‘Contemporary’- Why do we inflict the past on literature studies?

I recently started an Undergraduate Degree at a rather pleasant University, now number eight (I think) in the Sunday Times League Table and the number one in the country for Drama, some essentially meaningless facts they keep throwing at us (as far as I’m concerned the league tables reflect only the views of those pompous enough to insist on comparative judging, an ugly pastime in this society). My course is in English and Drama, which I am rather enjoying, but don’t let that put you off! Thing is, I’m having a little niggle, and I believe it might be universal from the essays I’ve sat down with, but why on earth do my English lectures and essayists I’ve come across keep insisting on putting the symbolism in the pre-1800’s texts we’ve been studying in the context of ‘contemporary society’.

Not that I’m complaining. A lot can be understood from a text by looking at how those at the time interpreted it, but I don’t understand why those views should be superior to how the modern reader might approach it. The reader, at least in part shapes the text, surely? I read The Odyssey with more than a faint annoyance at Penelope’s passivism throughout, therefore the meaning of the text warps. Compared to the contemporary reader, I am not seeing an admirably loyal wife, but an oppressed woman controlled by the men in her life. And so, the meaning and message I take from the text is completely different from the Greeks. Obviously this perspective is not inferior, as essays have been written and pens have been chewed, Margaret Atwood has even gone so far as the write the Penelopiad. Therefore it is possible to understand a distanced elderly text from a modern viewpoint, so why do I find myself pressed to forget my social background and instead focus solely on how our imagined Greek girl Elene might perceive this strange piece of literature she finds in her hands, a few millennium from home and faced with this strange invention of paper bound between covers supposedly substituting the oral poet.

This whole query arises from a little essay I read by Derek Brewer on the Colour Green in Sir Gawain and The Green Knight, where he basically spent the entire essay arguing that, in fact, the colour green had no significance to the contemporary audience, it was simply a common colour, and therefore we should stop trying to read into it. Fair enough, but surely we can benefit more by taking a quick note of this information in our studies, then moving on to how the modern reader responds to the colour green. I read nature, alien, envy. Literary criticism can essentially be seen as a social documentary. Why else do we find these essays devoted to the literary history of a text? From the colour green I, as a modern reader, can read the Green Knight as a sophisticated representation of nature degrading the power of an increasingly artificial society. Is not that a valid and interesting way to read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight? Let us read contemporary criticism to understand what the contemporaries thought, or if it does not exist, research and note the contemporary views without letting them blot out what we can learn by following our own noses, not Elene’s or anyone else.

Works Cited

Brewer, Derek. “The Colour Green” A Companion to the Gawain-Poet. Brewer, Derek and Gibson, Jonathon, ed. Cambridge: St Edmundsbury Press Ltd, 1997. 181-190 Print

What I’m reading:

Oryx and Crake Margaret Atwood, she intrigues me as an author. Steadfastly against patriarchy, witty, and a mind prone to subversion of everything you understand to be true; there was little chance I would not enjoy this novel. The first of a dystopian trilogy set too closely in the future for comfort, the novel is one of the quickest reads I have encountered. Aside from being a page turner, a very current message of the dangers of a consumerist society is explored through Jimmy and Crake, alongside the age old issues of loneliness and losing one’s mind, shown through snowman, the man Jimmy becomes. Cleverly structured and a damn good read- don’t be put off boys by the overtly feminist tones of The Handmaids tale, Atwood here uses her powers of subtlety so you don’t feel like a focus for criticism.

What I’m watching:

The Odyssey The Paper Cinema I saw this in Torbay, of all places, and it was magnificent. An animation created live through projections and with a live band creating the soundscape. It was gorgeous, spellbinging, and made you feel wonderfully happy. The creators were endlessly ingenious, using everything they could to create effect, a drill to create the sound for a motorbike, during which all humans onstage assumed a biker look, sunglasses and turned up lapels on jackets. It was superb. However, although in a style usually associated with children’s illustration, the showing was partially unintelligible to my friends not versed with the text. Still, don’t miss it if its showing in a theatre near you!

What The Girl's Been Up To

That sister of mine, upon reading my blog yesterday, why I hadn't done a 'What I'm...' in a little while. I feel guilty putting them on the end of a long post, making it even longer for the casual reader, so I've avoided it for the past few posts. But the time has come when I feel I have done enough in the world to spew up a little feedback. So, enjoy, and please comment.

What I'm reading:
Wicked George Maguire I've never seen the musical, and feel lucky I haven't, because friends of mine have told me the book would be far too harsh on my delicate senses if I was expecting a lighter, less graphic sort of book. Wicked is an adult novel telling the story of the Wicked Witch of the West, with little caring for the spellbound children of the original Wizard of Oz story. There's no way around this, the novel was vulgar. It seemed like Mr Maguire had sat down and wondered how to make this novel more appropriate for adults. The answer was sex and violence, often mixed together. Maybe I'm a prude, but personally I found that rather off-putting, especially when not particularly relevant to the main story (yes, I am referring to that horrific 'Philosophy Club'). Aside from that, the story was predictable and unbelievable, missing out crucial areas in time jumps. Although the main character, Elphaba, became a sympathetic character towards the end, it took far to long. The writing style was engaging mostly, although approaching the bland style of L. Frank Baum at others. So perhaps not a particularly recommended read, especially if you like the original tale.

What I'm visiting:
 FABRIC–ATION Yinka Shonibare MBE at The Yorkshire Sculpture Park My sister often over-enthuses about her favourite artists to deaf ears, but not often does my father, as he did after seeing this exhibition. Intrigued, I went to have a look, and was thoroughly impressed. Yinka Shonibare MBE, although physically disabled, manages to make incredible art, from sculptures to canvases to films. He goes to great lengths in his sculptures of people to dissolve the ethnicity, and he manages to create a world identity in his work. The colours, usually based on Nigerian designs, are vibrant, and the entire exhibition seems so touchable (although don't because every thing's alarmed). There is something for everybody, children will love the colour, texture and movements he captures, but Shonibare creates multiple meanings, a set of dresses (Little Rich Girls) can refer to hierarchy, prejudice, but also examine the role of little girls and how their constricted. I haven't been so moved and inspired by an exhibition in a long time, and will probably go back again before September, when the exhibition closes, and would defiantly say its worth more than a look in.


What I'm watching:

The Golem Shonaleigh at The Library Theatre, Sheffield Maybe its cruel to talk about this, seeing as the piece of storytelling was yesterday, the 17th of July. Still, I think it's worth writing about, in case Shonaleigh comes to your area. All Shonaleigh does is get on stage and tell a story. Even she doesn't know what will happen, out of the thousands of tales she knows from her Jewish grandmother she selects as she talks. I never knew I had a capacity to just sit and listen for so long, she told a multi-faceted story about prejudice, love, and everything in between. I wish I'd been able to stay and listen all night, she alerted you to the points where she could tell so much more. It was a performance which is hard to criticise, and anything said would just be trite. Again, if she comes to the area, do anything you can for a ticket. I'll probably be in front of you in the queue.

Sheep and copyright

I was recently at The Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where me and those roaming with me came across a sheep with the word 'Orary' spray painted on. Confused, we began hatching theories about over-possessive farmers etcetera. Most of these fell to dust however when we encountered another sheep with 'Mystery' written on it's side, and a rather mardy looking one with 'Me' stencilled on. It took an embarrassingly long time before someone suggested asking at the information desk, but by that time everything was closed, so we comforted ourselves with the knowledge the enigma could be googled at home.
Once at home we found it was the work of one Alison Cooper, a link can be found here to see the official part of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park website. But something else emerged, it appears that those sheep were at the heart of an artistic scandal waiting to kick off. Poet Valerie Laws, self professed 'sheep woman', said that the Sculpture Park sheep were a direct rip off of her Haiku, or “haik-ewe”, printed on 15 sheep. You can have a better look at the story here. The gist of it is 'don't go stealing my claim to fame be-atch'. Alison Cooper and the Yorkshire Sculpture Park both claim they had no consciousness of Laws's work. Despite this, can we still say that Cooper and the Park have infringed on Laws's work and right to remain original?
Well, I'm sure the artistic dispute will be sorted out in its own time. But the concept of an idea belonging to someone is relatively new. Dickens was fighting for copyright laws to be brought in most of his life. Even to the point of alienation at a point from the free and unbound American public. But his income and lifestyle depended on his work being fully credited and not copied or stolen. You can understand his distress at various money makers publishing they're own made up endings to his newspaper chronicles for the eager public, and plays being made of his writings without his approval, or even knowledge. But a couple of hundred years earlier thievery was common practise. Shakespeare has been often accused of stealing plots for his famous plays, such as Othello, from earlier literature. His contemporaries used to carry about note books where they could take down turns of phrases and concepts they liked to use in they're own literature, taken from other plays and books as often as not. So have we evolved to value our individuality more? Has our concept of ownership consumed us in an increasingly materialistic world?
However, can it be said that there is no such thing as originality any more? Some great works of art have sprung from earlier art, Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, based on Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, is now seen as great literature. Another popular novel, 50 Shades of Grey is based on Twilight. So how much can the original owners really claim ownership of they're grandchildren. Should we discredit Rhys and James because they're simply copying other authors? Well, within the fields of art forms, isn't everybody trapped within what is pre-existing? Can you think of an alternative way of writing a novel that doesn't already somewhere is exist? To be honest, actual originality might be impossible these days.
So the real question is, where does something start infringing on somebody else's work to the point where they can get upset about it? It has to be acknowledged that for artists such as Dickens copyright was seen as vital, and continues to be today, especially when their livelihood is dependent on it. But McDonald's has tried to trademark the prefix 'Mc', and Facebook owns the word 'face'. Most would see this as ridiculous, and worrying for the hoards of Scots with 'Mc' on the front of their surname. So we have to acknowledge this is a difficult, delicate business where the copyrighter is not always right.
So, returning to the Poet Valerie Laws, on the scale from McDonald's to Dickens, I would put her plight somewhere in the middle. Granted, her profession and her livelihood is at stake, and she would benefit from real appreciation, but at the same time the art of spraying sheep is not new. Most farmers mark their sheep to recognise them, and show ownership. So if two artists should happen to reach the same point should it really end in tears? I have to be honest, I can see why Laws might be upset, but we can hardly move for pre-existing forms. Maybe we should evaluate how original our idea could possibly be, and how likely it is someone else has the same idea, before causing a fuss. Anyway, Sheep have been around for a very long time, and have been used as canvases before, for adverts and suchlike. And I'm pretty sure they don't give a damn.

The Bipolar world of Book reviews

During one my lazy weekends I recently found in The Guardian newspaper a feature on the world of book reviewing and whether it was sexist or not. Through a collection a statistics over a period of two years a series of graphs had been made showing in different newspapers the ratio of male to female reviewers in non-fiction and fiction, which you can go have a look at here. The report came to the predictable conclusion that women were under represented in the literary world, with only 29-36% of non-fiction reviewers female. However in fiction it is generally 50/50, with some papers going one way or the other, but a large amount at a fair ratio. So, should we simply assume that the non-fiction world is more sexist in terms of reviewers?
With some papers questions should perhaps be raised, such as The London Review of Books which inexplicably only has male reviewers for fiction, and only ten per cent women reviewers for non-fiction. But on the whole it evens out male to female reviewers when you merge the ratios of fiction and non-fiction. And the presence of women in non-fiction reviewing shows that the path is no barred to them, so should we be annoyed at the papers for not forcing their female reviewers to review non-fiction. Furthermore, by simply creating ratios like this, are we actually doing more harm than good?
Let me explain, although these statistical outlooks might be productive for individual papers, in making sure there is a lack of discrimination, by publishing these statistics and placing blame on the world of literary criticism The Guardian is risking discouraging equality in reviewers by saying that it is harder to women to get a role as say, a non-fiction reviewer in The Mail on Sunday. Similarly, men are being told it is hard for them to get a role as a fiction reviewer in The Times. This wouldn’t particularly encourage the average person to try. A better way forwards might be to advertise for and encourage more female or male reviewers in certain sectors as oppose to telling them how unlikely it is they'll manage to gain a job there.
Even this ignores a problem. While these exposés are essential at times, should we even be judging the reviewers based on their genitals? By publishing this feature The Guardian becomes guilty of encouraging the bipolarity of the sexes. The entire concept of the feature suggests that male reviews are somehow different to female reviews, and reviewers should be hired according to their sex rather than their ability. I fail to see this as a positive thing. Yes, encourage gender equality, but don't degrade the quality of the institution for the sake of it. By doing that the idea will flourish that, say, the introduction of female fiction reviewers in The London Review of Books has ruined this once great paper. So, overall I'm saying we should stop putting men and women at odds and just see them as people. Nothing more, nothing less. Then maybe we can get some of that much desired equality.

Real

'After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to prove the nonexistence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it -- "I refute it thus."'
-Boswell

For a while at secondary school I took a philosophy class after school. I can't say it was the highlight of my week, rather as one of the two only girls in the class, and a year younger than everyone else I was rather taciturn. Despite all this I did manage to pick up some interesting concepts, such as the one illustrated above. The basic theory of Bishop Berkeley's is that nothing actually exists and the world is in fact imagined. But Johnson's point is that the world is physical and real, and the sensation of kicking the stone proves this to him. I have to say, I have come to no conclusion about either theory, I tend follow the belief that I might as well behave as if the world is real, because behaving otherwise will never get me anywhere. But fairly recently I was thinking about the ideas and I thought of a story where someone behaves according to the idea that their world is completely imagined by themselves and nothing is real, while another character attempts to show the point of living life. I hope you enjoy, if anyone fancies leaving some feedback I would adore it.

Real

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

She blinked her seaweed eyes. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is a shadow maker.’

I grinned and took her hand in mine, a hand which veins and scars made maps across. She once told me all the places she’d been were written on the back of her hands. She could run a finger south, towards the bony wrist, and remember the way a willow made the light dapple across the surface of a lake in Angouleme.

‘But you make shadows; trees make shadows, what makes it different?’ I replied.

‘It’s not. I’m not saying names are set.’ She grew animated as she spoke, ‘Think of it as fluid, to us right now it’s a shadow maker, but to someone sitting inside it might be called home, or shelter…’

‘You’re right.’

My eyes open and I take in the room. Light spills in through gossamer curtains, her choice, she liked to see the light or illumination as she called it. Light was too conceptual for her. Turning on my side I see the bedclothes, pulled awry by me during my sleep, where she should have laid. My fingers clasp around cold hard metal, in my hands she called it the soul splitter. I called it freedom.

Do you believe we’re actually living? Do you believe that everything you’re touching now is real, is actually pressing against you, the fabric of your clothes, the brush of eyelash on cheek? Do you believe in mortality? She did, she believed in it so hard she’d break a glass and cut the flesh on her forearm to prove to me she bled. She once showed me how she could go to hospital and made me watch how people reacted. I touched her arm, and didn’t feel a thing. If you stopped looking at these words would they still exist? If you stopped listening to your lover’s heartbeat would it still sound? I once told her she wasn’t real, while the heart monitor beeped beside us. She wouldn’t look at me.

She called the heart monitor a safety drum. When it stopped sounding it would lose the catch and make everyone come. She called the bed a dream maker. ‘I’ve only ever dreamt in a bed.’ She explained. I told her she’d dream if she slept on the floor. ‘No I won’t’ she said.

I take freedom and run its edge along my thumb, down a worn groove. Then my index finger, and then lightly round my wrist. Swapping hands, I repeat the movements on my left. I stop at the wrist and regard my freedom and its bloodied edge. I regard and wonder; would it be worth it, to press a little deeper?

I used to humour her a lot. When we lay in bed I told her she was flesh, blood, and bone, as solid as the stones in the graveyard. But in the evening, after dinner, I’d tell her how everything was constructed. I told her how I controlled the world, how it was all in my mind. She told me to fix it. Five weeks and a day later Libya rose against Gaddafi; ‘Look,’ I told her in the evening, ‘look what I have wreaked.’ She said I didn’t make her. She said she thought real, independent thoughts and felt emotion like I did. She said she could prove it to me.

She took the soul splitter and split herself open. Her eyes turned to marbles and rolled away; her lips turned to wax and melted down her face. I was left with a heap of red soaked meat.

I don’t know why I made myself hurt. I don’t know why I created an empty bed, why I couldn’t recreate her out of a spare rib. It’s been a year and two days and thirteen hours, and she still hasn’t sat up in her grave and pushed her key in the lock on the door.

So I choose the freedom to forget, and push it in deeper.

Katie Hopkins: A Britain built on heirarchy

Katie Hopkins appeared on 'This Morning' last Friday and if you haven't seen it yet I  wonder where you have been living and advise you take a look at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edZjdgU0asM. Hopkins argues that it is valid to use a child's name and it's connotations of class to decide the child's character and whether they would be a suitable 'play date' for her children. She believes that children with names such as 'Tyler' are more likely to be a negative influence on her children, and behave worse at school.
Now, the interview focuses on Mrs Hopkins's apparent hypocrisy and idiocy, and only lightly touches on the real issue, that people are consistently judged on their background and parents. This isn't always direct; having wealthy parents means you are almost guaranteed a certain privileges, such as private schools and increased respect for your lifestyle. This is instituted in British tradition, we still have Kings and Queens who automatically by right of birth have privilege and status over the common rabble, 'Dukes' and 'Duchesses' are seen as sophisticated and admirable, but we have to remember these titles are inherited. These presumptions are not based on individual merit, but upon a hierarchical system that discounts the majority of the British public, no matter what they have achieved.
What Hopkins presumes is that those who come from a poorer and less privileged background are automatically worth less intellectually and personally than the wealthy. But this is not necessarily the case. Typically at Oxbridge (Oxford and Cambridge) universities those who have come from state schools outperform those from public schools. The simple reason for this is that they have had to try harder and have had to show more individual strength to reach Oxbridge in the first place. In Oxford only roughly 30% of the intake at undergraduate is from State schools. Public school students will have had training for the interviews, for the entrance exams, something very few state schools have the time or resources to give. So in general students from State schools have to have worked harder, tried harder by themselves. And I'm sure quite a few of these students are called 'Tyler', and have had to fight against the prejudice of people such as Hopkins all their lives to prove their own worth.
And although I wouldn't call myself under privileged, I know what it's like to have to prove your capabilities despite your background. When I went to sixth form I was entering from a closing school, which had been deemed 'failing' by Ofsted. Most of my primary school friends in the catchment area refused to attend because they thought the school was rough because it took in a lot of people from a lower class, and a lot of immigrants. On sixth form open days at two schools I was told once I'd informed them of my secondary school that I was unlikely to get GCSE grades high enough to study at sixth form. I started to tell teachers immediately; 'I go to (name removed) School, but I'm predicted all A's'. But my secondary school was widely diverse, I had incredibly interesting friends from all over and I never felt superior because I was middle class. I had friends just as intelligent as me, and more so, and they weren't restricted by their background. The main restriction will always remain the people who assume that they cannot succeed because of where they come from, or what school they go to. And one of the reasons why this country is one of the most unequal is that these people did not get the same opportunities as public school children. The automatic hierarchy is outdated, and people like Hopkins should be rightly called idiotic, as long as we realise this isn't just an isolated case. This is a symptom of a much larger problem, one that this country is clinging to for dear life with our Royalty and House of Lords. God knows why.

What I'm reading:
Theft Eric Chappell I should first explain that this is a play, and I'm trying not to read it simply the way I would read a novel. I'm trying to work out blocking and casting etcetera, but even simply reading this it's interesting. Written in a naturalistic style, with  a classical shortening of acts to create the sense of time running out towards the climax, I'm finding the play quite exciting. Set in the drawing room of the posh home of John and Barbara Miles, the play follows a burglary, and the manipulative burglar, who knows far too much about everybody involved. Relationships and trust are tested, and I think I would love to see this play performed.

What I'm watching:
The Returned Channel 4 Got to say, I normally dislike zombie and ghost programs. I find them ridiculous mostly, and would rather be watching Downton Abbey or Doctor Who (Yes, I am aware of the irony). However, The Returned is incredible, set in a French town (worth mentioning now the program is in French with subtitles) and people start returning from the dead. There is no explanation for why this is happening, and that's part of the charm. The show focuses on the characters, and the effect those returning from the dead are having. From start to finish every Sunday I am totally entranced. The acting brilliant, there is nobody who lets the side down, even the child actors are wonderful. Although, it is hopelessly complicated and there's a lot to remember, so not something to watch for a laugh.

Old

I was on the bus one day, during rush hour, as all the students walked to school. From my window seat I chanced to see an elderly couple among the rabble walking hand in hand. What surprised me was that they were both dressed in a punk fashion, a man in a long leather coat and long hair back in a ponytail, and a woman with short pink hair jelled upwards and in a short leather skirt. I imagined them waking up and being surprised to find themselves old, then going about their daily duties as if nothing had changed. So, what can I say, I wrote a story about it. If you chance to think up any feedback I would adore it...

Old
Today I woke up old. My hand was withered like a dried rose petal, so I held it up to the morning sun to see if the light would shine through. It didn't, skin think with pent up memories I've never had.
When I tried to get out of bed, my lips parted of their own accord as my back clicked into place, one vertebrae on top of the other. My feet curled in on themselves, the skin on the bottom thick like dead slugs.
I dressed myself in my best black cashmere jumper, but my stomach and breasts bulged unexpectedly, so I zipped a stiff jacket on over. My leather skirt wouldn't close any more, I used a safety pin hoping no one would notice. The makeup in my bag didn't match my face, the red lipstick paled me and showed the circles beneath my eyes. I zipped the bag up and wiped it off.
Nobody turned their heads when I walked by. Young men fixed their eyes on the legs of some other scrawny mite. I caught sight of myself in a shop window, and a blush crept up my neck. I was old, I could see it in the reflection that hovered over a faceless dummy. My skin was draped over me, my legs were blemished with a tangle of purple wires. Somebody looked, I knew it at once, but the gaze I turned to meet was the cold, disapproving stare of a young woman. I shuffled home as fast as my creaking legs could take me, gently lay myself on my med, curtains closed, lights out. Maybe I'll wake up young tomorrow.