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MUCH has been written about what we teach, how we teach, what our students know, what they do not know, how we evaluate what they know and do not know, how rigid or loose our canons should be, and—in Gerald Graff's formulation—how we “profess literature.” Many of the works we teach are self-conscious, self-reflective, meta- literary texts that, as Russian formalism would say, “lay bare their devices” (a phrase associated with Victor Shklovsky). As readers and as critics, we, in turn, have become more metacritical, more aware of our own approaches and of differences between approaches, more accountable for the choice of theoretical apparatus and (although some do not see this as praise) more creative. In recent years, literary theory has become a privilege feature of graduate programs, rather than a luxury or a disputed appendage. As a result, literary study is arguably more sophisticated, more self-analytical, more directed, and—alas—more abstruse. An abundance of texts and of critical and theoretical commentaries defines and enriches the graduate curriculum. Selection is at the same time a source of frustration and a delight. Booklists for comprehensive examinations and readings for the thesis help to fill gaps, gaps that always will—and should—exist. Today's graduate student must learn to deal with a wide range of texts and to dominate to some degree at least institutionalized and innovative thought, traditional critical and historical models and state-of-the-art theory. Matters of scope and depth, of specialization, of marketability, of professionalism, of old and new paradigms confront the graduate faculty and make this a fascinating period in academic history. Equally worthy of attention are questions relating to the teaching of foreign literature to undergraduate students, but the questions must be framed with difference in mind. My focus here will be on literature and theory in the undergraduate foreign language curriculum. What are—or what should be—the goals of undergraduate literature courses? What controversies surround the teaching of literature at the undergraduate level? What problems are inherent in this enterprise, and how can they be addressed?
An obvious and complex issue is the linguistic ability of the student. The study of literature demands reading, writing, speaking, and comprehensive skills; yet experts in language proficiency admonish us not to expect too much too soon. The vocabulary of literary texts is often difficult, and it is likely that students will lack familiarity with historical, social, and cultural contexts; with movements, periods, and genres; with general literary principles and elements of analysis. Even if students have a background in literature—a knowledge of rhetorical figures, say, or of point of view in narrative—they must transfer this knowledge to the new language, and they must learn new conventions, such as the syllable count and assonant rhyme in Spanish poetry. And they must speak and write about these concepts in a second language. Students must learn to recognize lexical and cultural variants—as in the Spanish of Spain, Spanish America, and the United States—as well as differences in pronunciation, regional dialects, idiomatic expressions, and colloquial language.
Some in the profession would have it that the majority of students are deficient in “cultural literacy,” that they do not have an acceptable grasp of basic works and tenets of Western civilization. 1 While one would not want to overstate the hypothesis that today's students are not as prepared as “we” were, it seems safe to say that grammar, writing, literature, and foreign languages and literatures may not be as highly promoted in the secondary school as they were in years past. All of us who have taught elementary and intermediate language courses have heard from students that they are learning grammar, as opposed to reviewing or refining their skills. 2 In advanced foreign language courses high schools now tend to emphasize linguistic and oral skills over literature, thus deferring the teaching of analytical techniques to the university, which has more choices to make than ever before.
Reformulation of the literary canon, a dialectic of the classic text and poetic justice, has served to complicate the goal of a shared reading experience. A relinquishing of (the “old”) historicism on the part of individuals and institutions has led away from survey courses and from the sense of literary history that such courses provide. The so-called theoretical revolution is also a factor. The impact of recent literary theory—or, more accurately, literary theories—must be considered when we determine approaches to textual analysis. Conscious of the burden—of what I have labeled “the pressure of the text”—do we reserve theory for the graduate program? Do we, then, devise a discrete model for teaching literature to undergraduates? Should the aims of each level be radically different, in deference to the expertise of the two groups, or should the undergraduate program be a similar but less intensive version of the graduate program?
In what follows, I argue for relating the two. It is my belief that distinctions based on degree may be more valid in the long run than those based on methodology. The concept of one approach to literature for undergraduates and another for graduate students may do a disservice to those who see the study of foreign literature as literature through language rather than as language through literature—that is, to serious students of literature. Each of us may have felt at one time or another like a “second-class citizen”—inferior to our academic rival, the English major, who by operating in the parent language seemed to know more, to have read more, to be more comfortable with the tools of analysis. Is there a realistic teaching strategy that would be mindful of time and training yet unwilling to concede that inferiority is inevitable? In sum, what can we hope to accomplish in the undergraduate program?
In brief, I would submit that we can accomplish a lot. The situation is challenging, but there are ways to meet the challenge. Something will be lost—in the translation, as it were—but something may be gained: an expanded cultural awareness, a comparative perspective, a sense of tolerance, a respect for difference, and some degree of mastery of a second language. The guiding premise of the argument is this: insofar as possible, make what is lost quantitative rather than qualitative. Less can be more if the models are clearly articulated and strong enough to direct further readings. When rich texts are chosen, scrutinized in detail, and truly comprehended, their number is not the crucial factor. Several short stories and a novella can take the place of a novel, for example. One-act plays, short poems, and brief essays can illustrate a variety of forms, movements, schemes, figures, and conventions. Critical articles can substitute for books. In upper-division courses, students can work toward lengthier texts, and they can take advantage of their rivals by enrolling in complementary courses in English, comparative literature, and literature in translation. Neither history nor critical judgment need be sacrificed because language and culture mediate the reading process. Like other textual features to be deciphered or decoded, language and culture occupy the middle ground between signifier and signified where, as they say, meaning dwells—or is deferred. Reading in the second language is by its nature close reading: a search for structure, for intelligibility, for significance. A particular discourse that “gets in the way” of analysis might not be so much an impediment to as a reflection of what reading entails.
What is the first stage in the process of teaching literature? It would seem reasonable to expect students at the third-year level to have a grasp of grammar and vocabulary and to have some practice in reading. Step 1—a basic step whose importance, in my opinion, cannot be overestimated—is direct confrontation with the text. Students must struggle with the text. If they become accustomed to hearing about the text, to learning literature in an indirect manner, it will be difficult for them to progress. I would much prefer that a student read a five-page story than learn about a novel secondhand. The reading may be confusing, the vocabulary puzzling, the presentation chaotic, and the experience exasperating, but the next reading (and the ones after that) will be more rewarding, if not less exasperating. This ground level of reading is the foundation for all future work. Students who do not learn to master a few pages of text will probably have trouble with the transition to longer selections. From the perspective of the instructor, I would suggest the “cruel to be kind” approach at this stage. For each reading students should be required to run in a brief written assignment at the beginning of class, and they should be called on in class to state their views. They need to think about what they have read and to express these thoughts. Their ability to read—and to write and speak—in a foreign language should not relieve them of their responsibilities as students of literature. Interpretation is part of the challenge, part of the accomplishment.
Before concentrating on the subtleties of analysis per se, the instructor needs to look with students at linguistic questions and at the cultural and historical contexts of a given work. Needless to say, this is not a preliminary—prelearning—stage, but a significant aspect of the comprehensive endeavor. Words, idioms, slang, and puns are keys to understanding text, context, subtext. One can learn about history, society, and culture from a literary text, but data should be transmitted in reasonable measure, in order to highlight the reading selection. When we look beyond our culture and our historical moment, we gain from that detachment. When we speak of periods, movements, and ideologies—and of the debates born of categorization—we come closer to defining our own “self and circumstance,” in the phrase of José Ortega y Gasset. Literary analysis foregrounds major features of an individual text within broad, and shifting, contexts. But how do we teach students how to analyze literature? How far should we go, critically and theoretically? How do we prepare students to read, to respond, to express their views in an informed fashion?
Every text has a history—an intertext—and a structure that is all its own. In analyzing literature, we look at what a text says and how a text sets forth its message, its meaning or significance. The relation of text and intertext—like that of form and content, discourse and story—is one of interdependence, inseparability. We can teach under-graduate students to note how texts are put together, how to seek the intersection of form and content. The first step is to establish models that show the practice of analysis, thus initiating a process wherein students acquire confidence in their ability to analyze texts. The instructor may demonstrate analytical practice in ways that allow students to participate and to learn, to prepare themselves to read texts. Perhaps dissection is an appropriate metaphor. Just as biology students start with frogs and go on to bigger projects, with less and less reliance on guides, so literature students can work toward dissecting texts on their own.
The reading process will depend, of course, on the student's collective background in language and on each student's private intertext, a combination of intellectual and experiential baggage. Emphasis on individual response, as well as on shared knowledge, may help to keep the process from appearing or becoming mechanical. If we maintain distinctions between informed and uninformed readings—between perceptive and purely impressionistic readings—covering the wide space between “anything goes” and “the definitive reading,” students will have clues for analysis.
The second step, which should come quite early, is the short analytical assignment. Questions can be as basic as, What is the theme of the story, and is this theme explicit or implicit? or, Is the narrator of the story reliable or unreliable? or, What is the turning point of the story? These are certainly starting points, but they treat the fundamental question of the interplay of story and discourse. One can look at the nuances of point of view, at the intricacies of structure, at characterization, at irony, at imagery, and so forth, without overreaching and without sacrificing depth. I mention these aspects of literary study in order to emphasize, once again, the difference between describing texts to students and directing their reading, between conveying valid information and providing tools for analysis. History, literary history, categories, and the type of generalizations found in manuals of literature are useful and important, but they are not in themselves capable of promoting the response that comes only from the confrontation of reader and text. How can the instructor pace the “stimuli” so that the models are presented with clarity and continuity but the students are not overwhelmed? This question suggests a calculated effort, which may seem to oppose “open” readings, but we are concerned with directed, not free-form, analysis. This is, paradoxically, part of the rhetoric of the situation. We must teach students to read to an extent as we read, so that they may be moved to read in their own manner.
It would seem fair, and hardly radical, to expect that an undergraduate Spanish program with a concentration in literature would include courses in grammar, conversation, and composition, along with an introduction to literary analysis, survey courses (with a strong analytical component), and specialized courses in literature, linguistics, and culture. I would hope that the curriculum also include a course in criticism and theory designed for the advanced undergraduate. The merit of the language-oriented courses in indisputable. The third-year introduction to literature sets the stage—and the tone—for subsequent study. This course is, in my opinion, the crux of the program, the point at which students learn to think critically and independently about literature. Survey courses can add a historical perspective, but they should by no means deflect the focus on analysis. Reinforcement and amplification are obviously functions of fourth-year courses. A course in criticism and theory could be the crowning glory of an undergraduate program in literature. It could give students the opportunity to compare their critical stance with other approaches and to view texts metacritically. At this level, I suggest, students should read selected critical studies—based on a single text or on a group of related texts—that illustrate several theoretical models. For example, I have used the sixteenth-century picaresque novel Lazarillo de Tormes , together with articles written in English that demonstrate formalist, sociohistorical, structuralist, Marxist, and poststructuralist principles. 3 Examples of psychoanalytic and feminist criticism certainly would be appropriate as well. What is more important at this point, it seems to me, is that students become aware of what is meant by literary theory and of how this theory informs critical practice. The aim would be to introduce only basic terms and trends, to show students, in a general way, the intersection of theory and practice.
It is essential that courses in an undergraduate literature program be integrated so that they build on one another. The third-year introductory course could be concept-oriented, or ahistorical, in focus. One could follow a pattern of what might be called “judicious naming,” that is, naming the fundamental terms and talking about others without naming them. For example, and somewhat arbitrarily, I would like students who have taken a semester or two of literature to be familiar with such terms as narratee, metatheater, consonance, synaloepha, mimesis, catharsis, discourse, reliable and unreliable narrators, paradox, metonymy, denouement, archetype. On the other hand, I would not necessarily expect students to know the terms semiotics, deconstruction, implied author, new historicism, focalizer, interstices, Lacan. The mechanics of the critical act should come first, the history and theory thereafter.
To illustrate the type of analysis that could be presented in the introductory course, I have selected a poem by the Spanish poet Juan Ramón Jiménez, winner of the Nobel Prize in 1956: “Vino, primero, pura” ‘She came, first, pure.’ Before students read the poem, I would inform them that “Vino, primero, pura” is not about wine—a precaution that those who have taught the poem will understand. I would also explain that Jiménez was known to revise his work constantly and that he aimed to creating what he termed “la desnudez poética” ‘poetic purity’ or, literally, ‘poetic nakedness’—the perfect form of expression. I would have students look at “Intelijencia, dame,” a poem in which Jiménez, through the apostrophe of the title (and of the first line), asks his creative powers to supply him with the exact name of things (“el nombre exacto de las cosas”). 4
“Vino, primero, pura” brings together “story” and discourse in a felicitous way—felicitous because, like much of modern literature, the discourse of the poem leads us in one direction and then in another; the poem seems to tell one story, or history, when in fact that story is figurative, and the “real” story is revealed only at the end. The poem appears to recount a personal history in the amorous vein. The dominant imagery is that of clothing: young love “dressed in innocence,” followed by a period of “dressing up,” to the point at which adornment reaches a bejeweled summit of ostentation. The lady is a queen, but her subject is without feeling, without meaning (“sin sentido”). The ellipsis in line 10 marks change, the beginning of a process of “undressing,” a return to former innocence. In the final stanza, we see that the lady goes beyond that stage; she removes her gown, and only in the last two verses does the poet reveal that his “naked” object is poetry, his own poetry, “la poesía desnuda.” What appears to be a love poem in a metapoem. The clothing imagery is a metaphor within a metaphor, and the metaphor of poetry as a woman occupies sixteen of the eighteen lines. Only the apostrophe, conveyed through enjambment in two lines, states the object of the poetic discourse. The rhetoric of the poem forces a rereading, a reconsideration of the trajectory described.
Jiménez's poem does not just illustrate the force of the metaphor, it presents an ironic structure in which art is both subject and object. This is a poem about its author's career, about the way the poet “reads” his own work. The linear structure is paradoxical, for as the artist moves forward he comes full circle (in the penultimate line) and then goes beyond youthful innocence to the purity that is his goal. Even more paradoxical, perhaps, is the poem's failure to comply with the aim of “naked” expression: to find the exact name of things. The poem misdirects us, gives poetry another name. Rhetoric seems to win over art until the end—the end of the poem and the end of the process—when the poet names, and claims, his object. Without attempting a more profound analysis of the poem, I would like to point out that what we have just seen can relate to other models. One example is Michael Riffaterre's distinction between a linear, heuristic first reading of the poem and subsequent hermeneutic readings, which try to make order out of the disparate pieces of the text, to decode its mysteries; another example is the Derridean notion of deconstruction, specifically the idea that a text, consciously or unconsciously, may undermine its own premises. 5 The analysis covers these elements without naming them and, of course, without the nuances of Riffaterre and Derrida. My argument is that the analytical procedure should be essentially the same whether one is discussing “Vino, primero, pura” with undergraduates or with graduate students. The lexicon may vary, but the heart of the poem and its particular rhetoric remain constant. And I firmly believe that the undergraduate is capable of telling—as opposed to being told—what the poem is about. Thus, I would stress the idea of “doing literature” from the beginning.
In more advanced undergraduate settings, the instructor can deal with sociohistorical and cultural topics as contexts for reading and can continue to explore theoretical issues without burdening students with the details and the highly specialized vocabulary of contemporary theory. Close reading leads us to examine questions of structure and theory. Every national literature contains texts that seem to tell a number of stories, including the story of their creation. I am of the school that views the ideal text in this regard as Don Quixote , the story of an anachronistic knight-errant and a commentary on metafiction, the intertext, reader response, and much more. In this text, as in numerous other “foreign” texts, there is alterity, a sense of otherness, that goes far beyond questions of language. In our current age of difference—of distance, of deferment—alterity is not an unwelcome place from which to begin the study of literature. We may be inclined to look more closely, to read more closely. We cannot do it all, nor will the majority of our students care to do it all, but we can initiate a process, put minds to work, and influence the way students perceive the signs around them.
The undergraduate program may treat—to a greater or lesser degree—genres, periods, movements, major authors and works, historical and intellectual contexts, the confrontation of theory and practice, intertextuality, literary canons, and research tools. This range of subjects may suggest an undergraduate English program or a microcosm of a graduate program, and that is precisely my point. Because the program I propose involves lofty goals and potential linguistic barriers, it would require the faculty's coordination, cooperation, and faith. But there seems to me no reason for that faith to be lacking rather than well founded and reciprocated.
The author is Professor of Spanish at Indiana University, Bloomington. This article is based on a paper-presented at ADFL Seminar East, 6–8 June1991, in New London, Connecticut.
1 In Cultural Literacy Hirsch attempts to identify “what every American needs to know.”
2 The publication of a text such as Spinelli's English Grammar for Students of Spanish supports the position that the fundamentals of grammar need to be covered in foreign language classes.
3 Examples include the articles by Willis; McGrady; Carey; Beverley; and Smith.
4 The two poems by Jiménez are quoted below; the translations are Trend's except for the first line of “Vino, primero, pura,” which is Bly's (34; Trend's version is “maiden, at first she met me”):
Vino, primero, pura
Vino, primero, pura
vestida de inocencia;
y la amé como un niño.
Luego se fué vistiendo
de no sé qué ropajes;
y la fuí odiando, sin saberlo.
Llegó ser una reina,
fastuosa de tesoros…
¡Qué iracundia de yel y sin sentido!
…Mas se fué desnudando.
Y yo le sonreía.
Se quedó con la túnica
de su inocencia antigua.
Creí de nuevo en ella.
Y se quitó la túnica,
y apareció desnuda toda…
¡Oh pasión de mi vida, poesía
desnuda, mís para siempre! (411)
At first she came to me pure,
all clothed in innocence,
and I loved her like a child.
Then she was dressing up
in goodness knows what fancies;
I hated her, not knowing why.
She even became a queen,
magnificent in her treasures…
what gall and bitterness, and oh, what nonsense!
…Then she began undressing,
and I could smile upon her.
Soon she was left in her shift,
in her former innocence;
I believed in her once more.
Then she took off even that
and appeared before me naked…
Oh, passion of all my life! Oh, poetry,
naked and mine forever! (1)
Intelijencia, dame
!;Intelijencia, dame
el nombre exacto de las cosas!
…Que mi palabra sea
la cosa misma,
creada por mi alma nuevamente.
Que por mí vayan todos
los que no las conocen, a las cosas;
que por mí vayan todos
los que ya las olvidan, a las cosas;
que por mí vayan todos
los mismos que las aman, a las cosas…
Intelijencia, dame
el nombre exacto, y tuyo
y suyo, y mío, de las cosas. (409)
Intelligence, oh give me
the proper name for everything.
…So that my word be truly
the thing in itself,
created expressly for me by my soul.
That they follow my footsteps
all who have never known the nature of things;
that they follow my footsteps
all who have forgotten the nature of things;
that they follow, too, my footsteps
even they who have loved all things for themselves.
Intelligence, oh give me
the proper name, and your name,
and theirs, and mine, for all things. (68)
5 See Riffaterre and the poststructuralist explorations of Derrida. Related studies include those by Culler; Friedman; Leitch; and Fish.
Beverley, John. “Lazarillo and Primitive Accumulation: Spain, Capitalism and the Modern Novel.” Bulletin of the Midwest Modern Language Association 15 (1982):29–42.
Bly, Robert, trans. Light and Shadows: Selected Poems and Prose. By Juan Ramón Jiménez. Fredonia: White Pine, 1987.
Carey, Douglas M. “Lazarillo de Tormes and the Quest for Authority.” PMLA 94 (1979):36–46.
Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote. Ed. Joseph R. Jones and Kenneth Douglas. New York: Norton, 1981.
Culler, Jonathan. “Riffaterre and the Semiotics of Poetry.” The Pursuit of Signs. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1981. 80–99.
Fish, Stanley E. Self-Consuming Artifacts. Berkeley: U of California P, 1972.
Friedman, Edward H. “The Semiotics of Poetry and the Golden Age Sonnet.” Studies in Honor of Elias Rivers. Ed. Bruno M. Damiani and Ruth El Saffar. Potomac: Scripta Humanistica, 1989. 94–104.
Graff, Gerald. Professing Literature: An Institutional History. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1987.
Hirsch, E. D. Cultural Literacy. Boston: Houghton, 1987.
Jiménez, Juan Ramón, Libros de poesía. Madrid: Aguilar, 1967.
Leitch, Vincent B. “Extensions of Subversion.” Deconstructive Criticism. New York: Columbia UP, 1983. 39–53.
McGrady, Donald. “Social Irony in Lazarillo de Tormes and Its Implications for Authorship.” Romance Philology 23 (1970):557–67.
Ortega y Gasset, José. Meditations on Quixote. Trans. Evelyn Rugg and Diego Marín. Ed. Julián Marías. New York: Norton, 1963.
Riffaterre, Michael. Semiotics of Poetry. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1978.
Shklovsky, Victor. “Art as Device.” Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Ed. Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1965. 3–24.
Smith, Paul Julian. “The Rhetoric of Representation in Writers and Critics of Picaresque Narrative: Lazarillo de Tormes, Guzmán de Alfarache, El Buscón.” Modern Language Review 82 (1987): 88–108.
Spinelli, Emily. English Grammar for Students of Spanish. Ann Arbor: Olivia, 1979.
Trend, J.B., trans. Fifty Spanish Poems. Oxford: Dolphin, 1950.
Willis, Raymond S. “Lazarillo and the Pardoner: The Artistic Necessity of the Fifth Tractado.” Hispanic Review 27 (1959):267–79.
© 1992 by the Association of Departments of Foreign Languages. All Rights Reserved.
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