Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
THEORY
L I T E R AT U R E
REPLICABILITY
COGNITIVE
SEMINAR
I N T E R P R E TAT I O N
STYLISTICS
GROUND
A N A LY S I S
ICONICITY
FOREGROUNDING
OBJECTIVITY
M U LT I M O D A L
Series Editor
Ben Knights
Teesside University
Middlesbrough, UK
Teaching the New English is an innovative series primarily concerned
with the teaching of the English degree in the context of the modern
university. The series is simultaneously concerned with addressing excit-
ing new areas that have developed in the curriculum in recent years and
those more traditional areas that have reformed in new contexts. It is
grounded in an intellectual or theoretical concept of the curriculum, yet
is largely concerned with the practicalities of the curriculum’s manifes-
tation in the classroom. Volumes will be invaluable for new and more
experienced teachers alike.
Teaching Literature
Text and Dialogue in the English Classroom
Editor
Ben Knights
Teesside University
Middlesbrough, UK
v
vi Series Editor’s Preface
Ben Knights
Emeritus Professor of English and Cultural Studies
Teesside University
Visiting Fellow
UCL Institute of Education
Contents
vii
viii Contents
Index
249
About the Editor
ix
List of Tables
xi
CHAPTER 1
Ben Knights
B. Knights (*)
Teesside University, Middlesbrough, UK
e-mail: Ben.Knights@tees.ac.uk
always had teaching and the protocols of learning at its heart. This is a
subject whose disciplinary landscape and characteristic forms of enquiry
have been formed in the classroom and in dialogue with students. It talks
across the tertiary/secondary border to the cognate (though strikingly
different) subject called ‘English’ in secondary school. Like Creative
Writing, the subject calls into being novel symbolic structures within
the formal space of learning. The argument which informs this book,
and which is developed in the individual chapters, is that the future of
the subject relies not just upon fostering communities of ‘research
excellence’, with their constellation of ‘stars’, but on reawakening and
reviving its pedagogic traditions.1
Laboratories of Practice?
This book, like the series to which it belongs, draws on the work car-
ried out by the UK English Subject Centre.2 Over the 10 years of its
existence, the Subject Centre developed a unique working knowledge
of the cultures and day-to-day practices of English programmes. The
informing idea—adapted from Becher and Trowler’s classic study3—
was that ‘subjects’ and disciplines, while producing and resting upon
bodies of knowledge, are communities of pedagogic practice. Those
practices are conventionalised and habitual. They constitute the sedi-
mented folk knowledge of teachers, their protocols buried deep in
the subject unconscious. Yet it has long been evident that such tacit
beliefs and habits can benefit from being raised to consciousness, ques-
tioned, and revivified. This goes further than the banality of ‘sharing
(or disseminating) good practice’. As the sociolinguist and sociologist
of education Basil Bernstein argued, ‘what is absent from pedagogic
discourse is its own voice’.4 In this spirit we sought to help discipline
pedagogy find its voice. Like the Teaching the New English series as
a whole, the chapter authors challenge the too frequent assumption
that the authority of discipline knowledge is diminished by treat-
ing teaching as itself an object of enquiry and of critical writing. The
resourcefulness of teachers is actualised through learned—and there-
fore potentially changeable—pedagogic routines. The Subject Centres
invited colleagues to make their daily activity a laboratory for peda-
gogic practice.
1 INTRODUCTION: TEACHING? LITERATURE? 3
Literature?
Two further things need to be said about the orientation of this book.
The first is that its address to ‘teaching literature’ is not in itself unprob-
lematic. There is a long, if contested, tradition that the default mean-
ing of ‘English’ or ‘English Studies’ in higher education in the UK, the
USA, and elsewhere in the Anglophone world is ‘English Literature’.
Successive revisions of the UK Subject Benchmark between 2000 and
2014 demonstrated the need to acknowledge and work around that HE
default assumption.5 Indeed, the Literature strand of the university sub-
ject itself derived from multiple traditions, and insofar as it became (in
the USA, UK, or Australia) identified with forms of Practical Criticism
and New Criticism, those practices themselves took shape in competition
with other traditions. The suggestion here is that these histories were
pedagogic as much as intellectual, and that the habits of the subject (if
the singular even makes much sense) emerged from a contest between
scholarship and transmission (on the one hand), and varieties of cultural
intervention (on the other).6
Thus, in addressing itself to the teaching of English Literature, this
book has to acknowledge both the unstable and contested nature of its
subject matter, and the permeable borders between ‘Literature’ and a
host of proximate subjects within the evolving curriculum. This dynamic
between centripetal and centrifugal forces is relived in classroom inter-
actions. While there are undoubtedly ‘high’ versions of the subject, this
volume does not assume the essential or superior nature of a ‘pure’ lit-
erature curriculum. It is concerned, rather, with the pedagogic implica-
tions of the transgressive nature of the subject, its position on a number
of borders, disciplinary, institutional, and social. Along those borders,
vigorous hybrids emerge, to be actualised in different ways in different
institutions.7 In many (perhaps most) of these interchanges, ‘English’ is
and has been an active partner. So far from being a parasite upon other
domains, the subject has actively participated in the formation of numer-
ous scholarly and teaching enterprises from Cultural Studies and Film
Studies to Gender Studies, and onwards. The implications of some of
these fluid and productive crossovers are explored in the chapters that
follow.
4 B. Knights
Genres of Pedagogy
Despite their sense of the unteachable quality of first class work, the stu-
dents felt that the marks gained for an essay would depend on the expecta-
tions of the tutor, and that it was wise to shape their work accordingly …
[‘Mark’] agreed that when he was writing essays he ‘always had in mind
who was marking it’.
the larger system reproduced within the smaller one. Where the forms
of knowledge cannot be immediately instrumentalised, where the sub-
ject matter moves in and out of fantasy, the authority of the teacher con-
stantly struggles with the implied or overt accusation of wasting time.
This book provides glimpses of working teachers engaged at intersec-
tions, and seeking to articulate and learn from that experience. All the
chapters here grapple in one way or another with the problems and
potentials of a practice on the borders and with the liminal nature of the
spaces within which the curriculum is realised. All involve the—often
improvised—negotiation of crossing points and intertexts. These bound-
aries, as suggested at the beginning of this chapter, are many and various.
They form and dissolve between subject matters, intellectual traditions,
communities, and institutions. And implicated in all such between-ness
is the perpetual negotiation of the permeable boundary between subject
professionals and their actual or potential students.
The exposed interiority (or mutual neediness) of both teacher and student
may easily result in a collusion to avoid dangerously ambiguous latencies
in favour of summary and closure. Probing teacher identity as her text,
Miles invites teachers to acknowledge and learn from their own sense of
shame or inadequacy in order to work through to a ‘more resistant model
of academic becoming’. That becoming is in a related sense the subject
of Eaglestone’s chapter. Charting another form of ‘transition’, he takes
us back to the ethics of the professional, and discerns a radical identity
between the will to teach and the impulse to the reflexive making of cul-
tural and literary knowledge.
How such new knowledge enters the academy and acquires legitimacy
and a set of pedagogic conventions is the subject of two case studies of
the kaleidoscopic curriculum. Nicole King reflects upon her own expe-
rience of teaching Black and Caribbean literatures, themselves so often
embedding ‘allegories of teaching’. Paradoxically, a curriculum domain
emerging from and embedded in emancipatory struggle has had to
contend both with routinisation and with the emergence of specialised
expertise and hierarchy. She sketches ways in which to engage students as
partners in ‘real conversations’, using as springboards those ‘moments of
destabilization’ where identities cease to appear stable and fixed. To our
other case study, Pamela Knights’s extended reflection on teaching chil-
dren’s fiction, we shall return in a moment.
Whatever utopian longings Literary Studies may residually entertain,
assessment is unavoidably woven into the fabric of university education.
Yet we too easily treat as a default forms of assessment that arose within the
‘knowable communities’ of much smaller, tutorial-inflected universities. In
his chapter, Jonathan Gibson unravels ways of supplementing and expanding
the traditional fare of assessment. Where the model of rhetorical literacy is
still in many ways the essay, he sketches subject-sensitive approaches to ena-
bling students to learn from the process itself. It is an argument which has
only become the more compelling since the closure of the Subject Centres.
‘English Literature’ as a subject has traditionally harboured an allergy
towards specification or the formalisation of technique. But techniques, and
the media of teaching and scholarship are in their various ways the focus
of chapters by Chris Thurgar-Dawson, Alan Liu, and by Lesley Jeffries
and Dan McIntyre. All involve the formation of new pedagogies through
genres of active and self-aware making. In the past, the discipline has been
shaped—or shaped itself—through a dialectic between celebration and criti-
cism, heritage and cultural critique. Yet, even though they are often arrayed
10 B. Knights
to ‘let go’ in ways that can feel threatening, but which enable the col-
laborative production of knowledge.
Teachers bring into the curriculum and classroom the products of
their own forays into unknowing, and their own frequently embattled
positioning on the margins of domains and identities. The ability to cap-
ture precise meanings from the flow of data and experience and then to
be able to argue persuasively for their significance is not of course unique
to students or scholars of English. Yet in most, perhaps all disciplines, the
protocols and meanings of pedagogy itself are apt to become invisible
to its practitioners. In pursuit of knowledge content, both learners and
their teachers may sometimes yearn towards ‘teaching degree zero’, or
the phantasm of total transparency. Yet English has always worked with
mediations, ambiguities, and paradox. We have insisted that holistic pat-
terns must be grounded in Blake’s ‘minute particulars’. Indeed, the com-
mitment of English Literature academics to the particularity of the task
may well be one reason why they have tended to believe that the space
shared by teacher and students was private and its deliberations unreplica-
ble. While happy to theorise about everything else, they have very widely
objected to attempts to theorise teaching and learning, and mocked any-
one suspected of trying to tell them how they should teach.
So, let me do what teachers do and draw an analogy. Since the 1980s,
post-structuralist English has made much use of the idea of ‘metafic-
tion’—fiction which, playing with its own fictionality, draws attention to
its own status and workings. Let us in parallel suggest a meta-pedagogy:
pedagogy which draws attention to its own procedures, its own choreo-
graphing of the movements of mind, to its own contradictory propen-
sities for didacticism and emancipation, closure and release. Those with
professional responsibility for the teaching space need to be aware of its
simultaneous potential as a medium both of unexpected insight and of
inhibition. Such insights into pedagogic performance may be nourished
from an intellectual strand common both to English and Educational
Studies. From the turbulent years following the 1917 Revolution
emerged the dialogic traditions which from the viewpoint of Literary and
Language Studies we associate with the dialogism of Mikhail Bakhtin,
and from the standpoint of education with the constructivism of L.S.
Vygostsky. In celebrating the heteroglossic nature of the learning space
(virtual or face-to-face), there may still be much to learn from reconnect-
ing the sundered descendants of those linked traditions. Towards such a
reflexive project, this book hopes to make its own small contribution.
1 INTRODUCTION: TEACHING? LITERATURE? 13
Notes
1. I should like to acknowledge here the important contribution to HE
English pedagogy of Ellie Chambers and Marshall Gregory (2006),
which in many ways the present book aspires to complement.
2. The Subject Centre website is currently archived at http://www.english.
heacademy.ac.uk/. The Teaching the New English series was originally
a joint venture between the Subject Centre and Palgrave Macmillan:
http://www.palgrave.com/gb/series/14458.
3. Becher, Tony and Paul Trowler, Academic Tribes and Territories:
Intellectual Enquiry and the Cultures of Disciplines, revised edition
(Buckingham: Open University Press, revised edition 2001).
4. Bernstein, Basil, The Structuring of Pedagogic Discourse (Volume 4 of
Class, Codes, and Control) (London: Routledge, 1990), 165.
5. The revised version of the Quality Assurance Agency English Subject
Benchmark Statement, published in 2015, explicitly acknowledges
English Language and Creative Writing alongside Literature: http://
www.qaa.ac.uk/en/Publications/Documents/SBS-English-15.pdf—
‘Subject Benchmark Statements describe the nature of study and the aca-
demic standards expected of graduates in specific subject areas, and in
respect of particular qualifications. They provide a picture of what grad-
uates in a particular subject might reasonably be expected to know, do
and understand at the end of their programme of study.’ They are ‘used
as reference points in the design, delivery and review of academic pro-
grammes’ (QAA 2015).
6. An argument sketched in ‘English on its Borders’ in Gildea et al. (2015),
and at greater length in my Pedagogic Criticism: Reconfiguring University
English Studies (London: Palgrave, 2017).
7. A classic exploration is Evans (1993), for example 166–181.
8. See, for example, Randy Bass and Sherry Linkon, ‘On the Evidence of
Theory: Close reading as a disciplinary model for writing about teach-
ing and learning’, Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 7.3 (2008):
245–261.
9. For example, John Hodgson, The Experience of Studying English in UK
Higher Education (Hodgson 2010: 4) http://www.english.heacademy.
ac.uk/explore/resources/studexp/report.php#hodgson; and The Experience
of Joint Honours Students of English in UK Higher Education (2011) http://
www.english.heacademy.ac.uk/archive/publications/reports/joint_hon-
ours.pdf.
10. A summary of the idea of ‘signature pedagogies’ can be found in Lee S.
Shulman, ‘Signature pedagogies in the professions’, Daedalus 134.3
(2005): 52–59.
14 B. Knights
11. Since 2002, Jan Meyer and Ray Land have explored the idea of ‘thresh-
old concepts’ in a series of papers. See also Meyer and Land with Jan
Smith (eds), Threshold Concepts within the Disciplines (Rotterdam: Sense
Publishers, 2008).
12. The Reader, the Text, the Poem: The Transactional Theory of the Literary
Work (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1994).
13. The Crafty Reader (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001).
14. h ttp://dgmyers.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/academe-quits-me.html,
8 January 2014.
15. ‘The Common Reader and the archival classroom’, New Literary History
43.1 (2012): 113–135.
Further Reading
Arts and Humanities in Higher Education (Sage) is an indispensable forum for
articles and debates traversing the borders of subject knowledge and peda-
gogy. An online selection of articles in the English Studies field is available at
http://ahh.sagepub.com/site/includefiles/vsu2.xhtml.
Bass, Randy, and Sherry Linkon. 2008. On the Evidence of Theory: Close
Reading as a Disciplinary Model for Writing About Teaching and Learning.
Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 7 (3): 245–261.
Becher, Tony, and Paul Trowler. 2001. Academic Tribes and Territories:
Intellectual Enquiry and the Cultures of Disciplines, rev. ed. Buckingham:
Open University Press.
Bernstein, Basil. 1990. The Structuring of Pedagogic Discourse (Volume 4 of Class,
Codes, and Control), 165. London: Routledge.
Bruce, Susan. 2013. Using your Profanisaurus: Comparisons, Analogies, and
Cultural Capital in two English Literature Seminars. Arts and Humanities in
Higher Education 12 (1): 53–69.
Bruce, Susan, Ken Jones, and Monica McLean. 2007. Some Notes on a Project:
Democracy and Authority in the Production of a Discipline. Pedagogy:
Critical Approaches to Teaching Literature, Language, Composition, and
Culture 7 (3): 481–500.
Chambers, Ellie, and Marshall Gregory. 2006. Teaching and Learning English
Literature. London: Sage.
Evans, Colin. 1993. English People: The Experience of Teaching and Learning
English in British Universities. Buckingham: Open University Press.
Gibson, Jonathan. 2010. Small Group Teaching in English Literature: A Good
Practice Guide. English Subject Centre Report Series No. 23.
Gibson, Jonathan and Ben Knights. 2011. Pick Your Own: Ideas for English
Seminars. English Subject Centre Seed Guide.
1 INTRODUCTION: TEACHING? LITERATURE? 15
Gildea, Niall, Helena Goodwyn, Megan Kitching, and Helen Tyson (eds.). 2015.
English Studies: The State of the Discipline, Past, Present, and Future. Palgrave:
Basingstoke.
Hodgson, John. 2010. The Experience of Studying English in UK Higher
Education. English Subject Centre Report Series No. 20.
Hodgson, John. 2011. The Experience of English Joint Honours Students in UK
Higher Education. English Subject Centre Report Series No. 26.
Meyer, Jan, Ray Land, and Jan Smith (eds.). 2008. Threshold Concepts Within the
Disciplines. Rotterdam: Sense Publishers.
Pope, Rob. 1998. The English Studies Book. London: Routledge.
Quality Assurance Agency, English Subject Benchmark Statement. 2015. http://
www.qaa.ac.uk/en/Publications/Documents/SBS-English-15.pdf.
Showalter, Elaine. 2003. Teaching Literature. Oxford: Blackwell.
Shulman, Lee S. 2005. Signature Pedagogies in the Professions. Daedalus 134
(3): 52–59.
Snapper, Gary. 2009. Beyond English Literature a Level: The Silence of the
Seminar? A Study of an Undergraduate Literary Theory Seminar. English in
Education 43 (3): 192–210.
Teaching the New English series. 2004. Basingstoke: Palgrave. http://www.pal-
grave.com/gb/series/14458.
Wilder, Laura. 2012. Rhetorical Strategies and Genre Conventions in Literary
Studies: Teaching and Writing in the Disciplines. Carbondale: Southern Illinois
University Press.
Author Biography
Ben Knights is an Emeritus Professor at Teesside University, UK, and former
director of the HE Academy English Subject Centre. His book Pedagogic
Criticism: Reconfiguring University English Studies was published by Palgrave in
April 2017.
CHAPTER 2
Gretchen H. Gerzina
Introduction
I begin this chapter with a certain amount of reluctance and several c aveats.
The reluctance stems from a worry that what follows will appear to make
sweeping generalisations about the way all colleges and universities in the
United States approach the teaching of English Literature, and will put
those into supposed opposition with the way that all British universities
teach English. Obviously, there will be overlaps as well as oppositions, and
just as obviously not all American institutions have the same pedagogical
practices, any more than all British institutions do. What follows, therefore,
is based almost entirely on my own experiences in teaching in both places,
and in my career not only as an instructor in two places, but also as an
administrator involved in teaching and learning in the United States.
The first caveat is that, even more than the UK, the United States offers
a variety of higher education institutions. Four-year liberal arts colleges,
common in the USA, are often prestigious institutions. They are gener-
ally private, and usually do not offer postgraduate degrees, or very few.
G.H. Gerzina (*)
Commonwealth Honors College, University of Massachusetts,
157 Commonwealth Avenue, Amherst, MA 01003-9253, USA
e-mail: Gretchen@gretchengerzina.com
• that all students will enter our classrooms having had rigorous train-
ing in the practice of writing and critical thinking at the university
level, not just in occasional sessions, but in entire, sustained, and
required courses during the first year;
• that the students will be, or become, capable of developing and sup-
porting independent arguments about the material they read and
discuss;
• that students will be studying or ‘reading’ in other fields as well as
in English, and that not all students in our classes will be English
‘majors’;
• that there will be institutional support for struggling students, in
the form of peer tutors, writing centres, and online resources for
citation, development, and support of ideas;
• that there are strict penalties for plagiarism, up to and including
expulsion;
• that there will be institutional support for staff at all levels of experi-
ence, who can constantly hone their pedagogical skills through sem-
inars, training sessions, and outside lectures;
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 19
• that most staff begin their teaching careers after several years of
taking postgraduate seminars, followed by individual research pro-
jects and dissertations, and often have teaching experience, often by
being a teaching assistant to an established professor;
• that, finally, American staff have a great deal of leeway in the organi-
sation, marking, and content of their courses—a great deal of
autonomy is taken for granted.
Student Issues
The most important overall differences in students studying in the USA
and in the UK has to do with length and concentration of study, and
preparation for study. As mentioned above, it is normal for all American
students to take ‘Freshman English’, or a formal course or two on how
to write scholarly essays at the outset of their university study. These
courses involve rigorous and regular writing, often a paper a week and
revisions, in order (hopefully) to become proficient at critical thinking,
argument, and citation at the outset of their education. This is based
on the premise that students have not been fully prepared by their high
schools to write scholarly essays.
At my American institution, all English faculty teach these modules,
and they are supplemented by staff with advanced degrees in writing and
rhetoric. However, it is also common throughout the United States for
these to be taught by adjunct or contingent instructors, or by postgrad-
uate students. The modules carry credit, although not for the English
major, since all students are required to take them, regardless of their
disciplinary area of study. But all English instructors must know how to
teach them. We therefore expect that students entering English literary
study, whether or not they become English majors—a decision made by
the end of their second of 4 years—will be able to write an independ-
ent, well-crafted essay, perhaps learning the conventions of any particular
discipline along the way. This may of course in many cases be wishful
thinking, but at least the groundwork is laid for this before or as they
embark on literary study. When I wrote a university grant proposal to
offer critical writing instruction to my British students, the committee
turned it down. Many of my colleagues considered it remedial work,
rather than indoctrination into the expectations for scholarly literary
performance.
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 21
such as the need to work in addition to study (an important issue with
the switch from public funding to student fees). It also pointed out ‘the
considerable differences which exist in national traditions and their impli-
cations for the student experience’.3 What is true, and increasingly prob-
lematic, in both the US and UK experiences is the increased pressure on
students to land paid work after graduation, placing the humanities in
general, and English in particular, in jeopardy as departments try to keep
the student numbers up, the courses relevant, and the students satisfied.
The dual notion of study hours and contact hours feeds directly into
the way that students of English find support for their work. A cadre of
helpers are there for them in the American system, but of course it is
up to students to avail themselves of this support. No one forces them
to take a draft of an essay to a writing centre or peer (student) tutor, to
meet with staff during office hours, or sit down with a reference librar-
ian to find scholarly critical articles. During the first year, however, they
are introduced to all these services in their writing classes, with reference
librarians conducting full sessions, and tutoring representatives coming
in to introduce themselves. These are available to all, and do not carry
any stigma. In fact, it is not unusual to find A and B students using these
services regularly. Increasingly, however, British universities offer similar
services, often through the library and reference services, and also with
dedicated staff assigned to help students with study skills.
When my UK colleagues use the word ‘remedial’ for such services,
they are thinking more in terms of large, public American universities
and community colleges that track poorly prepared entering students
into remedial classes and services. Students at these institutions have
often been let down by their high schools, who allowed them to gradu-
ate without the competencies in reading, critical thinking, and mathe-
matics that were once the norm in American education.
As Acton also points out, greater contact hours affect too student
accomplishment and satisfaction. This can correlate to overall length of
study. Students in England usually attend university for 3 years; American
students attend for four. In the 3-year degree, students of English study
only that subject; in America, liberal arts students are required to study
in a number of areas and to major in one (although increasingly in this
climate of worry about employment, students are double and even triple
majoring). They can easily switch their major subject during the course
of study, and it is quite common for a student to apply to the university
declaring an interest in one discipline, and later switch to a completely
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 23
arriving at university and while they were there. Some had only about
a dozen literary novels under their belts, and not that much poetry or
drama. A friend reported that she was giving her high school arts stu-
dents copies of classic fiction because they had only been required to
read selected chapters in preparation for their A level examinations.
Many of my students in their final year of English study had not even
heard the names of major Victorian authors, let alone writers of earlier
periods. It is the rare American university that does not require their
majors to have comprehensive literary period study. Many of them also
read beyond the assigned texts. While the detractors of modern English
studies decry the advent of theory-focused professorial research, and sug-
gest that we teach authors like Toni Morrison over John Milton, the fact
is that American students read and study a broad spectrum of literary
texts. I was surprised to have my students in England ask which of the
assigned texts they needed to read, as though doing all the reading was,
like attendance, optional.
These points are, of course, very subjective and anecdotal, and with-
out more sustained research that takes into account the enormous
number and variety of American colleges and universities, as well as the
varying requirements for the study of English in British universities, any
blanket comparisons are necessarily circumstantial. One of my American
students studying in Scotland reported that she worked hard to offer an
original analysis of a text, only to be told that developing and supporting
an original thesis was something that should be done at the postgraduate
level, and that undergraduates were only expected to demonstrate that
they understood the readings, lectures, and discussions. Yet my discus-
sions with British colleagues uniformly suggested that developing and
supporting an original thesis, using scholarly resources, was precisely
what they expect their students to do. Just as they do in America.
Staff Issues
Staff in American departments of English have a great deal of auton-
omy in selecting texts, setting deadlines and lengths for written work,
and in handing marked work back to students. Guidelines and standards
are decided by department consensus or practice, and dates for turning
in final marks are set by the registrar. However, it is certainly possible
that no one actually knows what requirements their colleagues estab-
lish unless they are being reviewed for reappointment or promotion. As
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 25
department chair, I read all annual reports, but did not necessarily review
each syllabus except for those of junior faculty. Even then, they usu-
ally had a faculty mentor who would hopefully guide them through the
shoals of new teaching, and their research production. These mentors
did not have an obligation to report back to the department; indeed, it
was deemed important to keep the mentoring function separate from an
evaluative function. However, other departments and institutions may
handle this differently. For example, a course syllabus could be posted on
the internet for all to see, with copies kept in the department office, or
only handed out to students on the first day of class. All of these things
were more codified and organised in the UK, with requirements about
due dates, number of texts, word counts for essays, and essays turned in
or returned anonymously through an office.
I had never, until I taught in the UK, given out a list of assigned essay
topics, but this is not necessarily the norm. Instead, I give out prompts
during the run of the course. When a student makes a particularly astute
comment or observation I generally tell the class that this would be
worth pursuing in a longer essay. Because this can make students uncer-
tain, I coupled this practice with extended office hours, where students
can come to discuss their plans for an essay. In the UK, I remember with
curiosity an occasion when in the USA a dissertation student came to my
office and worried that she might be using up too many of her allotted
meeting times. She was equally surprised when I responded that that is
what I was there for.
All this is different in the UK, where module booklets are written
months in advance, and once they are printed, there can be no devia-
tion. This came as a complete shock to me, since I was accustomed to
being able to make changes and tweaks as it became clear what the stu-
dents needed to learn, and the best way for them to do this. So, when I
thought through the module further, and decided—weeks in advance—
that I needed to require very short (500 words) of weekly writing on the
books, I discovered that this idea must go to committee to approve the
change. It took several weeks before the committee met, during which
time the students were turning in this work and improving with each
week. The committee took the decision not to allow this extra work dur-
ing that term (although it was approved for the future). When I told the
class that it could no longer count for points, but encouraged them to
keep it up, they not only dropped the writing, but fell behind on the
reading and indeed began to skip lectures entirely.
26 G.H. Gerzina
Had this been in the USA, I would have had an arsenal of measures
to take. First, no one would question my changing the assignments and
points before the course even began. I would have been able to take
attendance, and count it in the final mark. In the end, it was the inabil-
ity to predict and count attendance that was most frustrating. Plenty of
American faculty do not believe in taking attendance, or making it part
of the requirements, and it may be than I am an outlier in this respect.
I learned the hard way the Oxbridge tradition of only attending lectures
that one perceives to be directly relevant to a particular essay or exam.
The balance of power, it seems to me, lies with the students in these
cases, not with the professor who has spent a week preparing a lecture
that is ultimately delivered to only a handful of students. Seminars, how-
ever, tend to be well-attended in both countries, suggesting that the lec-
ture model may not be the most effective mode of teaching in either.
As with lectures, British students made less use of my office hours and
availability. They also rarely used email, even to retrieve important infor-
mation about classwork. American students, like students all over, pre-
fer text to email, but ‘get’ the idea that most professional interactions
take place through email. They email their thesis and topic proposals, ask
for feedback, and expect replies—perhaps too quickly (often my reply is
to tell them to come in person to discuss it). If I email something to a
class, I get numerous responses almost immediately. If I sent emails to
my British students, they rarely read them. They claimed that this was
because they got so much ‘unimportant’ email from the university that
they rarely checked their accounts.
All of these are specific differences between the two systems, but there
is another that I find more complicated because it is more pervasive
and a solution is less straightforward. I have spoken about the leeway
Americans have to design their English courses and their assessments.
Staff in both countries work equally hard, and often at lower pay than
the public expect. However, there is a cultural difference that filters
down into every aspect of teaching, writing, and administration, and into
departmental culture. Americans in general (and this is obviously a huge
generalisation) prefer the visionary over the bureaucratic. That is, when a
problem arises, they ask, ‘What is the problem? What is the best way to
picture it and think of other approaches to resolve it? What is the big pic-
ture?’ The British tend to start at the level of detail, of the nuts and bolts
rather than the big picture. For example, when one British university—
taking its lead, I presume from American universities—decided to begin
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 27
Conclusion
Despite all these differences, we are employed in a common mission
in the teaching of English Literature on both sides of the Atlantic, and
come to this work through a deep appreciation of the subject and a
desire to transmit the rigours of scholarly research, critical reading, and
the importance of this to human understanding. In both places we as
English professors are increasingly challenged instead to demonstrate
‘return on investment’, and to demonstrate to the wider world the mon-
etary value of such study. A university education is no longer viewed by
many as the training of the whole person, but as a necessary stepping-
stone to a career. With the increase of student fees and student debt,
English instructors in particular find themselves forced to do two seem-
ingly opposing things: to produce and publish careful research (for the
Research Excellence Framework in Britain, and for tenure in America),
and to find ways to offer students ‘training’ that will translate beyond
textual analysis into quantifiable outcomes. Here, rather than in the par-
ticularities of systemic differences, is where we need to make common
cause.
Notes
1. Edward Acton, ‘How can universities support students to work harder?’, Times
Higher Education (hereafter THE), 17 October 2013 (Edward Acton 2013).
2. John Brennan, Kavita Patel and Winnie Tang, ‘Diversity in the student
learning experience and time devoted to study: a comparative analysis of
the UK and European evidence’, Report to HEFCE by Centre for Higher
Education Research and Information (The Open University, 2009),
4 (Brennan et al. 2009).
3. HEPI report (2009), 31.
References
Edward Acton. 2013. How Can Universities Support Students to Work Harder?
Times Higher Education (hereafter THE). 17 October.
Brennan, John, Kavita Patel, and Winnie Tang. 2009. Diversity in the Student
Learning Experience and Time Devoted to Study: A Comparative Analysis of
the UK and European Evidence. Report to HEFCE by Centre for Higher
Education Research and Information. The Open University, 4.
2 CONTRASTS: TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRITISH … 29
Author Biography
Gretchen Holbrook Gerzina who has taught in universities on both sides of
the Atlantic, was until recently Kathe Tappe Vernon Professor of Biography at
Dartmouth College, USA, and is now Dean of the Commonwealth Honors
College at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She has written exten-
sively about Black Writing. Her publications include Black England: Life
before Emancipation (Allison and Busby, 1999) and three books about Frances
Hodgson Burnett.
CHAPTER 3
Introduction
Transitions within the education system present both dangers and
opportunities; this is as true of the transition between school and uni-
versity as it is of the transitions between primary and secondary school,
and between secondary school and sixth form. These transitions offer
opportunities for students to become more independent learners, taking
their learning to new levels, and helping them to reframe their previous
learning in valuable new ways. But there are dangers too that whilst new
content and contexts for learning in HE literary study offer students
much that is stimulating and broadening, they also pose very particu-
lar cognitive and pedagogic challenges. Without paying due attention
to the continuities and discontinuities of literary study as it crosses the
divide between post-16 and HE phases, both students and lecturers can
A. Green (*) · G. Snapper
Department of Education, Brunel University London, Kingston Lane,
Uxbridge, Middlesex UB8 3PH, England
e-mail: Andrew.green@brunel.ac.uk
A Level; the issues we discuss, however, are broadly relevant to both the
International Baccalaureate (IB) and Scottish Highers too.
The essentially Leavisite synergy between university and A Level English
which existed until the 1970s (before ‘theory’ hit the universities) largely
evaporated in the 1970s and 1980s, leaving a complex picture of ideo-
logical affiliations and curricular and pedagogical trends in both schools
and universities. Broadly, however, whereas university English gradually
assimilated the lessons of linguistics, cultural studies, and literary theory,
school English largely retained its Leavisite focus. The transfer of examina-
tion boards from the direct control of universities at around the same time
intensified the divergence between school and university English.
During the 1980s, new A Levels were introduced in English Language
and Media Studies, reflecting the development of Linguistics and Cultural
Studies in the university. English Literature A Level, however, remained
largely impervious to developments in linguistic, cultural, and literary
theory. A minority of Literature teachers experimented with or argued
for new curricular models founded in contextually aware, theoretically
informed, and politically alert approaches to interpretation (e.g. Greenwell
1988; Peim 1993; Scott 1989) but dominant models of literature teach-
ing at this level went unchanged.
More influential for sixth form English than literary theory at this
time was the constructivist approach to language and literature teaching
dominant in English in schools, founded in the work of Vygotsky (activ-
ity theory), Halliday (systemic functional linguistics), and Rosenblatt
(reader response theory). This approach, which flourished particularly
at a time of democratisation and first increasing then widening partici-
pation in post-compulsory education, stressed the central importance
of student-centred learning—with teachers drawing out and developing
student response through a curriculum designed for ‘personal growth’
(Dixon 1969), seeking to nurture a genuine, meaningful engagement
with literature by privileging the interest and motivation of students and
thus leading them on to more abstract learning (Britton 1970; Brown
and Gifford 1989).
There was a corresponding shift at this time towards a sixth form
literature curriculum (in both A Levels and Scottish Highers) which privi-
leged Shakespeare, the Romantics, the Moderns, and contemporary lit-
erature at the expense of the Medieval, the Enlightenment, and perhaps
even the Victorians, considered in many respects relatively dry and inac-
cessible for contemporary sixth form cohorts. One of the established
34 A. Green and G. Snapper
set texts, and each offering a certain amount of free text choice. There
is no guaranteeing that students will have studied any of the same texts
or even periods and movements. Though most students will have studied
some First World War literature in the upper years of secondary school or
in the sixth form, for instance, or a Victorian novel, it is quite possible for
some to reach university without doing so. The only thing that can be
guaranteed is that all students will have studied a range of poetry, prose,
and drama, including at least one Shakespeare play in the sixth form (often
two), and at least one (often two) before the sixth form.
If lecturers cannot expect students to have covered specific texts or
periods, what generic elements of subject knowledge can they expect?
The problem here is that practice varies widely between teachers and
between schools, and there is only limited agreement about what subject
knowledge, theoretical paradigms, or pedagogical practices might involve
at this level. As suggested earlier, the dominant paradigm for literary
study in the sixth form is of appreciation of single set texts, although the
IB and more recent versions of A Level have included specific require-
ments for students to relate core set texts to wider reading. Even now,
however, when coherent units of study group texts according to theme
(e.g. Love Through the Ages), period or movement (e.g. The First
World War), genre or mode (e.g. the Gothic and the Pastoral), or literary
feature (e.g. Aspects of Narrative), syllabuses still tend to specify only the
texts that are to be studied rather than the knowledge to be gained. And,
whilst most syllabuses contain a very short general statement of the aims
of study, there is generally no agreed set of concepts or topics across syl-
labuses constituting a literature curriculum beyond the set texts and units
in specific syllabuses.
Some students may come to university having read a substantial range
of literary criticism, whilst others may have read none. Some students
may have a solid grasp of the principles of poetic metre and form, whilst
others may have very little (despite having read a number of poetry set
texts). Some may have a thorough understanding of the role of style or
imagery in language and literature, whilst others may have only a lim-
ited appreciation of the effects of specific instances in relation to their set
texts. Some may have a good basic grasp of some fundamental issues and
ideas underlying literary theory, whilst others may never have heard of
literary theory. And so on.
Where lecturers are more likely to meet with consistency is in stu-
dents’ response to and engagement with the issues and ideas that emerge
3 TRANSITION AND DISCONTINUITY: PITFALLS … 37
from the subject matter of literary texts. Whatever students may feel or
know about the technicalities of literary study—and as we have suggested
this is likely to be widely varied—their interest in what texts have to say is
what is most likely to bring them to university literature.
Why are fewer students interested in how texts say what they have to
say, and the disciplinary procedures associated with investigating this?
We suggest that this is partly a matter of youthful priority, partly a result
of the nature of the curriculum and pedagogy they have encountered at
school, and, as we suggest below, partly a result of the curriculum and
pedagogy they face when they arrive at university. Advanced study of lit-
erature should clearly involve a shift from engaged reader response to
critical analysis, and most would agree that the appropriate time for this
to happen for most students is between the ages of 15 and 20. The prob-
lem for universities is that its arriving students will be at various points
along this continuum.
Despite the many successes of sixth form literature, progress towards
a more modern and coherent approach in the sixth form continues to
be slow and inconsistent. If students are to be successfully engaged with
the project of university literary study, then, what lecturers do is clearly
crucial.
The major issue emerging through the study was how differently learn-
ing is structured at A Level and in HE: curriculum content, methods
of teaching and learning, staff-student contact, and assessment all vary
significantly and can lead to confusion and uncertainty as students man-
age their transition. Such differences, which this study identified are not
typically explicitly addressed, have a significant impact on students, oblig-
ing them (often with minimal assistance) to reconceptualise their engage-
ment with English as a subject and to reshape what they thought they
knew about it.
Table 3.1 outlines more fully some of the significant differences in
‘order’ between post-16 and HE English.
The study identified that internalised assumptions about the nature of
subject and personal expectations are very significant factors in determining
the success of students’ progression to HE. They are a frequent cause of
difficulty. Problems are perhaps exacerbated by the nature of staff–student
contact. After the frequent and sustained contact typical of A Level, the
relatively ‘impersonal’ nature of large seminars and lectures, and increased
demands in terms of independent study (Green 2007) come as a surprise
to many students, who can quickly become isolated. The social context
of learning is substantially different from A Level and can, unless carefully
mediated, limit students’ academic development. For many students, the
lack of discussion of the changing nature of subject and subject learning
are significant boundaries to overcome.
As developing learners, students need systematically to be intro-
duced to the conventions and processes by which English as a discipline
functions (Grossman et al. 1989). Where such issues are not explicitly
40 A. Green and G. Snapper
A Level HE
Curriculum •S
tudents study for English as • Students follow single hon-
one of four or occasionally five ours, combined honours or
subjects in the first year, then major/minor programmes of
usually drop one subject as study;
they progress to the second; • Students follow multiple
•S
tudents follow two modules modules per year, each cover-
per year, each requiring the ing a wide range of texts;
minimum (often in reality •L iterary theory often plays an
maximum) study of three extensive and significant role;
texts per module; •T endency to cover a wide
•S
ome (often minimal) empha- range of texts, both canonical
sis is placed on the use of and non-canonical.
literary theory in relation to
set texts;
•T
endency towards a limited
and largely canonical list of
set texts.
Teaching methods •S low coverage, generally of a • Quick coverage of many texts;
maximum of 12 texts; • Reading largely unguided;
• Strongly guided reading; • Much secondary reading;
• Little secondary reading; • Seminars and lectures (and
•S mall teaching groups (typi- very rarely, tutorials) —large
cally 12–18); forum teaching;
• I nteractive methods of teach- • Students often passive; a more
ing, employing a variety of limited variety of approaches
techniques such as drama and to teaching.
Directed Activities Related to
Texts (DARTs).
Staff–student contact • C
lose contact, usually with • Distant contact, often with
one or two teachers; many lecturers;
• Regular personal contact with • More limited contact, often
teachers—usually about five or impersonal owing to group
six hours per week; sizes—often only one hour
• Staff frequently available. per week;
• Staff contact often limited to
‘office hours’ and email.
(continued)
3 TRANSITION AND DISCONTINUITY: PITFALLS … 41
Table 3.1 (continued)
A Level HE
Assessment •D etailed (and structuring) • Assessment subservient to
assessment regime—evidence cognitive content;
suggests this often overrides • Holistic views of text and of
cognitive content; discipline required through-
•A ssessment objectives out university study;
weighted and allocated to • Assessment objectives less
specific texts—can encourage overtly used in teaching;
students into atomised rather • Assessment generally at year
than holistic views of text and end;
of the discipline as a whole; • Where retakes are permitted,
•A ssessment objectives often retake grade has a ceiling
used in teaching—heavy mark—usually pass only.
emphasis on assessment;
•M odular assessments are pos-
sible throughout both years;
• Grades can improve in retakes,
leading to problems of grade
maximisation and inflation.
• the issues first year undergraduates and their lecturers engage with
in relation to the theoretical and conceptual framework of literary
study, and the implications of these for A Level English, university
English and the transition between them;
• the curricular and pedagogical strategies employed within the uni-
versity course selected for study to support students’ transition from
A Level to university English.
Recommendations for Practice
As has been suggested, A Level sits at the uneasy and pressurised
juncture between two educational phases and systems. Under these
circumstances the potential for problematic relations between versions
of subject has developed. A Level, rather than flourishing as an effec-
tive bridge between school and HE, has increasingly become a pres-
sured ‘demand’ reinforced by both schools and HEIs, with students
awkwardly caught in the middle. Without constructive dialogue between
teachers of A Level and lecturers in HE, misunderstandings proliferate
around crucial boundaries and threshold concepts (such as the role of
literary theory and criticism or the validity of personal interpretation
in literary study), which are unclearly demarcated and which, in many
cases, remain tacit. The result of this lack of clarity is that unhelpful
assumptions and expectations take hold which in their turn can lead to
important mismatches in perspective between sixth form teachers and
HE lecturers, and also between lecturers and incoming students (Green
2006; Snapper 2013).
Through considering students’ expectations, the intra-subject ‘bound-
aries’ they encounter, and the extent to which learned processes prove
useful in enabling effective transition, it is possible to establish students’
3 TRANSITION AND DISCONTINUITY: PITFALLS … 45
• to engage more fully with wider reading and to learn ways in which
to manage the large quantities of independent reading expected in
university English Studies;
• for teachers to introduce students to processes similar (or at least
more similar) to the processes they will experience at university;
• to develop students as independent learners and to provide them
with requisite skills for managing large amounts of independent
work;
• to create constructive and creative links with HE, whereby students
and teachers in both environments can construct shared under-
standings of subject content and process.
In HE
The need:
Whilst these factors are expressed generically, we can also identify some
key subject-specific concerns in the English curriculum. It is crucial for
those who teach and develop both sixth form syllabuses and university
courses in English to keep in mind a number of foundational aspects
of English which are in danger of neglect in the process of transition
between sixth form and university. These might be summarised as:
• the need for post-16 study to provide a corpus of useful and rel-
evant transposable abilities for use within higher education; and
• the need for lecturers to recognise what abilities their incoming stu-
dents do and do not bring with them and to reflect this within their
pedagogical choices.
3 TRANSITION AND DISCONTINUITY: PITFALLS … 47
References
Atherton, C., A. Green, and G. Snapper. 2013. Teaching English Literature
16–19. London: Routledge.
Atherton, C. 2003. The New English A Level: Contexts, Criticism and the
Nature of Literary Knowledge. Use of English 54 (2): 97–109.
Atherton, C. 2005. Defining Literary Criticism. Basingstoke: Palgrave.
Baird, J.R. 1988. Quality: What Should Make Higher Education ‘higher’?
Higher Education Research and Development 7 (2): 141–152.
Booth, A. 1997. Listening to Students: Experiences and Expectations in the
Transition to a History Degree. Studies in Higher Education 22: 205–220.
Bourdieu, P. 1990. Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture, 2nd ed.
London: Sage.
Bourdieu, P., and J.-C. Passeron. 1977. Reproduction in Education, Society and
Culture. London: Sage.
Britton, J. 1970. Language and Learning. London: Allen Lane.
Brown, J., and J. Gifford. 1989. Teaching A Level English Literature—A Student-
Centred Approach. London: Routledge.
Clerehan, R. 2003. Transition to Tertiary Education in the Arts and Humanities:
Some Academic Initiatives from Australia. Arts and Humanities in Higher
Education 2: 72–89.
Cook, A., and J. Leckey. 1999. Do Expectations Meet Reality: A Survey of
Changes in First Year Student Opinion. Journal of Further and Higher
Education 23: 157–171.
Dixon, J. 1969. Growth through English. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Eaglestone, R. 2000. Doing English. London: Routledge.
Evans, C. 1993. English People: The Experience of Teaching and Learning English
in British Universities. Buckingham: Open University Press.
48 A. Green and G. Snapper
Author Biographies
Andrew Green taught English in a variety of schools in Oxfordshire and
London before becoming Head of English at Ewell Castle School, Surrey. He
now lectures in English Education at Brunel University in West London. His
3 TRANSITION AND DISCONTINUITY: PITFALLS … 49
research interests include the teaching of English post-16 and issues surrounding
the transition between the study of English post-16 and at university. He is the
author of Starting an English Literature Degree (Palgrave, 2009) and Becoming a
Reflective English Teacher (Open University Press, 2011).
Gary Snapper is an English teacher and editor of Teaching English, the profes-
sional journal of the National Association for the Teaching of English (NATE).
He is the author (with Andrew Green and Carol Atherton) of Teaching English
Literature 16–19 (Routledge, 2013).
CHAPTER 4
Rosie Miles
R. Miles (*)
Department of English, Linguistics and Creative Writing, University
of Wolverhampton, MX Building, Camp Street, Wolverhampton WV1 1AD, UK
e-mail: R.miles@wlv.ac.uk
what many of us found in our new jobs … was stunningly different from
anything we had imagined: … heavy teaching loads that our research uni-
versity mentors had never encountered or even mentioned to us; mid-
career or seasoned junior colleagues who were horribly stressed and well
on their way to a state of ‘burnout’; and too often a tense, competitive
atmosphere in which personal achievement (often the single-minded pur-
suit of ‘stardom’) was valued over collegial atmosphere and communal
responsibility.10
Hall writes as an English academic in the USA, but his lucid and thought-
provoking book on The Academic Self has wide application to all English
Studies academics (particularly those new to the profession). If you are on
Twitter, you may well be aware of the #ECR hashtag, used to designate
tweets and topics of interest to early career researchers. It is understand-
able in the light of the identity formation model alluded to above that
researcher is the identity tag which the postdoc wishes still to claim as their
own, but it is also telling that there is no early career lecturer hashtag.
4 THE SHAME OF TEACHING (ENGLISH) 55
the leaders of the English disciplines [in the UK] have successfully pro-
moted the subject through playing the Research Excellence Framework
and the research council game for all they are worth. In doing so, they
have inadvertently colluded in a massive distortion of the subject group
and the paradigmatic academic career towards specialised research. To
survive as an intergenerational venture, the subject needs a re-balancing
towards teaching.16
accreditation for their teaching and institutions now have to return data
on this to the Higher Education Funding Council (HEFCE). Again, it is
interesting that this is sometimes met with a great deal of reluctance (by
academics from many disciplines).
Shame’s Demeanour
Shame is associated with certain demeanours and gestures, as outlined by
Charles Darwin: ‘Under a keen sense of shame there is a desire for con-
cealment. We turn away the whole body, more especially the face, which
we endeavour in some manner to hide. An ashamed person can hardly
endure to meet the gaze of those present, so that he almost invariably
casts down his eyes or looks askant’.19 Shame causes a break in connec-
tion with the (desired) other and exposes to the shamed self its failure
to live up to the ego ideal the other embodies. If, as I am suggesting,
only one model of academic ‘success’ prevails within English Studies and
higher education more widely, then any ‘failure’ to live up to this hegem-
onic paradigm has the potential to trigger shame. Hall emphasises how
the academic employed at institutions with greater teaching expectations
can end up ‘break[ing] productive connections with the larger profes-
sion; fall[ing] out of the conversation in their fields of specialization; and
sink[ing] into silence and resentment under the weight of papers, exams,
and committee work’.20 All of these can be read as conscious or uncon-
scious shamed responses.
Eve Sedgwick makes the connection that ‘[i]f … the lowering of the
eyelids, the lowering of the eyes, the hanging of the head is the attitude
of shame, it may also be that of reading’.21 She acknowledges that this
is also the demeanour of absorption, in which an eyes-down, discon-
nected-from-others posture becomes ‘the kind of skin that sheer textual
attention can weave around a body’ and this is not about shame.22 But
note here the linking of these two gestural postures and how they are
both written on and through the skin, just as blushing is one of shame’s
most visible bodily attributes.23 Today, eyes-down absorption is also the
demeanour of anyone engaged with their mobile phone or tablet, which
is paradoxically characterised by some techno-detractors as the antithe-
sis of the deep immersion experience of reading. Is reading something
of length—a Victorian novel, say—becoming shameful in an era of the
bite-size (screen-size) and readily consumable? Don’t spend all that
time reading Middlemarch—connect! In our contemporary culture does
58 R. Miles
‘Recognition and validation’ charts how some fellows think that gain-
ing a National Teaching Fellowship has ‘[given] them recognition within
their institutions and disciplines’.29 Approximately thirty NTFs have to
date been awarded to English (or Creative Writing) academics. Do they
have anything collectively to offer the subject? This is not the place to go
into a full-scale assessment of the NTFS, but it is clear from the research
done so far that while the scheme is respected and has become estab-
lished (and is here to stay for the foreseeable future), the gap in esteem
given to teaching versus research achievements within higher educa-
tion remains very real. As reported in the 2012 review, ‘One academic
remarked, rather dramatically, that the research exercises have such a
strong influence on universities that the NTFS was “just a sticking plas-
ter on this gaping wound where teaching and research are being hacked
apart”’.30 Recognition can obviously take different professional forms,
and at a small gathering of National Teaching Fellows some years ago,
the NTFs present regarded parity with research, and recognition of good
teaching as essential criteria for promotion and progression through
an academic career as more effective at genuinely fostering an aca-
demic culture that encourages and values teaching over and above giv-
ing individual ‘prizes’.31 Indeed, shame can still inadvertently lurk at the
edges of the NTFS: Kerry Shephard and others have written an article
on ‘Preparing an application for a higher-education teaching-excellence
award: whose foot fits Cinderella’s shoe?’, while Donald Nathanson cites
Rycroft’s Critical Dictionary of Psychoanalysis which has shame as ‘the
Cinderella of the unpleasant emotions’.32
unless we speak honestly and often about the range of lives and careers
across the landscape of our profession and our ways of finding fulfilment in
them, we will continue to perpetuate the very debilitating myth that only
those very few students who land jobs at research institutions are successes,
[and] that the rest … have failed already or will fail inevitably in their pur-
suit of a vital professional life that includes, in whatever necessary or cho-
sen balance, scholarship, teaching, and service.34
I suggested earlier that it may now be with a certain sense of shame that
some of us look back on the civilising mission of the origins of English
Studies in the later nineteenth century (or, at the very least, uncomfort-
able embarrassment). And again, while this is not the place to go into
a lengthy rehashing of how English Studies came into being and sub-
sequently established itself both as a university subject and at the heart
of a national school curriculum, it is also worth saying that at its roots
English as a subject was pedagogic: it wanted people (working men, and
women) to know about something worth spending time with (litera-
ture).35 I for one am still very much ‘with’ that: I want my students to
know about what literature has been, is, and is becoming, and I want
them to be involved along the way in my own discoveries about the
same.
Finally, to return to where this essay began. In Shaw’s Man and
Superman John Tanner launches into a longish speech on how
Notes
1.
George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman and The Revolutionist’s
Handbook (London: Constable & Co., 1903), p. 230. For this reader
Shaw’s aphorisms in ‘Maxims for Revolutionists’ contain a certain sub-
Wildean flippancy. How seriously or literally they were ever meant to be
taken is a moot point.
62 R. Miles
Affect, Sex, and the Birth of the Self (New York & London: W.W. Norton,
1992), p.15.
33. John Henry Newman, Preface to The Idea of a University (London:
Longmans, Green, & Co., 1907 [1873]), p.xiii.
34. Hall, The Academic Self, p. 24.
35. For accounts of the origin of English Studies see Alan Bacon, ed., The
Nineteenth-Century History of English Studies (Aldershot: Ashgate,
1998), Chris Baldick, The Social Mission of English Criticism, 1848–
1932 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1983), Brian Doyle, English and Englishness
(London: Routledge, 1989). Good (student focused?) accounts can also
be found in Robert Eaglestone, Doing English, 3rd edition (London:
Routledge, 2009 [2000]), and Peter Widdowson, Literature (London:
Routledge, 1999).
36. George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, in George Bernard Shaw’s
Plays, ed. Sandie Byrne (New York: W.W. Norton, 2002), p. 86.
37. For a more contemporary take on this see Steven Connor, ‘The Shame of
Being a Man’, Textual Practice 15 (2001): 211–30. The full-length ver-
sion can be read at http://www.stevenconnor.com/shame/
38. Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity (Stanford, CA: Stanford
University Press, 1991), p. 65. Cited in Hall, The Academic Self, p. 13.
39. David Halperin, ‘Why Gay Shame Now?’ in Gay Shame, David M.
Halperin & Valerie Traub (eds) (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago
Press, 2009), p. 45.
40. William Morris, ‘The Defence of Guenevere’, in The Early Romances of
William Morris in Prose and Verse (London: J.M. Dent, 1907), p. 4.
References
Bacon, Alan (ed.). 1998. The Nineteenth-Century History of English Studies.
Aldershot: Ashgate.
Baldick, Chris. 1983. The Social Mission of English Criticism, 1848–1932. Oxford:
Clarendon.
Bouson, J. Brooks. 2005. True Confessions: Uncovering the Hidden Culture of
Shame in English Studies. JAC: A Journal of Rhetoric, Culture and Politics 25
(4): 625–650.
Collini, Stefan. 2012. What Are Universities For? London: Penguin.
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shame/.
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4 THE SHAME OF TEACHING (ENGLISH) 65
Eaglestone, Robert. 2009 [2000]. Doing English, 3rd ed. London: Routledge.
Fernie, Ewan. 2002. Shame in Shakespeare. London: Routledge.
Frame, Philip, Margaret Johnson, and Anthony Rosie. 2006. Reward or Award?
Reflections on the Initial Experiences of Winners of a National Teaching
Fellowship. Innovations in Education and Teaching International 43 (4):
409–419.
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Routledge.
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66 R. Miles
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Author Biography
Rosie Miles is Reader in English Literature and Pedagogy at the University of
Wolverhampton, UK, and a UK National Teaching Fellow. She has published
extensively on William Morris, and was for some years editor of the Journal of
William Morris Studies. With Phillippa Bennett, she edited William Morris in
the Twenty-First Century (Peter Lang, 2010). Rosie has also published Victorian
Poetry in Context (Bloomsbury, 2013), and, as a poet, Cuts (HappenStance,
2015). She was an e-learning advocate for the HEA English Subject Centre, and
has published a number of articles and reports on online teaching, discussion
forums, using social media and assessment in English Studies.
CHAPTER 5
Robert Eaglestone
R. Eaglestone (*)
Department of English, Royal Holloway, University of London,
Egham TW20 0EX, UK
e-mail: R.Eaglestone@rhul.ac.uk
Knights discusses in some detail two such ‘scripts’ for students from
periods in the history of English as a subject (the ‘moment of Scrutiny’
and the influx of theory in the 1980s) and shows how a central part of
undergraduate education involves these scripts. Academics teach less, as
it were, ‘facts’ or texts and more ‘ways of thinking’. In the sciences, stu-
dents are not taught the answers to experiments, but how to do effective
experiments. We teach students to ‘think as’ historians, mathematicians,
geographers: in English, we teach them to ‘think as’ literary critics. (This
might include, through creative writing, teaching students to think, as
Nietzsche argued, from the ‘point of view of the artist’: an artist is also
a sort of critic, just as a critic is a sort of artist.) We teach students a
disciplinary consciousness.
If there are ‘scripts’ for students there are even more developed
‘scripts’ for academics. These scripts are what make up, in Tony Becher’s
phrase, an ‘academic tribe’ (Becher and Trowler 2001). Colin Evans’s
English People (1993) analyses some of the habits (from the early 1990s,
at least) of that ‘English tribe’. For academics, scripts are even more
powerful: following or not following the script in a formal sense clearly
has an impact on career, promotion, pay, and general professional good
will (how far does one ‘play the game’, for example? And perhaps, if ‘not
playing the game’ is to one’s credit, that is a good thing?). These disci-
plinary scripts become most deeply embedded during the PhD process:
this is how and when one learns how to be an academic. (Sometimes the
implication of this sort of discussion can be taken up in a less construc-
tive way: the idea of ‘scripts’ and of ‘playing the game’ sounds cynical, a
sense of ‘knowing the moves’, of how to perform. This is the source of
the campus novel as a comedy of manners, in which academics in English
departments are most often the targets—and, of course, most often the
authors.)
Of course, scripts can change: indeed, Knights’s article implicitly
focuses on the change in scripts. Some behaviours or, say, ‘gurus’, fall out
of favour; academic work develops over time, both over one’s career and
as a result of shifting intellectual winds and personal interests. Academics
can and do gently move between writers and periods or alter their the-
oretical views. That said, I want to suggest that some behaviours are
‘deeper’ and less susceptible to change, and these offer congruities across
disciplines and across periods. These deeper dispositions are what some
philosophers might call the virtues of our profession.
5 TRANSITION INTO THE PROFESSION: ACCURACY, SINCERITY … 71
The PhD process not only creates original research, it also inculcates
the disciplinary scripts and the deeper academic virtues. It is these which,
properly understood, are not only central to research, but also crucial for
transition into a job and for life-long ‘learning how to learn’. More, and
this really is my central claim here, these virtues, which I outline below,
are established in and for research (usually but not exclusively doctoral
research) and are contiguous with and vital for transition into a univer-
sity job. They are ‘deep scripts’, or dispositions that are taught through
the PhD process and are what we turn to when we reflect on how to
improve our teaching.
you do the best you can to acquire true beliefs, and what you say reveals
what you believe. The authority of academics must be rooted in their
truthfulness in both these respects: they take care, and they do not lie. (11)
These virtues, accuracy, sincerity, and the ways they work in the aca-
demic sphere, are explored, inculcated, and learned in the process of
undertaking a PhD. They apply in a profound way to all academics in
all disciplines although they are, as it were, transmuted from discipline
to discipline: that is, the means by which, say, a historian, a sociologist, a
biologist, and a literary critic display the academic virtues of sincerity and
accuracy can differ, although they are the same virtues. (A car, a shoe and
a phone are all different but may share the virtue of being made well and
with care). The position of academics in English is especially complex, as
I will show.
Incidentally, there is no question that one of the subtexts of Williams’s
book is an attack on parts of the discipline of English, especially in its
wilder theoretical and political garb: for example, he decries the ‘frivol-
ity’ of the ‘rhetoric of political urgency’ offered by the ‘café politics of
72 R. Eaglestone
the émigrés from the world of real power, the Secret Agents of literature
departments’ (11): the reference to Conrad suggests Said is his target
here. However, even in English, these central virtues still apply.
Sincerity
Sincerity for Williams ‘consists in a disposition to make sure that one’s
assertion expresses what one actually believes’ (97). Sincerity is the link
between one’s beliefs and their assertion. It is tied in with trust, and so
with a series of wider social implications. It seems to me that all academic
research should be sincere.
There is an immediate problem with this for the researcher in English.
Deep in the process and detail of doctoral (or any) research work on
a subject, it is very hard to know what it is one exactly believes, so it
is hard to know to what it is that one’s belief is sincere. In researching
any writer, for example, there will be divergent critical opinions and one
may side with one or another: and one (usually) shifts from view to view.
With any thinker or theorist there is a similar, time consuming agonis-
tic struggle. Ideally in both cases one comes to one’s own view, which
will itself change and develop, but (rightly, I think) this may take ages.
Critics often say things like ‘I realised that Clare was a much greater poet
than others had previously argued’ or ‘what I had been taught about
Lawrence was wrong, I felt’. Perhaps this is different from ‘defending
a position’ in philosophy or analysing an archive in history, although I
suspect there are analogous relations to material in these disciplines too.
In any case, it is normal for one’s view to vary a great deal during the
process of doctoral research because a core part of doing serious research
involves trying out different views or inhabiting different perspectives:
the PhD is where that fundamental process is most deeply learned.
While it is hard to see how this leads to sincerity in a conventional
sense, these explorations in or as research are not meant to mislead. It
is akin to what Rorty calls an ironic position (an ironist ‘is the sort of
person who faces up to the contingency of his or her own most central
beliefs and ideas’ (Rorty xv)); however, in this case the contingency is
based on the sense that there is further research to explore. It is perhaps
an open sincerity: both a commitment to the beliefs one holds—to test-
ing them, to arguing them with others—and an openness to their con-
tinuing development. Of course, and again perhaps rightly, some of these
5 TRANSITION INTO THE PROFESSION: ACCURACY, SINCERITY … 73
beliefs may harden with age but it seems to me that to have a sense of
the ironic, open sincerity of one’s position while undertaking a PhD and
in the early years of scholarly career is an important part of the script.
This virtue, I think—like any virtue—does not arrive fully formed but
rather develops and grows with use.
Accuracy
For Williams, the virtue of accuracy has two aspects. The first is an
attempt to avoid one’s own ‘wishful thinking, self-deception and fantasy’
(127). (This desire runs so strongly in other philosophers and thinkers
from Williams’s generation—in Iris Murdoch as both philosopher and
novelist, for example, or in Mary Midgley—that I cannot help but think
it somehow marks out a cohort of thinkers who grew up watching fas-
cism and came to maturity engaged with the bitter struggles of Marxism
and Marxist hypocrisy). The second aspect is ‘care, reliability and so on’
and relies on one’s ‘effective investigation’ (127). In some humanities
disciplines, accuracy is easier to measure or to understand. A historian,
for example, checks quotations against the archive for their partial or ten-
dentious use, avoids wilder explanations of documents or events, does
not invent incidents or conversations. Historians try to maintain accu-
racy by ensuring their work is checkable (and, in fact, the major debates
in history are not about ‘facts’ but are ‘meta-historical debates’ about
intentions and causes). Archaeologists, on digs, are painstaking about
accuracy and measurement.
What do English PhD students learn about accuracy? There are sim-
ple examples: not to quote too selectively or partially, say, or to get
dates and orders of things right. As in other disciplines, it is right not to
misrepresent people’s arguments and to read what the text really says,
not what you wish it might say. But in the end all quotation is fragmen-
tary and partial and all readings are interpretations so it is quite hard to
see in what accuracy might consist. In terms of following a methodology
accurately, English lies somewhere between T.S. Eliot’s comment ‘there
is no method except to be extremely intelligent’ and a (mostly imaginary,
I suspect) form of hardcore ‘structuralist’ or Marxist or neuro-critical (or
whatever doctrinaire approach) reading of texts. Moreover, any and all of
these methods, as the critical debates of the last 50 years have shown, fail
to be a ‘method’ in the way that the natural or even the social sciences
have methods.
74 R. Eaglestone
not only does one believe what one believes but one teaches what one
believes even if it would be easier and safer and more immediately satis-
fying to teach something else. No one ever tells a class that he will not
teach the interpretation he believed in because he thinks the interpreta-
tion to he used to believe in was better…. And since you always believe in
something, there will always be something to teach, and you will teach that
something with all the confidence and enthusiasm that attends belief, even
if you know, as I do, that the belief which gives you that something, and
gives it to you firmly, many change. (Fish 1982: 364)
More than this ‘confidence and enthusiasm’, the very experience of the
‘openness’ of sincerity is important because it is almost the essence of
the process of learning. One’s own views change, not in the sense of the
sophists, changing to match one’s argument or audience, but in the sense
that one learns and develops. In exactly the same way, one is aware that
the views of one’s students change and develop. Putting new views and
ideas to students and helping them work through these with an open
sincerity is absolutely central to teaching in higher education, certainly
in the humanities. This is why being a researcher is vital to teaching in
higher education: because researching is not only about the subject mat-
ter but about the understanding of the constant change and development
of one’s views, and in this understanding the ‘teacher’ and the ‘student’
are the same: both learning, both developing their thoughts. And with
a moment of self-reflection—trying to avoid self-delusion, of course—
the virtue of open sincerity can also effect change in one’s own teaching
practice: reflectively to weed out what does not work, refusing unthink-
ingly to teach in the way one was taught, and changing one’s ideas about
5 TRANSITION INTO THE PROFESSION: ACCURACY, SINCERITY … 77
how one teaches in relation to oneself. Teaching at this level is not cen-
trally a matter of skills, tricks, or techniques: it is a matter of sincerity to
one’s ideas and oneself. This demanding, unusual, scholarly open sincer-
ity is taught first and foremost by the experience of doing a doctorate.
Sincerity, in its more conventional form, too, is important for being a
good colleague: who can trust an insincere person, after all? But here,
too, the scholarly openness is a useful virtue: to explore the other’s argu-
ments and views is central.
Accuracy is obviously important in all the aspects of teaching. In
English, as I have argued, it means helping students engage with a com-
plex, contradictory network of traditions. It means, perhaps, being very
aware of the scripts, the ‘disciplinary consciousness’, that make up the
subject. If our job is to teach students to ‘think as’ literary critics and
theorists, then accuracy to that is central. More, the virtue of accuracy,
of commitment to a community, comes to play out in odd ways. It is
widely noted that academics feel their primary identification not with
their institutions but with their disciplines, and this is especially the case
in English. Indeed, while it is their institutions that pay them and pro-
mote academics, it is the norms of the discipline, the script, that lead to
kudos in one’s field, publication, and promotion. This bifurcated loyalty
is unusual to universities, I think.
As Williams points out, the authority academics have stems from
the virtues of truthfulness. However, oddly, it is issues around author-
ity, with being ‘an authority’ that often create worries in the transition
from doctoral researcher to academic. Indeed, many academics making
this transition feel like frauds. Imbued with authority by their position,
by the expectations of the students, often having to put together lec-
tures on subjects far from their research and to speak with the author-
ity of the lecture theatre, the division between one’s inner and outer
self seems to be large. This aspect of feeling a fraud or imposter is also
weighted with issues of gender, class, race, and the other markers of
inclusion and exclusion of society at large. But for the most part, these
feelings stem from precisely the virtues of accuracy and sincerity I have
been discussing. Part of the journey of doctoral research is the discovery
of how very much one does not know, and how limited one’s resources
are: there are always people who know more than you do about particu-
lar topics. Moreover, as I suggested, part of scholarly sincerity is a con-
stant evolution of one’s views, so it is easy to recall how little one knew
only relatively recently. On top of this, part of what makes the virtues
78 R. Eaglestone
Conclusion
The subject of this chapter has been the experience of doing a PhD and
transition into full-time academic employment. However, there are three
further issues that need to be addressed as caveats. The first is that many
people with a PhD do not become university academics. But who would
deny someone with a doctorate but no job working in higher education
membership of the tribe? People with PhDs not in university employ-
ment have, obviously, learned the same scripts and developed the same
virtues. It is clear that, in themselves, the virtues learned from a PhD do
not lead to or stem from a job: they come from the process of research.
The second issue is that being an academic in English is some-
times called a ‘vocation’ or a ‘profession’, and, while both these words
5 TRANSITION INTO THE PROFESSION: ACCURACY, SINCERITY … 79
References
Becher, Tony, and Paul Trowler. 2001. Academic Tribes and Territories.
Maidenhead: Open University Press.
Evans, Colin. 1993. English People. Buckingham: Open University Press.
Fish, Stanley. 1982. Is There a Text in This Class? Harvard: Harvard University
Press.
Knights, Ben. 2005. Intelligence and Interrogation: The Identity of the English
Student. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 4 (1): 33–52.
Kołakowski, Leszek. 2001. Metaphysical Horror, ed. Agnieszka Kołakowska.
London: Penguin.
Rorty, Richard. 1989. Contingency, Irony and Solidarity. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Williams, Bernard. 2002. Truth and Truthfulness. Oxford: Princeton University
Press.
Author Biography
Robert Eaglestone is Professor of Contemporary Literature and Thought
at Royal Holloway, University of London, UK, and a UK National Teaching
Fellow. He has written extensively on contemporary literature and philosophy,
and in Holocaust and Genocide studies. He is the author of Doing English:
A Guide for Literature Students (Routledge, 4th edition, 2017).
CHAPTER 6
Nicole King
C.L.R. James, the West Indian novelist, historian, activist, and politician,
was also a teacher. In the late 1960s and early 1970s he paused for a time
in his varied and peripatetic career and taught at Federal City College in
Washington, DC. A reflection on his work at FCC captures the momen-
tous historical period that changed higher education along with many
other institutions. In his essay ‘Black Studies and the Contemporary
Student’ (1969), James sets out a position that delineates his philosophy
from his own teaching practice. On the one hand, he sees the role of black
people in history as one which has been submerged and over- written.
As a corrective, he feels strongly that black makers of history should be
studied as part of human history, not just as makers of ‘black history’ in
other words, not just in Black Studies courses. On the other hand, he is
well aware of the times in which he was living and of the specific cam-
paigns for the creation of black studies departments in universities.
N. King (*)
School of Literature and Languages, University of Reading, Whiteknights,
Reading RG6 6AH, UK
e-mail: N.King2@reading.ac.uk
expression. The fact that these are open questions and openly debated
across generations of writers and scholars created a space for the students
to inhabit as critical thinkers engaged in scholarly debates. It relieved
them of the rather more one-dimensional role of passive learner (a role
I sometimes, inadvertently, cast them into). It also lifted the burden of
authenticity or inauthenticity—sometimes audibly framed as ‘can I say
that if I’m not black American?’—from these students’ shoulders.
the hierarchy and flow of information and experiences they had as stu-
dents in our classroom became another way of helping them to develop
as critical thinkers. Like the Brazilian peasants in educational projects,
of whom Paolo Freire states, ‘Almost never do they realize that they
too, “know things” they have learned in their relations with the world
and with other women and men’ (45), students’ copious knowledge
and experience of systems of education can be brought to bear on the
various expressive registers to be found within African American litera-
ture, including how passive or conventional subject positions (variously
defined) as well as hegemonic structures are reproduced and resisted.
This was a useful reminder to my students who sometimes keenly felt
how much more of African American literature there was to learn.
Precisely because I could not draw upon a cultural and national short-
hand that would have been reliably available in a US classroom, I realised
that an explicit theorisation of African American literature was required
as an intrinsic element of the theorisation of my pedagogical practice.
These theorisations took shape slowly. By reflecting on what I wanted
these students to know and be able to do when I was no longer their
teacher, I was able to recalibrate what I said and what we did together
in class. When we show students that there is not one view or one way
of reading African American literature, when we show them how knowl-
edge is contingent and also evolving, when we teach them to grasp the
concept that African American literature simultaneously has a canon, a
history, and an unfinished identity we transfer a complex set of ideas to
them whilst conveying the complexity of the literature. As a bonus, stu-
dents will likely be able to use these ideas to critically engage with other
literatures and non-literary texts even as they bring their critical acumen
acquired on other modules to bear upon African American literature.
Like James, I felt it important that my students understood that African
American writers are not just writers of African American literature. By
making the internal contradictions within African American literature
explicit to my students and by giving them the means to discuss, analyse,
and theorise about these contradictions I was also able to help them to
develop their skills of critical engagement and to situate themselves within
the work of critical engagement. It was a means of helping them to see
themselves as part of what Gerald Graff calls ‘real conversations’ about
literature that enable students to find meaning in their assignments, and
possibly even reduce the cynicism some may have about assessments
(Graff 2009: 11).
86 N. King
Why should Negro artists of America vary from the national artistic form
when Negro artists in other countries have not done so? (Schuyler 1924: 27)
different from the white European but also as inferior. Whether in celebra-
tion or denigration, Schuyler finds the reasoning of racial difference both
weak and dangerous. What Schuyler would make of modules devoted to
African American literature is easy to surmise but the points he makes and
similar debates within African American literature about its purpose and
definition are fantastic texts to use in the classroom alongside works of
fiction. Posing provocative questions to students such as ‘is it still useful
to designate some literature as African American?’ (Warren 2011) or, as
Schuyler might have asked, ‘do students and scholars of African American
literature tread a problematic racial separatist line?’ can help engage stu-
dents in the themes and struggles which continue to animate the field of
African American literature. For when we are pious or apprehensive about
discussing that which is controversial we risk presenting students with a
sanitised, or worse, a falsely monolithic literary history. We also submerge
our teacherly complicity in maintaining African American literature as sepa-
rate—we do this for a variety of reasons and in theoretically informed ways,
but how do our students know that? Indeed, one cannot assume that stu-
dents know or even care about the struggles to ‘diversify’ literature cur-
riculums and university syllabi. Thus, it is far better to name the issues and
tensions that bind us together in our classroom activities, and connect such
tensions and points of divergence to the work of the module, rather than
elide such tensions altogether. Indeed, students ‘may have no idea that dis-
senting views exist’ (Graff 2009: 11). In the case of African American lit-
erature those dissenting views are often expressed most provocatively by
other African American writers and scholars of the field. The criticism and
theory that has developed within and alongside African American literature
provides a rich array of viewpoints from which students can first imagine
and then develop their own arguments and viewpoints in order to partici-
pate in class discussion and write essays that have both skill and relevance.
For instance, such an explicit engagement with the debates about the lit-
erature can enliven students’ aesthetic and theoretical appreciation of the
literature of racial passing or literature that encompasses political satire, like
Schuyler’s own novel Black No More (1931).
The teacher of African American literature has many such debates to
choose from. For instance, the debate over theory between Joyce Ann
Joyce, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., and Houston Baker, Jr. in the 1980s.2 Or,
the arguments voiced during the 1920s and 1930s regarding the use of a
stylised Negro dialect, whether literature must always have an overt polit-
ical message, and for whom the Negro writer should be writing.3 Using
88 N. King
such debates and arguments, indeed tasking students with researching and
analysing these arguments allows them to construct their own knowl-
edge both individually and in conversation with their peers rather than
just mirroring or mimicking the teacher’s opinion. Vygotsky named this
mode of learning ‘zones of proximal development’ and it is useful to the
project of decentring authority in the classroom.
In addition to constructing the syllabus so that debate and dissent
around what constitutes African American literature and how its aes-
thetic and political attributes have been formulated, assessments, whether
essays, oral presentations, or exams, should also require an e ngagement
with multiple viewpoints. By modelling debates in my lectures and
drawing attention to how and where novelists are implicitly engag-
ing in debates my goal was to convey to students that a heterogeneous
approach is most true to the literature itself. Nonetheless, even when class
discussions were attuned to multiple perspectives, in their writing stu-
dents sometimes feel compelled to make generalised statements about,
for instance, ‘the’ black community as singular and unified. I think this
stemmed from a belief that such assertions would signal a type of mas-
tery and comprehension of the course materials. To try to counteract that
impulse I found that returning to close readings of the literature itself
worked effectively: Ann Petry’s diverse representations of women in
The Street (1946), the multiple black communities (and interracial com-
munities) that Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952) moves through,
James Baldwin’s multiple representations of masculinity in ‘Going to
Meet the Man’ (1965) are all pertinent examples to use in the class-
room. The literature theorises heterogeneity and the debates and schol-
arship that take African American literature as their subject carry that
theorisation forward. By explicitly connecting teaching practice to the
themes highlighted in the literature itself, I saw how the process of schol-
arly writing and scholarly argument could feel more holistic to students
and therefore less alien. The more complex task was getting students to
consider the dialectic of authenticity that runs as argument and counter-
argument through the literature and through its surrounding scholarship
and criticism: the drive of characters or plot to find belonging or a singu-
lar cohesive identity as a black American is continually foiled by authors
keen to simultaneously free the concept of ‘blackness’ from the confines
of homogeneity. For example, Richard Wright’s protagonist in Native
Son (1940) easily slots into prevailing racist stereotypes. Yet, unexpect-
edly and at a high-tension moment of the narrative, Wright substitutes a
6 ‘GETTING IN CONVERSATION’: TEACHING AFRICAN AMERICAN … 89
pen for a knife in Bigger Thomas’s hand, transforming the character into
an author and someone who wields power through intellect rather than
violence (Johnson 1993: 150). Within that small but significant textual
act, Wright destabilises the reader’s notion of an ‘authentic’ depiction of
a disenfranchised black youth caught in the web of racial hatred and fear.
Productive Marginality
The example from Richard Wright’s novel Native Son is useful for get-
ting students to read texts for the oblique, the tangential, and not just
for plot, to uncover the implicit as well as to review and consider the
explicit. It also makes them attentive to the craft of writing, and can help
dislodge the impulse to read all African American writing as autobio-
graphical and to understand how authors such as Wright practiced their
writing, read widely, and drafted their work, in much the same way the
students themselves are expected to do. Observing how authors of the
African American experience use and theorise margins and use ambiguity
is one way to get students attuned to the oblique rather than the obvious
in texts. Gloria Anzaldua speaks to such practice in her discourse on ‘a
new mestiza consciousness’ in reference to the specificities of Chicano/
Chicana cultural formations. Building on Freire, we can extrapolate
a useful pedagogical meaning from Anzaldua’s suggestion that the
development of a new consciousness able to elide a reductive, closed
oppressor/oppressed formulation, requires a ‘tolerance for ambiguity’
(101). Such tolerance is especially important for the student of African
American literature: the recurrent themes of black/white racial antago-
nism, and the struggle against oppression and discrimination are among
the dichotomies that students find readily accessible and consequently
latch onto, without necessarily observing other more complicated struc-
tures within texts. The greater challenge for students is to develop the
critical consciousness to accommodate, understand, and evaluate the
contradictory representations of intra-racial discord, class conflict, and
the ambiguous notions of identity as represented in African American lit-
erature. By alerting them to ambiguity whilst also teaching them how
African American literature uses the concept of productive marginality to
interfere with closed and reductive formulations is a good place to begin.
In my teaching and as I reflected on it, I suggested to my students
the perspectival advantage of reading the implicit as well as the explicit,
reading and interpreting the centre as well as the boundary. Recalling her
90 N. King
Kentucky childhood in the era of Jim Crow, feminist theorist bell hooks
speaks of developing a particular way of seeing that I tried to pass on to
my students:
Carroll captures the parallels between what happens in the texts and
what happens in our classrooms, in particular the complexity of our
shared enterprise and how it might be read. In identifying another strand
of meaningful estrangement, Carroll highlights other ways students
might engage with African American literature in modes they are perhaps
initially unaware of but which themselves suggest productive teaching
moments.
The theorisation of race and racial identification as narrated within
African American literature foregrounds inherent contradictions and
the performance of othering and authenticity. I have found that how we
identify and discuss such controversial moments in our classrooms is use-
ful and productive. This is especially true when othering or manifesta-
tions of estrangement mirror the diverse experiences students may have
as they are reading the texts: in addition to the identification with the
other that Carroll describes, the pedagogic situation occasioned by the
study of African American literature may instil a sense of inauthenticity
in students. This too can be problematic and can lead to self-silencing
or a reluctance to speak about or on behalf of the perceived ‘other’.
Fortunately, the idea of authenticity and being or not being ‘black
enough’ is a recurrent theme in the literature that, in parallel with alle-
gories of teaching and learning, are ideal materials to present for class
discussion. Such discussions help students to learn and question their
own presumptions about racial and cultural identities in general and spe-
cifically representations of African American culture in literature.
into their roles as students is discovering and defining their own sense
of an authentic voice and then playing with that authenticity. In other
words, learning how to adjust and align their responses and their perfor-
mances appropriately in seminar discussion, in group work, and within
their essays and exams.
The critical literary discourse which attaches to the creation and inter-
pretation of authentic blackness has been analysed by J. Martin Favor
as helpful yet limiting to how one might read African American litera-
ture (3). I am less concerned with the choices about what is and is not
authentic that individual writers or critics might make and more inter-
ested in the pedagogical opportunities the discourse presents. Favor
highlights how some authors, including Schuyler, ask ‘pointed questions
about the underlying ideologies of “race”’ and as such present ‘a some-
times playful, sometimes disturbing destabilisation of the black subject’
(Favor 1999: 3–4). Such moments of destabilisation are the ones to use
in the classroom to help students build meaningful arguments about the
texts. The discourse of literary blackness and its destabilisation arises fre-
quently within allegories of teaching and learning. For example, Toni
Morrison recalibrates the reader’s notion of femininity and knowledge in
an exchange between Pilate, Guitar, and Milkman, in the second chapter
of her novel Song of Solomon (1977). It is a passage that students find
both funny and enlightening, once they are directed to pay close atten-
tion to it. An informal teacher who nevertheless is forthright with her
‘pupils’, Pilate’s mode of questioning and answering is as alien and there-
fore destabilising to Milkman and Guitar as our own students might find
us (Morrison 1977: 37–38).
One could go further and frame questions around the nomenclature
of African American literature and seek out those moments in texts that
make it possible (and critical) for the reader to distinguish between the
idea that there is a knowable racial authenticity and the literary and polit-
ical imperative to appear to be authentic. The racial logic of the United
States ingrains the former upon the national psyche whilst the latter is
a peculiarly durable topic across the African American literary canon.
Collectively, the instructor can use these topics and conversations within
texts to help students to make the connection between the literature, the
criticism, the historical contexts, and the wider cultural contexts—and to
94 N. King
Conclusion
In my introduction I spoke of engaging students in the literary and criti-
cal debates within African American literature as a way to lift them out of
the passive learner role and also to deny any assertion that there need be
an authentic identity that authorises speech regarding African American
literature. Roof and Weigman pose the question ‘who can speak?’ as a
way of interrogating academic authority and critical identity. Their com-
ments from 1995 are still relevant and, I would assert, need to inform
twenty-first century classrooms not least because of the way students are
potentially unaware of how they came to be reading something called
African American literature. Roof and Weigman address this as the prob-
lematic of the ‘minoritized subject’:
Too often the minoritized subject who has sought to speak from the speci-
ficity of its cultural position has been recontained through a new, deafen-
ing ‘authenticity,’ one that disturbingly reduces the complexity of social
subjectivity. (Roof and Weigman 1995: x)
Teaching is more difficult than learning because what teaching calls for is
this: to let learn. The real teacher, in fact, lets nothing else be learned than
learning. His conduct, therefore, often produces the impression that we
properly learn nothing from him, if by ‘learning’ we now suddenly under-
stand the procurement of useful information. The teacher is ahead of his
apprentices in this alone, that he still has far more to learn than they—he
has to learn to let them learn. The teacher must be capable of being more
teachable than the apprentices … if the relation between the teacher and the
taught is genuine, therefore, there is never a place in it for the authority of
the know-it-all or the authoritative sway of the official. (Heidegger 1976: 15)
96 N. King
Notes
1. I would like to thank my African American literature students whom I
taught in 2013 and 2014 and whom I reference in this chapter. I would
also like to thank Ben Knights for his guidance and patience as I prepared
this chapter.
2. The various essays of the debate between Joyce, Gates, and Baker were
collected in the Winter (1987) issue of New Literary History. See Joyce
A. Joyce ‘The Black Canon: Reconstructing Black American Literary
Criticism’; Henry Louis Gates, Jr., ‘“What’s Love Got to Do with It?”:
Critical Theory, Integrity, and the Black Idiom’; Houston A. Baker, Jr. ‘In
Dubious Battle’; and Joyce A. Joyce ‘“Who the Cap Fit”: Unconsciousness
and Unconscionableness in the Criticism of Houston A. Baker, Jr., and
Henry Louis Gates, Jr.’
3. See for instance, W.E.B. Du Bois ‘The Criteria for Negro Art’ (1926);
Langston Hughes ‘The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain’ (1923);
and Richard Wright ‘Blueprint for Negro Writing’ (1937).
4. Representative texts include The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois,
The Ways of White Folks by Langston Hughes, Passing and Quicksand by
Nella Larsen, If He Hollers Let Him Go by Chester Himes, Brown Girl,
Brownstone by Paule Marshall, and The Signifying Monkey by Henry Louis
Gates, Jr.
References
Anzaldua, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San
Francisco: Aunt Lute Books.
Baillie, Justine. 2011. From Margin to Centre: Postcolonial Identities and Barack
Obama’s Dreams from My Father. Life Writing 8 (3): 317–329.
Baker, Jr., and Houston A. 1987. In Dubious Battle. New Literary History 18
(Winter): 363–369.
6 ‘GETTING IN CONVERSATION’: TEACHING AFRICAN AMERICAN … 97
Author Biography
Nicole King was, until recently, a lecturer at the University of Reading UK,
and Director of Teaching and Learning for the School of Literature and
Languages. She is now Lecturer in American Literature at Goldsmiths, University
of London. Previously, she was Discipline Lead for English at the UK Higher
Education Academy. She has taught at the University of California at San
Diego, and is the author of C.L.R. James and Creolization: Circles of Influence
(University of Mississippi Press, 2001).
CHAPTER 7
Jonathan Gibson
J. Gibson (*)
Open University, Milton Keynes, UK
e-mail: jonathan.gibson@open.ac.uk
In Peter Womack’s words, ‘The essay is, so to speak, the default genre
for student writing. Other forms may come into play to meet special
requirements, or as a result of inventiveness on the part of the tutor or
student; but if no such exceptional factors apply, everyone returns, as if
by a common homing instinct, to setting, writing and marking essays’
(Womack 1993: 43). The most widespread innovation in the assessment
of English over the last 50 years—the shift away from exams towards
continual assessment—represents a move from one kind of essay to
another. More recently, the seismic shifts in the discipline’s content since
the 1980s—the incorporation into English degrees of literary theory and
the extension of the canon—seem to have left the centrality of the essay
untouched.
The essay’s dominance still leaps out from any trawl of English depart-
ment websites: modules frequently combine more than one essay-type
assessment (often, exams and coursework, each counting as about half
of the module mark). An interplay between different types of essay-
based assessment, with a leavening of other types of assessment thrown
in, remains the typical pattern. A snapshot of the developing relationship
between essays and other forms of assessment is provided by in the shift
in emphasis between the first and second versions of the English bench-
mark statement (QAA 2001) and the second (QAA 2007).6 Having listed
a range of key skills, the authors of the earlier statement say: ‘In order to
7 BEYOND THE ESSAY? ASSESSMENT AND ENGLISH LITERATURE 101
use to help students who are not critically independent to move towards
that happy state? The essay is—potentially—an excellent ‘summative’ tool
for testing students’ ability to develop extended original arguments. It is,
though, perhaps a less than ideal instrument for performing another key
role in assessment: the ‘formative’ nudging of students towards greater
achievement. This was perhaps not always the case. Shifts in higher edu-
cation over the past 2 decades have made it increasingly difficult for lec-
turers to use the essay formatively. Arguably, ‘traditional’ essay-based
pedagogy was dependent on a set of circumstances that no longer obtain:
than was available in the past for students to hone essay-writing skills.
As a result, the proportion of students who find the academic culture
of essay-writing problematic and alienating seems to have risen (Davies
et al. 2006). Often, students attend a university or college near their
home—and stay at home (or work) when not in the seminar-room, a
situation less likely to build student commitment to the intellectual life
of their university and department. Plagiarism of essays is now, thanks
in part to the rise of the internet, easier than ever before.11 Modularised
courses are now the norm, and where English departments set end-of-
year unseen exams they are nearly always complemented by coursework
of some kind. More assessments done over the course of the module
now tend to count towards the final mark; there is less purely ‘forma-
tive’ assessment.12 The Research Assessment Exercise has meant that, for
many lecturers, teaching time has been squeezed by the need to produce
high-quality research. Less time is available to help individual students
develop a sense of being ‘at home’ in the discipline.
In other words, the openness of the essay form—its strength—is now
also its weakness. ‘Scaffolding’ that was (albeit in a piecemeal way) avail-
able to higher education in the past in the form of long-term, small-scale
pastoral support must now be provided from another source. Non-
subject-specific instruction in essay-writing technique can only go part
of the way to solving the problem (Davies et al. 2006; Lillis 2001). As
things stand, over-dependence on the essay can push students towards
‘surface’ learning, and thus lead to undigested, badly constructed work.
In the traditional model, formative assessment—a succession of ‘prac-
tice’ essays—is incorporated into the dialogue and plays a crucial role in
the development of ‘deep learning’ and the students’ construction of
their own knowledge. Whilst formative assessment, then, is at the heart
of the process, summative assessment is restricted to a single high-stakes
examination at the end of the course. Testing the aptitudes developed
during the formative phase of the course afterwards with this all-or-noth-
ing ordeal has something mad about it, as the first Professor of English
at Oxford, Sir Walter Alexander Raleigh wryly registered in ‘Some
Thoughts on Examinations’:
‘No instrument smaller than the World is fit to measure men and
women: Examinations measure Examinees’ (Raleigh 1923: 120). As
John Hodgson reports, there are eerie similarities between this, ‘tradi-
tional’ examination system and the use of essays as high-stakes assess-
ment tools at the end of modules:
104 J. Gibson
It appears that the marking of a coursework essay has taken on the judg-
mental power of examinations, ‘where the man was weighed [/] As in the
balance!’… It is unlikely that the proponents of examination reform in the
1960s, 1970s and 1980s foresaw these consequences when they argued for
coursework assessment as an alternative or complement to ‘sudden death’
examinations. (Hodgson 2010: 27)
Sally Mitchell says, ‘it is fundamentally not possible to devise criteria that
can account transparently for everything that might have a bearing on a
holistic judgment of quality, particularly when judging a discursive arte-
fact like a text’ (Mitchell 2010: 145).15
It is perhaps worth taking a step or two back here, for it is in fact per-
fectly possible for English lecturers to decide in advance what they want
their students to learn. The process just needs to begin at an earlier stage
and to take place as part of a more holistic consideration of student skills,
before the writing of learning outcomes and assessment criteria.16 When
running seminars on assessment in English departments for the English
Subject Centre, I found that a list of ‘desirable student attributes’ drawn
up by the Subject Centre director, Ben Knights—intellectual skills and
qualities that any lecturer would be happy to see in her students—con-
sistently received an enthusiastic response from academics sceptical about
learning outcomes and served as stimulating starting point for detailed
module planning. Here is an edited version of Knights’s list:
with teachers and other students. They are a good way of showing how
a student’s reading strategies develop across the progress of a module
(Maxwell 2010). (Because of the personal nature of learning journals,
some lecturers make them a compulsory but unmarked assignment—a
condition for passing the course. An alternative is to ask for a further
short piece reflecting on the process of journal-keeping [Creme 2005]).
Shorter response statements, in whatever medium, can be used to record
students’ immediate, unstructured responses to their reading of a text.
More elaborate autobiographical assignments linking modules to stu-
dent lives will require very sensitive management. Writing newspaper-style
reviews of primary or secondary material can be a good method of help-
ing students find their own way into a text. Alternatively, assessed online
discussion allows students to compare notes on their reading and develop
their responses in dialogue with others.19
Reading skills can also be developed by means of short creative e xercises:
the rewriting of part of a text from a different point of view, for example,
or in a different genre, the transformation of poetry into prose or vice
versa, and so on, an approach discussed in detail elsewhere in this volume
[cross-ref?]. This technique is an enticing way to alert students to a wide
range of literary features.
An important element in student reading, often neglected, is note-
taking. Note-taking exercises, geared to specific texts and run online or in
the classroom, can help students think about their own strategies and can
be assessment tools in their own right.
out some of these elements for individual assessment. The ease with
which basic online questionnaires can be constructed within virtual learn-
ing environments such as Blackboard or Moodle means that lecturers
increasingly use quiz-based assessment to test basic factual knowledge.
Quizzes can, however, also help students get to grips with complex texts
and topics: their building blocks can just as easily be quotations from
primary or secondary texts and key terms in critical theory as names or
dates.
Another way to extend knowledge through assessment is to set writ-
ing tasks requiring students to read and summarise secondary material:
literature reviews; annotated bibliographies; glossaries. Editing exercises
come partly in this category too: students will have to find out about
many different things to contextualise the text they are editing. Asking
students to design posters requires them to work out a strategy for depict-
ing a topic in an arresting visual format: for some students, this will be a
very appealing way of working. Similar advantages can be gained from
website creation—like posters, often a group project, and from the vari-
ous unguided group research projects commonly grouped under the
umbrella-term of problem-based learning (Hutchings and O’Rourke
2002). Much can be gained, too, from independent student work with
online databases of primary texts, such as Early English Books Online: this
is an excellent way for students to get to grips with crucial aspects of
unfamiliar periods and topics.
what happens in a seminar much more easily than essays, can be used
cumulatively throughout a course to build up a student’s knowledge of a
topic gradually and compellingly, give students the opportunity to exper-
iment with writing in ‘real world’ genres, and provide an unthreatening
way into the mysteries of academic discourse. There are many possibili-
ties: arguments can be broken down and organised by students in various
ways, small sections of an essay can be practiced and rewritten, and so
on.20 Longer assignments using some of these structures can perform a
similar role to essays. Influenced by Bakhtin, Theresa M. Lillis argues for
the value of dialogism, suggesting that students be encouraged to write
texts that juxtapose, perhaps column by column, material written in dif-
ferent voices (academic, personal, poetic …) and from different points of
view (Lillis 2011). More conventional, quasi-Socratic, dialogues can be a
useful form of assessment too. Such exercises will, like the conventional
essay, require students to think through complex topics elaborately and
ambitiously, and will be particularly appropriate for certain modules.
Reflection
Catherine Maxwell argues that ‘a log that reflects on classroom discus-
sion is often a better medium than the essay for expressing the student’s
sense of the multifaceted nature of a complex text or artwork and the
variety of responses it can elicit’ (Maxwell 2010: 196). The log Maxwell
asked her students to write, on a course on nineteenth-century aestheti-
cist prose, reflected on, among other things, nine short writing exercises
undertaken across a 12-week semester. Students had to select four of
these to count as 40% of the module’s mark; the log received the remain-
ing 60%. This sort of portfolio structure is a good way to integrate a
number of difficult types of small-scale assessment into the module and
also to introduce an element of student choice. It can of course support
essay-writing; indeed, many ‘non-essay’ forms of assessment can be used
to ensure that students write more (and receive more feedback on their
writing) than on an essay-only course.
Conclusion
It will be worth spending some time in thinking how best to integrate
non-essay assessments such as those listed above into a programme.
Perhaps the rarest use of such assignments is also the most obvious: to
110 J. Gibson
No one was ever injured by missing a First: all who deserve a First read for
fun, and have their reward.
The nightingale got no prize at the poultry show. (Raleigh 1923: 119,
120)
A hundred years on, can we offer our students more than entertaining
aphorisms?
7 BEYOND THE ESSAY? ASSESSMENT AND ENGLISH LITERATURE 111
Notes
1. For the UK government’s Quality Assurance Agency for Higher
Education (the QAA), assessment ‘describes any processes that appraise an
individual’s knowledge, understanding, abilities or skills’ (QAA 2001: 1).
The latest revision of the QAA English Subject Benchmark can be viewed
at http://www.qaa.ac.uk/en/Publications/Documents/SBS-English-15.
pdf.
2. For more on the matters discussed in this chapter, and useful material on
topics not covered here, such as inclusion, feedback, employability, and
institutional strategies, see Higher Education Academy (2012). For more
on assessment in English Literature, see Chambers and Gregory (2006:
161–192).
3. In the UK, some of this innovation has had a negative motivation: consist-
ently weak National Student Survey scores for assessment and feedback.
In the 2013 figures many departments’ assessment and feedback scores
were 10% or more adrift of scores in other categories (http://unistats.
direct.gov.uk/).
4. For some student views on the role of essays in English, see Hodgson
(2010).
5. The English Benchmark Statement mandates ‘the ability to present sus-
tained and persuasive written and oral arguments’ (QAA 2007: 25),
implicitly viewing oral presentation and the essay as testing the same abili-
ties. Oral presentations can derail seminars and need careful preparation if
they are to work well (Bazin 2010).
6. This chapter was written before the most recent revision of the English
Subject Benchmark.
7. Thus Womack (1993) critiques the ideological baggage carried by
Victorian conceptions of the essay at the same time as finding it the best
genre in which to carry out such a critique.
8. Such a dialogue is the starting point for Diana Laurillard’s influential
‘conversational framework’ for e-learning (Laurillard 2011). Similarly,
Lillis (2001) advocates dialogic ‘talkback’ as a replacement for monologic
‘feedback’. In the past, the reality, of course, often diverged dramatically
from this ideal. Whilst a system based around the end-of-year exam can
involve much very valuable formative assessment preparing students for
the exam, the pressure of the exam itself often creates anxiety and its
frequent corollary, a merely ‘surface’ approach to learning (cf. Ramsden
2003, 69–72).
9. The distinction between ‘deep learning’ and ‘surface learning’ (the aggre-
gation of unintegrated particulars) is described in detail in Ramsden
(2003).
112 J. Gibson
References
Bazin, Victoria. 2010. Tune In and Turn On: Learning to Listen in Zora Neale
Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. In Teaching African American
Women’s Writing, ed. Gina Wisker, 42–59. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Biggs, John, and Catherine Tang. 2011. Teaching for Quality Learning at
University: What the Student Does, 4th ed. Maidenhead: McGraw Hill.
Chambers, Ellie, and Marshall Gregory. 2006. Teaching and Learning English
Literature. London: Sage.
Creme, Phyllis. 2005. Should Student Learning Journals be Assessed? Assessment
and Evaluation in Higher Education 30: 287–296.
Creme, Phyllis. 2008. A Space for Academic Play: Student Learning Journals as
Transitional Writing. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 7: 49–64.
Davies, Stevie, David Swinburne, and Gweno Williams (eds.). 2006. Writing
Matters: The Royal Literary Fund Report on Student Writing in Higher
Education. London: Royal Literary Fund.
Docherty, Thomas. 2007. The English Question or Academic Freedoms.
Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press.
Higher Education Academy. 2012. A Marked Improvement: Transforming
Assessment in Higher Education. York: Higher Education Academy.
Hodgson, John. 2010. The Experience of Studying English in UK Higher
Education. Report Series 20. Egham: English Subject Centre.
Hussey, Trevor, and Patrick Smith. 2002. The Trouble with Learning Outcomes.
Active Learning in Higher Education 3: 220–233.
Hutchings, Bill, and Karen O’Rourke. 2002. Problem-based Learning in Literary
Studies. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 1: 73–83.
Laurillard, Diana. 2002. Rethinking University Teaching: A Conversational
Framework for the Effective Use of Learning Technologies, 2nd ed. London:
RoutledgeFalmer.
Lillis, Theresa M. 2001. Student Writing: Access, Regulation, Desire. London:
Routledge.
Lillis, Theresa. 2011. Legitimizing Dialogue as Textual and Ideological Goal in
Academic Writing for Assessment and Publication. Arts and Humanities in
Higher Education 10: 401–432.
Maxwell, Catherine. 2010. Teaching Nineteenth-Century Aesthetic Prose. Arts
and Humanities in Higher Education 9: 191–204.
Miles, Rosie, and Benjamin Colbert (eds.). 2010. Online Discussion in English
Studies: A Good Practice Guide to Design, Moderation and Assessment. Egham:
English Subject Centre.
Mitchell, Sally. 2010. Now You Don’t See It; Now You Do: Writing Made Visible
in the University. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education 9: 133–148.
114 J. Gibson
O’Donovan, Berry, Margaret Price, and Chris Rust. 2004. Know What I Mean?
Enhancing Student Understanding of Assessment Standards and Criteria.
Teaching in Higher Education 9: 325–335.
QAA (The Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education). 2001. English
2001. Gloucester: QAA.
QAA. 2007. English 2007. Gloucester: QAA 2015 English Subject Benchmark
http://www.qaa.ac.uk/en/Publications/Documents/SBS-English-15.pdf.
Raleigh, Walter. 1923. Some Thoughts on Examinations. In Laughter from a
Cloud, ed. WalterRaleigh. London: Constable.
Ramsden, Paul. 2003. Learning to Teach in Higher Education, 2nd ed. London:
RoutledgeFalmer.
Sullivan, Ceri. 2011. The Importance of Boredom in Learning about the Early
Modern. In Teaching the Early Modern Period, ed. Derval Conroy and
Danielle Clarke. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Weatherford, Leigh Anne. 2004. This is Wondrous Strange. Pedagogy 4: 495–500.
Womack, Peter. 1993. What are Essays For? English in Education 27: 42–48.
Author Biography
Jonathan Gibson is a senior lecturer in English at the Open University, UK,
and a former academic co-ordinator for the English Subject Centre. He is a spe-
cialist in early modern literature and the history of the book, with a particular
interest in early modern manuscripts.
CHAPTER 8
Chris Thurgar-Dawson
Whereas creative writing usually entails the use of the imagination and
memory to produce written texts and critical writing often takes the
form of essays, articles, or exegesis, crossover writing, in the sense I
shall be using it here, maintains both critical and creative functions in
an uncertain hinterland between the two. The scholarly framing of such
an area becomes particularly important because it occupies what Entrikin
has called a space of ‘betweenness’ (Entrikin 1991), and what Shulman
and others have labelled a ‘pedagogy of uncertainty’ (Shulman 2005);
it remains a territory which offers an enriched curriculum when success-
fully negotiated by student and tutor alike. Not only is it placed between
creative practice and critical approach, it also lies between responses to
the text which have traditionally been labelled subjective and objec-
tive. Furthermore, it follows that crossover writing might or might not
be based on another text—a trigger or source text—as is always the case
with transformative writing and other kinds of ‘textual intervention’
(Pope 1995). Further still, it may or may not move between academic
C. Thurgar-Dawson (*)
School of Design, Culture, and the Arts, Teesside University,
Middlesbrough TS1 3BA, UK
e-mail: C.Thurgar-Dawson@tees.ac.uk
disciplines and schools of thought and it may or may not involve critical
and cultural theory. And while it can often be supported by some kind of
metacritical commentary or journal, to help explain what might be going
on, this is not always the case; it might have to include its own autono-
mous, implicit, or embedded regulations, its own signposts, mappings,
or indexical formulations.
In recent usage, in the wake of J.K. Rowling, Phillip Pullman, and
Geraldine McCaughrean, for example, crossover writing also designates
the growing and highly commercial market between children’s and
adult literature and as such is situated between conventionally different
readerships. A third category has simply come to designate books that
are adaptations of two or more genres into one, often a hybridisation
of manga classics or graphic novels, or a Hollywood blockbuster that
merges superheroes from Marvel and DC comics. These texts are often
supported by a sequel or prequel narrative, or represent something close
to fan fiction where plot and story amalgamations occur. The crossover
texts I am signalling here, though clearly worthy of critical attention in
themselves (Falconer 2009; Pugh 2005; Beckett 2009) are not my topic
below, nor in fact are the alluring sub-genres in which they are often
transported: slipstream, cyberpunk, slash, avant-pop, new wave fabulist,
new weird, and transrealist fictions.
From another direction, it could be argued that one of the main changes
in English Studies over the last 30 years has been the gradual institu-
tionalisation or theorisation of the practice of creative writing. By this I
do not mean that the two disciplines were mutually exclusive before the
1980s—far from it—or that this gradual process has now been successfully
achieved—it has not—but I do mean to signal a certain change in emphasis
which began to make itself known in the early years of that decade. Both
Nigel McLoughlin and Graeme Harper have undertaken interesting work
in this area, in their own ways addressing the contested relationship in uni-
versity English departments between students studying both creative and
critical writing. One of Harper’s conclusions at the end of the ‘Reading to
Write, Writing to be Read’ project emphasises the mutual benefit to stu-
dents:
Education has been largely down to some discontent with canonical issues
surrounding the study of English and that, while HE providers often saw
the logic of including creative writing in English Departments students
themselves were more inclined to question the reasons for ‘having to do
English’ alongside creative writing. (Harper 2003: 18–19)
provides a fourth and final part of the chapter, and is drawn, broadly
speaking, from experience in trialling and delivering the first three.
Associated theories and examples will run alongside each of these head-
ings in turn, though it should be possible to see links and connec-
tions between them as the topic unfolds. As with any nomenclature of
grouping, these categories are arbitrary place-holders, but in terms of
mapping crossover territory, some kind of cognitive tagging is helpful.
Another key concept to be kept flowing as an undercurrent is that of
negotiation, not in the guise of negotiated learning, but more as tac-
tile affect, as emotional development of personal and professional self in
the seminar environment. Such development via a negotiated process of
safe experimentation is as elusive as it is important. It is hailed, interro-
gated, and renounced in every good teaching encounter, as it is simul-
taneously made and unmade by our everyday processes of learning and
the exercises we set.
Constraint: Cross-Disciplinary
Writing and Project Perec
The recognition that language and the concepts it carries are transitory,
in transit between previously agreed if not fully known epistemologies,
is so pervasive that its exploration becomes mandatory for the writer
engaged in crossover practices. In reality, though, the energy with which
Anglo-American education systems oppose such work becomes a bar-
rier to learning and this is the case precisely because the work challenges
the legitimate demarcations of a paper-based culture. This is not the
same in continental Europe where inter- and trans-disciplinary research
is a required part of many undergraduate humanities programmes, and
where language translation, itself the carrier of such cross-cultural think-
ing, is geographically embedded between the contested and contexted
boundaries of an ever-changing border politics. The rhetoric of cross-dis-
ciplinary work in this current context therefore provides fertile ground
for student explorations of liminal, counter-cultural practices including
topics such as subversion, transgression, and reinscription. Ultimately it
is the recognition of the orthodoxies of such textual expressions (usually
via a variety of modernist and postmodernist writing simulations) which
return us to the ‘or’ of our title here. The journey towards such recogni-
tion, though, allowing for multiform deviations in narrative typology, in
8 CRITICAL OR CREATIVE? TEACHING CROSSOVER … 119
Such a pedagogy can of course bring into question deficiencies and lacu-
nae in the content of more conventional content-driven or survey mod-
ules on a programme, which might then enable a more informed critical
reflection upon cohort development and skills acquisition.
An example of explorations in such cross-disciplinary writing is the
ongoing ‘Project Perec’ at Teesside University which seeks to engage
students from Dance, Graphic Design, Fine Art, and Creative Writing
to make creative/critical responses to a shared text, Species of Spaces, by
the French writer Georges Perec. Over the course of the last academic
year, tutors made room in their home discipline programmes for work-
shops, performances, and lectures which gave second year students the
chance to participate in modules they would not normally encounter
across the School of Arts and Media. The idea was that the common
text would provide some kind of shared resource for those struggling to
get on board; this was often the tutors themselves. Without going into
the exact details of each session, a summary reads as follows: the dance
students produced a dance palindrome and a performed sequence using
Perec’s ‘knight’s move’ (two steps forward and one to the side); the
fine artists involved us on a dada tour of Middlesbrough, reading Perec
aloud at certain designated sites at the signal of a whistle and air-horn;
the graphic artists had us produce our own concertina books in octave
120 C. Thurgar-Dawson
Life Writing
Life writing is another area where the ground between critical and crea-
tive practices is often contested—more so than ever, I would argue, in
delivering the new English. It is also a particularly vivid, enriching, and
exciting area to teach, and one that contains more than a few trapdoors
and pitfalls for the English tutor. Although definitions of life writing
8 CRITICAL OR CREATIVE? TEACHING CROSSOVER … 121
transformation to occur in the mere copying of the same text from one
place to another? Surely this is one type of inscription which should
indeed have ended in the medieval monasteries? But this proves not to
be so, as consideration of a couple of brief examples shows.
Erin writes me a proposal explaining that she will use an online gam-
ing forum for her final year project. It has a suggestive title which sparks
my interest: ‘“Squad Z” Game Prose: Descriptive paragraph cut-scene
with fictional transcript based on real life gaming experience’. She will
transcribe and review the real-time comments between players as they
play a group RPG (role-playing game) in a virtual community. Her team,
‘Squad Z’ is fighting another team on the internet at roughly the same
time every day. Her material looks like this, and there are pages of it:
These communications interest me, and are nothing quite like the text
I was expecting. They lie somewhere between micro-blogs or tweets
(in that each one provides a journal entry of an event sequence) and an
124 C. Thurgar-Dawson
actual discussion board (in that real agents do interlocute their inten-
tions). They are also very high-energy communications which employ
expletives, exclamations, and hyperbole in an environment of great pace
and linguistic force. Some utterances are therefore hard to make out,
and others seem to seek reassurance that somebody is actually listening,
such is the speed with which the group fights on. Needless to say, they
are both critical and creative responses to the game narrative, providing
crossover commentaries on an already complex medium. Also, there is an
urgency here which is appealing and, in passing, it is for this reason that
my favourite warm-up text has always been Roberta Allen’s The Playful
Way to Serious Writing. Allen continually exhorts writers to make their
writing decisions based on ideas or language which ‘have energy for you’
and Erin’s text is a good example.
James, on the other hand, has been watching his favourite US show,
Chuck, and has become somewhat involved in it. His proposal, like
Erin’s, revolves around a desire to transcribe an episode word by word,
so that he can then transform the show across the pond into a kind of
UK equivalent, based around the secret service. He does not want to
introduce any new characters unless he has to and he does not feel the
need to change the history of the existing ones: he just wants to write his
own episode in a new geography. However, after painstakingly making
his own actual transcripts of the episode, James decides that the trope of
the transcript itself, in this case the device of the audio-interview as prac-
tised by MI5, will be a useful addition to his own rewriting arsenal. Part
of James’s transformation therefore goes like this:
is fair to say that apprentice writers do not really make significant pro-
gress in this area until their third year or even until postgraduate level.
Interviewing someone recently to join such an MA, I was disappointed
to learn that they never really felt that they had received any useful feed-
back at all on their writing from their undergraduate cohort. Why was
this?
There are a number of problems we run into here and they are worth
figuring out so that practitioners can address them in their own ways
in the classroom. One such is easily mustered and somewhat perennial:
fear of receiving poor feedback if we are critical of another’s writing our-
selves. This is perhaps a most obvious concern and it is certainly under-
standable. What is less explicable is exactly how difficult it remains to
address, break down, or reframe such an anxiety. Plenty of useful advice
can and has been given on the importance of building trust in the writ-
ing group so that over time learners feel safer in their expression of con-
structive criticism to others: I am not going to underplay the importance
of creating such an environment now. I am, however, firmly going to
assert that it does not solve the problem, a problem which is partly a
result of my second obstacle below.
The ability to link and connect someone else’s ideas to my own ideas
or their expressed communication to mine is a highly advanced cogni-
tive function. It becomes even more so for crossover writers who have
to hold what they have heard or read from another person and perform
a double rewriting of it themselves—one in critical mode for public
consumption in the group and another for their own creative use as it
applies to their own writing project. Unlike ‘pure’ creative writing, there
will inevitably be multiple source texts to comprehend in addition to
the actual text at hand, so a relational nexus where the learner has to
negotiate similarities and differences, weaknesses and strengths between
three or four simultaneous narratives is not uncommon. This is essen-
tially a metaphorical activity, one which asks participants to interpret one
field of data, or one genre, or one sign system, or one semantic field,
or one way of talking and hold it up against another—their own. To
perform this coherently in a live situation where you might indeed be
put on the spot and asked to share your thoughts is not easy for any-
one—tutors included—and with the potentially limitless frame of textual
reference that literature provides, the fact that those links and connec-
tions can prove elusive to even the brightest in the room should be no
surprise. This metaphorical nature of the feedback circuit is hardly a
8 CRITICAL OR CREATIVE? TEACHING CROSSOVER … 127
But here we run into the crux of the matter as I have experienced it:
many writers actually do not want feedback, or, if they openly confess
that they do, they actually want a certain specific kind of feedback which
they have already decided upon, perhaps unconsciously, in their own
minds. What they actually seek is reconfirmation of that version of them-
selves which writerly intention makes available to each of us, an iden-
tity-in-process of which only a part has been disclosed or made extant in
their creative text. That which actual feedback represents, or frequently
can come to represent in the mind of the writer, is thus a misrecognition
of textual intention and, by extension, of the writer’s textualised identity
itself. It might nevertheless be said that feedback embodies the threat of
the other, not because it comes from an other, but because it occupies
the place of our own displaced desires and the threat of an encounter
with the real. The real in this case is our own blindside which we were
so busy not recognising that we had not the courage to voice it to our-
selves. Note that this position is more than just a confession of our own
weaknesses as a creative practitioner; if it were only this it would not
take three years of study to address. Some writers do not want feedback
because it makes obvious the possibility that the text which they thought
they were controlling is actually creating a language which not only reads
them as individuals but makes obvious the fact that their own text has
been the silent arbiter of their identity all along.
Yet, to the understandable fear of others’ criticism discussed above,
to the difficulty of linking another’s ideas to our own, to the threat
posed to our enunciative control and identity, we may add a fourth
and final obstacle to peer feedback. This one is less hazardous, perhaps,
because more contextual: it is about judgement, and the inability of
many learners to be able to judge good writing from bad, stylistically,
128 C. Thurgar-Dawson
sympathetic with this view and agree that there are indeed no ‘straight-
forward distinctions’ between the critical and creative modes:
References
Beckett, Sandra L., and Crossover Fiction. 2009. Global and Historical
Perspectives. London: Routledge.
Cook, Jon. 1995. In Developing University English Teaching, ed. Colin Evans.
New York: Mellen.
Entrikin, Nicholas. 1991. The Betweenness of Place. London: Macmillan.
Falconer, Rachel. 2009. The Crossover Novel: Contemporary Children’s Fiction
and Its Adult Readership. London: Routledge.
Harper, Graeme. 2003. Reading to Write, Writing to be Read. English Subject
Centre Project Report. http://www.english.heacademy.ac.uk.
Jones, David. 1959. Epoch and Artist. London: Faber.
Knights, Ben, and Chris Thurgar-Dawson. 2006. Active Reading: Transformative
Writing in Literary Studies. London: Continuum.
May, Steve. 2007. Doing Creative Writing. London: Routledge.
130 C. Thurgar-Dawson
Bibliography
Allen, Roberta. 2002. The Playful Way to Serious Writing. New York: Houghton
Mifflin.
Anderson, Linda (ed.). 2005. Creative Writing: A Workbook with Readings.
London: Routledge.
Barrington, Judith. 2007. Writing the Memoir. In The Handbook of Creative
Writing, ed. Steven Earnshaw. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP.
Cameron, Deborah (ed.). 1990. The Feminist Critique of Language: A Reader.
London: Routledge.
Carter, Ronald. 2004. Language and Creativity: The Art of Common Talk.
London: Routledge.
Cox, Murray. 1988. Coding the Therapeutic Process: Emblems of Encounter.
London: Kingsley.
Dawson, Paul. 2005. Creative Writing and the New Humanities. London:
Routledge.
Harper, Graeme. Teaching Creative Writing.
Hunt, Celia. 2013. Transformative Learning through Creative Life Writing:
Exploring the Self in the Learning Process. London: Routledge.
Hunt, Celia, and Fiona Sampson (eds.). 2011. The Self on the Page: Theory and
Practice of Creative Writing in Personal Development. In Life Writing as a
Critical Creative Practice, ed. Margaretta Jolly, 878–889. Literature Compass
8.12 (Dec. 2011).
Perec, Georges. 1997. Species of Spaces and Other Pieces. London: Penguin.
8 CRITICAL OR CREATIVE? TEACHING CROSSOVER … 131
Author Biography
Chris Thurgar-Dawson is a Senior Lecturer in English at Teesside University,
UK, and Director of the MA in Creative Writing. He is the author (with Ben
Knights) of Active Reading: Transformative Writing in Literary Studies
(Continuum, 2006). His research interests span cultural geographies, the con-
temporary long poem, and reader-writer practices.
CHAPTER 9
Alan Liu
One of the debilitating aspects of recent discussions about the use of digi-
tal technologies in higher education—whether these discussions occur
in university planning contexts or in the wider theatre of media reports
and national policy—is that attention to the quality of learning and teach-
ing comes at the very end of a long train of broader topics. At its peak a
few years ago, for instance, the controversy over MOOCs (massive open
online courses), tended to occur in the stratosphere where policy-makers,
technology entrepreneurs, media pundits, and university boards raced to
see who could provide the most sweeping global, national, economic,
societal, or other macro-level rationales for the ‘disruptive innovation’ of
current higher education.1 Where the quality of the learning and teaching
experience came in for attention at all, its integrated character was disag-
gregated into separate student and instructor components to be assessed
via ‘accountability’ measures—that is, quantitative indexes of student
tests, instructor evaluations, enrolments, tuition and student debt levels,
graduation rates, job placements, and so on, all increasingly aggregated
A. Liu (*)
Department of English, University of California, Santa Barbara,
CA 93106-3170, USA
e-mail: Ayliu@english.ucsb.edu
The Literature+ Course
Since academic year 2006–2007, I have taught a course at both the
undergraduate and graduate levels called ‘Literature+’.4 The undergrad-
uate versions of the course are generally capped at about 35 students;
while the graduate courses enrol about ten to 12 students. The essential
idea is stated on the wiki sites for the courses as follows:
words, so the students worry when their project seems not to be work-
ing; and just as that novelist is exhilarated upon overcoming the block,
the students are radiant when their text analysis, social network analy-
sis, graph, video, sonification, game, or other project finally works and
goes online. Even sketches and partially working versions—in the case
of projects that make it only to prototype stage—are celebrated. More
objective assessments based on my student evaluation forms, enrolments
(the Literature+ courses tend to be packed to their maximum), and so
on would be next up in the testimony—though I have not engaged in
formal ethnographic observation or testing of outcomes.
But my argument here is that we would not even know what apples
and oranges we are comparing in quality until we first take up the hard
question of what kind of activity is actually happening in a hybrid digi-
tal classroom like this. What are the ‘qualities’ of learning and teaching
in these courses, meaning the specific properties, types, and affordances
of their educational experience? The question is hard because there are
no categorical answers. The introduction of digital technology into the
core activities of humanities learning and teaching catalyses changes
on so many fronts at once (‘micro-disruptions’, I called them) that, as
Robin Wharton has recently written in an insightful essay for the journal
Hybrid Pedagogy, the usual categories in which we think of those activi-
ties break down. Wharton portrays herself as not just a scholar who has
taught her own hybrid digital courses but also as a parent with a young
daughter. She is inspired to compare the activities that occur in higher
education hybrid classrooms with those in her daughter’s ‘K-12’ (kinder-
garten through high school) learning environment. Alluding to the way
the digital humanities emphasise ‘building’ activities alongside critical or
interpretive tasks, she writes:
I’ve begun to wonder if our turn to these methods [of ‘building, curation,
and creative production’] in college and university classrooms is actually in
fact a return—to pedagogical strategies already familiar to many of our stu-
dents from their primary school days. . . . One of the most striking things
I noticed when I first visited the school my daughter now attends was the
variety of activity in the classroom. At all levels, the curriculum involves
engaging the body and senses as well as the mind. In kindergarten and
the younger grades, instruction might require children to combine physical
gestures with recitation of their multiplication tables, or a poem about how
plants grow from seeds. In the older grades, material demonstration of sci-
entific and mathematical principles plays an important role. Art, handwork,
9 TEACHING ‘LITERATURE+’: DIGITAL HUMANITIES HYBRID COURSES … 139
music, woodworking, and even recess are core parts of the curriculum.
And, perhaps most relevant to my purpose [here], literature is a means of
conveying information about self and the world, as well as the material of
creative production. Children learn by listening and reading to, and also by
reinterpreting, retelling, performing, and remediating stories drawn from a
variety of cultural and historical sources.
Learning and Teaching
One of the major remixings in such a classroom occurs when the teacher,
figuratively and literally, stops facing the students and stands shoulder to
shoulder with them to look at a screen where a project is being prototyped
or debugged. What this moment represents is some of the deepest learn-
ing and teaching in the course: students learn by sharing with their men-
tor the role of being an educated professional investigating a phenomenon,
having ideas about it, and trying to make that idea meaningful to others.
Content and Process
The rhythm of the courses is iterative in a way that teaches that the han-
dling of interim processes is important to the richness of final results.
I ask students in each class meeting to give briefings about progress and
140 A. Liu
Building and Interpreting
An assumption of the modern higher education humanities classroom
has been that there is a more or less settled hierarchy of knowledge
activities through which a student progresses to the crowning output
of a synthetic research essay or critical interpretation. Thus, gathering
research materials should prepare for one’s oral presentation or short
essay assignment, which in turn should sublime into one’s final research
or critical essay. Literature+ courses expose humanities students to
one of the hallmarks of the digital humanities: a more various cycle of
knowledge activities in which ‘building’ and ‘interpreting’ (or ‘hack’ and
‘yack’) mix.11 In these courses, research and critical papers are important,
but not necessarily because they are positioned as the king product that
all other activities serve. Research and critical papers are also positioned
as intermediary products intended to provoke fresh iterations of techni-
cal work. Discussion, presentation, short essays, research reports, and
technology work cycle around in support of each other.
experience, the students’ discovery that others (not just their instructor)
will be viewing their project gives them enormous incentive to put extra
hours into improving the quality of their work and also rehearsing their
final presentations.
Other remixed binaries might be added to the above list to charac-
terise the qualities of hybrid digital humanities courses—for instance,
those I discuss in an article entitled ‘Digital Humanities and Academic
Change’: writing and authoring/collaborating, reading and social com-
puting, interpreting and data-mining/modelling, critical judgement and
information credibility, peer reviewing and commenting, and teaching
and co-developing.12 But the remixings I have outlined here are suffi-
cient to suggest the kind of qualities that can be catalysed by digital tech-
nology.
Wider Contexts
Starting from such qualities in a small-scale hybrid course gives us the
grounded experience we need to think about the opportunities and
constraints of digital higher education in widening contexts. Indeed,
if we pull back from a close focus on Literature+ , we can see that the
remixings of the learning and teaching experience it exemplifies signify
larger intellectual, institutional, and social remixings to which education
is adapting. Without trying to be comprehensive, I instance just three
such larger horizons, starting within the context of higher education but
ending in a boundary zone where academic issues engage broader socio-
economic ones. In each case, a grand remixing of categories and roles is
underway in a manner that, for better or worse, typifies ‘knowledge soci-
eties’ and ‘knowledge economies’ in today’s developed nations.
formal class preparation during the part of each term devoted to project-
building or studio-style work. Yet they are not ‘instruction lite’ for two
reasons. One is that they call on all that an instructor can muster when
first developing innovative syllabi, assignments, technologies, and other
resources.17 The other is that such courses require instructors on a daily
basis to apply the best of themselves in mentoring individuals and pro-
ject teams, thus using the looser framework of the course (requiring fewer
formal lesson plans, writing of lectures, etc.) to release the deepest wells
of their experience. Not instruction lite, in other words, but instruction
different in a way that also fits in with larger workplace trends toward flex-
ible, project-based work.
Notes
1. See, e.g., Thomas L. Friedman’s much noted op-ed piece entitled ‘The
Professor’s Big Stage’ in the New York Times, 5 March 2013 (http://
www.nytimes.com/2013/03/06/opinion/friedman-the-professors-
big-stage.html?src=me&ref=general&_r=1). Friedman’s endorse-
ment of the MOOC concept ends by reporting on an analogy made
by Clayton Christensen between MOOCs and ‘disruptive innovation’
in business—a kind of discourse that was common in discussions of
MOOCs (see, e.g., the quotations from leaders of the companies behind
MOOCs in Laura Pappano, ‘The Year of the MOOC’, New York Times,
2 November 2012, http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/04/educa-
tion/edlife/massive-open-online-courses-are-multiplying-at-a-rapid-
pace.html?pagewanted=all). Friedman’s endorsement, however, also
acknowledges a ‘strong consensus’ that a ‘blended model’ of hybrid
online/classroom pedagogy is ‘ideal’, and that ‘there is still huge value in
the residential college experience and the teacher–student and student–
student interactions it facilitates’ (Friedman 2013) (Pappano 2012).
2. The European Classification of Higher Education Institution’s U-Map site
offers ‘two tools to enhance transparency’: ProfileFinder, which ‘produces
a list of higher education institutions (HEIs) that are comparable on the
characteristics you selected’, and ProfileViewer, which ‘gives you an institu-
tional activity profile you can use to compare three HEIs’ (http://www.u-
map.eu/). Australia similarly considered implementing a version of the
U-Map tools (Andrew Trounson, ‘Australia’s New Accountability Tool’,
9 TEACHING ‘LITERATURE+’: DIGITAL HUMANITIES HYBRID COURSES … 149
References
Friedman, Thomas L. 2013. The Professor’s Big Stage. New York Times, March 5.
McCarty, Willard. 2005. Humanities Computing. Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan.
Moretti, Franco. 2005. Graphs, Maps, Trees: Abstract Models for a Literary History.
London: Verso.
Pappano, Laura. 2012. The Year of the MOOC. New York Times, November 2.
Ramsay, Stephen. 2011. Reading Machines: Toward an Algorithmic Criticism.
Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press.
Rockwell, Geoffrey. 2003. What is Text Analysis, Really? Literary and Linguistic
Computing 18 (2): 209–220.
Samuels, Lisa, and Jerome McGann. 1999. Deformance and Interpretation. New
Literary History 30 (1): 25–56.
Stommel, Jesse. 2012. Hybridity, Pt. 2: What is Hybrid Pedagogy? Hybrid
Pedagogy, 10 March.
Wharton, Robin. 2013. Building in the Humanities Isn’t New. Hybrid Pedagogy,
May 28.
Author Biography
Alan Liu is Professor in the English Department at the University of California,
Santa Barbara. His books include Wordsworth: The Sense of History (1989); The
Laws of Cool: Knowledge Work and the Culture of Information (2004); and Local
Transcendence: Essays on Postmodern Historicism and the Database (2008). Recent
essays include ‘The Meaning of the Digital Humanities’ (2013), ‘Where is
Cultural Criticism in the Digital Humanities?’ (2012), ‘The State of the Digital
Humanities: A Report and a Critique’ (2012), and ‘Friending the Past: The
Sense of History and Social Computing’ (2011). Liu started the Voice of the
Shuttle website for humanities research in 1994. He is founder and co-leader of
the 4Humanities.org advocacy initiative.
CHAPTER 10
What Is Stylistics?
Stylistics is the linguistic study of style in language. It aims to account for
how texts project meaning, how readers construct meaning, and why read-
ers respond to texts in the way that they do. The object of study of stylistics
is often literature, but is not limited to literary texts as the linguistic choices
of speakers and writers in all language use can have important consequences.
Although authorial style is of interest, there are many other aspects
of style that we may wish to investigate. These include, for example, the
style of genres such as advertising or political speeches, as well as the sty-
listic effects to be seen in individual texts. In this chapter we illustrate
stylistic analysis using a single poem to link the linguistic choices of the
poet to the poem’s literary effects.
In order to produce insights into the literary effects of a text, it helps
to approach the analysis in a systematic way. This avoids the danger
of only describing those textual features that are most obvious from a
D. McIntyre (*) · L. Jeffries
University of Huddersfield, Huddersfield, UK
e-mail: D.McIntyre@hud.ac.uk
L. Jeffries
e-mail: L.jeffries@hud.ac.uk
The view that Blackmur gives is now extremely dated. What he refers
to as ‘peculiarities’ are in fact highly significant linguistic deviations and
it is important for us to assume that every foregrounded element of a
piece of writing has a possible interpretative significance. Evidence that
this is the case is provided by van Peer (1986), whose empirical research
demonstrates that readers treat foregrounded elements of a text as sig-
nificantly meaningful and highly interpretable. Stylistic analysis enables us
to describe and explain such foregrounding. Here is poem 63:
63
[1] (listen)
this a dog barks and
how crazily houses
eyes people smiles
[5] faces streets
steeples are eagerly
tumbl
ing through wonder
ful sunlight
[10] – look –
selves,stir:writhe
o-p-e-n-i-n-g
are(leaves;flowers)
dreams,come
quickly come
158 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
run run
[15] with me now
jump shout(laugh
dance cry
sing)for it’s Spring
- irrevocably;
[20] and in
earth sky trees:every
where a miracle
arrives
(yes)
you and I may not
[25] hurry it with
a thousand poems
my darling
but nobody will
stop it
With All The
Policemen In The
World
Whilst the punctuation and graphology of the poem is the most noticeable
feature of its language, a systematic analysis of all the levels of language
using a stylistic approach enables the reader to interpret the poem more
confidently, bringing linguistic evidence to bear on the interpretation.
Graphology
If we begin by looking at the smallest units of linguistic structure
(graphemes and phonemes) there are examples of deviation both visu-
ally (graphology) and aurally (phonology). Perhaps the most obvi-
ous aspect of graphological deviation in poem 63 is the consistent use
of lower case letters where we would normally expect capitals. This is
10 TEACHING STYLISTICS: FOREGROUNDING IN E.E. CUMMINGS 159
through its visual as well as its linguistic form. Similarly, the word ‘won-
derful’ runs across two lines (10–11) and as a consequence is highly fore-
grounded. Dividing the word into its constituent morphemes (‘wonder’
and ‘ful’) allows us two interpretative effects. We first read the word as
the noun ‘wonder’, and then as the adjective ‘wonderful’. The graph-
ological deviation here foregrounds the word and creates a density of
meaning.
In line 12 Cummings uses deviant graphology to split the progressive
participle ‘opening’ into its component letters (‘o-p-e-n-i-n-g’). Again,
this foregrounds the verb and creates a visual representation of the mean-
ing of the word, suggesting iconically that the opening is a long, drawn-
out process, reminiscent of the slow rate at which flowers come into
bloom.
If we look closely at the occurrences of graphological deviation in the
poem, we can see that it often works to foreground the dynamic verbs—
that is, those verbs which indicate action of some sort. Line 10 (‘-look-’)
is an example of this. The line consists of a single verb in the imperative
mood, foregrounded by a hyphen either side of it. The initial verb of
line 14 is also foregrounded due to the deviant punctuation (a comma
is used to begin the line). And in line 11 (‘selves,stir:writhe’) the verbs
are foregrounded through being connected by a colon and by the lack of
spaces between words. Other actions are foregrounded in different ways.
In line 15 we get repetition of the verb, and in lines 16, 17, and 18 the
verbs occur in an unpunctuated list, with the list in brackets running on
to a new line. The fact that all the dynamic verbs are foregrounded in
some way brings to the attention of the reader the centrality of energy
and action in the poem.
Phonology
Phonological patterning in the poem can be seen in the repetition of par-
ticular sounds. Although ‘(listen)’ does not have a rhyme scheme of any
regularity (though there is a regularity to its graphological organisation
on the page), Cummings does make use of internal rhyme at particular
points within the poem. What is noticeable is that there is phonological
patterning in each stanza except the last one. Often we find a repetition
of vowel sounds in words in close proximity to each other, as we can see
in the examples below (repeated vowel sounds are in bold):
10 TEACHING STYLISTICS: FOREGROUNDING IN E.E. CUMMINGS 161
What we can note from this is that the absence of phonological paral-
lelism in the last stanza again foregrounds this part of the poem. The
last stanza, then, is heavy with deviation (both internal and external, at
a number of different linguistic levels), which suggests it is important in
interpretative terms. We will argue that the crux of the poem’s meaning
is conveyed in this last stanza and highlighted by a congruence of fore-
grounded features.
Syntax
Lacking normal punctuation, it is not immediately obvious where the
sentence boundaries are in this poem. However, the reader will natu-
rally make clauses out of what initially appear to be random sequences
of words, and some of these appear to have an inverted word order, with
the grammatical object preceding the subject and verb. This could be
the case in line 2 (‘this a dog barks’) where if we interpret ‘this’ as the
object, it is not clear whether it refers back to the first line (‘(listen)’) or
whether it refers to something else that the dog is communicating (by
its bark). There is also the possibility for interpreting ‘this a dog’ as two
noun phrases in apposition, which both refer to the dog. The effect of
overwhelming activity and confusion, linked to excitement, is embodied
in this syntactic ambiguity.
In lines 12 and 13 (‘o-p-e-n-i-n-g/are(leaves;flowers)dreams’) the
inverted syntax makes the grammatical subjects (‘leaves’, ‘flowers’,
‘dreams’) the focus of the clause and produces a delay in understand-
ing as the verb (‘opening’) is unusually placed first, but the reader does
162 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
not know what it is that is opening until after the verbal element has
been processed. This enhances the effect mentioned earlier in connection
with the unusual graphology, underlining the slow process of the arrival
of spring and its euphoric connotations.
The other foregrounded feature in the syntax of the poem is the fact
that there are clause elements such as grammatical subject or predica-
tor (verb phrase) which are made up of abnormally long sequences of
nouns or verbs. These include lines 3–6: ‘houses/eyes people smiles/
faces streets/steeples’, where the list of nouns all perform the function
of the subject of the verb phrase ‘are tumbling’. The effect is to over-
whelm the reader in the processing of this clause, producing a sense of
jumbled images and chaotic, but exciting, impressions. The list combines
nouns for people and aspects of their bodies (eyes, faces, smiles) with
nouns referring to static features of the townscape (streets, houses, stee-
ples). The dynamic verb ‘tumbling’ produces an effect of all these things
moving, though in fact some of them are unable to do so. The overall
impression is of a person moving quickly through an urban environment
and seeing all the images flash by.
The other abnormally long sequence of items is the list of imperative
verbs in lines 14–19: ‘come quickly come/run run/with me now/jump
shout(laugh/dance cry/sing)’. Again, there is a sense of chaotic energy
as these are all dynamic verbs and the addressee is being exhorted to per-
form each one. A similar effect is created by all the other verbs in the
poem which are marked for tense (finite verbs) and are in the present
tense. So, we have present simple verbs such as ‘barks’ [2], ‘is’ [19] and
‘arrives’ [24] and present progressive forms such as ‘are [eagerly] tumb/
ling’ [6/7/8] and ‘o-p-e-n-i-n-g/are’ [12/13]. In addition to helping
establish the sense of immediacy, the progressive participles (‘tumbling’
and ‘opening’) indicate the continuous nature of the actions, as if the
poem is charting the arrival of spring as it happens.
Lexis and Semantics
In our discussion of syntax above, we began to consider the types of
verbs in the poem and noted that the majority are dynamic (as opposed
to stative). Examining the types of words is revealing since, although
there is no lexical deviation in the poem, it is clear that there is a
10 TEACHING STYLISTICS: FOREGROUNDING IN E.E. CUMMINGS 163
Table 10.1 Distribu-
Nouns Main verbs Adjectives Adverbs
tion of open class words
in poem 63 Dog Listen Wonderful Crazily
Houses Barks Eagerly
Eyes Tumbling Quickly
People Look Irrevocably
Smiles Stir
Faces Writhe
Streets Opening
Steeples Come (×2)
Sunlight Run (×2)
Leaves Jump
Flowers Shout
Dreams Laugh
Earth Dance
Sky Cry
Trees Sing
Miracle ’[i]s
Poems Arrives
Policemen Hurry
World Stop
19 21 1 4
We can see from the above table that the poem consists mainly of
nouns and verbs. We have already commented on the types of main verbs
in the poem, noting that with one exception (‘’[i]s’) these are dynamic
verbs, primarily of movement. This accounts for the sense of energy in
the poem. What is also apparent is that ten of these—‘listen’, ‘look’,
‘come’, ‘run’, ‘jump’, ‘shout’, ‘laugh’, ‘dance’, ‘cry’, and ‘sing’—are
in the imperative mood with the speech act force of an exhortation.
This creates a sense of excitement as a result of the speaker imploring
the addressee to join him in his celebration of the arrival of spring. It
is also noteworthy that there are more adverbs than adjectives present.
Movement is intrinsic to the poem and this is supplemented by adverbs
164 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
Dog, sunlight, leaves, flowers, earth, sky, Houses, eyes, people, smiles, faces, streets,
trees, world steeples, dreams, miracle, poems, policemen
being very different from Standard English. What makes it stand out
is its internal deviance: its difference from what has come before in the
poem. This is then emphasised by external deviation in the final line of
the poem. The final stanza as a whole, then, contains large amounts of
deviation at various linguistic levels, giving rise to what Leech (1969)
describes as ‘congruence’ of foregrounding. This is the presence of lots
of different types of foregrounding in a concentrated part of the text and
may be seen as increasing the interpretative significance of this part of
the poem.
The internal deviation in the last stanza occurs at a number of lin-
guistic levels. At the phonological level, unlike in the other stanzas, there
is a lack of any sound patterning. At the syntactic level, the grammati-
cal ordering of the stanza follows the rules of Standard English syntax.
At the lexical level, there is the only use of pronouns (‘you’ and ‘I’) in
the poem. We can note too that the romantic relationship between the
speaker and whomever he is addressing is made clear by the phrase ‘my
darling’.
The final line of the poem is then foregrounded by means of exter-
nal graphological deviation as a result of the initial capitalisation of each
word in the line. The effect of all this is to make it unusually easy for
us to understand the last stanza. There is no difficult interpretative work
to do (in comparison to the rest of the poem) and so the final message
of the poem is made extremely clear; nothing and nobody can stop the
progress of spring and the speaker’s love, the implication being, perhaps,
that we should not struggle against these forces, but simply resign our-
selves to accepting and becoming participants in them.
Phonetic Transcription
It can be useful, depending on the student group, to get them to make
a complete phonetic transcription of the poem. For those not already
familiar with phonetic symbols, this may mean a detour to learn the IPA
(International Phonetic Alphabet), which is time consuming, but once
166 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
3. It can be the case, as in the Cummings poem, that there is inter-
nal deviation whereby some parts of the poem are full of phono-
logical patterning and others are not. Here, there is nothing of
significance going on in the phonology of the last stanza, though
the earlier stanzas have the vowel patterns we observed above.
The foregrounding of the last stanza in this way makes it sound
like ‘normal’ speech and this contrast with the highly unusual look
and sound of the earlier stanzas makes the direct address to the
beloved addressee all the more striking in its simplicity. In the case
of this poem, the students could be asked at this stage to consider
whether the final stanza is also foregrounded by internal deviation
on the other linguistic levels and how these different instances of
foregrounding work together to produce the overall effect.
Graphology
The look of this poem is one of its most obviously foregrounded fea-
tures, and students will quickly comment on this. However, it is worth
working methodically through the different types of graphological fea-
ture including layout on the page (less relevant here than in some
concrete poetry), placing and use of punctuation, and lineation. The sys-
tematic investigation is more likely to produce nuanced discussion of the
effects than an impressionistic description of the main oddities that strike
the eye. Thus, it is worth looking at the sets of brackets and deciding
what is odd about them in each case and what kind of meaningful effect
they have each time. Are any of them similar in use and effect? Also, do
the hyphens, which are used within words as well as between words,
work differently in each case?
Morphology
It may seem a bit dull to have to list all the morphological structures pre-
sent in the poem, but it is just this kind of detailed description that pro-
duces insights which we could not achieve otherwise. Strangely, students
who are feeling a little anxious about the stylistic endeavour can also find
it reassuring to go through the descriptive phase whereby they iden-
tify forms and can get ‘right’ answers. The harder part is teaching them
to identify the significant (usually foregrounded) parts of the resulting
description. The following are some of the descriptive and interpretative
processes that students can (singly or in groups) be asked to perform:
168 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
1. Identify the word classes of all the words in the poem and their
forms. This would result in the recognition in the Cummings
poem that the verb phrases are mostly in present tense (and some-
times continuous) forms and this observation can be discussed in
relation to the poem’s themes and meaning. The noun forms are
largely plural in the poem, which adds to the impression of abun-
dance and overwhelming of the senses, particularly the visual sense.
2. Identify free and bound morphemes. This is already achieved by
the previous task, but in identifying the morphemic construc-
tion of the words, the contrast between splitting words between
two free morphemes (e.g. every-where) and between a free and
a bound morpheme (e.g. tumbl-ing) can be highlighted and dis-
cussed.
3. What are the effects of the foregrounded forms? The interpreta-
tive discussion can follow from a more rigorous descriptive phase,
whatever form the latter takes. The description should produce
some idea of any internally or externally deviant uses of morphol-
ogy and the analytical phase will focus on just these forms, so that
their meaning or effect can be established.
Syntax
Unless the students are accomplished in grammatical description, they
may find a complete parsing of the structures in this poem beyond them.
One step towards achieving an understanding of the grammar of the
poem is to rewrite it in Standard English so that it makes sense to the
student concerned. The different versions of the poem produced by a
group of students can then be used to discuss the extent of ambiguity in
the poem and whether any of the grammatical interpretations are better
than others in relation to the evidence of the text. In most poetic anal-
ysis, the following phases can be helpful, particularly in identifying the
meaning of any unusual or ambiguous structural features:
2.
Discuss ambiguous or non-standard structures and relate them
to meaning. Many poems from the early twentieth century to
the present have ambiguous or vague grammatical structures, like
Cummings’s poem does here. These ambiguities have effects which
can only be investigated once the nature of the non-standardness is
revealed fully. Some of the features may make the language sound
like the imperfectness of the spoken language—or a version of our
thought processes when we are experiencing extremes of emotion.
In Cummings’s poem, for example, the classic link between spring
and being in love is presented partly by means of a jumbled, glori-
ous mess of impressions, mostly visual (the list of plural nouns) and
physical (the list of active verbs).
Lexis and Semantics
The investigation of lexis is one of the more obvious starting points for
students who are not highly trained in other areas of linguistic analysis.
The danger of this is that they will simply mention the most obvious cases
of neologism or juxtaposition of word choice rather than thinking in more
detail about the subtleties of lexical and semantic structure of texts. Here
are a couple of options that might move them beyond the mundane:
1. Use word class lists (see above) as the starting point to identify
semantic fields of words with related or overlapping meanings.
In this poem, there are nouns relating to people and body parts
(people, faces, eyes), urban structures (houses, streets, steeples),
and nature (leaves, flowers, earth, sky, trees). The verbs, as we have
mentioned above, are almost all active (what linguists would call
material actions). This combination of people (in general and the
writer/addressee), activity (run, jump, shout), and scenes (urban
versus rural) is a potential starting point for a discussion about the
trajectory of the poem, from overwhelming impressions through
activity (of the protagonists) to some kind of rural idyll and finally
something that cannot easily be fitted into any of these semantic
fields: ‘a miracle’.
2. Identify semantic sub-classes of words. A similar point can be
reached by looking first at the possible sub-classes of the word
classes. So, for example, nouns can be identified as concrete/
abstract or countable/mass. We have seen in this poem that there
170 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
Conclusion
Our analysis of poem 63 shows how stylistic analysis can support an
interpretation of a poem by providing textual evidence for intuitive
responses, and how it can also highlight features of the poem that might
otherwise be overlooked. It also enables us to speculate with more cer-
tainty about why Cummings chooses to use such seemingly odd stylistic
techniques in the poem. For example, we showed that deviant punc-
tuation is linked to the foregrounding of dynamic verbs, which goes
towards explaining why we perceive movement to be an integral part of
the poem. Analysing the poem stylistically also highlights how its most
internally deviant features are those which we would usually consider to
be ‘normal’ language in both everyday communication and poetry, and
suggests a reason as to why this might be.
There are, of course, features of the poem which we have not been
able to account for. For example, we have not been able to explain the
comma between ‘selves’ and ‘stir’ in line 11, or the relevance of the colon
before ‘every’ in line 23. A stylistic analysis which could account for these
10 TEACHING STYLISTICS: FOREGROUNDING IN E.E. CUMMINGS 171
factors would supersede the one we have given here. Such falsification is
key to the stylistic endeavour and is made possible by being clear about
the analytical method used and the perceived linguistic source of any
interpretative claims. The systematic analytical techniques of stylistics ena-
ble interpretative claims to be supported by linguistic evidence.
Finally, it is worth pointing out that there are considerably more ana-
lytical techniques that could be deployed to investigate poem 63 than
we have used here. We have concentrated on a linguistic description of
the text linked to foregrounding theory. This is arguably the basis of
any stylistic analysis. Beyond this, it would be valuable to consider the
cognitive aspects of text comprehension (see, for example, Stockwell
2002; Sandford and Emmott 2012), encompassing the reader’s con-
struction of text worlds during the reading process (Gavins 2007), and
the use of conceptual metaphor (Deignan et al. 2013). Further aspects
of Cummings’s authorial and text style could be investigated using cor-
pus stylistic techniques (see, for example, McIntyre and Walker 2010).
For readers interested in exploring stylistic analysis further, Jeffries and
McIntyre (2010) provides an overview of the state-of-the-art in contem-
porary stylistics while Jeffries and McIntyre (2011) focuses exclusively on
the teaching of stylistics.
Notes
1. Note that we cannot state conclusively that the speaker is male since there
is no textual evidence for this. However, our schematic assumptions make
it likely that we will imagine the speaker to be a man, since ‘darling’ is per-
haps more likely to be used by a male to a female (of course, this is only an
assumption; note that we could test this hypothesis by concordancing the
word ‘darling’ in a corpus of spoken English). There is also a tendency for
readers to assume that the persona in a poem and the poet are one and the
same. Because we know that the writer of the poem is male, it is likely that
we will suppose the persona to be male too.
References
Blackmur, R.P. 1954. Language as Gesture: Essays in Poetry. London: George
Allen & Unwin Ltd.
Cummings, E.E. 1964. 73 Poems. London: Faber and Faber.
Deignan, A., J. Littlemore, and E. Semino. 2013. Figurative Language, Genre
and Register. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
172 D. McINTYRE AND L. JEFFRIES
Author Biographies
Dan McIntyre is Professor of English Language and Linguistics at the
University of Huddersfield, UK. He is interested in corpus stylistics (on which he
is currently writing a book for Edinburgh University Press) and in the historical
development of style. He is editor of Language and Literature (Sage), the jour-
nal of the international Poetics and Linguistics Association. With Lesley Jeffries
he wrote Stylistics (Cambridge University Press, 2010) and edited the Teaching
the New English volume on Teaching Stylistics (Palgrave, 2011).
Simon Dentith
S. Dentith (*)
University of Reading, Reading, UK
e-mail: Ben.Knights@tees.ac.uk
the question ‘well, what do you think of this, then?’3 If historicist ques-
tions are, from my starting presumption, bound to present themselves
even from such an unpromising start, it is fair to say that they often
remain implicit, and are likely to manifest themselves with just the level
of untutored generalisation as appears even when more tutored efforts
at historical teaching have been made. My defence remains that at least
this way students will have encountered and learnt something real, in
being required to concentrate on this particular web and to test wider
period characterisations against it. But the inadequacies of such a strategy
in the long run are certainly apparent, in the evident difficulty in moving
beyond the specific and ad hoc to any wider sense of significance.
The truth is that students will never get to a more satisfactory histori-
cist vocabulary unless they are led there. To do this requires particular
teaching strategies; here are some descriptions of what are widespread
pedagogic approaches, with some indications of their strengths and
weakness.
The first is perhaps the simplest: requiring students to read a history
textbook on the relevant period and assuming that will at least do some-
thing to fill in the gaps in their knowledge and prevent the most egre-
gious errors. On the principle of ‘the more you know, the better’, this
is surely uncontroversial, and indeed my facetious formula could readily
be given a more respectable hermeneutic colouring by being extended
to read ‘the more you know, the better position you are in to learn
more’. But the inadequacies of this as a sufficient strategy are also appar-
ent, above all in encouraging students to assume that there is something
called ‘history’, described in history books, and that literary texts can be
measured up against it.
A brief digression on the pedagogies of History and English may be
permitted here. Both are interpretative disciplines, working with the same
distinction between ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ sources. Clearly enough,
the potential extent of primary sources for historians is vastly greater than
it is for literary scholars, at least those of the latter who confine them-
selves to the contested category of ‘literature’. And in a certain version
of History, certainly in this country, the primacy of primary sources is
repeatedly emphasised; at least in one way of describing the discipline,
History is an inherently open and developing subject because current
orthodoxies are always likely to be challenged by new discoveries in the
archives or new ways of studying and sifting them. But curiously enough,
in my experience the pedagogy of History does not reflect this; the typical
11 TEACHING HISTORICALLY: SOME LIMITS TO HISTORICIST TEACHING 177
History class consists of a group of students who have read more or less
of a prescribed reading list of secondary sources, and a class leader who
has read them all. Sir therefore knows best. By contrast, English as a dis-
cipline scarcely expects to make new discoveries in the archive, though
these are always possible and exciting when they occur, and it is even pos-
sible, given the apparent digitisation of everything, to incorporate archi-
val study in the classroom. Moreover, English has long acknowledged
the centrality, to put it no more strongly, of the various interpretative
strategies, theoretical paradigms, and interpretative communities which
make up the subject. While these are indeed explicitly taught in most
departments, the default class in English remains the study of the ‘pri-
mary sources’, that is, of the original writing itself, however powerfully
that may be framed. This remains the discipline’s unique advantage, and
part of the source of its continuing attraction: however naïve it may be to
say so, however it ignores the hidden and not-so-hidden power dynamics
of the seminar room, English is a discipline in which all readers are pre-
sumed to be equal before the text, and therefore have as much right to
contribute to discussion as everyone else.
This seems to me to be a valuable pedagogic tradition, and any move
towards a more historicist mode of teaching should do nothing to
threaten it. It is partly in this spirit, then, and partly from a more par-
ticularly New Historicist inclination, that I describe another historicising
strategy, doubtless also one that has been practiced widely. It is simply
to place literary texts alongside other primary sources more or less con-
temporary with it. Such a tactic addresses the sense of historical alterity
felt by readers as they read texts from the past, by seeking to actualise
the values and attitudes that they intuit from their reading; it plays to
the strengths of English as a discipline as providing more materials for
interpretation; and it begins to allow some of the discursive actualities in
which all texts are embedded to become visible. Moreover, some of the
practical difficulties of making non-canonical material available have now
been solved by the internet and, indeed, by the Norton Anthology.
A familiar example suggests itself: Jane Eyre and the woman question.
Here is one of the famous paragraphs from Chap. 12:
rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are
supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they
need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their
brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagna-
tion, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more
privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves
to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and
embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them,
if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced neces-
sary for their sex.4
[B]ut in the case of women, a hot-house and stove cultivation has always
been carried on of some of the capabilities of their nature, for the benefit
and pleasure of their masters. Then . . . certain products of the general
vital force sprout luxuriantly and under this active nurture and watering,
while other shoots from the same root, which are left outside in wintry air,
with ice purposely heaped all around them, have a stunted growth, and
some are burnt off with fire and disappear.5
“Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak
and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear.”
I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of endur-
ance; and still less could I understand or sympathize with the forbearance
she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered
things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I
wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply: like Felix, I put it off to
a more convenient season. (88)
About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
11 TEACHING HISTORICALLY: SOME LIMITS TO HISTORICIST TEACHING 181
better activated when placed in that diachronic series than when it is con-
signed to the early nineteenth-century archive.
While it is possible to imagine such a ‘historicist’ class on Mansfield
Park—a class, that is, that sought to place it in a diachronic rather than
a synchronic series—it would scarcely fit in the standard period-based or
survey style course that remains the backbone of most English syllabi.
It would be more likely to occur in a smaller, specialist course, perhaps
on the ‘courtship novel’ from the eighteenth century to the present.
Indeed, such a course would not itself conform to the standard contem-
porary understanding of historicism. It would nevertheless have more
potential to unsettle contemporary readers than the standard historicist
model.
Which leads to the large question with which I wish to conclude:
what, after all, is the point of historicism? Why would we wish to lead
our students to ways of thinking and understanding the literature of the
past which emphasises its immersion in, and emergence from, histori-
cally bounded sets of social and cultural circumstances? Gadamer, from
a context well outside the Anglo-American debates about historicism and
humanism, the New Historicism and cultural materialism, formulates the
question trenchantly, in a passage which follows on from the anti-histori-
cist assertion with which I began this essay:
‘Having nothing to say about it, he just said it’—a worrying phrase for
a pedagogic practice designed to alert students to the particular force of
writing from the past.
Nevertheless, I think it is possible to defend the practice of concen-
trating on especially powerful passages in a seminar, even including the
practice of reading them aloud. Here is one good bit, relevant to that
earlier discussion of Charlotte Brontë’s ‘doctrine of endurance’. It comes
from Villette (1853), and is an account of her life in the school in Villette
itself:
I did long, achingly, then and for four-and-twenty hours afterwards, for
something to fetch me out of my present existence, and lead me upwards
and onwards. This longing, and all of a similar kind, it was necessary to
knock on the head; which I did, figuratively, after the manner of Jael to
Sisera, driving a nail through their temples. Unlike Sisera, they did not die:
they were but transiently stunned, and at intervals would turn on the nail
with a rebellious wrench: then did the temples bleed, and the brain thrill
to its core.11
Notes
1. Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, second revised edition, trans-
lation revised by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall (New York:
Continuum, 2003), 303 (Gadamer 2003).
11 TEACHING HISTORICALLY: SOME LIMITS TO HISTORICIST TEACHING 187
Further Reading
Austen, Jane. 1975. Mansfield Park, ed. Tony Tanner, 41. Penguin: Harmondsworth.
Barthes, Roland. 1974. Théorie du Texte. Encyclopedia Universalis. Paris:
Encyclope[acute]die universalis.
188 S. Dentith
Brontë, Charlotte. 1973 [1847]. Jane Eyre, ed. Q.D. Leavis, 141. Harmondsworth:
Penguin.
Brontë, Charlotte. 1974 [1853]. Villette, 96. London: Everyman’s Library.
Davies, Tony. 1982. Common Sense and Critical Practice: Teaching Literature.
In Re-reading English, ed. Peter Widdowson, 32–43. London: Methuen.
Eagleton, Terry. 2001. The Gatekeeper: A Memoir, 142. London: Allen Lane,
The Penguin Press.
Gadamer, Hans-Georg. 2003. Truth and Method. 2nd rev. ed., trans. rev. by Joel
Weinsheimer, and Donald G. Marshall, 303. New York: Continuum.
Harrison, Tony. 1987. Selected Poems, 2nd ed, 122. London: Penguin Books.
Joyce, Simon. 2007. The Victorians in the Rearview Mirror. Athens: Ohio
University Press.
Kaplan, Cora. 2007. Victoriana: Histories, Fictions, Criticism. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press.
Mill, John Stuart. 1977. The Subjection of Women. In The Rights of Woman and
John Stuart Mill, The Subjection of Women, ed. Mary Wollstonecraft, 238–239.
London: Everyman’s Library.
Mousley, Andy. 2013. Literature and the Human: Criticism, Theory, Practice.
Abingdon: Routledge.
Schleiermacher, Friedrich. 1998. Hermeneutics and Criticism and Other
Writings, trans. and ed. Andrew Bowie. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Sweet, Matthew. 2001. Inventing the Victorians. London: Faber and Faber.
Author Biography
Until his recent death, Simon Dentith was Professor of English at the
University of Reading, UK. He wrote widely on nineteenth- and twentieth-
century literature. He was the author of Epic and Empire in Nineteenth-Century
Britain (Cambridge University Press, 2006), and, most recently Nineteenth-
Century British Literature Then and Now: Reading with Hindsight (Ashgate,
2014).
CHAPTER 12
Greg Garrard
Decades earlier, when horses were less plentiful in cities, there was a
smooth-functioning market for manure, with farmers buying it to truck off
(via horse, of course) to their fields. But as the urban equine population
G. Garrard (*)
Faculty of Creative and Critical Studies, University of British Columbia,
Okanagan Campus CCS 391, 3333 University Way, Kelowna, BC V1V 1V7,
Canada
e-mail: greg.garrard@ubc.ca
exploded, there was a massive glut. In vacant lots, horse manure was piled
as high as sixty feet. It lined city streets like banks of snow. In the summer-
time, it stank to the heavens; when the rains came, a soupy stream of horse
manure flooded the crosswalks and seeped into people’s basements. Today,
when you admire old New York brownstones and their elegant stoops, ris-
ing from street level to the second-story parlor, keep in mind that this was
a design necessity, allowing a homeowner to rise above the sea of horse
manure. (2010: 9)
canard (Peterson et al. 2008). Nevertheless, Ridley finds that the same
projections of economic growth that make CO2 emissions alarming also
make its impacts far less worrying, because if the global economy and its
concomitant emissions grow as expected, there will also be more money
available for mitigation, adaptation, and innovation:
Even allowing for the hundreds of millions who still live in abject poverty,
disease and want, this generation of human beings has access to more calo-
ries, watts, lumen-hours, square feet, gigabytes, megahertz, light-years,
nanometres, bushels per acre, miles per gallon, food miles, and of course
dollars than any that went before. They have more Velcro, vaccines, vita-
mins, shoes, singers, soap operas, mango slicers, sexual partners, tennis
rackets, guided missiles and anything else they could even imagine need-
ing. (loc.179)
The obvious rejoinder to Kolbert is that the cognitive, social, and eco-
nomic implications, to say nothing of the technological capabilities, of
the iPhone in my pocket are beyond anything imagined in the science
fiction of my youth. (I thought Star Trek communicators would be cool;
no one suspected they would play music, take photos, plan journeys, and
locate recipes.) As Ridley observes, ‘When asked at the Chicago World
Fair in 1893 which invention would have a big impact in the twentieth
century, nobody mentioned the automobile, let alone the mobile phone’
(loc.346). Nevertheless, Kolbert confidently aligns herself with Al Gore
in asserting that dramatically reducing our greenhouse gas emissions
‘would mean changing the way we eat, shop, manufacture, and get
around, and, ultimately, how we see ourselves’. No short cuts, no fixes.
much of what has gone wrong with the world is the result of education
that alienates us from life in the name of human domination, fragments
instead of unifies, overemphasizes success and careers, separates feeling
from intellect and the practical from the theoretical, and unleashes on the
world minds ignorant of their own ignorance. (loc.248)
The amount of oil left, the food-growing capacity of the world’s farm-
land, even the regenerative capacity of the biosphere – these are not fixed
numbers; they are dynamic variables produced by a constant negotiation
between human ingenuity and natural constraints. (loc.4418)
I would add to this list of analytical and academic things, practical things
necessary to the art of living well in a place: growing food; building shel-
ter; using solar energy; and a knowledge of local soils, flora, fauna, and the
local watershed. (loc.220)
Not only is risk theorists’ exploration of the ways cultural worldviews and
institutions shape risk perceptions fundamental background knowledge for
anyone interested in the forms that environmental art and writing have
taken at different historical moments and in various cultural communities,
but inversely, literary critics’ detailed analyses of cultural practices stand to
enrich and expand the body of data that an interdisciplinary risk theory can
build on. (Heise 2008: 138)
A Practice of Emergency
My suspicion is that unprecedented ecopedagogies are already being
widely practised, but are not yet articulated in terms appropriate to a
humanistic discipline. By contrast, in an interview on contemporary eco-
poetics, Jonathan Skinner observes:
12 TOWARDS AN UNPRECEDENTED ECOCRITICAL PEDAGOGY 199
I worry about letting crisis define ecopoetics; it has defined the environ-
mental movement for nearly half a century, and ultimately has limited
the kind of response needed over the long term—an everyday practice of
responsibility to the earth. I am okay with calling it a practice of emer-
gency, if by that we mean to include the emergence of new forms of life.
(Hume 2012: 756)
Environmental slogans urge us to ‘eat less meat and help save the planet’,
or they follow horrifying predictions of climate chaos with injunctions, no
less solemn, not to leave electrical appliances on standby or overfill the ket-
tle. Such language would have seemed surreal or absurd to an earlier gen-
eration and enacts a bizarre derangement of scales, collapsing the trivial
and the catastrophic into each other. (Clark 2011: 136)
that prevails among politicians and business leaders construct higher edu-
cation as urgent and instrumentalised, leading to sustainability for the
former and individual employment in a competitive knowledge economy
for the latter. The countercultural claim of English Literature, on the
other hand, lies in its defiant exteriority (variously contested but never
quite eliminated) to such prescriptions. The key anti-reductive practice of
English, namely slow, close reading, is a meditative, mindful art, accord-
ing to Timothy Morton, that ‘make[s] deconstruction experiential’ by
suspending both cynicism and certitude:
cranes might be having a bit of trouble – and why any attempt to deal with
climate change will mean something that looks very different from envi-
ronmentalism as we’ve known it. (Nordhaus and Shellenberger 2007: cited
128–129)
Note
1. UNESCO’s Decade of Education for Sustainable Development has run
from 2005 to 2014. In the UK, at least, it has made very little impression.
References
Buell, F. 2003. From Apocalypse to Way of Life: Environmental Crisis in the
American Century, Kindle ed. New York: Routledge.
Clark, T. 2011. The Cambridge Introduction to Literature and the Environment,
Kindle ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Garrard, G. 2007. Ecocriticism and Education for Sustainability. Pedagogy
7: 359–383.
Garrard, G. 2010. Problems and Prospects in Ecocritical Pedagogy. Environmental
Education Research 16: 233–245.
Garrard, G. 2011. Ecocriticism. Abingdon: Routledge.
Heise, U.K. 2008. Sense of Place and Sense of Planet: The Environmental
Imagination of the Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hume, A. 2012. Imagining Ecopoetics: An Interview with Robert Hass, Brenda
Hillman, Evelyn Reilly, and Jonathan Skinner. Interdisciplinary Studies in
Literature and Environment 19: 751–766.
Kerridge, R. 2012. Ecocriticism and the Mission of ‘English’. In Teaching
Ecocriticism and Green Cultural Studies, ed. G. Garrard. Basingstoke:
Palgrave Macmillan.
Kolbert, E. 2009. Hosed: Is There a Quick Fix for the Planet? [Online]. http://
www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2009/11/16/091116crbo_books_
kolbert?currentPage=1. Accessed 13 Sep 2012.
206 G. Garrard
Kricher, J.C. 2009. The Balance of Nature: Ecology’s Enduring Myth, Kindle ed.
Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Levitt, S.D. and S.J. Dubner. 2010. SuperFreakonomics: Global Cooling, Patriotic
Prostitutes and Why Suicide Bombers Should Buy Life Insurance, Kindle ed.
London: Allen Lane.
Louv, R. 2008. Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit
Disorder. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill.
Morton, T. 2012. Practising Deconstruction in an Age of Ecological Emergency.
In Teaching Ecocriticism and Green Cultural Studies, ed. G. Garrard.
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Murphy, P.D. 1995. Literature, Nature, and Other: Ecofeminist Critiques.
Albany: State University of New York Press.
Nordhaus, T., and M. Shellenberger. 2007. Break Through: From the Death of
Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Orr, D.W. 2004. Earth in Mind: On Education, Environment, and the Human
Prospect, Kindle ed. Washington, DC: Island.
Parham, J. 2006. The Deficiency of “Environmental Capital”: Why Environ-
mentalism Needs a Reflexive Pedagogy. In Ecodidactic Perspectives on English
Language, Literatures and Cultures, ed. S. Mayer and G. Wilson. Trier:
Wissenschaftlicher Verlag.
Peterson, T.C., W.M. Connolley, and J. Fleck. 2008. The Myth of the 1970s
Global Cooling Scientific Consensus. Bulletin of the American Meteorological
Society 89: 1325–1337.
Phillips, D. 2003. The Truth of Ecology: Nature, Culture, and Literature in
America. New York: Oxford University Press.
Ridley, M. 2010. The Rational Optimist: How Prosperity Evolves, Kindle ed.
London: Fourth Estate.
Steffen, W., A. Sanderson, P.D. Tyson, J. Jäger, P.A. Matson, B. Moore Iii,
F. Oldfield, K. Richardson, H.J. Schellnhuber, B.L. Turner Ii, and R.J.
Wasson. 2004. Global Change and the Earth System: A Planet Under Pressure
(Executive Summary). http://www.igbp.net/download/18.1b8ae20512db6
92f2a680007761/. Accessed 27 June 2013.
Thomashow, M. 2002. Bringing the Biosphere Home: Learning to Perceive Global
Environmental Change. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Toadvine, T. 2011. Six Myths of Interdisciplinarity. Thinking Nature [Online],
1. http://thinkingnaturejournal.files.wordpress.com/2011/06/six-mythsby-
tedtoadvine.pdf. Accessed 27 Jan 2013.
Tuana, N. 2008. Viscous Porosity: Witnessing Katrina. In Material Feminisms,
ed. S. Alaimo and S. Hekman. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
12 TOWARDS AN UNPRECEDENTED ECOCRITICAL PEDAGOGY 207
Author Biography
Greg Garrard is the FCCS Sustainability Professor at the University of British
Columbia, a founding member and former chair of the Association for the Study
of Literature and the Environment (UK & Ireland), and a UK National Teaching
Fellow. He is the author of Ecocriticism (Routledge, 2nd edition, 2011) as well
as numerous essays on eco-pedagogy, animal studies, and environmental criti-
cism. He has recently edited Teaching Ecocriticism and Green Cultural Studies
(Palgrave, 2011) and The Oxford Handbook of Ecocriticism (OUP, 2014).
CHAPTER 13
Pamela Knights
“Do you think Peter Rabbit good reading? I would have thought a person
who taught literature was far too grand for it.”
P. Knights (*)
Teesside University, Middlesbrough, UK
e-mail: p.e.knights@dunelm.org.uk
Sameness or Difference?
With children’s literature, one of the most acute forms of such
self-
questioning is comparative: does the subject make any distinctive
demands of us, our students, or of our classroom practice? Although
usually wishing to reassure prospective students (or a head of depart-
ment) about what might seem a novel, and possibly daunting, enterprise,
with children’s literature we might always feel some tension: do we want
to naturalise our subject, as fitting seamlessly with other literary studies,
or rather decide to emphasise some likely sense of divergence? This is not
just a matter of subject politics, though these bear on any decision. At
its crudest, underlining difference and difficulty—signalling that, in Peter
Hunt’s words, reading children’s books will be ‘twice as hard’—serves
both to warn off any student seeking short texts and a lighter workload,
as well as beating the bounds of academic status; but, more crucially, it
also significantly shapes how we and our students work together.
‘Do you have to read in a different way?’—Asked this question, from
the position of a student about to study children’s literature, Hunt in
the interview above responds at some length. He begins by emphasis-
ing ‘one major adjustment’ that makes children’s books ‘different’: that
‘they have in them the idea of the child’ (‘some concept of childhood or
childishness, or whatever’), held by ‘the writer or the publisher, or who-
ever, involved in the book’. The reader will, he suggests, ‘in a sense’ be
looking for that element.6 As every essay in this volume suggests, all lit-
erary study calls for learning ‘to read in a different way’. For students still
adapting to the formal role of ‘being an English student’, any trepida-
tion about opting for children’s literature might turn, at least initially, on
matters of skills and knowledge. In literary studies, students do not often
encounter topics grouped under putative readership, let alone framed
as a kind of elusive quest. Will they have to cast aside newly acquired
analytical strategies, or abandon theory, to navigate the unknown depths
of language acquisition, child psychology, the history of education, or
the material cultures of publishing? If they have spotted picture books
on your syllabus, will they worry about their lack in expertise in the
finer points of art criticism? Participants coming into our groups from
other departments might already be at home in some of this territory—
and might, indeed, have been drawn to children’s literature as a natural
extension of their major discipline. But will they be disadvantaged with-
out the solid literary competence of the English students?
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 213
doing four things, not two things. You’re reading it for yourself; but
are you reading the book for yourself as an adult or are you reading as
a child? – That is, are you responding to the implied readership of the
book – the book implies a child reader: do you go along with that, or do
you react against it?…And then you might be reading it on behalf of a
child – you know, I’m making a judgement about it – so that’s another
way of reading it; and of course that will also depend on how you judge
what a child is.
reading of any specific text.9 As children’s books are ever more vigorously
marketed, what do we even ‘count’ as a text? As when teaching widely
read ‘classic’ literature (Pride and Prejudice or Frankenstein, for example),
we have to decide whether, or how far, we engage with adaptation the-
ories or cultural studies, or even begin to acknowledge a vast legacy of
cross-media retellings and repackagings. Where, for instance, do we draw
the limits, within a literary programme, around Peter Rabbit’s plethora of
textual recastings and consumable transformations, as traced at its century
by Margaret Mackey?10 Contemplating the myriad artefacts now inhabited
by Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar (1969), do we include toys,
games, height charts, lunch bags, or duvet sets in our seminars on ‘read-
ing’ children’s picture books? As in all English teaching, no decision can
possibly address every complication; and in the confines of space likely to
be allotted to studying children’s literature, we might hope, at best, to
spark awareness. Such worries, even as I have sketched them here, can-
not be easily dismissed: they are part of the composition of the subject,
imprinted throughout its inter- and trans-disciplinary evolution.
Working with ‘Resistances’
In placing the ‘child’s’ book, or children’s version, alongside the ‘adult’
classic, we might seem to be risking the appearance of setting up an
exercise in comparative status. (Hunt’s evocation of the ‘Must be sim-
pleminded’ viewpoint is paralleled in the figures of degeneration, reduc-
tion, and diminution that have haunted accounts of retellings, and in the
images of ‘moral pap for the young’,15 in Louisa May Alcott’s phrase,
that represent fictions for children as ‘bland, simple, homogenized’ nurs-
ery fare.16) Such an exercise does not, however, have to lead (in the way
of some old-style ‘Practical Criticism’) to a round of self-congratulation
on having now discerned the relative superiority of the ‘classic’ text.
Routine integration offers one way of challenging the unhelpful (teach-
ing-related) metaphors of ‘spoon-feeding’, and of dispelling any remain-
ing preconceptions.
218 P. Knights
‘Reading the text against itself’ is often a gift for a student debate: a
group can divide into sections, or work in pairs, to pursue one particular
line, and gather textual evidence, before bringing their observations of
detail into a general forum; and the anchor in an aspect of children’s lit-
erature theory can help to defamiliarise and distance a text where analysis
might be otherwise be clouded by fond early memories.
Ideas of ‘doubleness’, underpinning a variety of children’s literature
analytical frames, may be useful, too, in a wide range of teaching con-
texts. There is no need to bombard students with specialist theory, but
we can make occasions to follow through any questions, or to tweak
inquiry, to open up ‘cracks’ in easy surface readings. Even brief refer-
ence to scholarly discussions of the crossover nature of texts—between
adult/child, high/popular art, the ‘dual’ voice, the tensions between vis-
ual and verbal semiotics in picture book narratives—gives students access
to a more extensive repertoire of investigative critical tools. While stu-
dents might be at home speaking about theme, they might need more
encouragement to reflect on other matters—such as style, register and
address, form and structure, affect, or spatiality. To remain with examples
of ‘auxiliary texts’ already mentioned: for students the strange extremes
of Rossetti’s Speaking Likenesses sharpen the focus on the elusiveness of
her poems (some, like ‘Goblin Market’, that might have been read, first,
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 219
in anthologies for the young). While we might still hear the dismissive,
‘Aren’t we reading too much in?’, we also give room for group members
themselves to raise more searching questions. Even the briefest pause can
stimulate comment. Trying, informally (with a neighbouring student), to
supply a line or two of verse with an imagined illustration or caption, for
instance, can intensify discussion: Are these verses transparent, or evasive?
What of the voice: coy and teasing, or covertly suggestive? How many
voices? Adult’s or child’s? How might an actor mark up a poem for read-
ing aloud? Such gaps, for interpretation, self-censorship, and silences,
help to provoke thought about projections of cultural ideals, or what
may and may not be said.
The bearing upon interpretation, too, of the provenance of texts can
sometimes seem an irrelevance to students, but the availability of online
facsimiles now enables contact with the original formats and contexts—
as serials, or magazine fillers, with illustrations or advertisements, and
alongside letters, articles and editorial comment. So, Kate Chopin’s chil-
dren’s magazine stories (alongside her adult writings in popular publica-
tions) can lead students into thinking about the politics of culture and
the power of sentiment. Taking up the resonances of even a final sen-
tence (its sugar and its steel) animates how a text might speak within and
against a genteel tradition; and of how similar currents operate in their
broader late nineteenth-century readings. Talking about a novel pub-
lished for family groups, such as Alcott’s Little Women, brings into the
foreground such matters of reticence, indirection, and social approval at
the centre of so many critical readings of children’s and women’s narra-
tives, kindled particularly by second-wave feminist approaches in 1980s.
Again, even beginning with a couple of specific small details can spark
engagement. In American Literature, considering language, to take a
single example, students might start with Alcott’s own disapproval of
Twain’s voicing of Huck Finn (‘If Mr. Clemens cannot think of some-
thing better to tell our pure-minded lads and lasses he had best stop
writing for them’18); or, in 1905, the Brooklyn Public Library’s removal
of Huck from the juvenile division (reportedly on the grounds that
‘Huck was a deceitful boy who said “sweat” when he should have said
“perspiration”’19). They might go on to identify similarly direct words,
or passages (in Alcott’s texts, too) that figure strong words as material
objects. Where each student can bring an item of evidence to the table
(a screenshot from a digital search, or a single word, or textual frag-
ment, written down on an individual piece of paper), debates are likely
220 P. Knights
to become more precise and more vigorous. From matters of literary
censorship, to the constraints of a ‘feminine’ sensibility, or the nature
of a ‘new’ vision or language—questions about the cultural panorama
open out from the challenge of looking in close-up at a few words ‘fit for
children’.
Y/A texts), for our new students, and in particular any unfamiliar with,
nervous about, or even hostile to literary theory, such shifts offer open-
ing points to ways of thinking:
the group has access to a potentially fascinating seam of its own discur-
sive history.29
In this kind of exercise, our role is to draw on, but disrupt, the
familiar. As one mode of estrangement, for instance, at a safe distance
from any books close to the heart, we might choose to start with the
subject of childhood. Beginning with a few locally gathered images
(a school crossing sign, an ‘Under-25?’ ID notice, a height restriction
on a playground ride, a ‘PG’ viewing code) is one way of presenting
students directly with the confused, and often conflicting, social and
legal constructions of childhood in our immediate cultural environ-
ment. Inviting small groups to think of (or, with advance preparation,
collect) others, and, together, to try to ‘place’ themselves in relation to
‘signs of childhood’ precipitates negotiation with essentialist, universal-
ised myths of ‘the child’ and lays the ground for engaged textual analy-
sis. Even in a literature class, some awareness of Childhood Studies as a
complex discipline helps, from early on, to unsettle assumptions about
‘the child reader’, or simplified perceptions of characters, narrative voices
and ‘functions’, and to open up, as Trites enjoins, the tangled issues of
liminality, power and powerlessness, and adult/child/textual relations.30
We might, however, prefer to begin with literary perspectives, and indi-
vidual students’ reading. In a class such as the notional group instanced
above, even a short time spent first with immediate neighbours on try-
ing to find any connections between each other’s childhood books, can
draw out co-ordinates and divergences, and give students their chance to
articulate conceptual problems. (Capturing overlaps in a rough set of dia-
grams gives a set of easily shareable infograms that will continue to spark
questions, even if simply pinned up without additional explication, and
perhaps be collected in, to bring back to the room in a later seminar.)
Even with no actual childhood texts in front of them, memories of titles,
genres, vivid scenes, or of the scene of reading (with an adult? alone?), or
of the materiality of the book itself, may prompt suggestions before the
teacher sets the agenda.
A recollection, for example, of Judy Blume’s groundbreaking Forever
(1975), often read as a pre-teen, with the page opening at ‘that bit’,
can set going queries about cultural, generational, national, gendered,
or other, forms of relativism, or of issues of implied readership and its
governance, that will contribute to deliberations throughout the mod-
ule. In this particular instance, British and US students in my group,
with memories of furtive sharings of Blume’s pioneering passages were
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 227
galvanised to discover from our two visitors from the Netherlands that
such sexual taboos played no part in the raising of young children: even
very young Dutch readers were accustomed to unembarrassed sexual
openness. The visitors were intrigued, in turn, that for many of their
fellow students Blume’s explicitness was their doorway to sex educa-
tion.31 In another seminar, the group were fascinated by a fellow stu-
dent’s memories of Jill Barklem’s Brambly Hedge books, encountered as
a young child in India and pored over for their insights into British life.
Here, the British students’ surprise echoed Nodelman’s observation, that
his Canadian students would discuss a Beatrix Potter story without refer-
ence to national origin.32 Literary students can sometimes be reluctant in
general to take up politicised, historical, readings; and perhaps even more
so when we invite them to apply these to founding books of childhood).
Stimulated by one of their peers, such resistance can rapidly diminish.
With this group, their colleague’s reflections on the series’ constructions
of the British class system, rapidly engaged responses beyond the sighs at
the ‘cuteness factor’, and set going strands of interest (into the effects of
‘charm’, animal characters, picturebook semiotics) that fed into discus-
sions throughout the module.
Slanting an ‘introduction’ in such ways can remain low-key, low-
tech, and impromptu; but with a little more structure, such moments
can be developed, often shaping inquiries that students go on to pur-
sue in relation to texts and topics later in the module, or to research for
their assignments. One very simple variant gives a little more weight
to reading histories. As preparation before the seminars begin, I have,
for instance, asked students to write from memory about a book read
in childhood, then to return to it, and jot down fresh impressions.
These then become the focus of that first shared task with their seminar
neighbours. For many students, the shock of return brings out, above
all, ideological dislocations between the first (childhood) reading and a
socialised, conscious, adult reprise. Giving individuals the chance to start
their own process of re/visioning avoids making a group feeling they (or
well-known books) are somehow under attack (an effect, I suspect, of
some of my own mini-scene-setting introductory talks); and their exam-
ples are often, in consequence, far more incisive and specific.33 For some
students, this kind of exercise kindles an interest in their own earlier
reading, of a kind legitimised, and offered interesting models and sup-
plementary analytical tools, by the burgeoning field of auto-ethnography
and interests in positionality.34
228 P. Knights
This is much more hands on and interactive and a better way of learning
than seminars that are just big discussions. If you learn like that you are
really getting involved with the text, rather than sitting there and not really
paying attention.35
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 229
pedagogical advantage is that this deflects some of the panic that can
set in at the outset of a seminar, where students believe they are being
asked to ‘interpret’ a text (to guess at ‘hidden meanings’, held back by
an omniscient teacher); and, with children’s literature, we perhaps also
allay students’ initial worries that they might look ‘stupid’ if they ven-
ture complex ideas about apparently ‘easy’ or ‘transparent’ texts. We also
avoid the fate of some opening plenaries: those where the first contrib-
utor succeeds only in blotting out fellow students’ potential responses,
and running debate into the ground. (When someone with an air of
well-intentioned finality has declared that Skellig is ‘about “the Rational
versus the Spiritual”’, or ‘A troubled child’, how do you go on from
there?)
An activity can be straightforward, and the instruction fairly open.
With Skellig we might, for example, invite students each to select and
write down (on separate cards, sticky ‘Post-Its’, or small strips of paper)
three fragments of text: a detail that has stayed in the mind, whether a
phrase, snatch of dialogue, or a reference to a seemingly insignificant
material object. After giving time for each to make quick jottings on how
much of the whole narrative their fragment would ‘hold’, if this were
all that survived some notional global disaster, small groups pool their
items, discard the equivalent of one item each, and arrange the remain-
der to compose as wide a picture as possible of the narrative canvas as lit
by their combined readings. Such an exercise serves two main purposes:
it gives every student a chance to identify threads, no matter how insub-
stantial, that capture their own immediate sense of what matters in the
text, what will be worth pursuing; and it compels attention, by building
meanings outwards, metonymically, from specific textual detail. Delaying
a move into plenary until after groups have briefly headlined what has
emerged as their main observations often opens up more energetic criti-
cal analysis than if students simply zone in on a major ‘theme’, or, as a
whole class, wait for the teacher to direct them to an ‘issue’. We are likely
to become more engaged, and often more searching and original, if we
have found ourselves teased, in Skellig, by Almond’s rhythms, ‘Falconer
Road’, or the takeaway menu (with its defamiliarised, almost hieratic
numerology) than if we have hurtled straight into trying to ‘decode’ the
mysterious stranger. In the processes of selection, pooling, and discard-
ing in this exercise, individuals often become quite possessive and heated
about particular ‘items’—whether a pigeon’s bone, or a bottle of brown
ale—and debate may focus subsequently on the resistances of texts, the
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 231
It really does help you to learn how to use the library and online resources
a lot more – definitely. When I’m doing something, say, for Victorians, I
just go to the Victorian section and sort of pick the whole shelf of Dickens,
and I can then take it home with me.49
Conclusion
To a casual eye, there might seem to be little difference between my
own seminar series as I first conceived it, and my practices as it began
to evolve. As always, any pedagogic choice (here moving away from a
version of a ‘literary landmarks’ approach) brings some inevitable losses:
while appreciating the new, some students might feel short-changed in
terms of ‘brand recognition’. No matter how far we open out discussion,
a few might still hanker for an official stamp on the familiar (named as
‘set book’, with designated seminar). So, a children’s literature bibliog-
raphy without some prominent ‘big names’ may draw similar expressions
of regret.54 As teachers, when we spend less time in plenary, and more in
‘workshop’ mode, we might also worry about not being able personally
to share in every conversation or judgement. In some seminars, we find
ourselves having to step back from one often-recommended pedagogic
role—to draw together threads, recap and sum up; in others, we might
feel a loss of one real pleasure, that of hearing and responding to all the
details. But as we ‘let go’, opening seminars outwards, we are as likely
to find that a different distribution of energies can bring ample com-
pensation. Once we are prepared to live with feelings of being adrift—
we might hope, eventually, to spark that jolt of discovery that makes all
effort worthwhile: ‘It’s eye-opening!’; ‘Different!’; ‘Expanded my hori-
zons’; ‘You have to think independently!’; ‘Learned so much!’55
Shaping the narrative arc of a learning programme to give the best
chance of engaging a group of (as yet unknown) students is a challenge
in any area of English teaching. Planning a new topic, a teacher looks
forward to the point where the list of projected learning outcomes and
disciplinary benchmarks—independence of approach, breadth and depth
of subject knowledge, first-hand research, awareness of audience and
genre conventions, and so forth—will be brought alive in the work of
interested individuals. Identifying such signs of achievement as we evalu-
ate the end-of-semester work remains, even in the most heavily central-
ised system, one of the personal job satisfactions of teaching. If we are
offering Children’s Literature, the prospects are good: we can be con-
fident that we shall recruit motivated students, often in overwhelming
13 OPENING UP THE SEMINAR: CHILDREN’S LITERATURE, A CASE STUDY 237
numbers, excited at the chance to pursue a subject still, even now, after
half a century of recognition in higher education, perceived as something
‘different’. While a few might be seeking a perceived retreat from ‘dif-
ficult’ subject matter, most will arrive at our first seminar well informed,
and many, indeed, with our academic targets already strongly in evi-
dence. Offering dedicated academic spaces for developing such interest
clearly promises immense reward. Students’ enthusiasm will make discus-
sions memorable, and might well generate some of the best, and (often)
most original, work we are likely ever to see: ‘It was wonderful to have
such freedom to learn what I wanted to learn’.
Notes
1. The question is asked by a young character, 11-year-old Pauline Fossil,
who will shortly become Dr Jakes’s pupil; Noel Streatfeild, Ballet Shoes
(1936; Harmondsworth: Puffin, 1949), 32 (Streatfeild 1949 [1936]).
2. For a more detailed account of the subject’s founding history and its
complications, see Pamela Knights, ‘Teaching Children’s Literature in
Higher Education’, International Companion Encyclopedia of Children’s
Literature, ed. Peter Hunt, 2nd ed. Vol. 2 (Abingdon and New York:
Routledge, 2004), 780–801 (Knights 2004); and for fuller attention to
specialised areas of the subject, along with appendixes of sample under-
graduate syllabi, resources, and bibliography, see Charles Butler, ed.
Teaching Children’s Fiction, Teaching the New English (Basingstoke and
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006) (Butler 2006). For teaching con-
texts, see particularly Butler, ‘Introduction’ (1–5), Roderick McGillis,
‘Looking in the Mirror: Pedagogy, Theory, and Children’s Literature’
(85–105), Pat Pinsent et al. ‘Children’s Literature at Postgraduate Level
in the United Kingdom’ (172–180), and Richard Flynn, ‘Children’s
Literature at Postgraduate Level in the United States’ (181–188). For
an illuminating, data-based snapshot of the UK scene, and the subject’s
place in relation to more general patterns of English teaching in the first
decade of this century, see Alexandra Cronberg and Jane Gawthrope,
Survey of the English Curriculum and Teaching in UK Higher Education.
English (Egham: English Subject Centre, 2010), (Cronberg and
Gawthrope 2010) Report Ser. 19.
3. Response to question 5. (See also, questions 3, 4, and 8, for Hunt’s com-
ments on academic study of children’s literature). Peter Hunt, inter-
viewed by George Miller, ‘An Introduction to Children’s Literature
(Audio Guide)’, Podularity: Authors Talking about Books, Writing,
Politics, and More (Oxford World’s Classics Audio Guides), 26 January
238 P. Knights
totally interactive with other members of the group and with the seminar
leader.… It has felt so easy to learn because the teaching methods have
been creative and appealing’; ‘Everyone talks!’; ‘Conversations continue
outside the classroom!’
38. David Almond, Skellig (London: Hodder Children’s Books, 1998)
(Almond 1998). As Skellig is now a staple text in younger classrooms,
suggestions for work with younger readers are widely available online and
may in themselves offer fruitful material for theoretical investigation in
academic study. (I would not, of course, bombard any single text with
every one of the activities mentioned in this section, nor subject every
group to this kind of activity in every seminar.)
39. [Student feedback]: ‘I have thoroughly enjoyed the seminar structure, it is
relaxed and fun, and I have found the ideas discussed permeate into most
of my study.’
40. Almond, Skellig, 119–120.
41. For an influential and still thought-provoking set of readings along these
lines, see Margaret Rustin and Michael Rustin, Narratives of Love and
Loss: Studies in Modern Children’s Fiction [first published 1987], rev. edi-
tion (London: Karnac, 2001). (Rustin and Rustin 2001 [1987]).
42. With Skellig, obvious instances would include the ‘DANGER’ doorway,
the Persephone myth, one of the repeated lines of William Blake, or the
evolution theme, caught even in the name of Michael’s (otherwise unpre-
possessing) classmate ‘Leakey’.
43. See also, Pamela Knights, ‘Only Skin-Deep: Layering the Text’ (2005), in
The MEDAL Casebook.
44. This exercise can extend, if students are interested, into examining ide-
ological function, with the introduction of A.J. Greimas’s semantic
rectangle [also ‘semiotic square’]. See Fredric Jameson, The Political
Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (London: Methuen,
1983), 254–257 (Jameson 1983).
45. Almond, Skellig, 169.
46. For variants, see the material on Skellig in ‘Working with Binaries’; and,
on Gillian Cross’s Wolf, Activities 2 (‘Propp through Props’), and 3
(‘Whose Story? Where is the Story?’) in ‘Reworking the Fairy Tale: Some
Starter Activities’, case studies by Pamela Knights (2007), in The MEDAL
Casebook.
47. Given examples of possible ‘sites’ for investigation—names, metaphors,
intertexts, gaps, incongruities, coincidences—students soon find their
own points where boundaries dissolve and registers unsettle, destabilising
simple generic categories. The terms for this starting point derive from
Tzvetan Todorov, The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary
Genre, trans. Richard Howard (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
244 P. Knights
References
Almond, David. 1998. Skellig. London: Hodder Children’s Books.
Barthes, Roland. 1975. S/Z. Translated by Richard Miller. London: Cape.
Bradford, Clare. 2007. Unsettling Narratives: Postcolonial Readings of Children’s
Literature. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.
Bury, Liz. 2013. Kent University “Penitent” after Belittling Children’s Books.
Guardian. www.theguardian.com. Accessed 2 Dec 2013.
Butler, Charles (ed.). 2006. Teaching Children’s Fiction. Teaching the New
English. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
246 P. Knights
Author Biography
Pamela Knights was until recently a Senior Lecturer in English Studies at
Durham University, UK. A UK National Teaching Fellow, she has written widely
about Edith Wharton (including The Cambridge Introduction to Edith Wharton)
and Kate Chopin, whose short stories she edited for Oxford World’s Classics. An
early proponent of teaching children’s fiction, she was a founding editor of the
journal International Research in Children’s Literature.
Index
A Black studies, 82
Academic tribes, 13 Blogs and blogging, 106, 121, 122,
Adaptation, 116, 136, 191, 214, 217, 144, 235
239 Boundaries, 4, 8, 35, 39, 44, 90, 118,
Advanced Level GCE, 6, 20, 37, 82, 120, 145, 161, 198, 209, 222,
121, 126, 209 243
Allegories (of teaching and learning),
9, 84, 86, 91, 93
Ambiguity, 89, 105, 129, 161, 168, C
202 Climate change, 190, 191, 192, 193,
Argument, norms of, 74 194, 201, 205
Assessment and assessment criteria, Close reading, 10, 13, 88, 134, 135,
101, 104, 105, 106, 110 136, 150, 175, 202, 229
Assignments, 26, 85, 107, 109, 110, Collaboration, 102, 139, 142, 143,
136, 139, 144, 150, 224, 228, 145
231, 234, 245 Contact hours, 22
Audit, 8, 104 Context (historical), 4, 33, 34, 39, 41,
Authenticity, 83, 84, 88, 90, 91, 92, 42, 44, 52, 75, 82, 83, 86, 91,
93, 94, 95 134, 135, 141, 174, 180, 214,
Authority, 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11, 71, 77, 88, 234, 240
94, 95, 200, 220, 223, 234 Coursework, 18, 21, 100, 103, 104,
147
Creative–critical crossover, 41, 47,
B 115, 116, 120, 124
Benchmark Statement, English Subject Creative writing, 2, 4, 13, 59, 70, 79,
(QAA), 13, 100, 111 115, 116, 120, 126, 235
D H
Decentring, 88, 200, 223 Historicism, 74, 174, 179, 182, 183,
Deconstruction, 202 186
Defamiliarisation, 10, 182, 218, 230 Humanities, 1, 22, 54, 73, 74, 76,
Destabilization, 9 118, 134, 135, 138, 140, 141,
Deviations (linguistic), 118, 157, 159 142, 143, 195
Dialogue, 5, 42, 44, 47, 74, 75, 78, Hybrid courses, 133
102, 103, 107, 109, 111, 179,
211, 223, 229, 230
Digital instruments, 142 I
Disciplinary consciousness, 67, 69, 70, Identity (formation of academic), 54
77, 79 Interactive learning methods, 40, 228
Discussion, 6, 19, 20, 24, 27, 39, 42, Interdisciplinarity, 10, 142, 145, 203
44, 52, 63, 70, 84, 86, 88, 133, Interpretation, 5, 33, 44, 73, 74, 75,
162, 174, 190, 215, 220, 228, 128, 135, 150, 166, 180, 219,
237, 239, 241 232
Dissertation, 19, 23, 26, 100, 215 Intertextuality, 180
Doctoral research, 32, 71, 72, 76, 77
L
E Learning journal, 106, 107
Ecological systems, 193 Learning outcomes, 104, 112, 137,
Ecopedagogies, 198 236
Educational development, 68 Lectures, 6, 18, 24, 25, 26, 39, 42,
Environmentalism, 193, 198, 199, 45, 77, 88, 119, 144, 145, 235
200, 204, 205 Lexis, 162, 169
Essay (as form of assessment), 7, 103, Literature
109 as curriculum domain, 9
Examinations (as form of assessment), African American, 82, 83, 84, 85,
103 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93,
94, 95, 96
Caribbean, 9
F children’s, 9, 11, 116, 209, 210,
Feminism, 75, 83, 178, 179 211-225, 229, 230, 232, 235,
‘Freshman English’, 20 236, 240, 245
Index 251
M
Margins (and boundaries), 12, 89 Q
Massive Online Open Courses Quality (of classroom experience), 6,
(MOOCs), 133, 134, 145, 146, 133, 134
147
Marking, 6, 19, 99, 101, 104, 108,
110 R
Mentoring, 25, 144 Reading diaries, 105
Metaphor, 5, 58, 79, 126, 127, 171, Research (as academic priority), 1, 55,
217, 233, 243 140, 204, 232
Modules and modularisation, 20, 23, Research Excellence Framework, 28,
40, 42, 85, 100, 103, 107, 109, 55, 56, 68
119, 120 Resistances, 218, 230, 241
N S
Narrative, 1, 7, 34, 36, 46, 84, 88, 91, Schools (secondary), 20, 22, 32, 116,
92, 95, 116, 118, 121, 124, 126, 135, 209, 210
178, 179, 218, 219, 225, 226, Semantic field, 126, 164, 169
228, 229, 230, 231, 243 Seminar, 5, 26, 42, 102, 120, 128,
National Teaching Fellowship (UK), 152, 174, 177, 185, 214, 224,
58, 59, 63, 245 227, 232, 234, 236
Shame (as inherent in teaching), 9, 51,
57, 64
P Skills, 6, 10, 45, 68, 77, 101, 136,
Phonology, 158, 160, 166, 167 234
Plagiarism, 18, 102, 103, 112, 136 Small group activity, 102, 226, 230,
Plenary discussion, 230, 231, 234, 231
236 Structured tasks (for classes), 39, 139,
Poetry, 24, 36, 46, 107, 122, 125, 224
156, 159, 167, 170, 184 Students, 1, 21, 26, 36, 42, 46, 70,
Portfolios, 137 77, 84, 135, 170, 205, 226, 245
Practical criticism, 3, 217 Study hours, 21, 22
Preparation (of students, for classes), Stylistics (and stylistic analysis), 119,
19, 20, 21, 24, 68, 102, 111, 155, 156, 165, 171
144, 226, 227 Subject Centres (UK), 2, 9
252 Index
T W
Teaching Excellence Framework Workloads, 143
(TEF), 1 Workshops, 6, 119
Teams and teamwork, 68
Theory, literary, 4, 33, 43, 70, 171,
197, 238, 244
Threshold concepts, 14, 44
Transcription, 122, 125, 166
Transition, 8, 32, 77