On Literature and Teaching

  Alan Bennett’s The uncommon reader has the Queen of England visit a moving library, and towards the end of this short novel, Bennett writes: ‘ it occurred to her that reading was, among other things, a muscle and one that she had seemingly developed ’. Like any other muscle, she had developed it by exercising it – by using it repeatedly. Because we learn to read at school, and because we spend so much time reading words (on paper, on screen, on social media, on the street), this ‘exercising’ seems redundant: we’re all constantly flexing that muscle, ergo we’re all pretty good at using it (barring adverse circumstances of course: local, geo-political, educational, cognitive). In fact, we’re so good at it, generally speaking, that we do not really think about the reading we’re doing: we’re not reading the words so much as their meaning. It’s a bit like an instrument: you’re not listening to the tuba, you’re listening to the music played by the tuba – you’re not reading the words,

  I work in an area – Education – where the latest developments in AI technology have had an immediate impact – and yes, the same has happened across the board, I know. Since last year and Chatgpt’s arrival on the world scene, everyone – from pupils to students and teachers – has been using it. By ‘Everyone’ I obviously do not mean literally everyone, but it is clear that will soon be the case. Pupils use it to get their homework done, or pass tests; students ditto ; teachers to prepare lessons, develop material, design tests and have them marked – among many other things. Unsurprisingly, all those people claim that technology is great and helpful – well, they would, wouldn’t they? And to be fair, ‘great’ and ‘helpful’ are reasonable words to use in this case. So that’s not the problem. Equally unsurprisingly, those users will make sure to remind you of two things at all times: AI is not intelligent as we know and understand that word – it’s mindless, really – just a machine.

I said last week that a distinction needs to be made between a Readable text and a Teachable one. Of course, my approach to using fiction in class (which you can read more about here ) puts a premium on developing critical thinking, awareness of the other and, generally speaking, focuses on aspects of citizenship, so those will be my criteria. In that sense, ‘Teachable’ means (but I simply repeat what I wrote earlier) a text that offers guidance and nuances, while leaving space for the reader to co-create the meaning of the text. And it is in that act of co-creation that a mind can flourish – that is, open up. This act of opening up is paramount here, since it really means ‘ Shifting your perspective ’, ‘ Putting yourself in someone else’s shoes ’, ‘ Trying to think like someone else ’, ‘ Trying to understand someone else ’ (among others). Those things require, from the reader, a certain dose of curiosity and willingness of course, something we teachers are here to foster,

  How do you select a text for class? Are there criteria you should follow? Should it be exciting, or topical, well-known, age-based? These questions might at first seem less important than the goals you have with your literature lesson, or the themes you would like to touch upon with your students/pupils, but it actually is a crucial one to consider. A poor text will provide poor support; a poor text will undermine your goals; a poor text will let you down. Now, I hear you say: ‘ What do you mean by a poor text ’? Do you mean ‘poorly written’, or ‘poorly put-together’, or ‘poorly plotted’- anything like that? Well, not necessarily: I’d rather think in terms of ‘teachability’, that is, in terms of how much a text can give you , the teacher, to work with. And in that sense, what is very readable is not necessarily teachable, at least not in the sense that I give to ‘teachable’. Equally – and very importantly – what is full of good intentions and readable might not be that teacha