When I was a
student in Moscow, Mikhail Pertrovich Gromov constantly drew my attention to
Chekhov’s meticulous use of detail, without absorbing which you, as an educated
reader, would hardly get a sense of the fictional world of his characters. In
other words, if you base your observations of a novel or a short story largely
on the plot, you would inevitably arrive at a narrow, if not skewed, subjective
understanding of the characters and their actions. For me, as a result, a
writer’s use of details—of place, physical appearance, names, gestures,
objects—has been a matter of special import. Thus armed, I enter an unknown
world, wholly and uniquely created in the imagination of one individual, in whose
work, if it is to be cherished as a masterpiece, the center truly holds.
I wish I had archived all the
recordings I ever made of the Oral Commentary examination. The eloquence with
which individual students talked about characters, ideas, language, and the
stagecraft of King Lear has remained
with me through these years. I do not exaggerate when I say with gratitude that
every new class gained much in the reading of King Lear because I had learned from the students who had gone
before them.
Some presentations continue to stand
out in my memory: an explication of the Fool’s interaction with Lear, the
analysis of King Lear’s many anguished outpourings of grief and rage, an
analytical discussion of the King’s repugnant older daughters’ character
portrayal and Kent’s valor and fidelity, responses to Edmund’s tormented
expression of plans for patricide, and descriptions of the many-splendored Cordelia.
At least two students left me ecstatic
when they analyzed Edward’s meeting with Gloucestor at the edge of the cliff.
In a play marked by exceptionally
distinct identities for several characters, Edmund never failed to draw the
biggest fan following with the youngsters, and the boys vociferously expressed
their support for his sentiments and admiration for his soliloquy. Equally, the development of his character
kept their interest alive, and he earned the title of “loser” as the play moved
to the conclusion.
Reading aloud and moving to dramatic
readings of chosen excerpts produced some brilliant performances, without fail.
This activity was my chance to have the reader/performer focus on the words,
the sounds in the words, the arrangement of sounds, and the placement of
pauses.
I came to believe that you have to
read Shakespeare aloud to recognize how closely sound and sense work together
in poetry. I shall never forget a student’s observation that Edmund’s
soliloquy, by the time he says that he “shall top the
legitimate,” the passage begins
to sound as if every word has to be spat out.
Or another’s bewilderment when I drew her attention to the preponderance
of the “h” sound in Cordelia and Lear’s first heartbreaking exchange which exquisitely
conveys the heaving and unhappiness of both characters. I would challenge the
class to say those “h” words in a booming loud voice, shout out the phrases,
and demonstrate that anguished breathing is all you can do when you try to
scream a word like “heave”. From the most timid and retiring person to the
class clown, everyone would be producing the words and lines to general
merriment. The point about paying attention to the sound of words would, in the
meantime, gradually take root.
Such things about writing and
literature obviously interest some more than the others, in the same way that
chem lab does. (Or does not. I found little to thrill me about chlorides,
bromides, and iodides when I was in high school).
King Lear is a big play and
it is heavily textured, dense, and the emotions it evokes cut to the bone.
Teachers have many ways of introducing it before embarking on the reading, and
mine was just story-telling with inputs from the members of the class. Once upon a time there was king, and he had,
I might say and pause. Let’s give him daughters, I might say. How many? Sure as
the sun sets in the west, most would say “Three”. Of course it was easy from there to go on to
the third daughter being the good one, and perhaps the king’s favorite, and so
on. Thus familiar motifs would establish a connection with a story that was
going to unravel in its tragic grandeur, where characters are magnificent and
immense and therefore dramatic, or scheming and stealthy and therefore hateful,
and finally, confused and cowardly, and therefore comical.
With a roomful of students whom I
would encourage to be boisterous and voluble during mini-rehearsals for
dramatic readings, often laughter would burst forth instead of theatrical rage.
How could a group of adolescents not
join the chorus of laughter when the first chuckle began upon hearing “Blow,
winds, and crack your cheeks!”? By the time the reader arrived at the
oak-cleaving thunderbolts, most would be rolling in the aisles, and why not?
That level of rage is ridiculous; naughty words have to crack up just one
person to infect everyone present. Those moments and words imprint themselves
on the class as a whole, and once the reading is done, the distraught king’s
over-the-top rage invites other emotions, such as puzzlement, disdain, pity,
and so on, all perfectly understandable.
Blow, winds, and crack
your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head!
I remember how outraged students used to be when Lear,
furious against Goneril, calls upon the Gods to “dry up the organs of increase”
and—should she have a child, then for that child to cause such grief that her
tears would “fret channels in her cheek.” Yet, by the time Regan and the Duke
of Cornwall have turned the old king out into the storm, emotions would run
high with everyone anticipating the inevitable tragic end.
The marvelous parallel plot of Gloucester and his two sons
with the terrible wrongs that are inflicted on that old man is Shakespeare’s
inventive genius. As we read the play, Gloucester’s travails, gory and sad as
they are, fail to evoke the level of pity and sympathy that Lear’s state
evokes. Okay, that is so for most people, but what is it in Gloucester that
makes him less worthy of our compassion, I would ask. Sure, there’s action—I
mean, when a man literally falls flat on his face and thinks he is dead, it has
to be funny. But literature is more than action. Literature is words.
Lear rages; Gloucester whines. Lear commands the gods;
Gloucester meekly accepts the “sequent effects” of the planets. Reading aloud,
as ever, showed the tonal differences between Lear’s booming, thunderous rage,
and Gloucester’s carping and confusion. Gloucester’s vocabulary is repetitive.
For example, all he can think of is one word—villain—to describe Edgar. I
merely had to remind the class what words Lear had used to describe Cordelia in
the opening scene, first having declared to us that she is his “last but not
the least.”
Such delights.
Mood, emotion. Pain, rage, anguish, madness, and then an
unexpected gentleness. This is not an essay about King Lear the tragedy, and I wouldn’t venture to write one. Reading
and exploring that great tragic play in a classroom did much to elevate the
aesthetic tenor of every group of students in the classes I taught.
To this day I
remember with boundless admiration how students would visualize the portrait
Kent’s emissary paints of Cordelia, her tear-filled eyes shining like jewels,
and through that, think back on the tears that went before it in the
play—including Lear’s own, so vehemently denied by him.
The basis of the conflict in the play is the division of
land, a land and its magnificent contours Lear describes for its bounties, even as he chops it up. And yet, it is
Cordelia who calls upon the “unpublished virtues of the earth,” of that land,
to bring remedy to her father, and she alone knows what “idle weeds” grow among
the “sustaining corn.”
When a student noted that Cordelia ‘s regal splendor came
from her measured way of speaking, that she spoke little in the beginning when
it was to no purpose, and yet spoke with rare self-assurance then and later, I
thought, like Fonvizin the great 18th century Russian
dramatist, that I would be happy to “Die
and say no more.”
Well, one student has promised to read King Lear to me by my
bedside, should I have notice of my end. When she said this during a class when
I was on a high, some sucked in their
breath, stunned at her audacity. The memory of that moment has me laughing, just
as much as another moment, when a student wrote down the lyrics to a Travelling
Wilbury’s song in his examination answer script for me to “enjoy” because he
didn’t have much to say on the essay topic but knew how much I loved “The
Tweeter and the Monkey Man.”
“Distant Past” is an Oxymoron
Once, while at Brown, trying to recall the title of a
vaguely remembered short story by Chekhov, I described the subdued and rather
sad characters in the setting of a country estate, where close relationships
breakdown and so on to my professor, who made a wry face and shrugged. “Every
Chekhov story is about those things, darling,” he said,“ Good luck searching.”
That’s a widespread but erroneous
perception, but I didn’t know how to say it to him. In the end, it took me
hardly any time to locate “The Neighbours” in a full set of Chekhov’s short
stories.
As Mikhail Petrovich Gromov said in
an important essay, Chekhov has created over 8000 people in his short stories,
enough people to populate a small provincial Russian town of those times. Those inhabitants are memorable for their
quirks and colourless lives, but they are all individuals. Hardly anyone is
heroic in those stories; hardly anyone is a world class criminal. That is the
best reason to introduce Chekhov through his short stories in a world
literature class.
"Van’ka", "Sleepy", and "Misery" to
get the reading going, and then "The Man in a Case", "The Grasshopper", "The
Darling", “The Lady with the Lap
Dog”, and "The Betrothed". Or something like that: eight or nine out of the hundreds Chekhov wrote.
IB’s focus on world literature in
translation is a great idea, when you are teaching in an international milieu.
As often as not, you find someone in your class who either speaks the language
in which the original is written or knows something about the region from which
the work comes. It is also great to be able to pronounce unfamiliar names
properly with the help of a student. The
bigger benefits are obvious—whether one is interested in history or geography
or politics.
Short stories come in various sizes
and with a variety of focal points. Some have great plots that deliver a punch directly to your solar-plexus. For example, Chekhov’s “Sleepy”
packs precisely such a punch, leaving young students horrified. Some students are so agitated by that story that spontaneous, heated arguments break out in
class about whether such things are possible, and whether the protagonist of
the story, a small servant girl and nanny, could be so overworked as Chekhov
would have us believe. Opinions differ about whether such things could still
happen or this was an aberration, a “foreign” occurrence, a thing of the past.
Sociological observations – for the
most part impressionistic opinions – would fly around unfettered when discussions were
free and unstructured. I used to enjoy the noise, passion, and energy when
students talked among themselves as if they were in their own student lounge
and not in my classroom. Some students would dominate the decibel levels, while
some would literally lay their heads down on the desk and listen, or follow the
haranguers with their attentive eyes. As every teacher knows, these loud
conflagrations have a way of suddenly growing subdued. That’s when the students
would expect me to say something, may be by way of wrapping up, or sum up the
differing viewpoints with wisdom and insight. To me, however, letting the debate develop with direction and deliberation always seemed a better idea.
When debates are really intense and
points of view are clearly opposed about a character’s actions, it is great to
have a court-room activity for the class. There’s almost no better way to have
the reader comb the story for evidence through every detail, however fleeting.
In that story of the servant girl ("Sleepy") the tapestry of detail is so rich
and so available to interpretation that every time I have tried the courtroom
activity, deeply convincing pastiches have resulted, inspired by minor details that often go unnoticed.
Okay, it’s about time I gave an
example. The servant girl is sleep-deprived, and as she is pushing the wailing
baby’s cradle, her head keeps drooping; when she forces her eyes open, she sees
on a clothesline some items of clothing. One of those is the master’s trousers which casts a huge dark shadow on her. And at another point in the story she
shines his large boots, and thinks how wonderful it would be to put her head in
one of those shoes and sleep and sleep. Why the trousers? Why the man’s boots? And
why does she wish that “things wouldn’t grow big and move before [her] eyes?”
Students make inferences from the
imagery and arrive at implications. These details require much attention, much
interpretation, and the more fanciful they are the better, because each
interpretation needs to be backed up by the author’s word. That's where disciplined study enters to guide the process of analyzing a work of fiction.
The courtroom trial of the girl in "Sleepy" also requires
witnesses. That means calling upon the characters in this short, short story.
Every character’s actions, words, and thoughts gather significance, meaning,
and become linked to the plot. Prosecution and defense set up office in the
classroom, occupying opposite ends, and plan their strategy in hushed but
excited voices, because winning is so important to these students. Then we have a trial. I am the Judge, who gets
to ask probing questions to check for factual accuracy, all of which focus
entirely on the story, which, because it
is by Chekhov, I know pretty well.
Var’ka, the little servant girl, has
never once been found guilty by the jury in our classroom trials. And in trying her,
students have inevitably actively used many details, small and big, to build
their response to the issues Chekhov raises in his grim and unforgettable
story.
Literature is words, and these words
move you to look at life. Var’ka’s fictional tale, made into a courtroom drama,
moves the students to consider her story as a representation of child labor,
which provokes questions about the rights of the child. The strange and disturbing
images that frighten Var’ka hint at sinister things such as abuse at the hands
of the master. Her desperation for sleep takes their enquiry into the psychological
effects of sleep deprivation. As issues rise up, everything in the story
becomes less Russian and distant, and more immediate, and sadly less distant.
A work of literature opens doors for
inquiry, becomes the link to connect areas of life and learning that go beyond
the curriculum or the classroom.
A Great Novel
F Scott Fitzgerald’s The
Great Gatsby left indelible impressions on students whether we read it as a
text for the final essay exam or, as I sometimes did, right in the beginning of
the IB program to introduce the idea that literary masterpieces grow with you
as much as they help you grow.
The opening sentence of that novel is anything but direct or
easy to absorb when one is 15 or 16 years of age. Of course, it is nicely oversimplified
if one hears it in the recent film version given to us so garishly by Baz Luhrman.
The narrator in the novel, Nick Carraway, is a
self-conscious writer, partial to complex constructions that suggest a strained
elegance of style and pretentious reflections. Ironically, Nick’s charm comes
from those vulnerabilities. The entire first long paragraph with the aphorisms
(“Reserving judgment is a matter of infinite hope” and “a sense of the
fundamental decencies is unequally parceled out at birth”) and his affectionate
references to his father hardly belong to the troubled workings of a recovering
alcoholic depressive’s mind, and I mention alcoholism only because Luhrman’s
script has a depressed and alcoholic Nick in a medical facility. The words and
turns of phrases, in the attention they draw to themselves, establish a
deliberate narrator who knows what he wishes to say and how to say it.
The opening chapter of The
Great Gatsby is sheer genius in the way characters are established. The
main players are all introduced in those few pages, with distinct
characteristics individualizing each one. The narrator tells us what traits
represent Daisy, Tom, and Gatsby.
Daisy’s speaking voice—more than her looks or money—arrests
Nick. Her “low, thrilling” voice was
unforgettable, Nick says, while observing that her face was “sad and lovely
with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth,” but it
was her voice that glowed and dazzled, “with a singing compulsion, a whispered ‘Listen,’
a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since, and that
there were gay and exciting things hovering in the next hour.”
A little further on in the same chapter, Daisy, a propos of nothing, accuses Tom of
hurting her little finger, the knuckle of which Nick notices is black and blue.
She calls him a “brute of a man, a hulking brute of a man,” regardless of his
warning that he doesn’t like the word “hulk.” Clearly Tom is not a husband who
wouldn’t hurt his wife’s “little finger”. He is given to physical violence, as
he demonstrates for all to see, when Myrtle, his brash mistress from the grey
ash heaps of broken people and destroyed dreams, provokes him by insisting on
repeating his wife’s name “Daisy”—and receives in return punches to her face.
Wilson, Myrtle’s husband, mournfully remembers her bruised face and swollen
nose, when he is trying to understand why someone would wish to kill her.
Tom’s cruel body, his racial prejudice, his sordid ill-kept
secret, and his money, all imprint themselves on Nick’s observant mind. When he is
about to take leave of the Daisy, Tom
interrupts their conversation midway and asks Daisy if she has been having a
heart-to-heart with Nick, adding that he shouldn’t believe everything that he
hears.
And at the very end of the chapter, Nick introduces Gatsby,
seen from afar, mysterious, a man who leaves an “unquiet” darkness behind
himself.
It is good to linger on this opening chapter. Reading those
pages slowly, getting a sense of the spacious, airy, fragrant, and tasteful home
of the Buchanans and then in the next chapter, moving to the cluttered,
kitschy, stuffy city apartment where Tom and the sensuous Myrtle rendezvous, encourages
the reader to appreciate Fitzgerald’s masterful creation of mood and atmosphere
through spaces. All the while, as we decipher the symbolic significance of or
infuse with metaphorical meaning the physical details of these spaces, we
notice how spare Fitzgerald’s narrator is with overt commentary, and yet how
powerfully he steers you towards judgment.
Strangely, the chaotic clutter of Tom’s love nest isn’t that
much different from the mad excess of Gatsby’s mansion; similar, too, are the
throngs that crowd together to raise jollity to disorderly extremes. Myrtle has her haven, away from the tenement
above the garage where she is doomed to live; so does Gatsby, who has readied a
haven for himself and Daisy, who lives across the bay from him, and whom he
hopes to reclaim, having once lost her.
Nick’s description, not his commentary, leads us to sense
the vulgarity of Myrtle’s city apartment as well as the classy affluence of
Tom’s “nice place” with acres of flower gardens and lawns surrounding that
elaborate period-mansion. But the same
Nick exercises no such restraint in the concluding chapter as he looks at
Gatsby’s “huge incoherent failure of a house,” also built in the era of “period-craze.”
In order to get students engage discerningly with words in
this novel, it was always worth recalling these spaces by talking or even
sketching their uniqueness. Many sense images spring to mind when we think of
pungent rose gardens or a saucer of milk with a soggy dog biscuit in a small
apartment.
Daisy’s unforgettable voice floats up in the airy halls of her
house, whereas incessant loud music drowns every voice in Gatsby’s blue
gardens.
Do Gatsby’s shirts that fly and flutter around Daisy convey a tactile
memory as she bends her head into the fabrics, which is why she sobs?
Gatsby’s
own living space within that enormous house is spare, except for a toilet set
of dull gold on the dresser, from which Daisy picks up a brush and smoothes her
hair. Is it normal for a visitor to use the host’s hair brush? What does this
gesture tell us? At that moment when Daisy smoothes her hair, Gatsby shades
his eyes and begins to laugh. What would that laugh sound like in that large
mansion? And, by the way, how easy is to imagine Gatsby laughing, given what we
have known of him through Nick’s description?
Spaces in The Great
Gatsby hold us in thrall. Some enchant and some repel. Some, such as
Gatsby’s ungainly home, foreshadow grief, for example when Nick tells us that
it was sold with the black wreath marking the original owner’s death still upon
the door.
Other than a handful of students, hardly any generally
drooled and smacked their lips along with me when I peeled layer after layer of
delectable detail, as if each observation were a flaky foil of puff pastry to
be unhurriedly allowed to melt on my tongue. As time went by in my teaching
experience, I learned to stop when I found myself getting out of hand. I would
ask rhetorically if I had lost everyone.
These explosions of my enjoyment undeniably had their impact
on a few in the class. For those
students, close reading began to mean exploring a novel using their imagination
and their sensitivity to shades of meaning that swell words. To the others, the
attention to an author’s description—such as of space or physical appearance of
characters— provided a necessary handle to direct their focus as they looked
for themes and topics for analytical presentations.
In examinations, students are often asked to compare and
contrast ideas, images, characters, and entire works. Those sorts of
assignments, under examination conditions, where time is limited and one is not
allowed to refer to texts, really do demand students to have entered and
experienced chosen texts many times, to plumb a new depth for meaning or climb
a peak for perspective.
Speaking of details, it is always fun when authors choose
for their characters names that draw attention to themselves. Just “Daisy”
might have well gone unnoticed. But “Daisy” and “Myrtle”? Someone in the class
is sure to look up the two flowers and interpret the significance.
By what names do we remember the other characters? Nick is
mostly Nick, not necessarily Nick Carraway, Tom Buchanan is mostly Tom, but Jay
Gatsby is Gatsby to most, and Jay to Daisy. Most poignantly, he is “Jimmy” to
his father, who lovingly remembers his son’s generosity towards him, carrying
in his wallet a photo of Gatsby’s house and treasuring a book of his when he
was just a boy. Names may not always have symbolic significance but when they do,
they sure have of a way of inviting your attention. “When something in the writing waves to you
and says, notice me, that’s foregrounding, a rhetorical device without which
you couldn’t begin to characterize an author’s style,” I might observe, and every
term paper from a student or two thenceforth would be peppered with instances
of foregrounding.
And just as well. Foregrounding occurs a lot, and when you
notice it, you tend to move towards discerning patterns and motifs that shape
the work.
In other words, if a student observed validly that, say,
apparel and posture are foregrounded, that was good but not enough. What does
the foregrounding do, I would ask, seeking analysis and interpretation.
The movie version I saw recently foregrounded glitz and gaudy
lights in spectacular 3D, which, to start with made me ecstatic. But when Leonardo
DiCaprio began to walk through space towards me like some hata-yogi with
impeccable hair, and Meyer Wolfsheim turned up in a crowded and stuffy salon beneath
a barbershop, the foregrounding lost all meaning and became an excess of
background.
What advantage did the barbershop and the hedonistic cellar bestow
on the Wolfsheim-Gatsby meeting? Hairy nostrils and poor grammar (for example,
“would of” and “ he hadn’t eat”) distinguish Fitzgerald’s almost diabolically
strange Mr. Wolfsheim, who wears human molars for cuff-links, and sits in an
office called “The Swastika Holding Company,” hardly a likely candidate for
bawdy bacchanalia, going by the details we assemble from Nick’s
narration.
Have I given the impression that students in my class didn’t
consider plot, theme, conflict, social relevance, and historical context? If I have,
then it is intentional, at least in the case of this novel. Those aspects tend
to be the major concern of widely available commentaries on fiction, and which
are most liable to be subjective. Themes and ideas of universal human
experience, expressed in writing, often descend into banalities except in the
hands of sharp and disciplined thinkers.
While young students ought to be encouraged to express
themselves with sincerity and conviction on the human condition, I believe
that, in the study of literature, it is far more useful to engage in writing
that refers back to the text to support ideas than to move into that large and
amorphous external world of personal experience to justify one’s responses to fiction.
I say that not in absolute terms, obviously. Some works inevitably force us to
get out and face the complex world of injustices, destruction, and, now and then, the triumph of the human spirit…
In Black and White
That classic of prison
literature, One Day in the Life of Ivan
Denisovich, serves a great purpose of storytelling, which is to be the
“living memory of a nation.” This is one
novel where matters of technique and style are thoroughly subsumed into the seeming
simplicity of the narrative. When I taught this novel, the themes and
characters dominated our consciousness. The central figure, Ivan Denisovich
Shukhov, told us of the terrible fate millions in the Soviet Union endured under
Stalin’s tyranny.
Solzhenitsyn, who lived through
the horror of a Soviet labour camp, chose to record a perfectly ordinary day in
the life of a prisoner, through the perspective of Ivan Shukhov, a humble man
whose good sense, practical wisdom, and innate sincerity make him seem familiar
to us. In his story we meet a variety of people: intellectuals, artists,
bureaucrats, leaders in their professions, learned people even; then we meet
simpletons, shysters, squealers, complete innocents who silently bear their
lot, and we meet the jailors—harsh men wielding authority: truth to tell, they come across as prisoners
themselves in the perverted power they exercise over the camp inmates.
One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich appears frequently in high
school reading lists because it is considered a relatively easy novel to read
and understand, thanks to the simple narrative line and the moving embedded
stories of crushed lives articulated without sentimental cadence. Besides, this novel is as close to a
non-fiction report of a Soviet labour camp, as is Primo Levy’s If This is a Man an autobiographical
account of a Nazi concentration camp.
Shukhov’s voice, because it is
nothing like Solzhenitsyn’s, has an artless starkness. If there’s imagery, it
is entirely organic. For example, there’s a brief picture in the early part of
the novel that pierces my heart every time I read it. The prisoners, like prisoners
everywhere, have a number by which they are identified. This number is expected
to be brightly and clearly painted on their jackets and caps at all times, and
it is the prisoner’s responsibility to have it refreshed before it grows faint.
There are three artists in the camp, also prisoners, who paint pictures for the
prison authorities, besides touching up the paint on the clothing of people
like Ivan Denisovich. And when they do it, these bearded artists gently move
their brush against the slightly bent head of a prisoner, repainting numbers on
the front of the threadbare cloth cap. To Ivan it seems like a priest anointing
a worshipper in a church.
That’s the image Ivan gives us.
We dwell on it, thinking of the associations, seeing the picture in black and
white, in the dark cold frosty Siberian dawn, wondering if Ivan’s fleeting memory
of a warm and incense-filled orthodox church sustains him or breaks him.
Towards the end of the novel, Ivan
leaves us with another picture, magnificent and splendid, of an old man,
perhaps the longest-serving prisoner in that camp.
Shukhov had “heard that this old man had been in prison time out of mind
— in fact, as long as the Soviet state had existed; that all the amnesties had
passed him by, and that as soon as he finished one tenner they'd pinned another
on him.”
Shukhov
takes a close look.
“With hunched-over lags
all round, he was as straight-backed as could be. He sat tall, as though
he'd put something on the bench under him. That head hadn't needed a
barber for ages: the life of luxury had caused all his hair to fall out.
The old man's eyes didn't dart around to take in whatever was going on in the
mess, but stared blindly at something over Shukhov's head. He was
steadily eating his thin skilly, but instead of almost dipping his head in the
bowl like the rest of them (other prisoners—KB), he carried his battered wooden
spoon up high. He had no teeth left, upper or lower, but his bony gums
chewed his bread just as well without them. His face was worn thin, but
it wasn't the weak face of a burnt-out invalid, it was like dark chiseled
stone. You could tell from his big chapped and blackened hands that in
all his years inside he'd never had a soft job as a trusty. But he
refused to knuckle under: he didn't put his three hundred grams (of bread—KB) on
the dirty table, splashed all over, like the others, he put it on a rag he
washed regularly.”
Solzhenitsyn’s novel is a montage of exquisite black and white
images, some still, and others as if in a movie clip. Flashbacks are few and
far between, all too briefly recollected, perhaps for that reason the better
remembered. Through these flashbacks we learn of Ivan’s life, his personal griefs,
the terrible injustice of his prison sentence, and his doomed hopes for a
future out of prison.
In choosing texts for the segment on world literature, I leaned
towards works that suffered as little as possible in translation. In works
marked densely for poetic beauty, say for example, in the richness of a local
idiom, translations are unsatisfactory. For instance, I can’t imagine Huck Finn
speaking in Tamil. From that point of view, Solzhenitsyn’s One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich served us well. The novel’s
obvious and important “what” offered its riches even when its “how” was
sidelined.
I guess it is novels like One
day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich that I had in mind, when I said something about works that force us to enter the outside world and
hear cries against injustices as well as exhilarating songs of triumphs.
Note: Extract cited is from:
http://www.davar.net/EXTRACTS/FICTION/ONE-DAY.HTM
(Accessed at 11.00 AM, IST, on 7 June 2013)
Not a Queen of Drama
Some IB teachers taught Drama as the main option for the
final examination segment, where students would be expected to write an essay
in two hours or an hour and a half, depending on the level they had signed up
for. Essay topics were generic, and the task required candidates to explore one
of the topics with close and detailed reference to at least two of the three
texts they had studied over a semester, if not longer. My unchangeable choice
remained the Novel for the main option in all the IB classes I have ever taught.
The novel lends itself most comprehensively to analysis and
interpretation, especially when you talk of types of narrators, narrative
voice, and digressions, besides the many other aspects of imaginative writing
directly relating to philosophical and socio-historical ideas. Chronology and point of view have great import
in the novel. For me, long descriptive passages become lush autumn woods and
sunny groves where you lose yourself in the magic of words.
Drama doesn’t have that, unless it is in the poetry of a
character’s speech, and because drama is to be primarily heard and seen, I have
found plays, say, as bed-time reading, awkward, if not cumbersome, with stage
directions intruding. I have seldom, if ever, read plays again and again for
pleasure, except may be Shakespeare and Chekhov, but even those not right
through, but picking out familiar scenes or passages that virtually stand for
the play. I’d happily go to see a play many times in a variety of
interpretations, but unlike in the case of prose fiction, I don’t find myself returning
to a play every now and then to reread.
Teaching plays is at once easier and more difficult. Easier
because in most plays there is a plot that unravels, some sort of a climax;
dialogues are easy to follow—for the most part. In the classroom, role play goes
down well, and students are used to readings by the time they enter IB. In the
two environments where I taught, we didn’t have the chance to go to the theatre
to watch plays. Come to think of it, our theatre visits didn’t take us farther
than our simple school auditoriums with poor acoustics and flat single-level
seating, with metal chairs screeching and groaning. Interestingly, in both
schools there was something of a mini-amphitheatre, where we did our play readings
such as they were.
There’s a limitation, though. Because literature courses in IB aren’t
courses on theatre and drama (which are separate courses in the IB program),
plays ended up being studied for plot, character, conflict, and ideas, with
marginal observations on technique.
How well Athol Fugard’s “Master Harold and the Boys” served
those objectives of presenting characters, a monumental tragic history of a
region, and universal ideas that define
humanity’s search for dignity and equality. If I had to pick one play that is
perfect for close study in a classroom, this would be my choice.
How would it feel to see two black African men, hardworking
employees at work in a tea-room in South Africa during the Apartheid, dancing on
stage? Theatre is words plus, isn’t it?
When the internet eventually came to us in Oman, one student
downloaded Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan’s music, to which the two men dance in
Fugard’s play, and brought it to the class. Sometimes experiencing tangible and concrete
things made a work easier to remember for many students when they were still
adjusting to the heavy-duty reading required in IB. For example, a colleague organized a macaroon
contest when our classes were reading Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Anyway, that music kindly made available by a
member of the class invited a discussion on the dancing which is the only visual
element in the play.
I would ask where was the action taking place, if all you
got to see on stage was this strangely misplaced dance. When someone in the
class began to talk about how everything in the play actually happened beyond
the stage, the implication of the world we couldn’t see and couldn’t know
firsthand became our concern. We saw no harsh and familiar story of racial
injustice unravel on stage, no physical violence, but the characters told us about
those things and more.
What we don’t see on stage is the huge social conflict and
struggle of Apartheid in South Africa, the echo of which unfolds in the
mounting tension on stage between the white “master” and the black “servants.”
Drama “shows” without “telling”, which tightens a narrative,
and playwrights who have the gift of doing away with stage directions to guide
the actors – Shakespeare being a genius in that business - write lines that
are infused with tone and particularities of character in the arrangement of
words. In that sense, powerful lines in drama are poetic in nature. Then
there’s movement, the choreography of the action on stage, so difficult to
visualize without an idea of the setting, the quality of light, and the
integration of props. Costume in drama conveys a great deal as well, and again,
in the hands of great dramatists, these details are frequently the
responsibility of the production team to develop. In short, every dramatist
writes for the stage and not for the silent reader in a secluded spot, or if
you are not that lucky, then for a group of willing and unwilling readers in a
classroom with the clock ticking.
When I was in Moscow, studying dramatic works as part of the
literature syllabus meant that I went to the Moscow Art Theatre and saw, for instance,
Chekhov’s plays on stage. His understated comic lines came alive there.
Everything – the pauses, the intonation, and the accompanying gestures –
conveyed character and mood.
Imprisoned in the four walls of a classroom, never being
enjoyed in its entirety, a play loses much of its power to affect you. A novel
works at a completely different pace. Putting your book down and picking it up
becomes habit for the initiated reader, with a little help from the author who
uses every device available to trigger our memory to recount things that went
before.
Great plays such as Fugard’s Master Harold and the Boys, Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, Beckett’s Waiting
for Godot, worked very well for me, despite my shortcomings in teaching
drama as a literary genre. Shakespeare featured as a requirement, which was
perfect, as far as I am concerned.
Just recently, an ex-student guessed correctly that as a
teacher I chose works that I greatly liked rather than obediently follow a
prescribed list. In that sense, I leaned heavily in favor of prose fiction of
the longer variety as the mainstay of literature courses I taught. IB let me do
that without shortchanging the students, corrupting the curriculum, or ignoring
the syllabus.
The Challenge of Writing
Talking about books is the easy part. Writing responses is a
challenge.
Young writers need to know about thesis statement, topic
sentence, organizing paragraphs and the importance of introductions/summing up.
They have to pay attention to the
mechanics of the language and the conventions of formatting formal papers. All
this is essential.
You know that I am going to start my next sentence with
“But”.
One favorite writing exercise I used comes from blurbs one
sees on the back of most fiction books. I would have my class go to the library
and pick out three or four works of fiction from the high school section, read
the blurbs carefully, and choose one to read out in class. After several have
been read out, students would work in groups of 3 or 4, and figure out what
these blurbs contain and how the writer has sequenced ideas.
More than anything else, the choice of adjectives in these
examples usually astonished the class.
“Interesting” almost never shows up. One novel is “An immensely powerful
book that will resonate for generations.” This is the opening after which other
aspects of the book find further commendation. Another is “Honest, funny, and
at times moving without being mawkish.” And so on.
With this model of a brief and terse piece of writing to
introduce a book, each student would write a 50 to 60 word description of the
novel under study in the class. Peer
editing in groups followed to tighten the writing as well as fix problems in
mechanics.
Expanding one’s expressive vocabulary requires an apt
context. Responding to literature serves as a fine context, as readers have to
express opinions, make generalizations, and offer arguments.
Simple, straightforward concrete adjectives such as “sad”
“funny” “hard-hitting” “violent” “disturbing” top the neutral “interesting”
or “unique” every time. Putting together
a compendium of useful adjectives to describe a character or a situation in a
15 minute activity provides a great break in an IB class, where language work per se hardly features. These activities
didn’t happen in class for every novel, but a technique, such as this one,
would become part of the student’s brainstorming routine.
A genius of a teacher taught my son’s class in Grade 9, I think,
that to write with punch, you had to do away with “is” “was” “are” and
“were”. That magic mantra, when applied
to topic sentences, pushes a writer to find a verb that contains an important
idea, a clear thought, a specific meaning for the reader.
When I tell a class to choose the active over the passive
voice, I see cartoon thought bubbles over the heads of students with things like, “wha…t?”
“doodle” and “yawn”. Getting rid of the auxiliary verb does pretty much the
same thing as replacing the passive with active.
Obviously, “is” and its family have a place, say, for
example in stating facts, in definitions, and so on.
To persuade your reader that you speak with authority, you
have to pile up examples when you provide supporting evidence to back up a
claim. “But then we can’t stay within the word limit,” a student would argue.
That’s the point. Word limits call for compact and concentrated expression, a
fine training ground for a student of writing, and all students have to write
at some point.
To show that you know more than the first chapter, I’d say, pick
four or five instances to cite as evidence, and string them together in paraphrase.
“Stevens’s inability to express his emotions, when for example, his father lies
dying, or Miss Kenton needs a word of
condolence, or significantly, when Lord Spencer mocks him…” etc, adequately
conveys knowledge of the work under discussion.
Or, “Meursault observes things, for example,
the wet towels in the office wash room, the bumpy roads on the way to his
mother’s funeral, the disfigurement on a nurse’s face, the color of Marie’s
dress, and we are hard put to…”
Keep paragraphs short. Give your reader breathing space.
Your examiner has to answer phone calls, take breaks to put on coffee, to relieve
a cramp, and if your paragraphs are long, she ends up having to reread your
page-long drivel, I’d say.
“Why drivel? That’s so rude,” someone would say with a mock scowl.
“Well, I don’t ever get exam scripts of my own kids, you
know. Other kids do write drivel. That’s why I have to take breaks. Your essays
are impossible to put down, you know that,” I would say, with mock seriousness.
Many little individual tricks, consciously developed and
refined, become handy habits for a writer in a hurry—the high school student—who
seldom has the luxury of time to write the nearly impossible on-demand essays. The more we read things carefully together as a class, the more we noticed the craft in writing.
I never did get to read my students’ essays written for the
final examination, and that is a pity. For me, it is something akin to being a
sports coach and not being able to watch your team’s final game for a
championship they won or miss a class recital that we put together.
Writing is performance and those students turned in
outstanding performances.
Heaney—the Man
A soggy wet kitten, the bright edge of a shovel, a space on
a wall that looks like a bandage has been ripped off, a rotund man slapping the
rumps of cattle, and a small boy frozen in fear by scurrying rats with beady
eyes.
Seamus Heaney’s poems permeate one’s consciousness because
each poem is an invitation to a complete sense experience.
Every poem of Heaney’s that we read in class sparkled
prism-like, the words striking us like beams of light. Reading Heaney aloud is
a sweet experience, because nothing trips you up, nothing twists your
tongue.
Learning to appreciate the power of sense imagery –
something fundamental to understand literature – became a central preoccupation
when students read Heaney. May be because we chose for our class poems that
adolescents could relate to, responding to his poems came with spontaneity.
So much so that, one particular year, our class wrote to and
heard back from Seamus Heaney, bringing the great man close to us.
This is what happened.
We were studying a selection of Heaney’s poems together with
Shakespeare’s King Lear for a major
oral commentary evaluation towards the final grade in the IB examination in
English. The class made several presentations as we worked on the chosen poems
and excerpts.
Heaney’s “Ancestral Photograph” resonated with a young lady from
Nigeria, who understood the poignant inevitability of how traditional ways
vanish, leaving hollow spaces in one’s mind. In that poem, a small number of
physical objects create an unforgettable portrait of a cattle farmer at an
auction from another time: a waistcoat, a watch on a chain, a top hat, a
cane. His gestures are expansive, his
cheer animated. He knows his work, he is successful. That’s how his nephew
remembers him, although now everything is changed, and the uncle is no more.
Then there was “Digging”. What memorable insights that one
poem gives to every reader. I shall remember forever (as long as my memory
lasts) how during the examination presentation, a student explained why the
shovel’s edge would shine and how uniquely cool potatoes dug out of the earth
feel.
The power of a metaphor never was
greater, when you heard the speaker in the poem digging with the pen. In that poem you saw the open fields, heard
the scrape of shovel against gravel, smelled and touched the earth, and
tasted the sweetness of milk carried in
a bottle… Familiar physical sensations permeated your mind as you read the
poem, telling you a big story in a brief sketch.
It doesn’t make sense any longer to merely talk about Heaney’s
writing. Some lines live forever.
“The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.”
Synesthesia. Alliteration. Imagery. Regional flavor.
Universal experience. So compact, so deep, and yet so accessible.
We read “The Early Purges”, incomparable for its historical
allusion suggested by the very title, the poem’s gut-wrenching imagery, its
depiction of how we descend into unthinking cynicism, and, ultimately, the story of coming face to face with some
inescapable facts of life.
How erudite Heaney is goes unnoticed if you don’t peer at
every line as if it were a many-faceted polished diamond. The emotional fire
and intellectual brilliance come from Heaney’s superior knowledge imbued with
sincere humanity.
Lines of verse raised spirits, livened imagination, widened
horizons, and made introspection a natural outcome. No amount of theorizing
could have conveyed the nature of poetry better than the words students spoke
from the lines Heaney gave us.
So, then, to return to my story. A group of students
wondered if they could write to Seamus Heaney. “What would we write?” became
“Why don’t we invite him to visit our school?” and that set off a project I
could never have planned.
Being a graduating class, they decided that they
would invite Heaney as the Graduation Speaker. They met the school head and
explained their decision. This was a change from the usual practice of the
school board agreeing on a Graduation Speaker. So, the class sent a
representative to present to the board Heaney as their choice of speaker. Then
they wrote a letter to him, which went from the Head’s office. In the
meanwhile, the class wrote a brief note to introduce Heaney, should he consent
to visit.
The enthusiasm with which the entire class worked together
was wonderful to watch. The letter could only be sent to an agent, and
therefore we had no idea when—even if—there would be a response. That didn’t
deter the class. Everything they did came from a powerful wish to meet the poet
and hear his words in person.
A response came swiftly in the form of a fax. It was
typewritten, but in that message, the great man personally addressed by name the
students who had composed the letter. He couldn’t undertake the trip “beguiling
as the invitation” was, he said, explaining that he was recovering from a
stroke, and that his wife as well his doctor would discourage travel. He had
signed the message with his full name.
I have a copy of that fax, elegantly framed in wood, given
to me by the school head.
That gracious personal response was such an honor Seamus Heaney bestowed on the youngsters in my class that he has occupied a place of the highest esteem in my heart.
Flattering to know there are others out there, too...
I read the following in my favorite site aldaily.com
Everything this dude says corresponds to my approach as a teacher of literature to older teens.
Excerpt from An interview with the author, essayist and critic Daniel Mendelsohn
I want to end by asking you about your experience of teaching. Do you think it might be worth teaching undergraduates not only how to write academic essays but also how to write criticism of the kind one finds in magazines and popular journals?
First of all, I think undergraduates should be kept away from Theory at all costs. I don’t think people should be allowed to even hear the word “theory” until they’re doing graduate work—for the very good reason that it’s impossible to theorise about texts before one has deep familiarity with them (not that that stopped anyone in the 1980s when I was in grad school). Undergraduates should be taught to have a clean appreciation of what texts say and how they say them, and learn how to write intelligently and clearly about that. If undergraduates had to have a model of criticism it ought to be popular criticism rather than traditional academic criticism.
Later on, when they’ve had experience in close reading, when they have a number of works under their belt, they can be introduced to theory—to the wide array of approaches to texts that they already will have “owned,” in some small way. That is exciting. But to flatter the vanity of 19-year-olds by letting them think they know about “theory” before they have read anything in real depth strikes me as preposterous. That very approach bred a generation of academics whose approach to literature is contemptuous.
So would you like to see popular critical essays on the curriculum?
Yes. One of the courses I like to teach is a Great Books course that’s mandatory for first year students, and after I read their first papers it’s always very clear to me that they have no model, no template for what a critical essay is supposed to do—what (or how) you’re supposed to be arguing when you’re writing about a text or a movie or anything. They don’t understand there is a rhetoric of criticism—that there’s a stance you have to have, that you have to position yourself, that you don’t just blather about your impressions or your “opinions” or, worse, your “feelings” about a work. They literally have no idea, at first, what the point of being critical is—no doubt because, in part, they are being raised in a culture where a bland, everything-goes, multi-culti niceness is the paramount virtue. You have to know who you are—as a person, but also as a member of a given civilization—in order to speak about a work.
I always tease them at the beginning of the semester about their writing—I say, “Whenever you write me at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night begging me for an extension on the paper, the prose is always so beautiful and the email is so wonderfully structured.” It’s a joke, but it’s also not a joke—in that situation they understand the rhetoric of the form to which they’re committing themselves: They understand who they are as a writer and a beseecher, they understand who I am as the person in charge, they understand what evidence to adduce in their favour—their dog died, their computer broke or whatever. Which is why the email begging for the paper extension is always a well-written piece. But whenever they have to write three paragraphs about women in Genesis or whatever—when they have to make an argument—it’s basically “word salad,” because they’ve never read anything that presents a text, wrestles with it and comes up with some conclusions. For that reason, I think it’s better that they should be reading Pauline Kael reviews in the New Yorker than Derrida.
More to come