English 320: Introduction to the Short Story
Lyman Baker, Instructor
About this course
"Why this course?" For some of you, the first thing
that will come to mind may be something like, "Well, it
fulfills a humanities requirement in the degree program I'm
enrolled in." For others, perhaps it's "I like reading
fiction, and I thought it might be fun to get acquainted with
some stuff I've never heard of." These answers aren't
mutually exclusive, of course. For some of you, both will apply.
In any case, they're both answers to the same question - How
did I end up in here? And that's one of the things -
"What motives brought you here?" - we might
mean by the formula "Why this course?"
But there's another thing we might be asking under that same
form of words: "What is the purpose of this
course?" What it is designed to do? And how does it set
about getting that done? Why is it that the course is the way it
It's these questions - one of them about ends, the other
about means - that I want to say something about, here at
the outset. When I'm done, you'll be in a better position to ask
yourself whether this course really suits your reasons for
enrolling (or staying enrolled) in it.
Goals of the course
Let's take up the question of ends first.
Here we need to make a distinction between central purposes
and peripheral ones. Some disclaimers are in order. Reading
sophisticated fiction competently is a deep pleasure. Learning
to read such fiction competently can be fun, too. But it can
also be frustrating at times. And in the context of an academic
course in which grades are at stake, it can be charged with a
good deal of anxiety that isn't fun at all. Our central goal in
this course is not to afford you pleasurable experiences in
reading; it is rather to increase your competence in reading a
fairly wide range of types of sophisticated works of literature.
That is, the course aims to put you on a better footing for
deriving appropriate pleasure from reading literary works. But it
does not aim directly at affording you a good time (and
certainly not an easy one) either in class or in your reading in
preparation for class. Of course it is possible and desirable for
these assignments and discussions in class to turn out to be
enjoyable (I promise to do what I can to help this to happen),
and when they do, that's great. But that is peripheral, not
central to the purposes of this course.
The same needs to be said for what is another justification
for reading literature in the first place: a broader experience
with human possibilities, a wider and deeper capacity for
understanding other people and other ways of life, and an
acquaintance with the remarkable minds that were driven to
produce the visions conveyed in great works. I would be very
surprised if, at the end of the course, you were not able to say
you enjoyed something of these important benefits! But I want to
stress that these rewards are incidental to the central
aim of the course.
What then is at stake, given the fact that the central
goal of the course is to increase your competence in reading a
wide variety of types of sophisticated works of literature? By "competence"
here I mean "a repertoire of appropriate moves for making
sense of" the particular work one is confronted with. By "a
fairly wide variety of types" of literary works I mean a
range of "realistic" and "non-realistic"
works. As we'll see, such works can turn up in prose, poetry or
drama. And although we will be studying works in all three of
these genres, the differences among them as such will not
be of primary concern to us. Rather, we will be interested in
getting a feel for differences among works that aim at
"circumstantial realism" and those that aim to achieve
one or another "psychological realism." We'll be
looking to see how these works require different behaviors on the
part of the reader, and how these in turn differ in some
ways from the agendas of curiosity presupposed by
"visionary" and "surrealistic" works,
including fables, parables and other allegorical ventures.
Here, to whet your curiosity, are a couple of terse examples.
The first is an instance of (one kind of) "realistic"
That is, what is the effect Williams gets
by assigning agents to actions as he does in "Poem"? A
student who asks such questions on the basis of Meyer's remarks
is not only on to something about the poem. She's up to something
that's on-target with the goals of the course: she's trying to
make Meyer's move her own by adapting it to novel circumstances.
Of course, when we have a live coach at hand rather than just
a model, we have the opportunity to ask questions. And if we
don't ask specific questions about how the coach was led to say
this-or-that about the matter at hand, then we are not really
interested in learning how to make the moves. We forgo the
opportunity to turn a monologue into a conversation, and to get
the actor to clarify the acts behind his pronouncements. We pass
up the chance to get the coach to spell out and explain the
justification (grounds and point) of the inferences he has made,
and to judge and challenge the adequacy of those moves. (If we do
this in the context of a formal course in an academic
institution, we need to ask ourselves why we are paying good
money to enroll in the course.)
2. Grasping the task as a whole, and its
But if it's harder to see what the moves are to take on with
purely mental tasks than with those that require physical
enactment, it's even more difficult, in advance, to
appreciate their point and purpose.
Think again about playing tight end, swimming, driving a car,
playing the piano. People who undertake to learn these skills
usually have a pretty good idea in advance of both of what the overall
activity "looks like," and of what being able to
do it for oneself would open up for one. You don't have to
explain to an American teenager how his life would be enhanced by
being able to drive: he knows that quite well before he
ever undertakes to learn how to drive. And while he is
learning to drive, he already has a decent conception of how the
various sub-moves that driving embraces (braking, operating the
clutch and gearshift lever, flipping the turn indicator,
steering, accelerating) come together, co-operate, co-ordinate to
accomplish some more comprehensive sub-move (turning a corner).
The point is that these smaller sub-moves are all
understood - even by the learner - as situated in an
overall context that makes them intelligible even before one can
do them individually or co-ordinate them in one's own activity.
Recall what we said before about how playing tight end presupposes
competence in analyzing football contests as a whole, i.e.,
competence as a spectator of the sport - how a player would
not even understand the roles of his particular position within
the game if he did not have a comprehensive understanding of the
game overall. This prior "bird's eye view" of the
activity to be learned there for the learning musician and
swimmer, too. That's why the Red Cross can break up the task of
coaching a new swimmer into discrete units for separate and
serial rehearsal, without running the risk that learners will
find the piecemeal drills senseless while they do them. First we
practice getting our face wet. Then we learn to float prone. Next
we take up the arm stroke, on land, then standing in the water.
Then we add it to the prone float. After that the flutter
kick - on land, in the water holding the hand rail, then
hanging on to a piece of Styrofoam, and finally with the prone
float. Then we add the arm stroke. After that come the breathing
All the time the learner is practicing these separate modules
of sub-moves that go up to make up the stroke as a whole, she is
conscious of their role within the overall activity of swimming
the crawl as a whole. But imagine what must be the case for the
rare swimming pupil who happens to be blind. When he is asked,
for example, to practice getting his face wet, he has no
conception in advance of where the whole process of rehearsal is
leading. After learning to float, what is the sense of getting
out of the water and moving one's arms in the overhand pattern?
What is the configuration of the overall complex of activity
within which each of the sub-moves he is asked to master is
supposed, eventually, to fit?
After all, in swimming the crawl, we do a whole bunch of
things simultaneously. We stroke with our arms as we lie prone on
the water's surface and kick, all the while moving our head
sideways and down, taking a breath of air and then expelling it
under water. We don't, as in learning, do these things in series,
one after the other. There is, in other words, a particular structure
that unites all of these constituent moves in a definite way.
Until we "get it together" in this overall pattern, we
don't have it. And, for the blind person, this means that he
doesn't have a conception the activity he's set out to learn how
to do until he's actually done it himself .
Clearly this is a huge disadvantage. Unlike the learner with
sight, the blind would-be swimmer has to take it on faith that
the individual sub-tasks he is rehearsing will eventually come
together in something worthwhile. After all, none of the
sub-moves is worth anything in itself. In isolation from all the
others, outside of proper articulation with each other within the
overall pattern, each is pointless and impotent - witless
and boring. The temptation is much greater to discouragement.
Each element of the whole, encountered in abstraction from a
prior conception of the whole, invites the exasperated challenge:
But this is not unlike what it feels like as we try to pick up
on mental activities. Since these activities don't express
themselves directly in overt bodily enactments, we don't come to
the learning of them with an already formed notion of what they
consist in as a whole. So even when we've picked up on some move,
we often haven't picked up on the one's that go along with it to
accomplish some intelligible overall performance. And not having
a grasp of this larger whole, we can be left wondering whether
what we spotted going on was in fact a move after all.
Worse yet, we are likely to have only the vaguest
notion - or no notion at all - of what the carrying out
of such activities result in: of what they do for us, what their
point and purpose is. No one has to explain to us how our life
would be enhanced if we were to learn how to play the piano, or
fly an airplane, or skate on ice. We can witness people having
fun doing these things and easily imagine a good deal of what
being able to do them would open up for us.
But what about formulating and solving algebra problems, or making sense of objects like Kafka's "Couriers"? What can these do for us? The answer can only be had when we know how to do these things, not before. Hence deciding to learn how to do such things involves a rather large act of faith. It's not just that we have to believe that we can succeed (as discussed in Appendix II). It's that we cannot know in advance why we should take up these tasks in the first place.
Now in the case of literature, we are not in altogether so bad
a predicament as we might be. All of us enjoy movies -
something that would be impossible if they were nothing but
baffling to us. And we've been dealing with stories from way
before we learned how to read. So in fact we already know a good
deal, in a general way, of what engaging with literature is like
and what it issues in, even if we haven't reflected on these
matters in any persistent way.
Still, many of the works with which we will be practicing in
this course will initially be baffling. This may be true even for
some works that we could place within one or another
"realist" tradition (supposedly concerned with
"familiar experience"). Williams's "Poem" is
a case in point. Moreover, even those that yield up much to the
repertoires of engagement we're already practiced in will repay
our trying to interrogate them in novel ways. And whenever we
venture into new territory, we will be investing our energies
(and suffering our frustrations) without any clear idea in
advance of what the worth of learning how to do this might be.
3. Mastering the task.
There's one other crucial difference between exclusively
mental tasks and those activities enacted through movement of our
limbs. This one, though, should cause us to take heart.
We alluded earlier to the immense investment in physical
effort and even pain that anyone who wants to learn a sport must
be willing to make. This gives rise to its own stock of
frustration, which is further compounded when it's the job of
your opponent to make life more difficult for you, and more yet
when the sport is a contact sport. Pianists, flautists,
guitarists: all have to spend hours doing repetitive exercises,
which can be terribly boring in themselves. And everyone who
learned to operate a stick shift has been through the clutziness
of stalling the car in the middle of an intersection.
The chief problem in mastering bodily activities is that
knowing what the moves are is not enough. We have to get our
bodies actually to make the moves. And not only are our limbs not
in the habit. Often they are simply not up to it. We have to do
here with the problem of physical recalcitrance -
the positive resistance our bodies offer to our wish to make them
behave in novel ways.
Hence the training regimens of windsprints and weights, finger
drills, practicing parallel parking over and over. Someone once
asked the great jazz saxophonist Charlie Parker how he learned to
do his wonderful stuff. "Well," he said, "first
you learn to do all the scales. They you learn to play all the
tunes. Then you learn to play all the tunes in all the scales.
Then, "he said, "you forget about all that." But,
of course, many who set out to learn to play a musical
instrument - even without the dream of becoming a Charlie
Parker - quit before long, out of the boredom and
frustration that must be gone through before they can play well
enough to have any fun.
In mastering mental tasks, we get to skip
all of this drudgery just to get in shape to do what we discover
must be done. Since basic competence requires no physical
dexterity or limberness, no strength and endurance, we get to
dispense with painful stretching, exhausting sessions with the
weights, and dry heaves at the end of the track. Indeed, implicit
in what we've already said about picking up moves by
"watching" others carry them out, is the fact that,
with mental moves (but not with physical moves), seeing
the move cannot be accomplished apart from doing it.
If we can see what the move is, we have already, by way of some
sort of intellectual empathy, performed it in our own right, along
with the mentor.
So here's how things stand. With physical tasks (no matter how
complex), it's easy to see the moves, and how they fit together
into a meaningful whole, and what the ulterior rewards are of the
task itself. What's hard is to internalize the moves, to make
them a part of one's second nature: to master the task is to
collaborate in getting it to master one's own body. But with
novel mental tasks (sometimes even fairly simple ones), it's
often at first hard to see what the moves are, how they fit
together with others to constitute an overall strategy to some
purpose, and what the rewards of accomplishing that purpose can
be. On the other hand, once the move is seen, it's already been
accomplished by the learner, and is ready to be experimented with
on new occasions. And in doing this the learner will never
confront resistances comparable to those presented by a body that
has not yet been brought into appropriate physical condition.
This means the sources of frustration and defeat in the
learning of bodily and mental tasks are differently located.
Particularly in the case of mental tasks, its easy for the
learner to take on an extra and unnecessary load of
exasperation - at himself, for his bafflement at what he's
being asked to do, or at the teacher for not explaining it
clearly enough. Why can't I see what's going on, as I can with
basketball? Because it's strictly speaking invisible: it's not
going on in the talk that constitutes class discussion,
but as is were "behind" or "through" it. Why
isn't the instructor telling me what I should be doing, by
spelling out it out clearly? Because it's best conveyed not by
describing it but by demonstrating it, that is, by just doing it.
Why can other people see what's going on? It's not because they
were born with some special faculty that I lack - a
"third eye," as it were, that picks up on
"meanings." We've all got the same equipment, and
they've just caught on to how to put it in gear in the task at
hand. With mental activities, catching on can be a struggle, and
when it is - even when others seem to have gotten over the
hump - it's no reflection on one's intellectual talents. We
should just keep a lookin', because once we finally have
seen the move, making it our own can be a breeze. That's why in
learning how to do "intellectual" work, progress tends
to go in spurts: we seem to get nowhere for the longest time, and
then suddenly we take off in a big jump.
What we'll be doing in the course
So much for the ends of the course, and the problems we have
to be prepared to confront because of them. With them in mind we
should be able to understand the reason for being of certain
features of this course.
(1) In selecting our readings, I
have sought to provide a representative range of works that
expect different agendas of curiosity on the part of the
reader - different sorts of "realist" and
(2) In arranging them, I have
tried to exploit as much as possible the advantages of contrast
rather than sustained continuity. Hence, rather than
building a systematic and comprehensive picture of
"realisms" and then marching through a strict
classification of "surrealisms," I have designed a
sequence in which we can skip back and forth between works (or
pairs of works) of these two general kinds. You should always be
looking for the rationale that governs the sequence by which we
move from work to work. Sometimes there will be a thematic
connection behind stylistic or formal divergence; sometimes it
will turn out that important parts of your building repertoire of
moves will pay off in addressing works of radically different
spirit. Sometimes we will take the opportunity to explore the
grotesque results that would turn out if we were to push through
with one work ways of interpretation that are on target with
another, and vice versa.
(3) In general, the works we will
take up, whether extended or brief, are fairly sophisticated.
Even when they work within conventions with which you are likely
already to be familiar, they presuppose a reader who is more
actively engaged and open to challenge than marketers of popular
fiction imaging their target audience is willing to be. If we
rely exclusively on the readerly moves we are already practiced
in, then (depending on how sophisticated and various they already
are) we will end up rehearsing habits of superficiality.
(4) If our aim were to
familiarize you with as many different great works and authors as
we could cover within the confines of a semester, our list of
readings would have to be far longer than what it is. But this
would be to run counter to the central purpose of this course,
because it would pressure students to rehearse the habits that
condemn them to reading sophisticated works superficially. Given
our ends, it is important that we read intensively rather than
extensively. I have therefore designed the course to enable us to
go deeply into a limited number of works.
But if this feature of the course is really to pay off, it is
essential that students be willing to read the assignments
several times, and that in their subsequent readings, they
seek to press novel questions beyond the first possible answer
that happens to occur to them.
In the classroom
Learning to read intensively also means that, in class
discussions, and in studying interpretive commentary by critics
we read along the way, students must extend an important kind of
patience. This will be easier to if you keep in mind certain
crucial distinctions among four closely related but importantly
distinct things: (a) reading a sophisticated work with
appropriate competence; (b) talking in an adequate way about what
one has provisionally turned up in one's (more or less competent)
reading; (c) coaching others in reading sophisticated
stuff; (d) learning how to read such works competently, by
trying out unfamiliar moves (hence doing a lot of re-reading) and
by trying to make sense of what one hears of other people's talk
about works and of coaching.
The second is much more time-consuming and laborious than the
first. The third is necessarily yet more convoluted and drawn-out
than the second. It requires moving back and forth between
demonstrating moves and stepping back to describe, explain and
justify them, then re-performing them in other ways, and asking
questions to discover if people are tuning into them or puzzled
about them. For that reason - even apart from the fact that
trying out moves that aren't already firmly in one's repertoire
is always halting and awkward - the experience of the
fourth is not merely more frustrating but far more time consuming
than the experience of the first.
(1) In class we will often engage in free-wheeling
discussions of things we have read. Of necessity, such
conversations have to be able to "go with the flow,"
and follow wherever multiple curiosities lead. In any case,
building up an imaginative world on the basis of the cues that
make up a text, and drawing out the significance of that world is
not a linear process. Many issues arise, and there is often no
particular order in which we have to address them. And when we
are exploring some given train of thought, we often cannot carry
it through to conclusion at a single go. We may have to leave it
on a back burner for returning to when we have turned up some
other idea in the course of working with some other train of
thought. Reading texts that go beyond the most familiar
stereotypes and formulas is an immensely complicated buzzing back
and forth, full of leaps and bounds, backing and filling,
guessing and revising.
If we insist on finding a cut-and-dried
presentation of what some story means, or even of how to go about
interpreting it, we will not learn how to read better. We will
end up with a collection of inert ideas, facts that may be true
but that are useless for the purpose of the course. Even when we
read a logically organized discussion of some aspect of what is
worth attending to in a literary work - as we will when we
look at what some critic or author has to say on the
subject - our primary job here must be to notice what
we can profitably take away of the interpretive moves indirectly
on display in the writer's talk about the work. We will not be
aiming at storing away, for their own sake, the knowledge about the work
that the commentator develops in the course of his analysis.
Still less would it be to the point to look for the point of
class exchanges in the insights it may happen to develop about
works. If the point were to convey insights, they could far more
efficiently be conveyed in some other - for example, a
lecture - format.
(2) Frequently I will be confronting with a very
particular kind of monologue. It is absolutely crucial that
you do not confuse this sort of talk with a LECTURE.
This it is definitely not. If a lecture were to be structured as
these talks will be structured, it would deserve to be judged to
be completely disorganized. On the other hand, if a lecture were
resorted to for the purposes I will be up to when I engage in the
kind of talking I'm referring to, it would be completely beside
the point. Worse, it would explicitly direct you to look for its
significance in something that is altogether different from what
it is the business of the course to afford.
Remember that despite the title of the course -
"Introduction to Literature" - this is not a
"subject matter" course. It is actually instead a
"techniques" course. Thus it has more in common with
physics lab and recitation than with the central lecture
component of a physics course. A main part of the business of a
lab instructor is demonstration of the procedures the students
are then turned loose to go through on their own. Typically she
accompanies her enactment of the procedures with a commentary
that consists of description and explanation (the hows and whys)
of what is being carried out.
That's the nature of the sort of thing I'll be doing here.
I'll be illustrating (via a somewhat simplified, edited
version) what I would be thinking if I were to work my
way through (some part of) the work. In other words,
what I'll be presenting, instead of a lecture, is something that
might better be described as a DEMONSTRATION.
If you get misled by the superficial resemblance to what you know
as a lecture - the mere fact that the instructor is
monopolizing the talk for an extended period of time - you
are going to be frustrated to no purpose. Eventually you will get
angry - at the talk going on, for not giving you what you're
after (tidy insights about the subject under discussion), and at
me, for "being disorganized."
Some frustration, as we've repeatedly said above, is
unavoidable, and simply has to be anticipated, tolerated,
suffered through. But the frustration you will experience if you
look to these demonstrations for what it would make sense to
expect of a lecture is something altogether different. It will be
overwhelming. And, unless you start approaching the whole thing
from a quite different perspective, it will not end.
You will also be chagrined if you mistake what I am doing as a
"rap." I will be trying to "think aloud" in
an appropriate way about the work under discussion. But the
thoughts are not just "any thoughts." They are not just
"what happens to come to mind" at the moment. You will
be mistaken if you approach them as just so much "subjective
opinion" that the rapper is seeking to impress upon his
Of course, the ideas will be
"subjective" in two important senses. They are,
unavoidably, coming to you from a particular mind, and not from
either "universal human rationality" (whatever that
might be) or God (by way, it would have to be, of inspiration).
Another experienced reader - or, for that matter, I myself,
if I were to start from a different point of departure -
would come up with something quite distinct. At the same time, if
you are bothering to put yourself "under my
instruction," it is hardly to the point for you to be
assuming that I am "just any" particular mind. You
ought (at least as a rebuttable presumption) to suppose that I am
able to show you some moves that you would want to appropriate
for your own tool kit.
Secondly, the ideas I will be 'putting forward' along the way are by no means infallible. In fact, one of the things my working through them is meant to demonstrate is that the business of constructing what the text prompts us to imagine, and of tracing out the implications of that situation, has to always be provisional. I will be trying to dramatize an agenda of curiosity that, as a fairly sophisticated reader, I take to be called for by some particular features of the text. In exploiting me as an "authority," you are not expected to agree with what I happen to say about the work in any one moment. (Indeed, you can expect to find me talking myself out of hypotheses I've been trying out.) Your job, as apprentice, is to try to see how the "building" is being put together and revised, and why - and to ask questions when you want to confirm whether you're following how things are shaping us and why, or when you think you're no longer following the path that's being explored or its rationale. Perhaps the most important thing to notice about the behavior I will try to put on display before you is the different conditions in which I find myself compelled (again, provisionally!) to change my mind.
In sum: if you take the demonstrations I enact as lectures or
raps, you will be barking up a wrong tree. On the other hand, if
you approach what you hear in these demonstrations with the
curiosities they are designed to gratify, the experience will
very shortly start to pay off handsomely. They may even turn out
to be fun.
At the same time, for reasons we've mentioned above, you will
probably at least initially find it more difficult to deal with
than demonstrations in a science lab section. There, one has a
clear separation between the moves being demonstrated (which are
carried out bodily, with observable physical objects) and the
description and explanation that accompanies it (which is carried
out in the medium of language). Here, both the moves and the
commentary upon the moves are carried out in language. The moves
themselves, being enacted, are not the topic of the talk through
which they are exhibited. Rather they are at work in and behind
the way the topic is being dealt with. And there is a continual
shift between this kind of talk, and the talk which does
take for its topics the moves that have been or are going to be
undertaken. In following this sort of discourse, we have to
"rise to" the moves, which are not directly present as
the subject of what is being said. And we have to notice when the
talk shifts from enactment to commentary not on the work, but on
what has been or will be enacted.
Furthermore, the activities that constitute the business of
science lab courses - experiments - are processes that,
just as much as the equipment employed in the course of them, are
themselves already engineered "things." They are
designed to be carried out in some definite - indeed
standard - order. When we break them down, we find that we
have to do with a well-defined hierarchy of modules (the
sub-processes). This is why one of the best ways to get a grip on
what is going on is to translate it into a flowchart expressing
the algorithm it embodies.
But the process of reading a work of literature - even a
simplified version of what is entailed in making sense of some
particular aspect of a concrete actual work - is nowhere
near so linear and straightforward. In some ways, it's much more
like the process of designing an experiment or a piece of
machinery in the first place. Such invention cannot be
routinized. It is an art. It is full of hypothesizing, of tracing
the implications of one's guesses, of checking to see to what
extent what one further comes across confirms or disconfirms
one's hunches, and of reconsidering and revising accordingly. And
all the while, several inquiries are going on "at
once" - some in momentary abeyance, to be gotten back
to eventually, one always in the foreground, being pursued until
it hits a snag or turns up something that bears on the solution
of one of the postponed puzzlements.
(3) Having warned you not to confuse my demonstrations
with lectures, I need to say that from time to time I will
have recourse to traditional lecture. I will do so on those
occasions when I need to spell out the assumptions that
constitute some belief system an author presupposes his
readership is aware of. As we will see, this connects with that
aspect of fiction we call "setting" - in this
case, the cultural postulates at work in the world presented for
our contemplation or presupposed as the framework for making
sense of them. If we are not familiar with issues a work takes
for granted we can recognize in the imaginary world it invites us
to construct and address, then clearly we are in for major
misunderstanding, if not unresolvable confusion.
Certain works we will practice with take it
for granted that we know how the world looks from the standpoint
of traditional Christianity, or modern Darwinism, or
Since I know from experience that important elements of these
will be unfamiliar to many people in the class, I will undertake
to spell them out in capsule form.
This kind of discourse on my part will be the exception rather
than the rule. When I engage in lecture, rather than in
demonstration, I will explicitly tell you in advance. When this
happens, you will need to shift to the kind of attention that is
called for in making use of logical exposition. You will be
looking to take away a structured picture of a system of ideas.
But your ulterior curiosity should lie in bringing them to bear
on the work that gives rise to the discussion.
(4) Especially as the course progresses, I will be
trying to get going a kind of combination between demonstration
on my part [item (2) above] and a classroom discussion [item (1)
above]. From my end, this will involve shifting back and forth
between "thinking out loud" about some features of the
work at hand and addressing to you the questions I find
myself generating ("asking myself") in the process.
From your end (if we can get this going), it will consist in
trying to come up with some provisional answer to the questions I
find myself posing, in asking questions about where my questions
came from, in picking up from other students' answers and
This kind of business is -if we can get it going, and
sustain it - probably the most productive and exciting sort
of thing we can aim at. But it requires a huge commitment of
attention and energy on your part. And it will work only if you
can find your way to a quite paradoxical-sounding but
nevertheless attainable state of mind. You have to be willing
care whether what we (and you) come up with is ultimately
adequate to the "facts" (the actual details of the
work). And, on another level, you have to be unconcerned about
whether you - or anyone else - are going to "make
a mistake." The best advice I can give you about how to pull
this off is based on my own experience. It liberates us from our
anxiety of making a mistake if we make our overriding concern
"the truth." Then instead of competing against each
other (student v. student, student v. instructor, instructor v.
student), we can collaborate in wrestling with the objective
problem we confront in common: what best to make of the
object we are discussing. The more experience we have with trying
to do this, the more we appreciate that no progress can be
made without discovery, no discovery can be made without change
of mind, no change of mind would be called for if there were no
error, and error is unavoidable.
There will be two written exams during the course of the
semester, plus a final examination and 8 short writings. If
you score below C+ on either or both of the exams, you will have
the opportunity to do one or more extra assignments to bring your
grade on those items up to the equivalent of C+. That will put
you within striking distance of a B, depending on how well you do
on the remainder of the assignments.
The two exams during the course of the semester will
each be divided into two parts an out-of-class essay, and
an in-class session in short-answer format. Typically in the
in-class session, you will be required to write a well-organized,
well-developed paragraph 5 topics, or somewhat more thorough
mini-essays on 3 topics. Each will expect you to show familiarity
with certain critical concepts and, of course, with the work
under discussion. In the first exam, I will be looking to see
whether you can undertake an appropriate sequence of moves in
answering a specific question I pose about the work. In the
second, I will begin looking to see whether you can formulate for
yourself an appropriate agenda of curiosity, and carry it through
in an appropriate way. In each case, you will be required to
discuss at least one work that we have not focused on in class.
(Being able to deal appropriately with material concerning which
you have not been provided with a direct model is the "acid
test" of whether you have internalized an appropriate
battery of readerly moves.) Each exam will be worth
100 points 50 points for the out-of-class portion
and 50 for the in-class part. The first exam will take place on
the Monday of the 6th week, the second on the Monday
of the 11th week of class. A week before each exam, I
will issue a "prep sheet" that will point you fairly
specifically to the matters you can expect to encounter on the
test. I may set back one or both exams somewhat, depending on how
the pace of the class is proceeding, but I will not set any exam
forward. If you are attending class regularly and paying
attention to your e-mail, you will be informed well in advance of
any changes in this schedule
The out-of-class exam essays will be devoted to a detailed analysis of a work or pair of works, on a specific topic chosen from among several I will pose. The important points to stress are that you will not be writing an explication, nor will you be writing a research paper; rather you will be writing either an analysis or a comparison-contrast. You may expect to deal with at least one work that we have not discussed in class. The out-of-class essays are considered part of the exams for the course. They will be due at the beginning of the in-class exam session. They will each count 50 points.
The eight short writings are designed to ensure that at least a good number of class members are equipped to participate in discussion on most occasions, to foster a bit more "lateral" communication among students in the course, and to make sure that everyone takes several doses of fairly detailed coaching in working through sophisticated agendas of curiosity. The memo on Writing Assignments discusses these goals in more detail, lays out the various options open to you, and sets forth the guidelines you should follow. The specific writing assignments themselves are listed in the Course Schedule.
The final examination will cover material assigned since the second examination. It, too, will consist of an in-class portion and an out-of-class essay portion. In this case, however, you will have the option of substituting an additional in-class portion for the out-of-class essay. Each of the in-class portions (obligatory and optional) will be designed to be written within a standard 50-minute period.
A final note on the writing you do for this course: what you write is your own property, but whatever you submit in response to the requirements of the course may be reproduced and distributed for discussion and/or reflection by other members of the class. Written work that I decide to use this way will not be identified with the person who submitted it, unless I am holding it up as an example particularly worthy of emulation.
 There is a difference between genius and thoroughly respectable competence. I am willing to concede that genius presupposes extraordinary talent, just as I concede that people born without legs or who suffer amputation of one will never be sprinters. But I do insist that we set aside such rarities as irrelevant to the situation with which the vast majority of us as confronted.
Besides, for the point at hand it is worth pointing out that outstanding athletes do in fact tend to be versatile, even when, if professional, they rarely participate professionally in more than one sport. And the same seems to be true for the folks whom we feel inclined to call geniuses: they may or may not make a professional mark in more than one specialty, but they do seem to exhibit broad intellectual appetites.
Finally we should note that ordinary respectable professional expertise (as distinct from decent amateur performance) in a given specialty requires something far short of genius. It is certainly worthy of admiration -- but as an achievement, not as the sign of extraordinary gifts. Return.
 I have put the term "intellectual" in quotation marks here in order disassociate myself from the implication that athletics, music and practical activities are not also themselves forms of intellectual work. I would have said "non-physical mental work," except that the phrase is too awkward to keep resorting to. Return.
 Calculus wasn't invented until the 17th century, and then only by two individuals (Newton and Leibnitz) who had inherited, by study, the achievements of mathematical tradition up to their time. When Newton said that he was "standing on the shoulders of giants," he was not merely paying homage to his predecessors. He was confessing that no individual is capable of inventing single-handedly the full complement of preconditions for any complex step forward. Put another way: Newton was declaring that, had he undertaken to invent calculus from scratch, he would have needed as many years as it took to produce the human species up to his moment in history. Return.
 Of course I am supposing the learners in question are already able to walk and run, to speak the language of the texts in question, to read them, to do basic operations (addition, subtraction, etc.) with number. These competencies in fact are far more complicated in fact than any of the ones we are considering at the moment. And yet children almost invariably manage to master them, given the opportunity. Return.
 Again, readiness to learn simpler activities may presuppose competence in more complicated ones. At the same time, learning to do some complicated things can sometimes be easier than learning to do some simpler ones. Return.
 It's essential to keep in mind that "mentor" here is not restricted to "class instructor." It is anyone who talks about something from whom we can learn how (or how not!) to think successfully about something. (Nor is "mentor" here synonymous with "coach": coaches are mentors, but mentors -- people we pick up moves from by watching them closely -- don't have to act as coaches: they can just be "doing their thing.") Return.
 I'm not saying that one must be able to form some "explicit reflective picture" of the mentor's move. Still less is it necessary, for "tuning into" someone else's sequence of mental moves, to be able to state some explicit articulate account of what they are. In the following paragraph I'll spell out the paradox as I see it, but be advised that you can skip it if you want. If it leaves you confused, you can forget it.
To be sure, we would have to imagine what the moves of our mentor must have been before we could undertake to imitate them in a reflectively conscious way. But to imagine what these moves are is to reconstruct them in our imagination. Yet in order to construct them for beholding, we must already in some sense have participated in them. But that means we have already "done them along with" our model, (And yet this can only be retrospectively,) So in a sense we have already imitated them (or what we tacitly took them to be). But this means we have already accomplished, as it were, our "first rehearsal" -- even before we have reflectively grasped (to say nothing of articulately described for ourselves) what the move was. And if this is so, we must admit that it is possible to ingest a mentor's mental moves in dealing with an intellectual matter by attending to his talk, not about the moves themselves (though he may well favor us with some talk of these), but of the matter itself. And this in turn means that we need not, in fact, reflectively imagine to ourselves the nature of someone's mental moves in order to "tune into them" when he simply does them in and through words (as distinct from in and through gross body movements). Return.
 Mastering a new technical vocabulary is something far different from memorizing definitions -- in itself a witless activity. Memorizing can be a useful first step, because it enables us to reproduce for contemplation the complex of elements that constitutes the definition (supposing it is well-formed) -- so that we can proceed to the real business of forming and appreciating the point of a concept that we have never before entertained. To do this we have to think through each element of the definition (each constituent concept out of which the definition offers to fashion it) and each relationship the definition puts these building blocks into with others. This means we have to carry out a whole series of thought experiments, imagining how the concept we are seeking would be altered if any of these elements were dropped or substituted for by some close cousin, or if any of the relationships were made into something else. And we have to do this all the while trying to figure out what difference such differences in turn would make. Why does the community of people who employ the concept choose to use this tool for the job instead of some concept different in just this or that respect. What, indeed, is the job they are getting done with it? And what's the role of this task, in turn, in some larger activity they are up to?
In other words, learning a new technical vocabulary is simultaneously (1) training in perception and (2) training in a for-us new theoretical perspective. We are being inducted into a new way of seeing things -- learning to notice matters we have never taken into account before. And we are being invited into a way of seeing relations among these things, and familiar ones, that makes sense of them in some fashion we have never imagined before.
To take a simple example: if you truly master the botanist's language for describing leaves, you have to notice things about foliage that, before, you passed over in a more or less indeterminate greenish blur. And you are primed with curiosity about function (how and why these things as they are) that never before entered your mind. Your eyes are opened to a new world. (This does not happen, of course, if you bore yourself to death memorizing gibberish for a multiple-choice exam.) Return to text at note 8. Return to text at note 12.
 Sometime a coach will step back from acting as a mentor and comment directly on what he just did as a mentor. These special remarks do feature, as their content, the move to be noticed and appropriated. It may help for the learner to describe the move in his own words. Or this may be dispensed with. His task in any case is not to describe moves but to acquire them -- and this in the form of the ability to do them elsewhere, when called for. Return.
 See if you can complete these moves by coming up with answers to these two questions. [Or, if you've already done this, return to the main text at note 10.]
 It is precisely because it understands that both these acts of faith are required for students to decide on their own to enroll in a course in philosophy, and because it appreciates that students are unlikely to have the experience that would give them a rational basis for extending these acts of faith, that the Arts and Sciences Faculty has made it a positive requirement rather than an elective for students in all of its degree programs to take a course in philosophy. And it is because designers of high school curriculums are aware that the idea of learning to drive presents neither of these obstacles, that they invariably specify a course in driving as a fully free elective. Return.
 You may want to review what is said in note 8, above. Return.
 This certainly does not mean that these are of no value! It is just that you will be misdirecting your efforts if you see your task in this course as picking out and collecting them. Even when they are convincing as important insights about experience, about people and society, about religious issues, they are not as such our interest here. Put another way: they are a large part of the reward of reading competently, but the goal here is to develop that competence. Naturally we will all the time be seeking insights. But - as far as the class is concerned - we will be inverting what in real life would be the proper relationship of means to ends. There, we are interested in competence in order, among other things, to derive insights. Here we will practice arriving at insights in order to develop competence. We'll be taking up this or that work as a pretext for practicing how to discover whatever insights (or other rewards) it offers. If we succeed, you will end up able to read works that "work" on similar principles. When you do, you will be looking for what playing their particular game delivers. Return.
 Perhaps I should mention here a notion that one frequently meets with but that it makes no sense to persist in such a course as ours. And that is that, at least with "subjective" matters such as one encounters in the humanities, as opposed to what one confronts in the sciences, everything is a matter of "subjective opinion" as distinct from "objective fact." Reasoning, on this view, is basically out of place, and instead one must rely on some kind of mysterious "intuition," in combination (also mysterious) with one's "feelings." This superstituion involves confusion on a number of issues, and the sooner these muddles are cleared up, the better. See Reasoning and Objectivity in Interpretation. Return.
 It will cost you an effort to remind yourself that this is not because you are a dullard or because I am incompetent as a reader or as a teacher. If you do not make this effort, you will be too intimidated to hold up your end of the stick. That is, you will believe that calling a halt to the proceedings by declaring "I don't get it" will be humiliating to yourself or insulting to me. But this is to forget the difficulties I have been describing about the process of learning novel intellectual activities and what I've been saying about how experiencing these difficulties says nothing about one's intellectual talents. You simply must make it your job to express your counter-hypothesis to what you hear me entertaining, your puzzlement as to why certain assumptions are evidently being made, your sense that things have strayed from what is to the point. Return.
 Perhaps it is necessary to point out that to say that understanding these frameworks is necessary for making sense of the works of literature that are written within or in on way or another about them is not the same thing as holding that agreeing with or endorsing them is required in order to understand those works. Return.
 One of the reasons we read is to acquaint ourselves with perspectives that are not already familiar to us. Sometimes these are what we might call "individual" perspectives - ways of looking at things characteristic of a particular author or imaginable person. But often they are perspectives shared within particular historical communities: early middle-Eastern civilization, the pre-classical Greeks, severely Augustinian Christians, the Elizabethan English, post-World-War-II existentialists, rural East African villages. Basically, these are excursions into anthropology, philosophy, and religious possibility.
Among the readings that can be most rewarding for this purpose are works of literature. Experiencing these can directly enhance our sense of the wealth of perspectives abroad in the world. But they can also stimulate us to want to know more, by expanding our readings in philosophy, theology, anthropology, history and the history of ideas, and by getting to know people who have grown up with experiences importantly different from our own. It is not our primary purpose in this course to make these excursions, but it is an adjunct purpose to engage your interests in expanding your acquaintance with these areas of the humanities and social sciences. The occasional lectures I will introduce into the course will, I hope, whet your appetite for doing this. But their primary aim is to make it possible for you to rehearse the interpretive moves called for by the works in connection with which I present them, and to help you develop a feel for how making and perceiving meaning are "culturally situated" activities. One can neither play nor make sense of, say, a game of football, without "taking on" (however provisionally) the conventions that constitute the game. Return.