Surprises along the way
Studying literature seemed a straightforward venture. The uninitiated have no idea of the complexity of post-structuralism or the challenge of parsing a 300-year-old text into something digestible by modern readers. Through these difficult exercises one discovers the “meat” within which literary study is rooted. I had no idea such a complex analysis of texts existed; similarly, through my studies I encountered other surprises about literature and myself as a scholar.
I have heard other students complain about their assignments, unable to write about a work because they loathe it. During a course late 19th-century American literature, I had a revelation which showed this complaint untrue for me. I had never considered myself a fan of realist writing, and the thought of studying that time period still fills me with dread. Frank Norris’ McTeague enthralled me, yet I hated reading it. The language seemed dull and unimaginative: Norris continually re-uses phrases to describe a character, never re-inventing his language. The protagonist seemed unrealistically stupid, and all of the characters lacked significant motivation for their actions. To me it seemed simple, bad writing.
Despite all of this, however, Frank Norris has his own society that publishes a periodical about him. Scholars—and obviously the professor who assigned the work—consider McTeague a pivotal novel for the time. How? I found myself pulled into the novel as I never had been before. I needed to dissect it—to find out what merit McTeague had and why Norris was celebrated as a writer. My search led me to one of the most in-depth studies I have done, quantitatively analyzing Norris’ diction and tracking down obscure articles about the novel, which has received only light criticism since its initial publication.
What I realized with this project, and have since confirmed, is that I enjoy writing criticism for works I dislike as much or more than works I love, and that writing about “bad” works is much easier for me. In contrast to my problems Norris, when I encountered Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, I loved it. Rushdie’s command of English and his ability to manipulate the language to fit his purpose fascinates me. When attempting to write about Rushdie, I find I quickly run out of steam: it seems obvious why scholars acclaim The Satanic Verses; not only for the writing, but of its rough handling of the world’s fastest-growing religion. Whether this speaks well for my future as a literary scholar or not, I cannot divine.
A second surprise I encountered in London. I had visited the city before, and this time shied away from popular tourist locations. I could not, however, avoid Westminster Abbey and Poet’s Corner. In this conspicuously barren nook of the monument-stuffed church, the greatest writers of the English language lie entombed in the floor with humble flagstones bearing only their names and dates of the beginning and endpoints of their lives. Having for the most part completed my undergraduate education, I considered my knowledge of important literary figures well rounded. I was unprepared, however, for the joy I felt in recognizing so many of the writers’ names and their works. Dylan Thomas’ stone inspired me to recite “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”. I remembered Emily Dickinson’s penchant for wearing white. Henry James’ grave inspired me to become, like him, an American writer with a place in Westminster.
Critical Theory offered my first realization that I could do the work. While many of the students struggled with the theories, I found I could absorb them and process them. The theoretical essays still forced me to read with a dictionary in one hand and a text in the other, but one example essay usually was enough for me to grasp the theory. I also discovered my aversion to “camps” of theory. With my final essay in that class, I analyzed the criticism of a fairly inaccessible play, Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead. None of the critics who stuck to a single method of criticism displayed, in my opinion, a solid grasp of the work; the critics who attempted multiple methods of analysis came much closer to a full understanding of the play’s power.
Throughout my time as an English major I have had few times where I doubted my ability as a scholar. As an author, however, I discovered a glut of problems. My writing has suffered “English major’s syndrome” since high school. I attempt too much in too little. I write like a modernist, with complexity and obscure allusions that add little to my work for an average reader. For a long time I have feared becoming a second Robert Browning, where only posthumously do critics appreciate my work.
The exception to this frustration has been my play. Jump received praise from my most consistent critics and represented my first remuneration for a creative work with the Alma College Writing Contest. I have attempted, since, to reproduce my method of creation for Jump, which came together through bursts of inspiration and the fusion of several separate ideas into one. After winning the award and watching a dramatic reading of my work, I felt a surprising amount of celebrity, which I would enjoy duplicating.
My term as an English major has never fluctuated in my dedication and single-minded desire. Hence I graduate without a minor. The aforementioned anecdotes represent times when I realized the depth of literary study both ahead and behind me. It has not always been simple, and I did not begin college a polished wordsmith.