Short, even very short...but so powerful

 

Short, even very short…but powerful

One constant problem for teachers of literature at secondary schools is to do with preparation: that of the learners as much as that of themselves.

Learners, when asked to read a text in advance, will usually turn up not having done so; or if they have, it was probably just a glance, or a quick read-through, maybe a few minutes only before the lesson started. (To be fair, I’ve know the opposite albeit only rarely, when a student would read the texts so much in advance that they’d sort of forgotten everything about them when lesson-time came round).

We all know the consequences of that non-reading-in-advance problem: what to do in class if no-one’s read the text? Some solutions spring to mind of course, like handling the text then and there when class starts for example. But that often leads to more problems because those texts will usually be too long to be read in class, or will at least take up so much time of said class that there will be a handful of minutes left to discuss them, if that.

What’s the point then, one could ask?

Such a typical situation is then likely to lead to another typical one: the teacher simply resorts to telling the learners what the text is about, how it works and what kind of themes one could find in it. Teacher-led, certainly, but not in the right way I don’t think.

Preparation is also paramount when it comes to teachers: I’ve given examples of how I read texts for class, how I annotate those texts and according to which logic. Why do I do that much work beforehand? Simply because:

a.       Reading closely like that, and drawing links between passages, annotations and my different reactions, I can extract A LOT to talk about because when done that way, the process ends up revealing all hidden (and not so hidden) layers in the text.

b.       More important probably, it gives me material to discuss which might not have been at all at the forefront of what the writer was intending to do…but that is not my problem: the authorial fallacy, despite still being alive and well, remains a fallacy, and all the more so when it comes to using texts in class. What teachers need are themes and topics and ideas, all possible discussion points: what the writer wanted and did is one thing; what the teachers wants and does is another entirely.

c.       Thorough preparation has another advantage: whatever students come up with (in terms of interpretations, ideas etc.), the teachers is likely to have anticipated, or in any case is equipped to deal with, because they know the text inside-out.

d.       That extensive knowledge of the text, unfettered by another fallacy (‘there’s only one meaning to a text’), ends up giving the teachers great flexibility in their responses to students, and make them very adaptable to whichever reaction takes place in class. So that instead of a teacher sticking to their guns and thereby refusing to entertain alternative interpretations to their own, they can ask follow-up questions, ask for textual evidence and link up those remarks with other bits in the text.

e.    And yes: it's a lot of work initially, but it pays off in the long term, including in terms of re-using that text later on!

Fine; this all makes sense…but that doesn’t address the first problem above: if I can’t expect my students to have read the text beforehand, all that preparation will still only lead me to tell them rather than elicit their ideas; it will only still lead me to take charge and not let go: it will only still lead me to impose meaning rather than co-create it. So, as Lenin famously asked: what is to be done?

The answer, my friend, is not in the wind or in the willows; it is to be found in short-stories. Specifically, short short-stories. Stories of 300 words, perhaps 1000 at a maximum depending on your students (their reading levels and habits, their linguistic level etc.). You will probably object that such stories will not exemplify some aspects of literature you think important: narrative arc, character development, architectural complexity of long forms, sustained attention required by longer texts, and others I’m sure. And hey, how could you possibly go beyond one idea if the text is short? How could you possibly address problems of forms, terminology, analysis?

So here’s an example: probably more appropriate for upper-forms even though a careful discussion would probably yield some fruits at a younger age too. This story is by Lydia Davies, not really a favourite of mine to be fair but this one can work (I’ve tried), and you can even go beyond ideas and address literary techniques as well. Here it is:

Ödön von Horváth Out Walking
Ödön von Horváth was once walking in the Bavarian Alps when he discovered, at some distance from the path, the skeleton of a man. The man had evidently been a hiker, since he was still wearing a knapsack. Von Horváth opened the knapsack, which looked almost as good as new. In it, he found a sweater and other clothing; a small bag of what had once been food; a diary; and a picture postcard of the Bavarian Alps, ready to send, that read, "Having a wonderful time."

 

Obviously, if, like many teachers, you’re struggling to ‘teach’ what Irony is, this text could do the trick (even if I find the idea of teaching such a concept slightly absurd seeing how many forms it takes, and how contextual irony eventually is, but fine).

But you can also work backwards, and start by asking very simple factual questions (e.g. ‘what did Odon find?’; ‘Which items were in the knapsack’? what’s the postcard of, and what’s written on it’?; ‘What does the mention of a ‘skeleton’ tell us about what happened?’). Then you can smoothly proceed to ask interpretive questions like: ‘Why is the knapsack ‘almost good as new’: what does that suggest about how often that man went hiking? Do those items suggest he was prepared for the hike, or unprepared? Who goes hiking like that, what do they look for? Why would he want to send a postcard? To express what, to say what, to whom? Do you think he was expecting to reach a town to send that postcard from?’.

By which time you’re ready to go for evaluative questions, that is, discuss the various interpretations generated earlier: is there an opposition between the items he prepared, the fact of hiking, the message he wrote, and the fact that he’s dead? And to introduce the ‘irony’ thing (the opposition between pleasure of hiking, healthy activity in an healthy environment, the optimism displayed on the postcard, and death), but also have the possibility of going far beyond it if you wish: Do we ever know what’s going to happen to us? Carpe Diem-types of question; if we expected the worst all the time, would we ever do anything? And whatever else you read in this text of course, or what your students read in it. (click here for more on those three types of questions).

Have a look at some other examples I use on my website: the benefits of using very short fiction are numerous, and if your lesson aims are clearly defined as ‘discussing ideas’ and not ‘Analysing the internal structure of a text for the hell of it’, you will find that short texts can and will serve those aims just as well as any longer ones.

It’s also important to say that this use of very short texts in no way precludes the use of longer texts (novella, novels, long short-stories): as usual, you select texts in relation to your aims, to practical considerations (class-time (how long, when), level, preparation-time, say), and you plan accordingly. But do not think very short texts offer no opportunities when it comes to wide-ranging discussion, especially when considering preparation, readership, student population, time and personal involvement. When all is said and done, what matters most is not the nature of the text you’re using but what you want to do – what it enables you to do – with it within the context of teaching.

Lydia Davis (2014). Can’t and won’t. London: Penguin, p.143.