Contributing writer for The Artifice.
Junior Contributor II
Professors as Wielders of Truth, Dictators, or FacilitatorsIn the humanities classroom—I speak in particular of literature here—what is the role of the professor now? Is it changing? How has it changed? Does the professor at times hold and use too much power so as to be authoritative with his published books and many letters behind her name? Is the professor a facilitator only that aids the literature student in finding his way? How often should a student openly disagree with or challenge professorial authority? In other words, in their attempts at dismantling authority, showing hegemony for what it is, separating us from the paradigms in which we unwittingly live, do professors also ironically demand certain kinds of "knowledge" which they ought not to?
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The Sublime's Effects in Gothic Fiction | |
I cannot say what a literary artist is; and I cannot comment on your whole article in such a brief post, but I will say this— As to your section on youth and being an artist, I think you touch on something quite important. We all experience “the bloom,” a time when we are youthful but matured, and then we all experience the time after that, as our leaves begin to descend toward the ground, shrivel and die. I think Hemingway wrote about it well—the existential crisis of this realization. Perhaps more than any, artists (whether literary or other, but “real” artists) have quite a time coping with life post-bloom and attempt on some level to express their feelings of it. Perhaps then, at least in my view, instead of being a poet and being young, an artist needs for most of his or her life to grieve the loss of his or her youth, to preemptively grieve the loss (to come) of those he or she loves, including the self. When one walks around feeling this loss for years upon years, and then writes about it, I would say one is a literary artist. The trick, I think, is in surviving this grieving for as long as possible. Some do it for longer than others. | What Does it Mean to Be a Literary Artist? |
Edna’s feelings of possession, isolation, and servitude continue, perhaps in different forms, today. When I was an undergraduate I was so struck by this short novel, that one could, with what seemed all the wealth and security in the world, walk into the gulf and end it all in order to escape. Now I am fifteen years older and, from the experience of life, understand that the only way out of that feeling of isolation and possession (which eventually grips us all) is to be outside the paradigm. This is what (mainly) we teach in many American Literature classes, to recognize when we have fallen into a narrative of living, a massive constriction. For Edna she viewed the waves that lapped over her as that escape—she had little else she could do. But for us now—? We need her title; we need “awakening,” the sublime moment that makes us feel more alive than ever before. So many of us are already dead inside. Perhaps then, in whatever way that we can, we can avoid such a tragic end. | The Awakening: Where does the dream lie in Marriage, or Lust, or Freedom? |
The word “novel” itself means something new—so what better way than always to change into something it was not before? Of course it retains many of its characteristics (usually prose, usually long, usually fiction), but let it change I say into whatever it wants. As an avid reader of Derrida, I think perhaps the problem is in our attempt at always drawing the lines around things—this is a novel, that is not—who knows? I can’t even determine where to draw the line between a “novel” and a “novella.” | Is the Novel Dead? |
What a wonderful job you’ve done defining and in the texts you gloss capturing the sublime and its importance. I have always felt that the sublime is just such an experience—whether encountered through literature or life experience elsewhere—that shakes us to our core, terrifies us, and, like the steep cliff down which we now look, understanding our selves as mere trifles of the universe, which at any moment may blow us to dust and leave us forgotten, also allows us, because of our new awareness of our smallness, to be more alive than we have ever been, if momentarily. I feel that you have captured that very well, particularly in Frankenstein.