mission in a world that appears to have lost faith in the humanizing value and power of the "humanities." Interestingly, Scholes doesn't mention 9/11, although he does mention the holocaust; but he alludes to 9/11 toward the end of his piece when he differentiates between the pragmatists and the fundamentalists.
While reading, I marked the text to note what I thought important, to comment, and to pose questions. I sort of know what "humanities" refers to, nevertheless, I was glad that Scholes reminds us of the history of the term: of its roots in the Renaissance and the inception of a new world view "organized around the concept of humanity," and with that "the notion of art as concerned with the making of beautiful objects rather than icons pointing to essences or divinities" (727).
As in past readings, I find myself intrigued by his lucid summary of how the humanities aligned aesthetics (as in belles lettres) with taste and moral perfection. Does taste entail virtue? An interesting question, in my mind, and while I would categorically say "no", I sometimes wonder if "good" taste isn't a virtue by itself.
But what is virtue? I guess, if we define "virtue" in terms of behavior that is good for others, then you might be able to make an argument on how beauty is a human need that needs to be satisfied and that benefits people's lives when it is satisfied. Perhaps Scholes is too ready to dismiss Arnold's charming notion that there is a "human desire for perfection ...[which] would lead people to connect beauty and virtue"? In other words, just because there have been people with good taste who did terrible things to other people (admittedly sometimes in the name of that taste), does it follow that taste does not, or let's say, cannot, lead to virtue?
Okay, these entries are getting too long. A little break is needed.
Of course, since I am reading this speech for a class for which I assigned it, I read it with the extra awareness of the teacher assigning her first reading in a new class: will this make sense to my students? Will they find it worth the effort? Will they find it relevant to their lives and studies? And what can I do to draw out what I think is relevant (after all, I chose it...)
As in past readings, I find myself immediately intrigued by Scholes's clear way of addressing "the crisis of the humanities," in other words: the current (and it seems longstanding) questions about their function, their value, their academic, social, moral mission in a world that appears to have lost faith in the humanizing value and power of the "humanities." Interestingly, Scholes doesn't mention 9/11, although he does mention the holocaust; but he alludes to 9/11 toward the end of his piece when he differentiates between the pragmatists and the fundamentalists.
While reading, I marked the text to note what I thought important, to comment, and to pose questions. I sort of know what "humanities" refers to, nevertheless, I was glad that Scholes reminds us of the history of the term: of its roots in the Renaissance and the inception of a new world view "organized around the concept of humanity," and with that "the notion of art as concerned with the making of beautiful objects rather than icons pointing to essences or divinities" (727).
As in past readings, I find myself intrigued by his lucid summary of how the humanities aligned aesthetics (as in belles lettres) with taste and moral perfection. Does taste entail virtue? An interesting question, in my mind, and while I would categorically say "no", I sometimes wonder if "good" taste isn't a virtue by itself.
But what is virtue? I guess, if we define "virtue" in terms of behavior that is good for others, then you might be able to make an argument on how beauty is a human need that needs to be satisfied and that benefits people's lives when it is satisfied. Perhaps Scholes is too ready to dismiss Arnold's charming notion that there is a "human desire for perfection ...[which] would lead people to connect beauty and virtue"? In other words, just because there have been people with good taste who did terrible things to other people (admittedly sometimes in the name of that taste), does it follow that taste does not, or let's say, cannot, lead to virtue?
Okay, these entries are getting too long. A little break is needed.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
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