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The Grumpy Grammarian

In a departure from the usual discussions of grammar and language, our column this month presents some thoughts regarding the study of literature.

Respect for and interest in literary study – that is, study of those literary works that have come to be regarded as classics – appears to have gradually declined in my lifetime.  When I was in high school in the middle of the last century, it was assumed that all students should acquire at least an introduction to literature.  For those of us who had even the most remote intentions of going on to college, some knowledge and (the teachers hoped) appreciation of the literary classics were deemed essential.

Even then, not all students and teachers agreed with these assumptions.  I'm fairly sure that most of the English teachers did, but some of the math and science people may have secretly thought that making kids read novels and short stories or plays or (good grief!) poetry was a waste of time.  Not altogether unlike young people today, we students resented being forced to read some of the works that were forced upon us (Silas Marner stands out in my memory as an especially unpopular book).  However, I suppose that we were less "liberated" than today's youngsters are, so we read them anyway.

A few of those who thought that reading the classics was an utter waste of time later changed their minds – because of some experience in college, contact with a peer who seemed to have reaped subtle benefits from reading, the development of greater maturity, or some other reason.  Perhaps the majority of the scoffers remained scoffers, disdainful of the "effete snobs who read literature."  One cannot reason with them, for they have developed an intractable bias against literary study based on their having foisted upon them one book that they didn't like or having endured one year of high school English under Mr. Gradgrind or Miss Primrose, who turned all serious literature into unpalatable gruel or nauseating mush.

Nevertheless, most of us who bought the idea that reading the classics was a necessary and at least vaguely beneficial part of our education (despite our doubts about some of the works chosen) have not changed our minds.  Indeed, not a few of us have come to regret that we didn't pay more attention when we had the opportunity.  As we have matured, we have come to recognize the value of what little we do remember of those works – and have found that the demands of everyday life give us little time to make up for lost opportunities.  It isn't that we feel we would have been economically better off if we had read more; it is that we feel that we would be richer in understanding of ourselves, our fellows, and the world we inhabit if we had drunk more deeply from the well of wisdom that these great books represent.

Perhaps one reason for the decline of respect for the classics is our increasing emphasis on what is demonstrably utilitarian and economically advantageous.  We ask:  "What good is knowledge that has no direct and tangible function?  What's the use of learning or studying something – especially if it takes considerable effort – if it doesn't bring us a better job or more money?"  These are valid questions – but only if our entire value system revolves around what is useful or profitable.  It's a shocking concept in our materialistic/capitalistic society, but some things of considerable worth don't have price tags on them.

Another reason for this decline may be that we have redefined (dumbed-down) our idea of entertainment so that it includes primarily activities that are intellectually passive.  We may consider reading to be passive – and it is physically – but it requires a considerable amount of mental work, especially when what is being read is thoughtful or profound.  Our minds are called upon not only to create their own images but also to deal with subtleties and to follow lines of thought that other media rarely offer.  Except for drama, literature is not designed to be performed, and it usually cannot be – which explains why even the best film adaptations of books lack something that can be gotten only by reading the book.

We have become accustomed to having our entertainment performed for us while all we do is sit and watch.  Some of it is so mentally unchallenging that we can occupy our minds with something else at the same time.  This is all very good, and we should consider ourselves blessed that we have so many opportunities to shift our brains into low gear or neutral and be passively entertained.  Unfortunately, though, it can become a habit.  We fall into an almost permanent mindset of intellectually passivity, emerging from this state only when we are consciously studying something or engaged in problem-solving at work.

When we bring this mindset to literary works, it is no wonder that we don't appreciate them.  True, literature can be amusing and vicariously exciting – entertaining, if you will – but if that is all we look for in it and all we get out of it, we have sold it short.  There's nothing wrong with reading strictly for entertainment or amusement – for instant gratification, if you will – or for temporary escape from lives that can be boring or difficult or stressful.  However, that is not what makes classic literary works classics.  They may be entertaining, but that is not usually the primary reason for reading them, nor should it be the yardstick against which we measure their worth.  They offer something much more.   Getting that extra "something" usually demands that we exert some effort.  Classic literature is not for intellectually lazy readers.

Francis Bacon's oft-quoted statement applies here.  In "Of Studies," he wrote:  "Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested."  Those that are deemed classics – and one is always entitled to disagree whether a particular work deserves that classification – are among the few to be swallowed and digested.

That process may take time.  Many readers, even those who recognize the value of reading and studying literary classics, have experienced some bewilderment about why certain works have become so esteemed.  They may, indeed, have given up on them.  The fault does not lie with the works.  We may have been intellectually or emotionally unready for them, which is not to say that we are stupid or immature but only that we have not reached a point in our lives where we can perceive the work's relevance to us.

Here is where we get into questions about the teaching and study of literature.  How does an instructor of literature make a work written by an author in a markedly different culture centuries ago relevant to a young reader today?  More importantly, how do we, as readers, relate our lives and experiences to those of people (characters and authors) whose lives and experiences appear – superficially, at least – to have absolutely no resemblance to our own?  The answers to those questions may not only help us to appreciate the classucs but also help to explain why they are considered classics in the first place.

[The second installment of this column will address these questions.]