To categorize or not to categorize?

This is the question that dominates the works in ISMLL, as I am aptly reminded when Donadey and Lionnet state in their essay, Feminisms, Genders, Sexualities, “the corresponding essays in this book are most productively read in dialogue with one another” (225). I find this concept to be a terribly frustrating dichotomy, as all of the dialogues within the text demand their own established category.
The problem that every writer faces when they are subjected to interpretation is that interpretations tend not to individuate. Writers (in general) are not looked at with great attention to their individuality and uniqueness. I feel that scholars (and readers) miss important details because – perhaps for survival reasons – we need to generalize. As a student, I see it as part of my responsibility to rein in the tendency to compare and pigeonhole.
Donadey and Lionnet allude to this when recognizing that Postcolonial feminist writers’ texts tend to be nonlinear narratives that rewrite history through the use of fragmented form (229). While Donadey and Lionnet formulate several similar issues between categories in literature, the fragmentation of voice seems to synthesize into something else. As if, the inclination to break things down is how we make things comprehensible. Experience doesn’t come in a clear narrative – it’s “a more complex story that depends on internal fracture and difference” (228). I feel it is critical to recognize this fragmentation within all categories of literature today as a reflection of the way we live now.

(Meta)commentary and cathartic moments in TSIS

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world where speaking was a bit more like writing, that way I could delete all of the mumbo-jumbo, all of the stuttering and the mispronounced terms, and fill in all of my uncertainties with artistic metacommentary. Alas, I was born into a world where templates for talking take the form of rambles and run-ons, or at least fears of food lodged into teeth, and the paranoia of the need to Listerine. At least when writing, I have confidence to express myself, and even revise and change my opinion on the matter before anyone else has the chance to see what I initially thru-up on the word document.
They Say I Say as a whole has been a refreshing reminder, as well as an unexpectedly informative book that whittles down writing to its rhetorical roots. I think that the purpose of any aesthetic expression stems from a desire to understand and be understood. All too often our thoughts are fragmented with clutter, and all too often the clutter is spilled out in ways that are not at all comprehensible. Graff and Birkenstein lay out a guide that clarifies matters for not just the academic writer, but anyone who has the desire to think critically.

Diasporas ad infinitum

I’ve been thinking quite a lot about identity recently. It’s hardly been an overlapping theme in the three classes I’m currently taking – but then, when has literature not been about identity?

I first recall learning the term, “Diaspora” when I was an undergraduate at UCR. I taking a class on Latin American Literatures and, ironically, up until reading Susan Stanford Friedman’s essay, “Migrations, Diasporas, and Borders,” I identified Diaspora as a Latin American movement. Of course, Friedman’s essay defines Diasporas in a much wider context, but specifically she focuses on Jewish and African Diasporas. This leads me to another question in a more direct historical context – is not everyone in the United States considered part of a link in a diasporic movement? Are military families considered diasporic? What about children who disperse themselves between the homes of divorced parents? To make the definition even broader, I can define the current era of globalization and everyone who encompasses it to be part of a diasporic movement. My research proposal also reflects a diasporic movement, although I dare say that I’m bending its focus towards a more linguistic interpretation than a diasporic one. Friedman quotes May Joseph when she writes, “Cultural citizenship is a nomadic and performative realm of self-invention.” I particularly like this quote because it implies something that it not necessarily of diasporic value, but something that is important to remember for anyone who is alive today. In a time when the effects of globalization are more porous than ever before, human beings seem to cling tightly to an aspect of themselves that they can call distinct. Whether it be on a map or on our grave, in our heritage or our faith, our sexuality or our ideology- whether you’re seeing the USA in your Chevrolet, being deported to Iraq, or texting your sister in Copenhagen, Diaspora is everywhere and in everyone. I can’t help but think that Diaspora was created as a way to separate humans as being unique, rather than confronting the very elements that describe an identity that is personal, familiar, and not at all alone.

Getting Heated over Holquist

As an undergraduate at UCR, I never really caught on to the distinction between “English” and “Comparative Literature”. The first time I sought out Professor Cohen for an advising appointment regarding a final paper on Melville, I spent the majority of the appointment pacing the English department’s hallways; until I finally figured out that he was in fact part of this other department – comp. lit., which was in a completely separate building. Until I read Holquist’s essay defining Comparative Literature, I assumed that Dr. Cohen had taken his metaphor for English majors (something to the effect of hiding in a basement) to a more literal level by isolating himself from the rest of his colleagues. Of course, now I know that Professor Cohen is part of the Comparative Literature department, which explains why he is so obsessed with chaos theory, as well as a favorite professor of mine.
As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I’ve never been a fan of structure within the arts, and the fact that Holquist begins his essay by defining the ambiguity of Comparative Literature within a contradictory set of rules once again demonstrates our compulsive need to bring order to chaos. Holquist’s dwells on the “identity problem” within Comparative Literature as if it were some infectious growth expectorating itself, and the only way to save the structure of English is to cut Comp. lit. off and form its own separate department. It makes English seem so insular. Sometimes I feel that scholars’ effort to structure literature is to achieve scientific validation within the humanities - that everything that encompasses the beauty of being human must be whittled down to a definitive term.

The word “canon” keeps coming up in not just Holquist’s essay, but throughout the writings in ISMLL; “Western canon,” “fresh canon,” “literary canon,” “fiction canon” – all sorts of cannons. Oddly enough, I took the time to look up the word in the OED. Although I am not inclined to type out all seventeen definitions, I will list the first three:

1. a. A rule, law, or decree of the Church; esp. a rule laid down by an ecclesiastical Council. the canon (collectively) = canon law: see b
b. canon law (formerly law canon: cf. F. droit canon): ecclesiastical law, as laid down in decrees of the pope and statutes of councils.

2. gen. a. A law, rule, edict (other than ecclesiastical). b. A general rule, fundamental principle, aphorism, or axiom governing the systematic or scientific treatment of a subject; e.g. canons of descent or inheritance; a logical, grammatical, or metrical canon; canons of criticism, taste, art, etc.
c. A standard of judgement or authority; a test, criterion, means of discrimination.

3. Math. A general rule, formula, table; esp. a table of sines, tangents, etc. Obs.

Although I was hoping to find a prehistoric spelling of the contemporary gun or fire-arm, I suppose “decree of the Church” will make an adequate comparison. (pun intended)

I don’t mean to sound cruel towards this separatist movement between English and Comparative Literature. But with all the ambiguity that embodies Comparative Literature, I believe it’s safe for me to say that I still don’t know what to do with my B.A. in English.

Cultural studies and the American perception

While reading Franco’s Cultural Studies, I was frustrated by this outward “tug-a-war” between scholars as how to categorize this area of research. However, I must admit that in the era of globalization, it is perhaps the most critical discipline of study in literature today. Particularly, this essay brought my attention to my own research proposal, in which I hope to focus on the act of linguistic translation with that of cultural translation. In my own studies, I have found that language not only shapes but also narrows the way we view the world, and I would like to challenge theories of post-national and of globalization, which describe a changed world, by noting that these changes have not yet altered the older categories and concepts of ordering and making sense of the world.
Recently, I read that fewer than three percent of literary books published each year in the United States are translated from foreign languages, compared with vastly higher percentages (25-45 percent) in virtually every other country. And much of our three percent consists of retranslating of classics, so the real number for new foreign voices is really quite a bit lower. Franco notes that “there are strong arguments for a field that is avowedly political in its confrontation with the rapidly changing conditions of modern life” (222). But in essence, isn’t all good art political? Franco just threw out the word ‘politics,’ and made it sound like it is unpatriotic. I’m not interested in art that is not in the world. And it’s not simply the narrative or the story – it’s the language and the structure and the meaning behind it. We focus virtually all of our political and military attention on the Middle East, but how many of us could claim to have read a single work of Arabic literature in translation? For a citizen, it’s scary to contemplate a future in which relations with those we need to relate to are diplomatic, and not humane. It’s with art, after all, that a culture best expresses its humanity. While reading Franco’s cultural studies, I couldn’t help but think that this is a terrible time to be an American reader –it makes me think of all the books in the world I’ll never read that would have changed my life.

A quick word on quoting

I feel like this is a blog that requires rigorous honesty in the most blatant way possible: I love quoting. I love quoting so much that it can turn quite violent at times – like the time I was convinced that “Mayonnaise” was actually my song Billy Corgan embezzled for the Siamese Dream single. Or the time I wrote a research paper on Captain Ahab’s dichotomy of the self - only to realize that I had pieced together a collage of quotes so meticulously that it wasn’t until after I alphabatized my works cited that I realized I had yet to address the point in my own words. This most assuridly places me in the number two category of Graff and Birkenstein’s “The Art of Quoting:” writer’s mistakes.
In defense of my love for quoting, I must say that it is for this very reason that I chose to pursue graduate studies in English Literature. Naturally, if quoting did not appeal to me, I would have taken the MFA in creative writing path. Yet, being apt to the darker side of literary scholarship, and an avid quoter, I probably fit best with those who think that everything original has already been said. But I try not to let this way of thinking curb my desire to say something in a new way, nor to chip away at my confidence and abilities as a writer. Consequently, I have found that over-quoting can easily be whittled down to good-quoting, as the more quotes that I identify with help shape my independent thoughts and feelings based on my own personal experiences.

Catherine Gallagher and the Intellectual Accessory

Upon reading Gallagher’s Historical Scholarship, my initial inclination was to leave this area of literary scholarship to the research of some other book guru. The idea of categorizing literature into any form of methodological order is a chore that feels far too scientific for a subject that is nearly entirely subjective. And, to be blatantly honest, Historical Scholarship is just the sort of text that spurs questioning towards my own motives of literary study, because this text could very well scare me away. Indeed, Gallagher’s essay is packed with so many different focuses within the field of “historical scholarship,” I struggled to keep up – and in doing this I found myself questioning the point of this essay. Yet Gallagher writes in such a way that oddly urged me to read on, as if the “aha” moment was just at the end of the next paragraph and everything was soon going to make sense. And it didn’t – but that’s perfectly fine because like I stated earlier, this text brought me back to the nature of my interest in literature, which is that I believe it is to connect like minds – to show that although we are diverse, we are not alone.
Gallagher seems to evoke a negative connotation when she writes “Books are certainly not disappearing, but, the argument goes, they are undergoing transformations in their environment of visual and electronic communication that change the nature of authors and readers” (184). I beg to differ with Gallagher. As a product of the electronic age, I value text in the same manner whether it is read from a screen or a book. Because it is the value that I take – the meaning that I extract from the words and apply to my quality of life that is the very essence of literature. Gallagher states “the author subject and the reader subject both seem to have depended on a certain stage of textual production, at which print was the primary medium of public communication and its most prestigious form was the book intended for private consumption” (184). It’s almost as if Gallagher views the book as an intellectual accessory – as if literature is a matter of personal possession rather than an enabler for shared experiences. Literature of the past is popularly viewed as something “intellectual” rather than something “human.” When I study literature, I am looking for that something that speaks of the human heart. And yes, of the mind. It’s a common place to say that literature has the power to say familiar things in new ways – and consequently in ways it may be heard again, as if for the first time.