Month: May 2014

Will Self goes on (well, he does tend to go on) in a recent Guardian article  about the death of the novel: eclipsed and submerged by electronic media and interactive forms of communication and meaning reduced to small, manageable chunks. He seems to be arguing that the kind of work required of serious literature (and we can argue for a long time as to what that means–) is becoming increasingly rejected by a distracted and frantic population. Though he blends his arguments about the loss of codex– the printed text- with the death of the art form and the insular nature of creative writing courses: preparing people to teach an art that is no longer economically viable so creating more teachers instead of writers– the connecting idea is that the private & reflective space necessary for deep contemplation and learning is growing extinct. Of course, he references the golden age (last half of the 20th ct.) as a time when many ‘might be walk(ing) the streets with their head buried in Ulysses or To the Lighthouse, ‘ . I know a few who do so today. However, Self maintains we are in a different time.

He says:

“But what is already no longer the case is the situation that obtained when I was a young man. In the early 1980s, and I would argue throughout the second half of the last century, the literary novel was perceived to be the prince of art forms, the cultural capstone and the apogee of creative endeavour. The capability words have when arranged sequentially to both mimic the free flow of human thought and investigate the physical expressions and interactions of thinking subjects; the way they may be shaped into a believable simulacrum of either the commonsensical world, or any number of invented ones; and the capability of the extended prose form itself, which, unlike any other art form, is able to enact self-analysis, to describe other aesthetic modes and even mimic them. All this led to a general acknowledgment: the novel was the true Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk.”

And:

“But … but, well, there’s still no substitute for the experience of close reading as we’ve come to understand and appreciate it – the capacity to imagine entire worlds from parsing a few lines of text; the ability to achieve deep and meditative levels of absorption in others’ psyches.”

This is why I respectfully disagree with the proposed death:

I think there is a great possibility that a serious engagement with reading –and the pleasure and inspiration of sharing ideas, responses and questions to provocative reading will pull people away from the limited space of the screen back  into community with other thinkers.  I know from my own experience that talking about literature–especially serious, challenging literature– is among the most satisfying experiences in human relationships. This may sound self-serving as it is much of the work that I do–yet I notice all the book clubs and groups formed around reading and discussing ideas and think: there is quiet revolution here.

There are others who have similar views to Will Self. This Canadian blogger  echoes some of Self’s premises:

“… in our fast-tracking to digital integration we lose track of a leisurely pace. A pace that creates space for thought, self-development, self-critique and learning to sense the rhythms in life around us and in the people in close proximity to us.  We don’t know what we’re missing but we think that our pixels will recreate anything that we’re lacking.

In his amazing book “You are not a Gadget: A Manifesto”,  Jaron Lanier (a silicon valley veteran technologist) wrote a challenging thesis on how we (as a culture and as individuals) are not doing the necessary work to think about how the technology we use is affected our understanding of what it means to be human and in relationship to others….“I fear that we are beginning to design ourselves to suit digital models of us, and I worry about a leaching of emphaty and humanity in that process.”

I wanted to explain to my daughter recently that the quest for the chicest clothing label won’t ultimately satisfy (she is 14–so I held back- I wouldn’t have listened to me either) –but one of the gifts of increased years is a greater ability to recognise what does deeply satisfy: Time with the people I love, great food, runs and swims and the gift of widened perspectives in reflection of great writing. This may not be universal, but the more I work with an ever increasing diverse group  of readers–of all ages and stripes, the more I am able to call this satisfaction a majority experience.

See you in the pages.

Striving to live in a conscious way, one of the tensions I encounter is how to hold a larger awareness alongside the daily demands and rhythms. Literature constantly pulls me towards a larger view—considering how we are moving in history, what we are doing to the environment, how our understanding and definition of the Other is shaping or opening—how we are resolving the ancient questions around belief, time, mortality and identity, intimacy and relationships. These thoughts and discussions are deeply satisfying: in the midst of this work, I can feel my mind opening and ascending—I sense a more textured engagement in the moments of life.

But the laundry piles up. And I fall behind in my emails—and start composing more in my head than I ever actually write—I feel fragmented as mother, partner and friend, I forget to feed the dog. So what is the good of thinking big thoughts?

Last week the news broke about the teacher at the Southbank International School in London who for many years took advantage of his position as a trusted and beloved teacher to violate young people in his charge. This did not remain in the distanced realm of news for me as my work has brought me into contact with members of the Southbank community. I listened as parents talked through their anger, sadness and overwhelming feelings of betrayal at multiple levels. My heart breaks for all those involved while my other response is a visceral and raging anger: I hate this man for decimating the trust and compassion that I think is essential in the learning relationship. I hate him with a desire to see him bleed and suffer as I hear the suffering of just a tiny portion of those his calculated actions have impacted. Of course, he is dead by his own hand so it is a suspended rage—what justice can there be?

Then there is briefly a meeting of the levels of thought: the conversations we are having in the Moby Dick Salon give me a picture of rage that leads to monumental obsession…and I observe and consider how Ahab draws those around him into his obsessional picture of the world. I am leading a study at City Lit on Ulysses and I am swept up again in Bloom’s struggles against injustice and how he maintains equilibrium—even glimpses of joy—over the course of a day where he much that he holds dear is threatened or tarnished. Bloom has the gift of holding the universal alongside the moments of life—the sweet memories a smell gives, the savour of a good meal, the possibility of new friendship, the pleasure of the sensations of the body.

Connections with others also help to give proof and channels between the daily and the metaphysical. In the context of our Moby Dick study, one bright voice observes: ‘We are all so terribly human…’ Our striving, our hopes for what we can be must sit alongside the flaws, pettiness and horrors of the human soul. There are many ways to feed hope—a day’s escape to a day spa with a lovely group (in the context of a Salon, of course), a run through silky Spring air with a springing Spaniel, a hard and deep study of a great work with sparkling minds…so though this tension may be unresolvable, within the struggle is the gift of awareness.

Back to wading through the piles.