Time to Reread Fahrenheit 451

Texas citizens cart away targeted books from a school library

Friday

The above photograph freezes my blood. It is of men carting away books from a Texas school library  that have been deemed dangerous. I wrote recently about a Texas legislator that who compiled a list of 850 books he found objectionable, and then men appear to be going after them. One wonders whether, in these particular boxes, are to be found

the Pulitzer Prize-winning William Styron novel, The Confessions of Nat Turner and best-sellers that were turned into movies or television series, such as John Irving’s The Cider House Rules, Alan Moore’s dystopian V For Vendetta, and the graphic novel version of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale.

In another book banning story, the Nashville Tennessean reports that the McMinn County School Board has voted 10-0 to remove Maus, a graphic novel about the Holocaust that won the Pulitzer Prize, from the eighth-grade English language arts curriculum. According to the article, they cited “concerns over ‘rough’ language and a nude drawing of a woman.”

As I noted in Tuesday’s post, this is just the beginning. Just as voter suppression measures spread like wildfire in red states after Trump’s defeat, so we can expect such book bans to become universal throughout the south and parts of the midwest. Which means it’s time to pull out Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

Bradbury may have become a Tea Party conservative in his later years, but his novel about book burning was a response to Joseph McCarthy attacks on books. Early in the novel, book-burning fireman Guy Montag, who later will have a change of heart, boasts, “It’s fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn ’em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That’s our official slogan.”

Later, when he has become enthralled with books, Montag seeks out an old literature professor, who explains, “Those who don’t build must burn. It’s as old as history and juvenile delinquents.” I think of how the Trumpian GOP isn’t interested in building, just in tearing down. Burning, as it were.

At one point in the novel, Montag’s boss points out why books are dangerous. He’s not wrong:

What traitors books can be! You think they’re backing you up, and they turn on you. Others can use them, too, and there you are, lost in the middle of the moor, in a great welter of nouns and verbs and adjectives….

Bradbury also has words—this time delivered by the old professor—for those who stand by and let censorship happen. After waxing nostalgic for books, the former teacher laments that he did not do more to defend them. The two are looking at a Bible that Montag has saved from the flames:

“Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go.” Faber turned the pages. “Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I’m one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the `guilty,’ but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the, firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it’s too late.”

Montag explains to Faber why books have become a necessity for him:

Nobody listens any more. I can’t talk to the walls [television screens] because they’re yelling at me. I can’t talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.

In response, the professor tells Montag about a three step process that is very similar to the one I share with my students. The first step is appreciating the quality of what books offer:

Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more `literary’ you are. That’s my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies.

And then there are steps two and three:

Number one, as I said, quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the first two.

Or as I put it, Immerse, Reflect, Act. In fact, just yesterday I told my Sewanee Composition and Literature class that the end point of literature is not interpretation but application. What’s important is how it impacts your life and how it impacts the world.

Rightwing legislators and parents are terrified of young people applying what they read to their lives. Therefore they seek to confine their reading only to literature they think they themselves can control. That the result may be vapid and shallow citizens like those in Fahrenheit 451 is not a problem but the goal.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Comments closed

The Top Ten Dickens Characters

Maggie Smith as Betsey Trotwood

Thursday

Once again, I turn my blog over to my college professor son’s literary tweets. Tobias Wilson-Bates, a Victorianist who teaches as Georgia Gwinnett College, is one of the most sensitive readers that I know. Combine that with his wit, and the result is brilliant insights that were made for twitter.

I’ve also discovered, from a recent tweet, that his model in this medium William Blake.  In response to the following Blakisms, Toby responded that “Blake was just out there subtweeting poetry every day of his life”:

The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloak of knavery. Shame is Pride’s cloak.

Anyway, Toby surveyed his readers for their ten favorite characters and then announced them on his twitter feet at Tobias Wilson-Bates@PhDhurtBrain. I love his summations. My own favorite Dickens character, incidentally, is #3 on his list but it’s hard to argue with the character he chose as #1.

Here we go:

By Tobias-Wilson Bates, Georgia Gwinnett College

OK! Buckle up your bratwurst! TOP 10 CHARACTERS IN DICKENS

10. John Wemmick (Great Expectations) The OG lover of fungible tokens, Wemmick’s love of portable property, his CASTLE with a CANNON and MOAT, and his dedication to work/life balance catapult him onto the list!

9. Jenny Wren (Our Mutual Friend) Dickens loves proxy author characters, and Jenny is the best of them. Sitting at the nexus of religion, age (old and young), disability, and gender. She is a mysteriously perfect Proteus-like figure of Fate weaving her little character dolls.

8. Madame Defarge (Tale of Two Cities) Dickens liked to say that his characters appeared to him as a holographic imagination parade, but I imagine Defarge was straight out of his nightmares. A FRENCH (ah) REVOLUTIONARY (Ahh) WOMAN (AHHHHHH!!) ready to spill blood for the cause!

7. Wackford Squeers (Nicholas Nickleby) Dickens’ sometimes a subtle writer, and sometimes he writes a one-eyed murderous school demon with every possible vice, and yet, Squeers still somewhat undersells how poorly the educational system was managed before gov’t regulation.

6. Uriah Heep (David Copperfield) I promise this list is not just EVERY DICKENS VILLAIN, but anybody not haunted by the writhing bony sweaty hands of Copperfield’s central antagonist clearly wasn’t paying attention to this unctuous eel of a character.

5. Ebenezer Scrooge (Christmas Carol) The only Dickens character who remains instantly recognizable to the general public. Both a fascinating figure at the nexus of folklore and modern ideas of time travel, while also presenting Dickens’ unsatisfying solution to inequality.

4. Miss Havisham (Great Expectations) The dress?! the clocks?! the cake?! the combustion!?? the cruel but intentional and eventually self destructive urge to reproduce and view her own trauma?! Dickens practically owes Miss Havisham royalties for writing his novel for him.

3. Esther Summerson (Bleak House) Like a DC/Marvel crossover event, somehow a Brontë character shows up in the Dickens extended universe and gives us an unreliable (female!!!) narrator infected with being whatever she wants to be at any given moment of the novel.

2. Sam Weller (Pickwick Papers) If The Pickwick Papers are a comedic auto-ethnography of England, then Sam Weller is the embodiment of everything worthwhile the country had to offer. An Everyman character so funny that his name was a punchline for the rest of the century.

1. Betsey Trotwood (David Copperfield) “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” The pages show you lost, son. From donkeys to dandies, Betsey takes and vanquishes all comers.

And then, in two successive tweets, Toby lists his Honorable Mentions. Can you name the novels in which they appear?

Impossible to list all the honorable mentions, but characters that could easily have been on this list: Boffin, Artful Dodger, Samuel Pickwick, Fagin, Sikes, Nancy, Copperfield, Lizzie Hexam, Bradley Headstone, Boz, Amy Dorrit, Herbert Pocket, Caddy Jellyby, Florence Dombey, …

James Harthouse, Dick Swiveller (heehee!), Mr Micawber, Krook, Phil, George Rouncewell, Inspector Bucket, Tulkinghorn, Mr Venus, Volumnia, Lady Dedlock, Sloppy ,Bella, Peggoty (all of them), Pecksniff (heehee), Sydney Carton (my heart), Quilp, Estella, John Jasper, Gradgrind…

Joe Gargery, Mr F’s Aunt, Mr Dick (maybe I made a mistake here), Gamp, Traddles, Ghosts (various), Tattycoram, Alfred Jingle, Twemlow, Jo, Durdles, Peg Sliderskew, Pip, Magwitch, Miss Mowcher, Sir Leicester, Skimpole, Mr Bumble (broke me not including him)

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | Comments closed

Apparition of Unmasked Student Faces

Suzuki Harunobu, Woman Admiring Plum Blossoms at Night

Wednesday

Because I resumed teaching only a couple of weeks ago after a two-year hiatus, I only recently had the unmasking moment that many experienced months ago–which is to say, the moment when people we’ve gotten to know only through their eyes and voices suddenly reveal their faces. When it happened the first time, Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” flashed (or should I say apparated?) into my mind.

Although located in mask-averse Tennessee, private college Sewanee has a strict indoor mask policy (hurrah!), which means that my students are a mystery. After conferencing with one of them on Monday, however, I walked out of the building with her, at which point we unmasked. She looked nothing like I thought she looked. Not better and not worse. Just different.

The same thing happened yesterday when, again, I exited with a student. He is a Pakistani and, in fact, I learned that he looks Pakistani. But again, it came as a shock.

Which brings us to Pound’s poem. While traveling on the Paris metro, Pound apparently experienced one person’s face luminescently shining forth in the anonymous crowd and then another. Seeking to capture the exact moment when a sensory image imprints itself on the imagination, Pound described the experience as follows:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Although the poem is only 14 words long (20 if you count the title), its images catch the mind with an intensity that might be lost if the poem were longer. Pound was dabbling in imagism at the time, a movement that is most linked with poet Hilda Doolittle (H.D.). Everything depends on the vivid contrasts in the poem, whether between petals and bough or between an urban crowd and a nature image.

In my own case, my students’ revealed faces contrasted vividly with their previously masked existence. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was for them.

Petals shining forth.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Comments closed

Rightwing Educators & Pope’s Dunces

George Cruikshank, A School Flogging (1839)

Tuesday

At this point in history, rightwing parent groups and legislators are tumbling all over themselves to attack teachers who get their students to engage with America’s complex and often bloody racial history.  The latest is the governor of Florida pushing legislation that would prohibit the state’s public schools from making anyone “feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or any other form of psychological distress on account of his or her race, color, sex, or national origin.” Meanwhile, Virginia’s governor has set up an e-mail helpline so that parents can report any teachers teaching “divisive” subjects.

What such people want instead, I suspect, are teachers like those who taught me Tennessee history in 7th grade and U.S. history in 11th. I’ve written in the past that I had segregationist instructors who failed to mention the trail of tears when they taught us about Andrew Jackson and the horrors of slavery when they taught us about the Civil War. Their job, as they saw it, was to indoctrinate us in the reigning ideology rather than to encourage us to think and explore for ourselves.

Pope designates such a teacher as one of his dunces in his mock epic masterpiece The Dunciad (1742). Richard Bentley, a noted editor, was famous for his dictatorial pronouncements and narrow readings.  Pope models teachers like Bentley on one of Satan’s fallen angels in Milton’s Paradise Lost: the figure of Moloch, a Palestinian god to whom (or so the Israelites claimed) children were sacrificed. But whereas Milton’s angel demands literal child sacrifice, the Bentleys of the world demand classroom sacrifice.

So that you can compare the two, here’s Milton’s Moloch:

Firs Moloch, horrid King besmear’d with blood
Of human sacrifice, and parents tears…

And now Pope’s Bentley. One doesn’t literally die under such an instructor’s tutelage, but the students of Eton, Winton and Westminster are regularly flogged with a birchen rod (“dreadful wand”):

 When lo! a Spectre rose, whose index-hand
Held forth the Virtue of the dreadful Wand;
His beaver’d brow a birchen garland wears,
Dropping with Infant’s blood, and Mother’s tears. 
O’er ev’ry vein a shudd’ring horror runs;
Eton and Winton shake thro’ all their Sons.
All Flesh is humbled, Westminster’s bold race
Shrink, and confess the Genius of the place:
The pale Boy-Senator yet tingling stands,
And holds his breeches close with both his hands.

Bentley is concerned with literature, not history, but his literature lessons are as circumscribed as my history lessons were. Authoritarian teachers, which is what rightwing extremists want, know that there is only one truth, no matter how narrow it may seem. Here’s Bentley proclaiming his views:

   Then thus. Since Man from beast by Words is known,
Words are Man’s province, Words we teach alone. 
When Reason doubtful, like the Samian letter,
 Points him two ways, the narrower is the better.
Plac’d at the door of Learning, youth to guide,
We never suffer it to stand too wide.
To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, 
As Fancy opens the quick springs of Sense, 
We ply the Memory, we load the brain,
Bind rebel Wit, and double chain on chain,
Confine the thought, to exercise the breath;
And keep them in the pale of Words till death. 
Whate’er the talents, or howe’er design’d,
We hang one jingling padlock on the mind…

Along with advocating narrow textual interpretations, Bentley also appears to insist that students parrot back to him his own words. Imagination and thinking outside the box (wit) are not allowed.

Revel once more in the brilliance of that final couplet:

Whate’er the talents, or howe’er design’d,
We hang one jingling padlock on the mind…

Our rightwing legislators and parents want to hang that padlock.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Comments closed

Spenser Would Understand QAnon

Redcrosse Knight and Errour in The Faerie Queene

Monday

In my faculty group’s discussion of Paradise Lost, member Ross MacDonald observed that, in Book II, Milton suddenly takes a surprise turn into Spenserian allegory. By this he meant that a story that has heretofore involved realistically drawn characters (Satan and his angels) suddenly veers into the kind of symbolic story that one encounters in Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene, with characters like Sin and Death.

I loved the observation, and a bonus was that, upon refreshing my memory of Spenser’s Arthurian tale, I came across an incident that works as an allegory of the grip that crazy conspiracy theories have on rightwing America. I have in mind Redcrosse Knight’s encounter with (as Spenser spells it) the monster Errour.

In the work, Redcrosse and his lady Una, who stands for the true religion (in Spenser’s mind, the unified Church of England) are riding through the countryside. She has been expelled from her kingdom and has turned to Redcrosse for help.

In the process of fighting for true faith, however, Redcrosse periodically loses his way. In the spirit of Spenserian allegory, I warn you that I’ll be using the story to capture how America, founded on the principle that all are created equal and have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, has also lost its way. I will be interpreting Errour as the right wingers’ embrace of authoritarianism, whether through suppressing the vote at home or singing the praise of autocrats like Vladimir Putin and Hungary’s Viktor Orban abroad. They claim to be patriots but are espousing ideas that are, well, unAmerican.

Early in the poem, Redcrosse finds himself rashly thinking that conquering Errour is easy. Indicating the difficulties to come, however, is that, like Dante, he finds himself lost in a labyrinthine wood:

When weening to returne, whence they did stray,
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne,
But wander too and fro in wayes unknowne,
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene,
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne:
So many pathes, so many turnings seene,
That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been.

Redcrosse, arrogant in his righteousness, thinks he is proof against Errour and disregards warnings to avoid its cave. What he sees therein is a creature that is half woman (reminiscent of Eve), half serpent:

But full of fire and greedy hardiment,
The youthfull knight could not for ought be staide,
But forth unto the darksome hole he went,
And looked in: his glistring armor made
A litle glooming light, much like a shade,
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine,
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide,
But th’other halfe did womans shape retaine,
Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine.

Errour in Spenser’s allegory would be the initial falling away from the true faith, say Catholic corruption. That straying, however, has led to a host of other errors, which are symbolized by Errour’s progeny:

                                   Of her there bred
A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed,
Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, each one
Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored:
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone,
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone.

I don’t know if we can call Donald Trump the true parent of QAnon and another whacky conspiracy theories, but his blatant disregard for truth may have had a hand in unleashing one nutty theory after another—in fact, conspiracies vie in outrageousness, from Democrats running pedophile kidnapping rings to Venezuelans compromising voting machines to Bill Gates putting microchips in Covid vaccines to Jews putting space lasers in outer space, etc., etc. Errour represents the same kind of dangerous craziness, wrapping Redcrosse as QAnon has wrapped a portion of the American electorate in her hideous folds. For those of you who have read C.S. Lewis’s Silver Chair, you’ll see that the scene is also the inspiration for the Lady of the Green Kirtle, who doubles as a serpent and wraps Prince Rilian in her coils:

Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round,
And all attonce her beastly body raizd
With doubled forces high above the ground:
Tho wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd,
Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine
All suddenly about his body wound,
That hand or foot to stirre he strove in vaine:
God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine.

Like Prince Rilian, Redcrosse gets one arm free and grabs her by the throat, at which point she disgorges like a commentator on Fox “News” or a rightwing website:

Therewith she spewd out of her filthy maw
A floud of poyson horrible and blacke,
Full of great lumpes of flesh and gobbets raw,
Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke
His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe:
Her vomit full of books and papers was,
With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke,
And creeping sought way in the weedy gras:
Her filthy parbreake all the place defiled has.

Fortunately, these horrid creatures cannot hurt Redcrosse. He thinks, like many liberals today, that QAnon theories are so outlandish that one can simply brush them away, the way (to use the poem’s analogy) a shepherd  brushes away a cloud of gnats:

A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest,
All striving to infixe their feeble stings,
That from their noyance he no where can rest,
But with his clownish [rustic] hands their tender wings
He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings.

The monster Errour is another matter. Once Redcrosse manages to cut off her head, however, all her brood end up destroying themselves. This they do by lapping up her blood and then…Well, here’s Spenser’s account:

That detestable sight him much amazde,
To see th’ unkindly Impes, of heaven accurst,
Devoure their dam; on whom while so he gazd,
Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst,
Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst,
And bowels gushing forth: well worthy end
Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst;
Now needeth him no lenger labour spend,
His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend.

So Spenser tells us here that the truth will win out, an optimistic assurance I have heard from many journalists in the year since Donald Trump started promulgating “the Big Lie” of a stolen election. Although parts of the country only consume rightwing (Errour) media, we can’t brings ourselves to believe that they will get the last word. We think, instead, that if we cut off the monster’s head—say, if the House committee investigating January 6 delivers irrefutable evidence of a coup—the lies spawned by the Big Lie will die off of their own accord. We think the country has a chance to return to its founding principles.

Spenser himself, however, reveals that it may not be that easy. Redcrosse’s travails are not yet over, as the monster Orgoglio, symbolizing pride, awaits, as does Despair. Those fighting for Truth and Principle in our own time should take note. That being ackowledged, however, in the end Redcrosse does indeed return Una to her parents. And after killing a dragon, he marries her.

Our own dream was that Truth would triumph when we defeated Trump in 2020. Spenser informs us that we still have monsters to fight.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Comments closed

At Last I Have Found You, Blessed One

Thich Nhat Hanh, 1926-2022

Spiritual Sunday

Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist monk and poet who worked for reconciliation between North and South Vietnam and then, in exile, for refugees worldwide, has died at 95. His poem “Looking for Each Other” which describes long arduous search and ecstatic reunion, seems a fitting meditation for the occasion:

Looking for Each Other
By Thich Nhat Hanh

I have been looking for you, World Honored One,
since I was a little child.
With my first breath, I heard your call,
and began to look for you, Blessed One.
I’ve walked so many perilous paths,
confronted so many dangers,
endured despair, fear, hopes, and memories.
I’ve trekked to the farthest regions, immense and wild,
sailed the vast oceans,
traversed the highest summits, lost among the clouds.
I’ve lain dead, utterly alone,
on the sands of ancient deserts.
I’ve held in my heart so many tears of stone.

Blessed One, I’ve dreamed of drinking dewdrops
that sparkle with the light of far-off galaxies.
I’ve left footprints on celestial mountains
and screamed from the depths of Avici Hell, exhausted, crazed with despair
because I was so hungry, so thirsty.
For millions of lifetimes,
I’ve longed to see you,
but didn’t know where to look.
Yet, I’ve always felt your presence with a mysterious certainty.

I know that for thousands of lifetimes,
you and I have been one,
and the distance between us is only a flash of thought.
Just yesterday while walking alone,
I saw the old path strewn with Autumn leaves,
and the brilliant moon, hanging over the gate,
suddenly appeared like the image of an old friend.
And all the stars confirmed that you were there!
All night, the rain of compassion continued to fall,
while lightning flashed through my window
and a great storm arose,
as if Earth and Sky were in battle.
Finally in me the rain stopped, the clouds parted.
The moon returned,
shining peacefully, calming Earth and Sky.
Looking into the mirror of the moon, suddenly
I saw myself,
and I saw you smiling, Blessed One.
How strange!

The moon of freedom has returned to me,
everything I thought I had lost.
From that moment on,
and in each moment that followed,
I saw that nothing had gone.
There is nothing that should be restored.
Every flower, every stone, and every leaf recognize me.
Wherever I turn, I see you smiling
the smile of no-birth and no-death.
The smile I received while looking at the mirror of the moon.
I see you sitting there, solid as Mount Meru,
calm as my own breath,
sitting as though no raging fire storm ever occurred,
sitting in complete peace and freedom.
At last I have found you, Blessed One,
and I have found myself.
There I sit.

The deep blue sky,
the snow-capped mountains painted against the horizon,
and the shining red sun sing with joy.
You, Blessed One, are my first love.
The love that is always present, always pure, and freshly new.
And I shall never need a love that will be called ‘last.’
You are the source of well-being flowing through numberless troubled lives,
the water from you spiritual stream always pure, as it was in the beginning.
You are the source of peace,
solidity, and inner freedom.
You are the Buddha, the Tathagata.
With my one-pointed mind
I vow to nourish your solidity and freedom in myself
so I can offer solidity and freedom to countless others,
now and forever.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Comments closed

A Poem Describing Literature Lovers

Friday

I’ve shared this poem by my father a couple of times, including in the early days of the Covid pandemic. In March, 2020, when many of us were locked down and wondering when the plague would pass, books seemed particularly attractive. We could always curl up and lose ourselves in an old favorite.

Scott Bates’s poem is a riff off of Jesus’s injunction not to hide your light under a bushel basket. Or as he puts it in Matthew 5:15-16,

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

I must say that my father spent much of his life spreading his light far and wide, sometimes through the poems he wrote. In other words, he didn’t always follow his poem’s advice. But he also loved to withdraw into a work of poetry or fiction, a luxury that he also encouraged in his wife and his four sons.

I’ve always been struck by the works on the candle’s booklist. As I wrote in a previous post,

I’m open to anyone who can find a pattern in the books mentioned in the poem. Maybe the connecting thread is that all, with the exception of the Elizabethan sonnets, are contrarian. Russian poet Yevtushenko and social theorist Thorstein Veblen challenge the State; fairy tale author Charles Perrault, nonsense author Lewis Carroll, and utopian author Samuel Butler challenge conventional reality; and La Rochefoucauld, through his maxims, challenges conventional wisdom. Maybe the sonnets are thrown in because they seem irrelevant to a modern world obsessed with practicality.

As I also noted in a previous post, Jorge Luis Borges once said that he “always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” When my father’s candle flickered out and he went to sleep, I imagined him making his way to that library.

The Retiring Candle
By Scott Bates

A Candle
 Burned under
 A bushel

He did not let his light shine forth
 Among Men
 He did not even let his light shine forth
 Among Potatoes
 The bushel was empty
 (Being upside down)
 And somewhat stuffy besides

They all called down to him
 To come up on deck
 And get some air
 They wanted him to be the life of the party
 To shine
 Illuminate eternal verities
 Set the world on fire

But no
 He politely declined
 He didn’t want to set the world on fire
 All he wanted to do was stay down in the hold
 And smoke
 And curl up with a good book

Which he did

He smoked and curled up with
 The poems of Yevtushenko
 The Theory of the Leisure Class
 Perrault the Duc de la Rochefoucauld
 Erewhon and Through the Looking Glass
 Also assorted Elizabethan sonnets

When he had finished
 He put himself out
 And went to sleep

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Comments closed

Are the Liberal Arts Automatically Liberal?

Matthias Stom, Young Man Reading by Candlelight

Thursday

Today’s radicalized GOP is teaching me that a literary education is a vital tool in resisting tribalism. In the days when I used to think that respecting difference was a commonly held value in our multicultural democracy, literature didn’t seem to have the urgency it has since acquired. Poetry and fiction were nice things to have, I thought, but not essential to our political survival.

After Donald Trump came along and gave a significant portion of our electorate permission to demonize and otherwise write off many of their fellow Americans, however, my view changed. Teaching Composition and Literature, as I’m currently doing at Sewanee after a two-year hiatus, suddenly feels like a political act.

For instance, when I was teaching Lucille Clifton’s poem about her autistic grandson the other day, I couldn’t help but think of the time when Trump made fun of reporter Serge Kovaleski, who has arthrogryposis, a congenital condition affecting the joints. When I was teaching her “note to self,” about ways in which I and others as St. Mary’s College failed to understand why our black students were angry and confused (read my account of that here), I thought of those Republicans who don’t want schools engaging in difficult race conversations. When I taught her “wishes for sons,” where she wishes men would be more sensitive to the biological challenges that women face, I thought of how the Supreme Court appears ready to wipe away (or severely curtail) a woman’s right to choose—as though the state knows better than women what is right for them.

As I noted the other day, I realize that what the right now means by “critical race theory” is actually “race conversations that make us uncomfortable.” And I think how Clifton used to introduce her poetry readings with the declaration that her job was “to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” Her poetry, in other words, is often written to make people uncomfortable. In the eyes of the right, then, to teach Clifton’s poetry is to teach critical race theory.

And lest you think that older white writers are more comfortable than contemporary black authors, think for a moment about how readers in the current climate will experience Shakespeare’s Othello, which I’ll also be teaching in the course. The most logical explanation as to why Iago hates “the moor of Venice” is that he is a black man who has been promoted over him. Iago at one point casts a slur that we recognize only too well. “Even now,” he says to Desdemona’s father after the two lovers have run off, “an old black ram is topping your white ewe.” Othello may be a magnificent military leader but this white underling puts him in his place by reducing him to a sexual stereotype.

That’s not the only currently sensitive issue that the play tackles. In Othello-Desdemona it captures the complex dynamics of interracial relationships, and in Othello the insecurities of a black man who desperately wants to be accepted and who believes his military victories and his white wife mean that he’s arrived. He can’t imagine how deep white resentment goes. That’s a good reason why Iago can manipulate him so easily.

I know ahead of time that these issues will come up in our class discussions. That’s the thing about a liberal arts education: it liberally explores all kinds of things. That’s why rightwing extremists hate it so much.

It’s not that professors are leftwing radicals indoctrinating students. Like many, my own politics are fairly moderate and I go out of my way to avoid imposing my views on my students. Not that attempting to shape them politically would do much good even if I tried: in my experience, students, having their own minds, go their own ways after they leave us. But it is true that I insist that they seek to understand people unlike themselves and accord them a degree of respect. This goes for both the characters in the works we read and for the people who are their classmates.

In the eyes of people who dwell within tribal animosities, this is unacceptable, which means that they often regard literature itself with suspicion. And indeed, literature is powerful force that is not easily controlled. They are right to fear it.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments closed

Book Bans Again on the Rise

Tony Diaz in 2012 bringing in Mexican-American books banned by a Tucson, Arizona school district

Wednesday

I chanced upon Langston Hughes’s essay “My Adventures as a Social Poet” when I was writing Sunday’s essay and was so intrigued by it that I return to it for today’s post. It brings to mind the book bans that are beginning to crop up in various states, with many more sure to follow.

At issue, in the words of a Texas legislator, are books that make people uncomfortable. “Critical race theory” has now come to mean “uncomfortable discussions about race.” Also targeted are books on LBGTQ issues since those too make people uncomfortable.

Writing for the Texas Observer, activist Lupe Mendez recalls a time in March, 2012 when it was Arizona that was initiating books bans. At the time, Mendez was involved in an effort to get kids books that school authorities had removed from school libraries and school curricula:

The state’s lawmakers had recently passed a bill making the teaching of “Ethnic Studies” illegal, along with banning courses that “promote resentment toward a race or class of people” and “are designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group.” The bill also created a list of banned books. Of the more than 80 books that were eventually added to the list, many of the authors were Black and Latinx.

At that time, Mendez and other Texans came to the rescue. Calling themselves librotraficantes, meaning “book smugglers,” they went to work:

We used all of our book nerd talents to create an old-school freedom ride, collecting 35 bus riders and caravanning to six cities: Houston, San Antonio, El Paso, Mesilla, Albuquerque, and Tucson. We collected more than 1,000 copies of Arizona’s banned books and disseminated them to community libraries through book bundles to Arizona high school students. The Librotraficante Movement has been crucial in giving a voice to students of color across the nation.  

Recalling the Arizona trip, Mendez reports a powerful story:

As we arrived in Tucson, where the school district had shut down a Mexican American Studies course, a few of us were assigned the task of sorting the more than 1,000 books amassed during the caravan. It was early morning—7:30 or so—when we noticed that a tiny group of teens had come by. They quietly approached to see the books and grabbed some, retreating without a word. Later, a young lady grabbed a book and took it away to the corner to read it. 

As the day went on, the young lady returned, saying, “Thank you for giving me this moment. I was just about to finish this book on the day the district personnel came to forcibly take the books away from us.” Wise beyond her years, she left us with some parting advice: “I want you to have this book back. Give it to somebody else. I hope somebody can learn from this book.”  

Now the problem is in Mendez’s own state. The legislature’s lists, he observes,

seem to target non-white and LGBTQ authors. This much is clear: The Republican Party intends to deny children access to books, authors and an education that would spur their intellectual growth. And in an effort to satisfy their base, Republicans in Texas are pushing away the one population that needs their attention the most: youth—and more pointedly—youth of color. 

Back to Hughes and his own encounters with repressive authorities. It all began, he reports, when he chose not to write lyric poems about the moon and flowers but rather about the problems of the African American community:

 The moon belongs to everybody, but not this American earth of ours. That is perhaps why poems about the moon perturb no one, but poems about color and poverty do perturb many citizens. Social forces pull backwards of forwards, right or left, and social poems get caught in the pulling and hauling. Sometimes the poet himself gets pulled and hauled – even hauled off to jail.

I have never been in jail but I have been detained by the Japanese police in Tokyo and by the immigration authorities in Cuba – in custody, to put it politely – due, no doubt, to their interest in my written words. These authorities would hardly have detained me had I been a writer of the roses and moonlight school. I have never known the police of any country to show an interest in lyric poetry as such. But when poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color lines, and colonies, somebody tells the police.

After recounting various incidents, Hughes concludes,

So goes the life of a social poet. I am sure none of these things would ever have happened to me had I limited the subject matter of my poems to roses and moonlight. But, unfortunately, I was born poor – and colored – and almost all the prettiest roses I have seen have been in rich white people’s yards – not in mine. That is why I cannot write exclusively about roses and moonlight – for sometimes in the moonlight my brothers see a fiery cross and a circle of Klansmen’s hoods. Sometimes in the moonlight a dark body swings from a lynching tree – but for his funeral there are no roses.

The Young Adult Writers whose books are under attack by school boards might be comforted to know that the proposed bans are a compliment: their books must be having an impact. In fact, they might be justified in seeing their omission from such lists as an insult. I think of Bertolt Brecht’s famous poem “The Burning of the Books,’ inspired by the Nazi book burnings:

When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.

Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he’d been excluded!

He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fierce letters to the morons in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven’t I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!

Quoting the Book of John (8:32), Martin Luther King used to call out, “And ye shall know the truth,” to which his Biblically knowledgeable audience would respond, “and the truth shall make you free.” That’s why truth-telling books are essential for our lives. But as King also knew, the truth is dangerous and under constant assault.

Educators, be warned. There’s a lot more to come.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Comments closed