On Literature and Teaching

  Oscar Wilde: ‘It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors’ I was having a discussion with a student not long ago, about a novel and its main character, and how that character – a boy –   changes throughout the narrative. At some point, she exclaimed: ‘Ah, I see, this character has grown – he has developed!’. No, I said, it doesn’t pay to think that way. Instead, you should think: ‘That person has changed, that person has developed’- he’s not a character, he’s not made of cardboard or balsa wood, he’s not a Platonic shadow: he’s real, he lives and breathes like you and me. He’s alive . This idea that a made-up character, in a made-up situation, with made-up parents and friends and occupations, could be real, seems at first illogical. ‘No’ you say, he’s not real: he’s an invention, he’s got no blood in his made-up veins, no feelings in his made-up body and mind – he’s a character in a book of fiction, and as such he cannot exist for himself. His world is th

  I usually read relatively few mainstream novels each year – by ‘mainstream’ I mean non-science fiction. When much younger, I would only read novels, both mainstream and science-fiction. I only picked up serious non-fiction reading during the later stage of my studies, and really got fully into it when I moved to the Netherlands. It started with books like Koestler’s The sleepwalkers , and Pepys’ Diary , and Boswell’s London Journal , and it snowballed from there – to the point that over the last decade, I would read at least twice as many non-fiction books as mainstream novels. And my science-fiction reads tended to remain stable, at around 25 a year. Another thing that changed over the last 6 to 8 years is my language of choice: from my mid-twenties to my forties, I hardly read anything in French, my mother tongue – everything I read was in English. Before that (and despite studying English at Uni…) I had hardly ever read anything in English – it all started while living in Irel

  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.