Well, crap.

I just had the very brilliant idea of doing a Google search for the word "read" and then giving a critical analysis of whatever search options came up first.  Well, out of curiosity I made the mistake of clicking on the search term "Reading Eggs," which led me to a page selling a reading program for small children.  Interesting enough, but the problem is that now whenever I type the word "read" into my search bar, the options that come up are: "Reading eggs," "Reading eggs app," "Reading eggs school code," "Reading eggs review"... (etc.). 

What if I am interested in more than just reading eggs?  What if I want to expand my horizons by hearing from perspectives other than my own ("my own perspective" being represented by my previous search history)?  What if the things Google shows me have more to do with incidental choices like my choice to click on "reading eggs" than with anything actually connected to my identity, personality, or learning interests?
We've spent some class time talking about how our commodity-based culture jumps on our buying (or search-bar) habits.  This system, especially way Google and other technologies respond to our preferences, leads users in the direction they are already going; it shows them more and more of what they like, leading them deeper and deeper into that world and isolating them from other potential choices. 

What interests me here is the fact that the direction Google is leading me is so... random.  In my initial search, I could just as easily have clicked on "reading lists" or some other search option, but now those options are no longer available to me; I would not even know they existed.  In this system of tailoring consumer options to their previous preferences, there seems to be a whole lot of chance at play.  Who we become as consumers (that is, who our technologies push us to become) may depend more on chance than on any original direction we ever chose for ourselves.

Paul Celan: Language that Reaches

Paul Celan was a Romanian poet writing in German in the years surrounding the holocaust.  Having witnessed the deaths of both his parents at the hands of the Nazis, he became suspicious of human attempts to neatly categorize the world into language.  He wrote this poem describing hope in the midst of the failure of language:

A RUMBLING: truth

itself has appeared

among humankind

in the very thick of their

flurrying metaphors. (Celan 247)

 

Or, in another translation:

A RUMBLING: it is

            the truth itself

            among the people

            treading,

            in the middle of

            flurrying metaphors. (Pieper)

 

This poem reminds me of a conversation our class had regarding Saussure and, tangentially, deconstruction.  A few of our theorists maintain that the sign (signifier+signified) is what matters, not the actual object described (that is, the noumenal world that Kant said was inaccessible).  In that case, are we entirely isolated from reality forever—if, that is, it even exists at all? 

This poem speaks to that question.  The flurrying metaphors are what we deal in day-to-day.  These signifiers strive towards the truth and yet cannot seem to express it.   And yet the poem reads: “A RUMBLING: truth / itself has appeared.”  The truth is treading among the people, despite the failure of language.  We recall John chapter 1: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”  In the midst of our flailing language, perhaps there is this embodied Word, this word that succeeds in reaching its referent.  For Celan in his post-holocaust world and for us in ours, such an idea is a rumbling of hope.

A Case for the Humble Reader

I have recently talked with a few professors from outside the English department who have some serious doubts about literary criticism and theory in general, especially when it is taught at the undergrad level.  Though they recognize its value to some degree for helping us understand our own assumptions better, they worry that the theoretical-critical mindset can often lead to intellectual arrogance, disabling us from being humble readers of texts.  For example, if we read a novel from a feminist perspective, we may have a lot of very smart things to say about all the novel’s many shortcomings… but may also close ourselves off from whatever the text might be able to say to us.

This semester, I have been highly impressed with a number of the theorists we have studied.  They are brilliant people with piercing critiques to offer the world of literature; they make us think in new, challenging, and sometimes unsettling ways about our assumptions as readers.  However, I think my concerned professors also have a point.  In this class, we’ve done lots of talking about texts, standing above them and looking down with a critical eye.  Yet so often, it seems that one of the biggest needs within academia is a willingness to learn and grow, to be challenged and to set aside our own cleverness or preoccupations in order to hear others’ stories.  Certainly, literary theory provides some very helpful ways to do just that; we learn to hear marginalized voices, to recognize how our own thinking is shaped by ISAs, etc.  But at the same time, we have much to learn from the literature itself, not just from critique of it.  My hope is to become a reader who can use the tools of literary theory, and who yet can approach literature with the recognition that I too have much to learn and many flaws that would not withstand critical analysis.  I want to think about what I read, but first to listen to it, openly.  Once we listen to a text and even love it, we can perhaps begin to criticize it as well.

post postmodernism?

After being steeped for a few days in the postmodern thinking of The Heirs of Columbus, it feels easy to assume that postmodernism is the ultimate stage in literary theory so far.  In this class, though, we have seen how theories build on each other and are modified or sometimes even rejected over time.  So, what is the next step from postmodernism?  Assuming a Hegelian dialectic (which perhaps we cannot do… but still, it seems useful in describing some aspects of history), will there be a backlash from postmodern ideals?  Even if we maintain some elements of postmodern thought forever, where will changes need to take place?

From my perspective, it seems that the main problem with the postmodern mindset is its lack of direction.  If thought accumulates like an ever-expanding rhizome, what is the purpose of adding to that rhizome?  Why do we continue to pile on spore after spore, adding to the heap like literary hoarders? What is the goal of creativity, especially when we recognize that no temporary plateau of ideas will last?

Perhaps the goal is to promote ongoing communication between people.  Even if, as a whole, we do not move towards anything in particular, the process of creating and dialoguing together keeps us in conversation with each other, in relationship.  In finding things we share and noticing places where we differ, we have opportunities to interact with each other and pursue meaningful relationship.  That is a worthwhile process.  But I’m curious to see what new directions the future holds too.