On Literature and Teaching

 At the heart of every literature class, there are some questions we hardly ever hear asked, or even acknowledged. Yet, in order to determine what we do, why and what for, it is essential that we do ask those questions, however uncomfortable they may make us feel. Ignoring them means missing the very point of our classes: why do we do what we do, what do we want to achieve, and the most important of all: do we in fact achieve what we claim? Can we achieve it?   Q.1: How difficult is it to read fiction? That is something we tend to forget, especially if we like to read ourselves: reading is not easy, and it’s one of those things where the reward might be long delayed, or, in any case, will take long to reap. Reading is time-consuming: chronophage , as we say in French, it eats (devours) time. Watching a complete episode, with a beginning, middle and end, of a series on Netflix will take 45 minutes; in that time, you will have read, what, 20 pages of a normal quality novel? Few

  ‘ The aim of literary study is not to amuse the hours of leisure; it is to awake oneself, it is to be alive, to intensify one’s capacity for pleasure, for sympathy, and for comprehension. It is not to affect one hour, but twenty-four hours. It is to change utterly one’s relations with the world. Not isolated and unconnected parts of life, but all of life’ (Arnold Bennett, 1901).   ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’. How many times have we heard that old saw? Because, really, can you teach something you can’t do? Well, yes, there is a way: by theorising that very thing you can’t do, or would like to do, or, well, that thing you teach. Or by canonising it, so you don’t have to engage with it. And here it is important to remember what happened to literature as an object of study. Despite arguments about who – and when – was the first, it is clear that there was no English Degree until late in the 19 th Century – that is, a university degree entirely dedicated to English

  ‘Learning without thinking is useless. Thinking without learning is dangerous’ (attributed to Confucius)  There is an on-going debate in the Netherlands about the place to be given to citizenship education – Burgerschapsonderwijs in Dutch. Citizenship ( burgerschap ) is in fact a required part of secondary schools’ curriculum; that is, all schools are legally required to teach it. Since teaching something necessitates first defining that something, the problem starts with a simple question: what does one mean with Citizenship and citizenship education? While at first it may seem redundant to ask that question (after all, don’t we all know what being a citizen means?), it quickly becomes clear that it isn’t, as it turns out we don’t all agree on what citizenship means, nor what teaching citizenship entails. I’m not exactly interested in tracing back the history of that subject, so suffice it to say that so far, one camp has dominated the Dutch discussion – something that is v

  In a previous blog, I quoted Lars Svendsen in his ‘ The Philosophy of Boredom’ : ‘ Information and meaning are not identical. To simplify, one could say that meaning consists of assembling small parts which fit together to form a bigger whole, whereas information is the opposite ’. Any teacher worth their salt will have seen through this and will have related it to a well-known principle of learning: inductive vs. deductive methods. So let’s see whether this can be applied to reading books, too – and why it matters to do so. After all, 'meaning' is what we're after... As a reminder – and perhaps simplistically –   deduction is the formulating of examples from a rule; induction is the formulating of a rule from examples. In the class, deductive teaching often takes the form of a teacher writing/explaining a rule (e.g. How to form the present perfect) and asking learners to apply that rule across a body of examples/exercises. Inductive teaching would be learne

  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,