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DESPITE the prereading material and marginal notes offered in most foreign language literature texts, class discussion in the introductory literature course too often resembles nothing so much as the attempt to explain a joke. The flash of humor is irretrievably lost when the teller explains, “Well, it's really funny if you know that.…” The spark of insight that rewards literary criticism proves no more durable when we explain works that our classes have not understood from their own reading. In both situations there are two likely responses, neither of them nearly so satisfying as initial understanding. At best, the listener who hears a joke explained concludes, “ Now I get it,” but at some cost to the ego since the teller or the rest of the group either understood more quickly or had a better sense of humor. At worst, the listener still doesn't get the joke after the explanation and feels even further psychologically distanced from the in group who laughed at the proper time. Similarly, when the students hear our analysis of the work after the fact they may understand, but only passively and at some cost to confidence in their ability. If they still do not understand, their experience will suggest to them either that they are not as capable as other students or that our sense of literature is incomprehensible (although they will probably take notes anyway). The literature class becomes a passive experience as our students wait for us to tell them what each work means, and they never experience what makes us so passionate about literature—the moment of insight when we draw a connection for ourselves. Such epiphanies are so intellectually engaging that if we can enable students to experience them it is likely that the students will seek more.
In a work often used in survey courses the Mexican poet Juana lnés de la Cruz admonishes, “Queredlas cual las hacéis o hacedlas cual las buscáis” ‘Love them as you make them or make them as you seek them’ (75). While offered as a solution to a quite different social conflict, this counsel is useful in grounding the beginning literature course. We do well first to acknowledge the degree to which we identify with out most proficient students. Teacher educators suggest that our default mode is to teach the way we were taught, but I would submit that we sometimes replicate that primal classroom experience in another way—teaching the way we wanted to be taught. Rather than becoming our teachers, we may instead come to be the teachers our younger selves would have preferred. This form of identification with our students may be productive, especially for the students who are most like we were, but when we teach to that hypothetical class of our younger selves we risk losing sight of most of the real students in our classrooms. Even if the selective glow of memory is considered, the average foreign language literature professor was never an average foreign language literature leaner. Most of us have been voracious readers for as long as we can remember. We were generally more competent and more confident than others in our early literature classes; we identified more strongly with the professors; we found their classes more welcoming places; and ultimately both out love of literature and our enjoyment of such classes contributed to our choice of professions. For these reasons, it may be difficult for us to imagine the experience of a majority of our students. Their exclusion then is not a matter of our conscious choice, but it can be a result of our classroom practice. We may begin a class resolved to include all students in discussion and then resort reluctantly to telling them the plot doing the analysis ourselves, or we may end up talking with just a few students while the others listen, perhaps take notes, and become further convinced of literature's inscrutability. What can we do to make those students cual los buscamos ‘as we wish to find them’ and to engage them in critical reading? I suggest in this article that we can work to draw these students into a community of critical readers in at least three ways: by equalizing background knowledge, by sequencing intellectual demands more carefully, and by likewise sequencing the degree of intellectual risk students run in our classrooms.
For years I joked that I would to make a long list of courses in psychology, sociology, English, and history prerequisites for the introductory course in Hispanic literature. It would have more prerequisites than any course in the history of the university, but students would finally have a basis for analysis. One summer I stopped joking and began identifying precisely what terms and concepts I was hoping students would bring from those classes. I spent that summer paring my list to the essentials and briefly summarizing them for distribution as background material for students to read and discuss before beginning the assigned literary works. The background reading for a class on the novel of initiation, for instance, included sections on anthropological and folkloric analyses of initiation and initiation rituals, Erik Erikson's developmental stages, the bildungsroman, the commentary on the effect of rapid cultural change on coming of age. While the summarizes were in English so that they could be read rapidly, each was accompanied by a list of key terms in Spanish for use in class discussion. The students could now begin on a more even footing. In the past a few students who were familiar with these concepts had brought them to bear (and had moved me to wish for more prerequisites), but their early participation had intimidated a majority of the students, who reported feeling already left behind before they had even received a formal assignment. When everyone in the class had some basis on which to comment, participation in discussion predictably increased. The application of a set of essential concepts to each of the texts in class also encouraged students to compare and contrast various works throughout the course rather than to see the texts as a set of isolated assignments and provided a basis for more interesting and sophisticated term-paper topics and exam questions.
Providing prior knowledge about particular literary works is equally important. I spend class time asking my students what they know about the cultural and social context in which the upcoming text is situated and filling in the gaps that become apparent. Before I began offering this additional background, students often expressed exasperation with a protagonist for not taking an action that their experience as twentieth-century university students in the United States suggested as the best option, so I began to discuss fields of choices before students read works. When students have a better idea of the avenues open to, say, a Spanish agricultural worker of the 1940s, they are better able to comment on the novel within its cultural context instead of making for it a procrustean bed of their own culture. I also try to identify what items of outside knowledge I bring to bear on each text when I read it—instances of intertextuality or information about traditional connotations of certain colors, for example—and to provide that information ahead of time as well. In short, I attempt to approximate for my students, albeit in a limited way, the prior knowledge that enables me to comprehend, interpret, and appreciate the selection, and I attempt to do so before they begin to read the assignment. Thus prepared, students are much more likely to have their own insights to discuss. Sometimes they report the same discoveries I remember from when I first read the work, and the excitement with which they often relate these discoveries lends support to the idea that the pleasurable experiences of critical reading can be approximated on a large scale in class. Even better, students have come in with well-supported interpretations that I had not thought of before.
Since a professor's cache of cultural and literary information is the product of years of reading, discussion, and experience, some initial resistance to the idea of giving away the goods in this manner should not be surprising. Our students, it might be argued, should amass such knowledge on their own just as we did. However, our plans to improve the preparation of future students do not address the needs of the students already in our classrooms. With these students, we can choose between lecturing in splendid (and lonely) isolation on the results of textual analysis and discussing literature with the one or two who can while the others watch, or we can take practical steps toward inclusiveness.
Our students face a challenge that is linguistic as well as literary. We ask of them a level of intellectual performance that their English professors would be pleased to elicit—and usually we ask that the students perform in a second language. In the transition from language to literature, we can begin by treating literature as if it were another topic in a language class. Usually when we begin a new topic in a language class we provide the proper vocabulary (the glossaries of terms in the textbook are often not sufficient for dialogue) and models of how people might speak about the topic (dialogues, videotaped exchanges, or audiotapes). Many of our students have never before heard anyone discuss literature in the second language; thus it should come as no surprise that they need models and practice if they are to do well. In some beginning literature classes I provide several sheets of model questions, answers, and comments about literature, along with necessary specialized vocabulary. The students begin by tailoring the information to describe the work at hand and use the sheets as a reference during class discussion. To complement this activity, I plan to ask some front students to videotape small-group discussions on some of the first works we deal with in the introductory course so that students can go to the video lab and see for themselves how people might discuss a poem and what they might say about it. Transcripts of the dialogue will allow students to review it at home. When I choose students to participate, I plan to seek a representative spectrum of language proficiency so that as many students as possible will see someone at their own language level discussing literature and so that it will be clear that discussion is not the exclusive province of the most proficient students. Since I conduct my classes entirely in Spanish, all students must become accustomed to speaking about literature in the target language. When students are engaged in small-group discussion, therefore, I generally do not correct language, although I do insert comments demonstrating corrections when it is possible to do so without disrupting the flow of conversation. (Student: “Creo que la tema tiene que ver con la amor.” ‘I think the theme [gender error] has to do with love [gender error].’ Professor: “¿Figura el amor en el tema? ¿de qué manera?” ‘Some love figures in the theme? How?’) We must acknowledge that students cannot attend to everything at once and that if we keep changing the focus from literature to grammar they are unlikely to learn much about literature. The converse, however, is not necessarily true. When students work in small groups in the literature classroom, the amount of speaking practice may approach the amount of practice in a conversation class, and the combination of many paragraph-long quiz assignments, written steps in classroom group tasks, and a process-approach term paper affords substantial writing practice. Students gain fluency and confidence in their speaking, and comparison of the paragraph quizzes from the beginning of the class with those from the end indicates that student writing does improve over the course of such a literature class.
In order to provide practice that fosters the development of literary insight and linguistic proficiency, we as professors need to become more cognizant of the complexity and sequencing of processes that we perform almost automatically. The identification of theme, for example, is not a demanding task for most of us, but our students often dread such an assignment. When we announce the theme of a work without explaining how we arrived at it, students may reasonably suspect that PhDs are issued secret decoder rings at the defense. While the obvious answer is to explain how to find the theme, that process is one of many that are easier to do than to explain. While we have long acknowledged the utility of linguistic theory to the language class, the application of discourse theory to the literature class is at a much earlier stage of development. The investigations of Suzanne Brown, Patricia Carrell, Patricia Johnson, and Janet Swaffar indicate some applications of discourse theory to the teaching of reading and of textual analysis, and all attest to the importance of background knowledge in reading comprehension and analysis. While subject to the caveat expressed earlier regarding the differences between learners who grow up to be foreign language literature professors and those who do not, introspection about the tasks of literary analysis can still be of use in designing classroom activities and determining productive sequencing. Introspection suggests that in theme finding, we probably make hypotheses and (consciously or unconsciously) test, confirm, refine, or replace them as we read and that a cultural and literary inventory of likely themes aids in the process. These steps should be made explicit to students. Discussion of analysis as a matter of drawing connections and of making, testing, and refining hypotheses helps to demystify the process for all students and is particularly helpful to students who are not majoring in the humanities. When these students can recognize elements of logic and scientific method in humanities courses they are more likely to participate in discussion. We can let students try their hand at one part of the process at a time—for example, by presenting them with a limited number of potential themes and asking them to choose which one best describes a given text. After they develop the capacity to choose among possible themes, they can be asked to bring to class a list of themes for a work and to attempt to come to consensus in small groups.
Working in small groups offers each student more opportunity to speak, and assigning discussion groups and specific roles for each member—someone is responsible for asking about everyone's ideas, someone else takes notes, some generate ideas, and others respond to those ideas—keeps students productive and attentive. To encourage and challenge all students, the group assignments are changed often according to different criteria. All the vocal students may be placed together to offer them a challenge and to allow new leaders to emerge in other groups. Once I grouped all the quietest students and found that they spoke more in their own group. Sometimes I group students randomly to see what dynamics emerge. Distributing a list of new groups every few classes and having students sit in those groups saves time and allows me to shift smoothly from whole-class to small-group activity without waiting for students to move around and form groups. Another possible pitfall to be avoided in small-group work comes when the class reunites to compare notes. If the groups are all working on the same questions or tasks, often the first group to be called on gives an answer, and then the others each in turn report having found “about the same thing” whether they did or not. For this reason groups should be given different but related tasks so that it will be worthwhile to listen to everyone's results.
If the reading assignment is a long one, the obvious first step may be simply for each group to summarize what happened in a different chapter. Questions should require that students reflect on previous reading. Students may be asked what has happened earlier to condition a certain development or why it comes as a surprise, or they may be asked what will happen next on the basis of previous reading. (Students who have read ahead are asked not to disclose the plot). For works whose structure lends itself well to visual representation, I might ask students to represent that structure on paper with an assignment such as this one on Camilo José Cela's Pascual Duarte:
Turn a sheet of notebook paper so that the lines run vertically. Let the top of each line represent joy and the bottom, sadness. Going across, devote one line to the beginning of each chapter and one to the end and place a dot somewhere between the top and bottom to represent Pascual's emotional state. Then connect the points to chart the changing emotions of the protagonist. Where do the extreme highs and lows occur? What is happening to him at these points? Compare the beginnings of the chapters with the ends. Does any pattern emerge?
The visual element of the exercise keeps students focused as they review the novel, and groups often discuss the need to move the early dots up or down in the light of even more extreme emotion later on, and thus develop further insight into the patterns of the novel. This visual task may draw out students who do not participate regularly, and since visualization is an excellent means of enhancing memory I employ it wherever possible. Students are assigned to draw a possible floor plan for Julio Cortázar's “Casa tomada” (“House Taken Over”) and to shade it as the invasion progresses. When we study Federico García Lorca students look at his drawings and discuss possible relations to the works the drawings accompany. M. C. Escher postcards circulate when we discuss Jorge Luis Borges, and students are asked to look for similarities and differences between Borges's literary technique and Escher's artistic technique. Scissors and paper for construction of Möbius strips accompany a discussion of analogies between the apparent merging of two sides into one and the structure of the fantastic in Latin America literature. Roses, both fresh and dying, provide a concrete referent when we read Sor Juana's sonnet “A una rosa.” Asking students to produce their own visual representations is likewise useful in discussion of literary theory and history. Each time we begin studying a new movement in a survey class that is ordered chronologically, students are asked to take out a blank sheet of paper and to write down in order without looking at notes all the previous movements, then to add the new one and discuss its relation to the others. Because of the serial repetition, listing the movements becomes less and less difficult as the course progresses, and each new movement gains a context as students review its literary precursors. One class even became surprisingly good at predicting the general characteristics of the movement that would come next, and all of the classes became more cognizant of reaction against previous movements and of revival and modification of older ones as factors in literary development.
While many of these techniques also apply to the teaching of poetry, the introductory class or unit on poetry poses a challenge since most students approach poetry with little confidence and much anxiety. I introduce poetry only after students have achieved some success with prose and again begin with information to ground a successful reading. When students read poetry in a foreign language, information about traditional connotations of words and images is clearly essential and cannot be taken for granted. It is sometimes helpful to discuss connotation contrastively across cultures, as I did before assigning a poem in which a woman's skin was described as biscuit . For the midwestern undergraduates in the class, the term immediately evoked breakfast rather than porcelain. When the students learned that for the culture in which the poem was written the term would bring to mind a fine smooth surface, they began to speculate about what other words might evoke the desired image and about the difficulty of substituting one image for another that was already unavoidably present for them—in short, about problems of cross-cultural literary analysis. We often justify the inclusion of our courses in general studies or humanities requirements by insisting that they aid students in understanding not only a second language but language in general, and on that day those claims were certainly validated.
As students begin to study poetry, they report that they have more difficulty analyzing the form than they do analyzing the content. On one level, their acceptance of such a dichotomy helps explain why they have such trouble with form—they often believe that form must be unrelated to content—and why they are also intimidated by the technical terminology of poetry. To circumvent both obstacles I make use of a technique borrowed from drawing classes. In sketching faces, students have a tendency to oversimplify complex faces such as the eyes and to substitute standard icons for the actual lines of the feature (Edwards 66). An unproductive cycle develops as students use the symbols because the lines of the eye are complex, and then the overlay of the icons prevents students from seeing and drawing the actual feature. In the analogue from literature classes students sometimes oversimplify and offer stock interpretations instead of minutely examining a text, and then the stock interpretations come to obscure and finally to substitute for the text itself. Art instructors may encourage close observation and overcome the tendency to draw icons by telling students to draw the outlines of the space around the features rather than the features themselves—lacking icons for the space around an eye, for instance, the student is forced to look closely at its actual lines (Edwards 100). In poetry classes, then, students are at first asked not to describe the strophes but rather to describe the spaces, with the question, Why are there spaces here and here but not there and there? Students who believe they cannot possibly analyze the strophic structure of the poem can often do a creditable job of explaining why the spaces occur where they do, and in the process students come to see that each group of lines possesses some sort of unity. Although the focus in this exercise is nominally on the spaces, students must seek the reasons for those spaces in the text they enclose. The point is not to allow students to avoid the words but to encourage them to approach those words from a fresh perspective. By beginning with a task rather than with a list of terms, we suggest that our first demand of them is careful observation and analysis, not memorization. When students report that spaces occur at certain points because the lines within them form a unit distinct from the text beyond the spaces, we can ask why students see those lines as a unit. If we can resist telling them what to look for (“Do the lines rhyme? Is there alliteration?”) and instead limit ourselves to listening and requesting clarification (“You say the lines sound similar? What do you mean by that? Which sounds are similar?”), students will explain (“The beginning sounds of most of the words in all three lines, they're all the same. That's what makes these three lines different from the ones in other groups.”) When students have sufficiently clarified their observations, we can introduce a technical term as a description of what has been observed and as an accolade rather than a new source of anxiety (“You've just observed and defined what is technically called alliteration. Do you see any other instances of alliteration in the poem?”) We can continue to introduce types of rhyme, meter, figures of speech, voice, tone, and other features of poetry in this way until students come to see technical terminology for what it is—an agreed on system of shorthand reference. Then we can save time by introducing terms, definitions, and examples together rather than through a process of recognition. Accurate literary terminology is a lingua franca that our students need to learn, but introducing it before students can recognize what it describes only reinforces their perception of literary analysis as hermetic art.
The philosophy of engaging students as participants to the process of literary analysis rather than leaving them to watch and take notes on the results also governs the assignment of term papers. When I began teaching I saw students' term papers for the first time at the due date, graded them, added comments, and returned them at the final. Students probably learned something from having written the papers but could put my comments to use only in the next literature class. Later I required the submission of a draft at mid-semester but spent a great deal of time working over papers for which the best advice would have been to start over. Finally I began to describe one way to write a paper as a series of steps and to let students practice with those steps before sending them off to attempt the task on their own. When I am planning a paper I take notes on my reading, so I students a topic and a brief text, ask them to make notes for a paper, then have them compare and critique their notes. Each group might be given twenty-five note cards on a topic and be asked to place the cards on a table in some sort of logical pattern and to turn the pattern into an informal outline, omitting irrelevant cards and information. Students may be given all the information for a brief essay on a novel or poem and told to organize the information into a paper, then to revise the paper in their group. To make optimum use of time, I often give students samples that constitute background information for a text we are about to begin.
Students look to exams to determine what parts of the class are important. If exams do not test the skills practiced in class, students will reasonably conclude that we are not serious about those skills. Exams in the introductory literature classes I teach generally consist of three parts: the first tests mastery of discrete items of terminology and literary history; the second, comprehension and retention of analytical discussions in class; and the third, application of skills to material never specifically discussed in class. For this third part, new short stories or poems are assigned a day ahead of the test. No special guide questions are provided, only the text, and students are instructed to analyze it with the same technique we use in class. No notes may be brought to the test, but a fresh copy of the text is attached to the exam for referenced. Test questions on the new text those we usually ask of texts in class, dealing with theme, structure, characterization, and style or asking for comparison and contrast with works read in class. This third section makes clear to students that total recall of class notes and texts is not sufficient—students must be able to apply analytical techniques they have practiced in class and to explain the outcomes. Although students are free to discuss the text with others and even to look criticism if they can find it, they must be ready to explain their answers thoroughly with textual evidence, without recourse to notes or prior knowledge of specific questions. Students are encouraged to band together in study groups, and although such groups often rise in anticipation of tests, they also provide for discussion of literature outside class and out of my presence, another step toward independent analysis. Each of these activities brings students a step closer to accomplishing the entire process independently. It is true that the attempt to replicate this complex process sometimes results in a degree of simplification that may seem sacrilegious to us a literary scholars, delighting as we do in subtlety and multiple interpretations, but it may be helpful to view these stages the way we view the utterances of beginning language learners—taking pleasure in progress as well as in perfection.
Finally, students are unlikely to engage in literary criticism if the activity is too dangerous. If we expect them to hazard answers or to go out on a limb in discussion (and this language is fraught with metaphoric evidence of the risk factor in discussion), it seems only reasonable to offer safety mechanisms to help reduce the risk to novices. I recently presented a paper on what might be termed risk recognition and sequencing (Nance). Just as we need to recognize the need for sequencing, the intellectual demands of literature classes, we also need to compare and sequence the degrees of intellectual risk such class activities pose for the students. Some of the techniques by which the risk to beginning discussants can be reduced or managed include “insulation,” or creating distance between student and answer; reduction of audience size, since many students report difficulty in speaking before the entire class at first; increased certainly of correct response; increased time to respond; and finally explicit acknowledgment and valorization of classroom risk-taking. The use of the background readings in class is an example of insulation. I encourage students to relate the concepts to the texts by asking for impromptu paragraphs explaining what a given concept has to do with the chapters just read. The next day those paragraphs initiate a more student-centered class discussion when I cite what several people have said and ask others to comment. Rather than naming names, I encourage students to acknowledge ownerships of their comments and to respond if they wish. In this way, students can keep a safe distance from their answers. As the semester progresses they are more likely to claim their ideas, an indication that they have become more confident in class discussion. I have already discussed the reduction of audience size through small-group activity, which also provides distance if the student is cast as spokesperson for ideas of the group. Increased certainty of correct response is fostered by the background readings previously discussed, but there are several other techniques that achieve this goal. Opportunities can be provided for the students to test their answers informally with the professor alone. I have found such opportunities invaluable even in graduate courses composed of students who generally like to talk about literature. When I teach three-hour seminars I schedule a ten-minute break during which I generally stay in the classroom as the students come and go. Students often come up to try out ides they do not want to risk in class—and often provide excellent beginnings for the second-half discussion. Even in an advanced and fairly comfortable class, these ideas would probably never have come to light had it not been for the opportunity to offer them unofficially to me. Actually I should not have been surprised, since members of the audience at literature conferences often seek out the speaker in the hall to make comments or ask questions apart from the formal setting. Ideally, this sort of informal interchange would take place more often during office hours, but for many students the limited time and the opportunity to make a quick escape to the coke machine or the bathroom offer more security for their efforts at originality.
Another technique for increasing students' certainty of correct answers and reducing their risk is the use of counterexample. When we know ahead of time what types of misconceptions about a given work are likely to occur we should share these misconceptions with the students as part of the background reading (“sometimes people mistake the word … for … and think the poem is about …”) to spare them from reiterating those errors (and to spare ourselves from hearing those errors again). Counterexample is also used in the term-paper preparation process described above. With the permission of students from previous semesters I reproduce parts of their papers for critique before the new students begin writing their own. The old papers provide both models and counterexamples. Once a group has concluded that “El libro que leí fue …” ‘The book I read was …’ is a boring way to begin a paper, its members are much less likely to start their own papers that way. As much as possible, I try to allow anonymous others to demonstrate common errors so that my students can avoid making them. Asking students to prepare responses ahead of time to questions to be asked in class is a more traditional means of increasing the certainty of a correct response. One can also consciously delay student response in class: “Think about this question for five minutes and write down a few notes if you wish—then we'll discuss it.” Finally, early and frequent acknowledgment that answering is risky and therefore brave can motivate students who would not be induced to participate purely for teacher approval. In many classes there is at least some peer disapproval of students who try to please the teacher by volunteering answers, and redefining participants as less easily intimidated than the rest rather than more eager to please can help diminish the effects of such anti-intellectualism. Of course, risk recognition and sequencing must not be confused with perpetual avoidance of intellectual risk. Support and safety mechanisms must be gradually withdrawn as students progress; at the same time students must be reminded of their progress and challenged to go further. While the capacity to defend one's own views in one-on-one dialogue with the professor in front of the whole class is not be the starting point for most students, we should not lose sight of that level of proficiency as our goal. Beginning by acknowledging our students' difference from ourselves, we can come around to welcoming them into a community of critical readers.
Between the introduction and the final exam in my course, students are expected to master terms and literary history and are constantly challenged to make logical hypotheses and to test those hypotheses against the texts. I never tell students that literature will be easy for them because I neither purpose nor purport to make it so. Even when meant to reassure, statements that a given text or task will be easy are counterproductive; ironically, they deprive those who complete the task successfully as much as they discourage those who do not. Some students are confronted by failure to complete even a “simple” task, and others can take little satisfaction from having accomplished something that was supposed to be easy anyway. The introductory literature course is a delicate balancing act; it must demand of students enough intellectual struggle to make insight sweet and also offer all students at least an occasional taste of that insight. Since finally we can explain what makes us love literature no better than we can explain the humor in a joke, we cannot rely on precept to teach a sense of literature, but we can provide opportunities to help our students learn that sense for themselves.
The author is Assistant Professor and Director of Undergraduate Studies in the Department of Foreign Languages at Illinois State University
Brown, Suzanne Hunter. “Discourse Analysis and the Short Story.” Short Story Theory at a Crossroads. Ed. Susan Lohafer and Jo Ellyn Clarey. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 217–49.
Carrell, Patricia. “The Effects of Rhetorical Organization in ESL Readers.” TESOL Quarterly 18 (1984): 441–69.
Cruz, Juana Inés de la. “Hombres necios. …” Voces de Hispano-américa. Ed. Raquel Chang-Rodríguez and Malva E. Filer. Boston: Heinle, 1988. 69–79.
Edwards, Betty. Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. Los Angeles: Tarcher, 1979.
Johnson, Patricia. “Effects of Building Background Knowledge.” TESOL Quarterly 16 (1982): 503–15.
Nance, Kimberly A. “Beyond Comprehensive Questions: Introducing Foreign Language Students to Literature.” ACTFL Annual Meeting. Chicago, 20–22 Nov. 1992.
Swaffar, Janet K. “Readers, Texts, and Second Languages.” Modern Language Journal 72 (1988): 123–49.
© 1994 by the Association of Departments of Foreign Languages. All Rights Reserved.
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