Critical Conversations: Why read and discuss literature?

Recently I was asked by a parent group to explain the use of seminar discussions towards understanding literature and developing critical thinking skills. Welcome thoughts…

Critical Conversations: Whole group discussions as instrumental in developing critical thinking in response to literature

By Toby Brothers, Director London and Paris Literary Salons, Mentor Teacher, MA Modern Literature University College London
08.12

In our struggle to be innovative in education, new energy is sought in a rejection of traditional methods in the attempt to revolutionize pedagogical approach. This upheaval may have its role: in some cases the rejection illuminates the importance and significance of the technique being rejected.
The use of informed discussion around a shared reading experience dates back to the earliest traditions of literary study. In this case, what is traditional is also revealed to be highly effective as a teaching technique particularly for developing readers. Innovation in this area may be in structuring and assessment, developing participant accountability strategies and techniques for harnessing the energy released in the discussion for individual use. The development of pedagogical theories around the importance of discussion-based learning results in inspirational models; the Harkness Method and Collaborative Reasoning are two examples. From my work with primary school students to highly educated adult readers, I have found literary discussions to be instrumental learning moments for the following reasons:

1. Ideas offered in the discussion help each participant clarify their own response
2. The discussion environment melds social atmosphere to academic; for young learners moving from social education to more formal education, this platform develops that transition. Social relationships are directed towards academic understanding using conversations to increase focus and clarity. In authentic discussions, we take risks: discussing fears, considering alternative points of view, admitting confusion, sharing imaginative responses—the critical conversation around a challenging work of literature offers these opportunities.
3. Participants are challenged to move from a narrow, limited response (“I didn’t like the book”) to a more complex, multi-layered response…the critical conversation moves beyond the first response as the attention of the discussion is focused on understanding and development of themes, character, motifs, narrative perspective, irony, figurative language: an understanding of how these tools are used and how meaning is created becomes much more satisfying then the initial response.
4. Participants who are invested or intrigued by the book’s contents will speak up more readily in the beginning; their enthusiasm ignites the curiosity of the more reluctant reader acting as positive peer pressure towards learning. One student’s excitement becomes another student’s inspiration.
5. As a healthy discussion atmosphere is developed, students become more comfortable asking questions and admitting to areas that are poorly or incompletely understood. Students learn to use the group collective intelligence to augment their own understanding; this can be facilitated with structured partnered work in preparation for discussions.
6. A good discussion replicates the broadening potential of a strong work of literature: the narrowness of our own perspective is exposed in light of the ideas and experiences of others. Hearing a different response to a particular character or dilemma, the student reflects back on their own response, considers in light of a different opinion, modifies or develops or strengthens their position as a result. Any of these actions engage the mechanics of critical thinking: reflection, self-questioning, analysis, increased structure in theoretical formulation…
7. Critical conversations may require structures to make spoken and spontaneous thoughts tangible and developmental. Participant pre-writing and post-writing, with teacher guidance is one method to help students articulate their ideas and record the development of their responses as a result of the discussion.

Focused whole group discussion in response to the reading of a shared, challenging work of literature is the core methodology of higher education. Younger students can equally benefit from the challenge and intellectual support provided by the discussion experience. The young student who reads and discusses literature that challenges them creates a life-long reader who embraces difficult writing and complex ideas as worth the discipline of comprehension.

Walt Whitman Poetry

LEAVES OF GRASS

By Walt Whitman

Come, said my soul,
Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,)
That should I after return,
Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
There to some group of mates the chants resuming,
(Tallying Earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)
Ever with pleas’d smile I may keep on,
Ever and ever yet the verses owning—as, first, I here and now
Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name,

Walt Whitman

Song of Myself

Walt Whitman

I
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. 5
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
Parents the same,
I, now thirty seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance, 10
Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Why Read Again

Why Read? Again…

I have been thinking about why I find reading literature to be so important that I have dedicated my working life to getting folks reading the greatest and hardest books written. Why does reading Virginia Woolf matter in a world where cities are being occupied by outraged citizens whose ability to make a decent living is being systematically undermined? How is a six-month study of Joyce justified when people are risking their lives to bring down tyrants and murderous autocrats? Why discuss poetry as the ice bergs are melting and the ocean is rising?

I read to understand myself and others. Immersion in a work of literary merit cracks open my petty struggles and limited focus on daily events. Reading a great work of literature reminds me to aspire, and gives me company in the struggle for meaning. Reading widely about the experience of people in different times, countries, skins, faiths, worlds sharpens my understanding of my own narrow perspective and slowly, painfully helps me expand. Reading newspapers, magazines and other forms of media with a critical eye allows me a glimpse of the forces that inform our society and progress—or lack of…

I am also thinking about how literacy is more than a skill. Literacy—the ability to read and write—is not simply decoding but also the on-going development of increased understanding and analytical ability. There has been much attention paid recently to the low level of literacy in many developed countries. Deborah Orr in this week’s Guardian article commented on the correlation between those participating in this summer’s riots and their educational disengagement (see Guardian 27.10.11 G2 magazine—Read all about it: Britain’s shameful literacy crisis). Alongside the discovery that more than two thirds of the rioters are classified as special needs and at least one third had been excluded from school the previous year, Orr observes that of all the stores looted in Clapham Junction, Waterstone’s remained untouched. “Those rioters …probably didn’t even see Waterstone’s. Bookshops don’t even register, because they offer nothing that is wanted. To me, that seems like a miserable omission from a life, and an ignominious, debilitating exclusion from a civilized culture.”

I agree with Orr’s assessment—but realize how hard it is to explain to someone who is not a strong reader why it is worth the effort. I struggle to explain why reading Ulysses is worth the effort—though I KNOW it is. But it is for me: and thus I find myself constantly revisiting the question of Why Read to really make deeply sure that it is not just my means of satisfaction that drives me forward into these studies of Milton and Dante. So today I think about the gorgeous moments of the last two months in our studies of Frankenstein and the Divine Comedy. Moments when we suddenly understood where we have come from and why we still struggle to define the relationship between the Creator and the Created. I think of our conversation around Measure for Measure and how this unleashed a new awareness of the complex relationship between authority and sexuality.

Reading and discussion of great literature exposes the truths we build our lives on—and then allows us the opportunity to explore these truths and re-define them. And that is a powerful-even revolutionary–act.

Why read Shakespeare?

There are two Salons coming this month- Measure for Measure starting next weekend, and Hamlet a few weeks later–that ask participants for the patience and diligence necessary to enjoy Shakespeare’s works.
This writer captures some of the reasons why the work is worthwhile…so come join us as we make our way through these provocative plays…

Why everyone should read Shakespeare
By TOM GELSTHORPE

I sincerely hope that someone younger than me reads this column and that, as summer wanes, some of you are returning to hallowed halls of learning with joyful expectations. Despite my painful, mixed feelings about being droned at by the professoriate, I’ll admit it’s one way to learn useful stuff. Self-taught or other-taught are better than remaining ignorant. Bliss is more likely in the presence of wisdom. I favor whatever might lift you above the nether regions of fads, claptrap and superstition.

Education is not immune to fads, of course, but certain durable principles persist. Good writing, for example. Without words to contain thoughts and conventions for arranging those words, we can’t communicate, preserve and transmit culture. Without culture, we might as well live alone in the forest like weasels or tigers, where only small numbers of the strongest and most merciless survive; and those only briefly. In civilized societies, nerds can survive, even thrive. In the modern techno-world, it can be persuasively argued that the geeks have inherited the earth.

Consequently, I harbor pro-nerd bias. We can’t all conquer foes with broadswords, amass fortunes, win the hearts of every pretty woman and the admiration of every mighty man. We can’t all ascend to the top of the pyramid. We can all understand great drama, however, and thus understand the grandeur and infinite sorrow of the human condition. In that regard, everyone fluent in English should read Shakespeare. The Bard’s 17th-century idioms and archaic stage conventions aren’t easy reading, I’ll admit. But everyone should wade through a few of his plays, for the following reasons.

1. It’s essential to know that it’s possible to write that well because somebody actually did it.

2. The rest of us can scribble and mumble but the Bard’s shining example can help us to polish our own deliveries. Woo a lover with poetry and she’ll respect the effort even if you have spinach stuck in your teeth. Berate a swindler in iambic pentameter and he’ll think twice about swindling you again.

3. Modern stagecraft has better lighting and modern cinema displays more thrilling special effects, but Shakespeare understood and expressed universal emotions better than anyone else ever has.

4. Exquisite language, vivid imagery and elegant cadences will never become obsolete. Understand the master and you understand profound, eternal truths.

Examples:

Shakespeare said, “Cry ‘Havoc!’ And let slip the dogs of war!” A modern warrior might say, “Let’s bomb those bums back into the Stone Age.”

Shakespeare said, “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.” A contemporary might whine, ” What a wicked, wicked dink I am. What a loser.”

Shakespeare: “My salad days, when I was green in judgement.” Ordinary schmo: “I had lotsa fun when I was a kid, even though I was sorta dumb.”

Shakespearean villain facing a tragic end: “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It’s a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Modern sourpuss: “Life sucks.”

Shakespeare: “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.” Modern private eye: “That guy looks like a sleaze bag.”

Shakespeare’s amorous young man: “But soft! What light at yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!” Modern teenager: “Gee, yer cute. Can’t stop thinkin’ ’bout cha.”

Shakespeare’s King Lear wishing ill upon an ungrateful daughter: “Create her child of spleen, that it may live to be a thwart disnatured torment to her. Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, with cadent tears fret channels in all her cheeks, turn all her mother’s pains and benefits to laughter and contempt, that she may feel how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.” Today’s disillusioned father would say: “I’ve slaved and sacrificed for you, sent you to the best schools and you’re nothing but a spoiled brat. If you don’t stop hanging around with those loafers and get your grades up, I’ll take back your T-Bird.”

Good luck in school!

Tom Gelsthorpe, a sailor

and former farmer

Michael Cunningham on Virginia Woolf

 

I had the wonderful opportunity to hear Michael Cunnigham in conversation with Christopher Potter at the Royal Society of Literature in July. Michael’s enthusiasm for Virginia Woolf and his desire to speak with her across time and death is palpable in The Hours. The essay cited below offers some insights into Woolf and her life and work. The comments are enlightening as well…

Virginia Woolf, my mother and me

Ahead of Review’s book club on The Hours, Michael Cunningham explains how discovering Virginia Woolf as a teenager inspired him to write his novel about her life – and how his mother provided a surprising solution when he got stuck

Michael Cunningham on The Hours

 

 

Summer reading: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Powered by Guardian.co.ukThis article titled “Summer reading: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf” was written by Susanna Rustin, for guardian.co.uk on Wednesday 10th August 2011 10.35 UTC

I read it for the first time in a tent nearly 20 years ago. I was camping in France after my first year at university, To the Lighthouse was on my summer reading list, and I clearly remember feeling startled by the time I had finished the first page.

Looking back at that opening now, I think I was not as impressed by the novel’s extraordinary emotional pitch or defiantly domestic content, as I was by the audacity with which the author put the two together. The first paragraphs describe the “heavenly bliss” of a six-year-old boy cutting pictures of kitchen appliances out of a magazine.

For a teenager whose most involved holiday reading experiences had mainly been with Victorian doorstoppers, with their fabulously elaborate plots and detailed chronologies, the sudden death of the central character, Mrs Ramsay, in parentheses in the novel’s highly stylised middle section, was deeply strange. So this was modernism …

But I hadn’t realised until I reread it how much To the Lighthouse is a book about summer holidays. Perhaps this didn’t really register the first time around, or not consciously anyway. Woolf‘s way of writing about people and their feelings was so overwhelming, and her prose so highly wrought, that the novel’s setting somehow escaped me. Even when I studied it later, and read articles about it, they seemed to suggest that it was a book about time, or art, or the first world war. One critic thought it was about the general strike.

Famously, To the Lighthouse is also a book about Woolf’s parents – about the huge hole that opened in her world when her mother died, and about the way her father imposed himself and his grief upon his daughters. Mrs Ramsay is at the heart of Woolf’s novel. Then she is gone, and the survivors must bear her absence. This is the plot of To the Lighthouse.

This became fascinating to me as I learned more about Woolf’s life, reading her diaries, and biographies that explored the relationship between her mental illness and her history of bereavement.

None of which makes To the Lighthouse sound like a book anyone but an eager undergraduate would want to pack in their suitcase. The Hebridean island setting, the company of old family friends, the rhythms and routines the characters adopt to pass the days, can all seem like so much incidental detail in a grand literary experiment.

But they are not. To the Lighthouse really is a book about holidays – a book about family holidays and the particular intensity of getting away from it all with the people who mean most to you, especially when you are in the middle of growing up. If you, like the two youngest Ramsay children in the novel’s final section (and like me – both the first time I read the novel and again next week) are going on holiday with your parents, take it with you.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010

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