I have always loved words. Even before I knew how to read, I was enthralled with books, handwritten notes, and other objects that contained those foreign markings. I used to flip through books, front-to-back, back-to-front, and upside down, just imagining what the words meant. By third grade, I had told my mom that English—particularly spelling and reading—were my favorite subjects. Science was O.K. Math was tolerable. But reading and spelling involved words, and words I loved.
As I left high school for college, I discovered new subjects and interests. I switched majors many times and eventually ended up with the good ol’ practical government major with a concentration in sociology—otherwise known as the civil service/pre-law track.
These days, when I mention my undergraduate degree in government and pre-law, most people respond with raised eyebrows and nods of approval. Perhaps it’s just the nature of the DC area, but this choice seems to impress, or at least elicit a positive response. When I mention I am currently pursuing a M.A. in English, more often than not, I get some variation on “Why don’t you study something useful?” All too often, I find myself unable to provide a prompt and witty shutdown. I usually mumble something vaguely intelligible about “civilization’s greatest acheivment” and back out of the conversation.
Perhaps this says more about the people I know than anything real about perceptions of the study of literature; then again, perhaps not. In The Literature Workshop: Teaching Texts and Their Readers, Sheridan Blau points out that the study of English—literature instruction in particular—is under threat at all levels of education. He identifies the school-to-work movement and the politics of reading as two specific sources of this problem in primary and secondary education (58).
A larger problem, however, is the overarching perception that the study of literature is something that is frivolous, or somehow not connected to “real” or “practical” skills. Blau’s carefully reasoned debunking of this misperception is the most impressive and compelling argument I’ve read so far this semester.
Blau identifies the traditional text-based approach to teaching literature as playing a large part in the perpetuation of the idea that literary analysis is light on reasoning or critical thinking skills. According to this model (still in practice in most high schools and many universities), students come to class prepared to “absorb” their teacher’s comments on literature—that is, to hear a lecture about an author or genre, or perhaps to take notes as their teacher analyzes a particular text. As Blau points out, however, this model cheats students and perpetuates a culture of “pseudo-literacy” and “interpretive dependence”:
My role seemed to be to present my students with the fruit of my intellectual labor…The role undertaken by my students, then, was largely not to be persons who performed acts of learning themselves, but to serve as witnesses and recorders of my learning (55).
Blau asserts that this model of learning and instruction produces students who are unable to analyze literature with confidence. In more extreme cases, it produces students with no idea of how to actually read and interpret a text. But the troubles do not stop with students. This model produces teachers who are similarly unsure of their own abilities to teach texts they have not previously encountered.
Blau’s main goal with The Literature Workshop is to reverse the role of student and teacher—or at least to fundamentally change the way students and teachers approach literary texts. Students must be invited and encouraged to take part in the interpretive process. Further, teachers and students alike must begin to see reading as method of constructing meaning. They must both abandon the commonly held view that reading is a solitary act and acknowledge the usefulness of collaborative thought and discussion in interpreting meaning.
In short, the study of literature is as intellectually rigorous—and much more practical—than any class designed to teach critical thinking. (Aside: Having taken a gen-ed required critical thinking course, I can personally attest to this point. We spent at least three weeks assessing the logic of statements like “Cottage cheese is delicious and nutritious. Therefore, you should eat cottage cheese.”) To underscore Blau’s thesis, literary study has the capacity to “teach students an intellectual discipline that defines critical thinking in every field and fosters academic success in every subject of study” (57).
There is no greater evidence for this point than The Literature Workshop itself. Whether Blau is discussing a contentious debate over Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz,” authorial intent, background knowledge, or the source of readers’ interpretations, he writes with a methodical clarity of purpose that is all too often lacking in academic writing. It’s a shame that Blau’s book is more often than not preaching to the choir. The entire work could serve not only as a defense of literary study, but also as an cross-discipline example of writing and instruction at its best.
Sara