Pogo

Each post there contains interesting points. I didn't answer it at the time because I couldn't come up with a good definition.

A year older now, here goes.

The test of time, mentioned by Rhubarb, is important. Antiques have to be 100 years old before they're officially antiques. Literature should have a similar time-test. Otherwise, it becomes a plaything of current critics and literati. Nobody today would argue against Shakespeare being literature, but there was a time - the Augustan Age (Dr. Johnson and Boswell and that crowd in the late 18th century)- when the Bard was considered barbaric. Tastes apparently change with the times.

The test of form or style - the work should be written in a superior style, but that brings up the problem of ULYSSES. Although not 100 years yet, Joyce's work is unintelligible to all but the most devoted yet is considered the greatest masterpiece of the 20th century.

The test of content - it must treat the human condition in a universal way. It must strike some chord that resonates with its readers no matter the reader's particular place in the world. It should therefore have a commonality reachable by most people.

It should entertain in the sense of Aristotle's catharsis. Maybe "engage" is the better word.(I think this is the fundamental criterion of all art - it must entertain/engage).

Literature should be more or less universally acknowledged as such to avoid a kind of avant-garde snobbery that would otherwise keep it within the select self-identified purview of the few.

By its nature, it should have a didactic quality, subtle and not necessarily overtly expressed, but there nevertheless. (I'm not so sure about this).

It certainly should have beauty, but you know what they say about beauty...

As to who should set the standard - I guess only time can perform that function. Homer is read and studied to this day 3000 years later, so is the Bible (putting aside for the moment its religiosity) with its profound fables, never-surpassed poetry, and deep examination of all that is human. But will ULYSSES be read so many years in the future?

I haven't really answered the question, more like added question upon question, but it's a terrific question.

One of those topics that's great for rambling.

I believe that the key characteristic among those that Bradd mentions is relevance or, if you will, universality. To be considered literature, a work must have something significant to say about the human condition or human experience, with sufficient timelessness that people relate to it and continue to relate to it. It is not merely entertaining, though it can be that.

In exploring the human condition, a work of literature may not always be pleasant and reassuring. Many classics present the darker side of human experience, and this isn't very comforting – except insofar as it reassures those of us who have also experienced the darker side that we are not alone. What gives most literary works their enduring reputation is their ability to speak to a common core of humanity, not just to a segment of us in a specific time frame. For example, a work that brilliantly illustrates inner conflicts may speak to all of us in any time frame because we all have such conflicts, have always had them, and no doubt always will.

This is not to say that literature does not have its lighter side. Humor and whimsy are part of the human condition, too. Irony and satire may make us smile, even if the what is being presented ironically or satirically is a serious matter.

Often the answer to questions about what constitutes literature has something to do with "seriousness of purpose" – the view that, if the work doesn't have some didactic message, it is merely a "story," not literature. While this may be true of most literary works, I believe that relevance, universality, and the ability to engage a wide variety of readers over a broad span of time are more important than any transparent message or moral. Indeed, many authors of literary classics downplay a stated message, leaving readers to deduce our own in terms of how the work relates to us and to our experiences.

[By the way, The Grumpy Grammarian for November is departing from its usual topics and discussing literary study. Part 1 of this article is already online; part 2 will follow in a few weeks.]
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Rich Turner (The Curmudgeon Himself)

Last Edited on 26-Oct-2007 8:19 PM

I was just now eating cheese popcorn while reading the newest issue of Utne (November/December 2007) and came across this revealing passage on page 31:

"Atomic bombs and satellites are among the real-world marvels lifted straight from works of futuristic fiction. Is there another field of literary fiction to rival science fiction's impact on the world? I think not....

...the natural human curiosity that science fiction was invented to meet is increasingly being met by reality. Why would I spend my money on a book about amazing-but-fake technology when we're only a few weeks away from Steve Jobs unveiling a cell phone that doubles as a jetpack and a travel iron?...But the science fiction writers should not beat themselves up. If, through their talent and imagination, our species has progressed to the point where it no longer requires their services, that should be a source of pride, not shame...."

Maybe science fiction is, after all, too young of a genre to be considered as literature. Then there's the clincher: Science fiction has slowly but surely ceased to matter because there's a "scarcity of foreseeable future."

Last Edited on 28-Oct-2007 2:21 PM

In this respect, the test of time is not an invalid criterion. A contemporary novel may have the potential to become a literary classic, but it is not one yet. Only time will tell. Because of some enduring quality, an obscure work may in time become regarded as a literary classic, whereas a hot best-seller may fade into oblivion.

Consider an analogy to music. Renaissance dances and songs were the popular music of their time; those that have survived are now part of the "classical" repertoire. Some of what survives of the Baroque era in music was "popular" music, and much of it was "sacred" music. These works, too, are "musical classics." Possibly some of the better instrumental film scores of our time or some of our show tunes will someday be regarded as musical classics – if they survive the test of time. Already there is a large body of "crossover" music (e.g., symphonic suites based on film scores or shows) that is being performed as "serious" music. In the 20th century, several composers who wrote principally symphonic works also wrote for films or shows (e.g., Shostakovitch. Copland). Leonard Bernstein's score for West Side Story may well outlast his more "serious" works; indeed, I think it already has.

That points to the futility of applying simplistic genre labels. What is science-fiction anyway? It's surely not simply fiction that extrapolates future science, and it's often hard to draw a sharp line between science-fiction and fanrasy (or, for that matter, horror). Where do we place Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Swift's Gulliver's Travels (yes, it's satire but also fantasy), and Poe's short stories? To go further back, can we perhaps loosely define Homer's Odyssey with its mythical creatures as "fantasy," as well as "adventure"? Don't Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World (both futuristic novels) at least border the territory occupied by s-f? Certainly, much of fantasy and s-f is garbage (just as a lot of New Age music is), but being in a specific genre does not preclude a work from becoming a literary or musical classic. If it has those hard-to-define qualities that cause it to endure and have a certain relevance (universal appeal), a work will join the ranks of the classics regardless of the genre that we place it in.

If you can understand what makes a novel by the Bronte sisters or Jane Austen survive for more than a century, while thousands of pulp romances become fodder for the trash bin of history, I think you have a clue to what distinguishes a literary classic from what is not – and it has nothing to do with genre.
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Rich Turner (The Curmudgeon Himself)

Admittedly, very few works that fall into this genre, even in its broadest definition, have become literary classics. That is either because of the nature of the beast (too easily outdated and thus made irrelevant) or because the better works are as much metaphorical or allegorical as "pure" sci-fi and thus become classified as something else – leading us back to the question of how the genre is to be defined.

As for Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, I cited that as an illustration of the blurring of genre lines. I consider it a curiosity, not a classic. Its premise has been subsequently treated far more interestingly and skillfully by other writers (and, yes, by the movies).
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Rich Turner (The Curmudgeon Himself)

There's a TV show set in the future - can't recall the name - but it seems more like a soap opera since the science is little more than a backdrop.

So I think science fiction must be about science as the main point or the most interesting point. Certainly there have to be humans, or human-oids, in the story - else the interest would be nil. But the human element is not what grabs the reader. The science is the hook.

Having said that, I still can't come up with an example that would be considered literature. Maybe it's too soon since the genre, as I understand it, has only been around since maybe the 1930's.

I don't think we have the same problem with the horror or detective story genre. Each is also relatively recent, yet one can make a strong argument for Agatha Christie or Raymond Chandler or Lovecraft or, earlier, Henry James or Washington Irving.

Bradd, your definition of science fiction seems to be limited to the sub-genre that I call "gadget fic." The major SF editor of the twentieth century, John W. Campbell, wanted stories set elsewhere and elsewhen, stories about the effects on and reactions of people and societies to new knowledge and technology, not rivet-by-rivet descriptions of new technology. By the way, the earliest description of cell phone use that I know of is in the book Space Cadet, by Robert A. Heinlein, 1948.

Almost always, when I hear of SF being taught in a literature course, the books chosen by the teacher are from the sub-genre known as New Wave. The New Wave movement began about 1960, I think, and its works follow all the rules of being literature -- mindless blather about nothing, with no emotion except that described by the psychiatrist characters. It's hardly ever mentioned now, but some newer authors write that way.

I was asking about the boring and (often) poorly written books that English teachers assign. David Copperfield, Moby Dick, lots of others that are still in print only because students are ordered to buy them. I managed half of David Copperfield; all I remember of that book is that Dickens kept writing "he don't." Moby Dick didn't last 10 pages; all I remember is "Call me Ishmael." I did get an A on the Moby Dick paper though; thank you, Classics Illustrated.

I remember almost none of whatever discussion was held in classes. Except that, in high school sophomore class about The Scarlet Letter, the word "hypocrisy" did not come up. The other two books she assigned that semester were The Pearl (ICK! I have read no Steinbeck since) and some nothing thing about a bridge that collapsed. Kim we "didn't have time for"; of course, I had already read it, so I asked if I could do a report for extra credit.

In college, we didn't discuss: The teacher would announce the beginning of discussion and ask a question. Somebody would answer it, and the teacher would immediately inform the entire class that that student was wrong, that the author had not meant that at all, that the true interpretation was something that made no sense (to me, anyway). Every paper she assigned was three-page; how one can find three pages of meaning in a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning is beyond me. Although, my third or fourth one-page paper irked the teacher into calling me to her desk after class to tell me that this would not do, that I had to write more. I said that that was all I had to say. And she gave me my first lesson in bullshitting. That whole semester, she picked poems that were mostly pedestrian and had no appeal or relevance -- except for Robert Browning, and him she misinterpreted, with no discussion allowed because her interpretation was the only correct one and if any of us thought otherwise, we were stupid. Then she told us to read "To His Coy Mistress" and go to the university library to look up every word in the poem and see what it really meant. Came discussion day, she kept her mouth shut except to ask for its meaning; only one boy in the class was capable of speech and he was bright red. This was 1966 -- the Summer of Love and all that was yet to come.

Second semester of college freshman English...

Pogo

I am particularly disturbed by your broadsides against The Scarlet Letter. We've been there before. When you did that in an earlier thread, I tried to capsulize what some of the themes in that work are. I am fully aware that most approaches do not do justice to The Scarlet Letter, but if you had read it under the tutelage of an instructor who could go into it in depth, bringing to bear the recurrent themes in Hawthorne's earlier tales (many of which appear in this book and which have significant relevance to the human condition and an understanding of human psychology), you might be less inclined to declare that "our ancestors had very bad taste in reading material."

As another example, I have used "To His Coy Mistress" in introductory poetry courses, with considerable success. It's sort of fun to watch as, in the discussion, it gradually dawns in students that this is a (gasp!) seduction. Once they do get that, it's even more fun to see how the speaker develops his argument and how he uses flattery and then logic to try to win over his "coy mistress." The imagery in the poem is magnificent and the structure masterful. I would be wary of teaching it in high school, where the politically correct PTA would probably sentence me to drinking poison because I was corrupting the morals of youth (even though they have doubtless witnessed more graphic seductions in the movies). However, with a college class, once we get beyond the shock value ("You mean there are poems about that?"), the poem is a remarkable device for demonstrating what makes poetry tick: imagery, compression, force of language, structure. Students at least become aware that great poems are not gushy drivel that only a sissy could love.

The trouble is not with the works. It is with lit teachers who themselves never truly learned what literature is all about or who don't know how to present it so as to show its relevance – or both. Experiencing such instruction is like listening to a great symphony played by a bunch of amateur musicians. It ruins a masterpiece. Such performances have turned many a young people against all classical music for the rest of their lives, and I suspect that something similar has happened to you with respect to literature. That's very sad.
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Rich Turner (The Curmudgeon Himself)

Pogo

Approached in the right manner, however, they can teach us a great deal about the human experience – more than we can learn from our own limited lives. If all you want from reading is enjoyment, stick with whatever you find entertaining. If all you want is pragmatic, factual knowledge, stick with nonfiction and textbooks.

Alas, I cannot convert you by posting here, even if I were to write an extended essay on the value of literary classics. Even in the classroom where I had students cornered, I couldn't make believers of them all, and even some of those who were believers didn't see the value in everything we covered. I hope that I expanded a few horizons, but that is all.

My favorite analogy to literary study is classical music. Some people declare that all music labeled classical is not worth listening to because the few pieces they have heard are badly presented (performed), because it is more complex than their ears are accustomed to hearing, because they had not yet acquired a taste for the type that they heard first and therefore became biased against it all, because much of it isn't "practical" (you can't dance to it or sing words to it), because their experience is limited and associated with being forced to learn a musical instrument (which they hated), because they have an image of classical music fans as effete snobs, and so on. At some point, all of these biases close the mind, and the individual condemns, with knee-jerk spontaneity, anything labeled "classical." From then on, that person will remain unmoved even by the most magnificent performance of a work that has for centuries brought audiences to their feet, shouting "Bravo!"

I have listened to some performances with tears running down my cheeks because of the sheer magnificence of the sounds (though I scarcely understand the technicalities of the music, nor why it moves me in this way). Meanwhile, a friend may be sitting next to me, puzzled and unmoved, thinking perhaps that what he or she just heard is "a bunch of meaningless noise." There are, I suppose, some people who, for whatever reason, can neither feel nor understand the power of this type of art; similarly, there are probably some who will never feel nor understand the power of works that are deemed literary classics (not any of them). Abstractly and philosophically, I believe that a certain amount of this power comes from within us. We all have the potential to tap that power (putting aside our biases), but many of us choose not to do so.
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Rich Turner (The Curmudgeon Himself)

Last Edited on 10-Nov-2007 3:47 PM

I'm at a loss to understand why Pogo seems so hostile to literary classics.

Appreciating art - whether music, the written or spoken word, or a Gothic cathedral, - requires a certain poetic sensibility.

All humans have it, more or less developed. Pogo expresses him/her self coherently, so I suspect somebody somewhere did a disservice to Pogo.

What a world Pogo is missing!

Last Edited on 14-Nov-2007 7:00 AM

This mirrors similar opinions before the telephone, electric light, and cars were invented. Something I've read several times comes to mind, but I don't remember who wrote it. (It'll probably come to me just as I'm drifting off to sleep and it'll wake me right back up again.) The gist of it was this: "If you were to ask a farmer from the 1800's what would make his work easier, he would say [something akin to] a horse that ate half as much but worked twice as hard. He would have no concept of a motorized tractor to do the horse's work."

It's just ongoing, and will probably never end. We are only limited by our imaginations. Have you ever read Looking Backward by Edward Bellamy? Although it's a commentary on socialism, I've found the setting and details to be incredibly creative for a book written in 1888.

Mudge: Arguments range from the silly ("I hated it, so how can it be a classic?") to the serious ("This book may have been important in its time, but it is too dated to be relevant now")

I have heard these kinds of comments! My only answer for the second one is that if the book was relevant once, you can probably replace the characters with contemporary names and it will be relevant again. Unfortunately, most people don't have the time (or interest) to think about it.

Bradd: Tastes apparently change with the times.

Pope, Goethe, and I all agree with you:

"Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes,
Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times."

(Pope, from "To Sir Richard Temple, Lord of Cobham")

"Glitter is coined to meet the moment's rage;
The genuine lives on from age to age."

(Goethe, from Faust)