You say "anti-intellectualism," I say "humility" . . .
Potato, Po-tah-to
Tomato, To-mah-to
Let's call the whole thing off . . .
I understand that I will be accused of indulging in anti-intellectualism in my previous post (and probably in this post as well), but I prefer to think of it as humility in the presence of great art. I used to live -- or more precisely, "pass" -- in this world, and I do think some of the questions and conundrums that are explored in literary studies are challenging and worthwhile. But every time I get lulled into the head-nodding, "hmmm, that's interesting," complacency of the lit-crit crowd, I'm brought up short by the smugness-shattering fact of great literature or great art. I have written in passing about seeing Raphael's Transfiguration for the first time -- a painting I'd never seen before and about which I'd never read -- and of the un-self-conscious gasp that came with my initial glance at the painting. Art criticism and art history can certainly deepen my appreciation for and understanding of Raphael's great painting, but it can never produce, or reproduce, that gasp. Very rarely a critic -- most often a critic who is a great artist in his own right -- will produce something akin to that gasp, but most of the time, "interesting" questions notwithstanding, there is a great yawning gulf between what we say about literature and what literature says about us. And yes, in order to talk about great literature at all, we have habitually to ignore that gulf, but if we ignore it too often we run the risk of seeming to elevate our poor pretentious prattle to a place alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare and Dickens, and that's a place where the cheapness, the threadbare argument and garish wordiness of our "questions," is most glaringly apparent. Is it too much to ask that we stand back and gasp a little more often when we talk about great art? That's an old-fashioned question and one that can be soundly ridiculed for all sorts of fashionable reasons, but at least I can console myself with the thought that literary fashions are for a season, but Shakespeare is forever.
Tomato, To-mah-to
Let's call the whole thing off . . .
I understand that I will be accused of indulging in anti-intellectualism in my previous post (and probably in this post as well), but I prefer to think of it as humility in the presence of great art. I used to live -- or more precisely, "pass" -- in this world, and I do think some of the questions and conundrums that are explored in literary studies are challenging and worthwhile. But every time I get lulled into the head-nodding, "hmmm, that's interesting," complacency of the lit-crit crowd, I'm brought up short by the smugness-shattering fact of great literature or great art. I have written in passing about seeing Raphael's Transfiguration for the first time -- a painting I'd never seen before and about which I'd never read -- and of the un-self-conscious gasp that came with my initial glance at the painting. Art criticism and art history can certainly deepen my appreciation for and understanding of Raphael's great painting, but it can never produce, or reproduce, that gasp. Very rarely a critic -- most often a critic who is a great artist in his own right -- will produce something akin to that gasp, but most of the time, "interesting" questions notwithstanding, there is a great yawning gulf between what we say about literature and what literature says about us. And yes, in order to talk about great literature at all, we have habitually to ignore that gulf, but if we ignore it too often we run the risk of seeming to elevate our poor pretentious prattle to a place alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare and Dickens, and that's a place where the cheapness, the threadbare argument and garish wordiness of our "questions," is most glaringly apparent. Is it too much to ask that we stand back and gasp a little more often when we talk about great art? That's an old-fashioned question and one that can be soundly ridiculed for all sorts of fashionable reasons, but at least I can console myself with the thought that literary fashions are for a season, but Shakespeare is forever.
posted by Kate Marie | 9:59 AM | Permalink
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2 comments
2 Comments:
I think that's the reason why in college I used to prefer to read the books that English classes assigned (the books were helpfully all together in the campus bookstore) than to sign up for any of the classes. I got to enjoy some great books that those other poor kids had to study and understand and critique. I know I had more fun.
For what it's worth, I think that if a literature class really is that boring, then much of the blame should fall on the instructor. There are many--too many--uninspiring lit profs, but the good ones are never selfish with the material, and they're still eager to elicit that awed gasp from their students.
Of course, it doesn't help that often you'll find many lazy, uninspired students in those classes, folks who bristle every time their teacher corrects their creative comma use. The will of full-time English profs must erode over the years; makes me glad I'm part-time.
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