68 En glish Journal 103.4 (2014): 68– 75 wanted to write a darn story/poem/play) never meant to convey. Some students fall in between— either trusting teachers to have a reliable method, or not particularly caring how we do it. While I don’t mind being thought to possess some magical second sight, these (mis)perceptions all disturb me because I care more about students’ mastering the hows than about any of the whats, more that they can interpret a text than that they can recall the literacy motif in The Tempest. Like most En glish teachers, I often use ap- prenticeship to build students’ interpretive skills, using class discussions and modeling to offer “sup- ported interaction with people [namely, me] who have already mastered the Discourse” of En glish studies (Gee, “Literacy” 7). James Paul Gee distin- guishes apprenticeship from learning, which en- tails meta- level language and cognition as students recognize and have language for the knowledge they are acquiring (“What”). Apprenticeship is ef- fective in many ways, but it asks students to fake their way through literary analysis by groping for the kinds of language and thinking they have heard from (perceived) genuine literary analysts (e.g., the teacher and perhaps savvy classmates). This im- provisation using inadequate materials, which Gee calls “mushfake,” David Bartholomae calls “invent- ing the university,” and my students call “fake it ’til you make it,” goes only so far in developing critical and analytical reading skills. My students deserve to be explicitly taught the distinctive practices of En glish studies in a way that adds learning to ap- prenticeship by offering meta- level language and thinking beyond literary terms and the like. n recent years, professional influ- ences on all sides have pressed me to put my students in the driver’s seat, making them more active in their own learning, giving them more voice and choice in their work, and developing skills that will ben- efit them well beyond my classroom. And I’ve done pretty well, I think— I’ve increased the emphasis on research; created flexible, problem- based assign- ments with multimodal products; improved the bal- ance between writing and literature. But the better I felt about how my writing instruction addressed 21st- century skills, the worse I felt about my litera- ture instruction. My students came to understand texts and explain the meaning they found there, but I knew something was missing. The skills they gained in using textual details to make meaning seemed to start after that key first step: deciding which textual elements were notable. I had to admit that most of the time, I gathered (or pointed the way to) the raw materials— passages, images, and patterns— and then my students constructed meaning from them. But that’s not enough; if I’m committed to teaching the skills of literary study in addition to the content, I have to go all the way. Students’ .

1. 68 En glish Journal 103.4 (2014): 68– 75
wanted to write a darn story/poem/play) never
meant to convey. Some students fall in between—
either trusting teachers to have a reliable method,
or not particularly caring how we do it. While I
don’t mind being thought to possess some magical
second sight, these (mis)perceptions all disturb me
because I care more about students’ mastering the
hows than about any of the whats, more that they
can interpret a text than that they can recall the
literacy motif in The Tempest.
Like most En glish teachers, I often use ap-
prenticeship to build students’ interpretive skills,
using class discussions and modeling to offer “sup-
ported interaction with people [namely, me] who
have already mastered the Discourse” of En glish
studies (Gee, “Literacy” 7). James Paul Gee distin-
guishes apprenticeship from learning, which en-
tails meta- level language and cognition as students
recognize and have language for the knowledge
they are acquiring (“What”). Apprenticeship is ef-
fective in many ways, but it asks students to fake
their way through literary analysis by groping for
the kinds of language and thinking they have heard
from (perceived) genuine literary analysts (e.g., the
teacher and perhaps savvy classmates). This im-
provisation using inadequate materials, which Gee
calls “mushfake,” David Bartholomae calls “invent-
ing the university,” and my students call “fake it ’til
you make it,” goes only so far in developing critical

2. and analytical reading skills. My students deserve
to be explicitly taught the distinctive practices of
En glish studies in a way that adds learning to ap-
prenticeship by offering meta- level language and
thinking beyond literary terms and the like.
n recent years, professional influ-
ences on all sides have pressed me to
put my students in the driver’s seat,
making them more active in their
own learning, giving them more voice and choice
in their work, and developing skills that will ben-
efit them well beyond my classroom. And I’ve done
pretty well, I think— I’ve increased the emphasis
on research; created flexible, problem- based assign-
ments with multimodal products; improved the bal-
ance between writing and literature. But the better
I felt about how my writing instruction addressed
21st- century skills, the worse I felt about my litera-
ture instruction. My students came to understand
texts and explain the meaning they found there, but I
knew something was missing. The skills they gained
in using textual details to make meaning seemed to
start after that key first step: deciding which textual
elements were notable. I had to admit that most of
the time, I gathered (or pointed the way to) the raw
materials— passages, images, and patterns— and
then my students constructed meaning from them.
But that’s not enough; if I’m committed to teaching
the skills of literary study in addition to the content,
I have to go all the way.
Students’ understanding of how we En glish
teachers recognize textual significance seems to fall
into clusters around two extremes. On one end, stu-

3. dents believe that teachers have a mystical ability
to identify important elements among the greater
textual mass and to divine from them the author’s
intended meaning. On the other end, they believe
we arbitrarily choose elements and then overana-
lyze to find a meaning that the author (who just
Beth Wilson
This article suggests how to
introduce literary theory
in high school as a means
of negotiating the many
messages students receive
in our media- drenched
society.
Teach the How: Critical
Lenses and Critical
Literacy
I
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 68 2/27/14 2:50 PM
selson
Text Box
Copyright © 2014 by the National Council of Teachers of
English. All rights reserved.
69English Journal
Beth Wilson

4. These philosophical positions are noble, but
how do I teach the skill of identifying what matters
in a text? How do I get beyond the vague phrases
(“What stands out to you?”) and circular sugges-
tions (“find passages that develop the theme”)? If a
“teacher cannot think for her students, nor impose
her thought on them” (Freire 104), what can I do
to make these thinking skills explicit? The answer
at which I arrived is both promising and daunting:
teach literary theory.
Feasibility and Value
Immediately, I had doubts. Are secondary students
ready to use the critical lenses of theory? Will liter-
ary theory do something important for them? If so,
where can I fit it into a curriculum crowded with
competing objectives?
Some might argue that attempting to teach
literary theory to high schoolers will result in either
failure or oversimplification. But my own experi-
ence has supported John Dewey’s definition of im-
maturity as the potential for growth (42). Often,
large, complex concepts spur exciting advances in
the students whose age or performance might in-
vite low expectations. Len Unsworth asserts that,
once they can decipher and reproduce codes (such
as a text), “quite young learners can engage produc-
tively in reflection literacies” by interpreting the
values and assumptions influencing that text (15).
In other words, literacy, not age, is the factor that
matters. While the particular grade level at which
theory might be introduced will vary based on stu-
dent population, it is likely that some students in

5. every high school are ready for the level of literacy
that literary theory offers, and they certainly can
gain insight by viewing their own world through
the lenses of theories. The college- bound seniors
in my course, who hail from several countries and
display widely ranging abilities, have found suc-
cess on varied levels, from “OK, this makes sense”
to “what a revelation!” In Gee’s terms, offering the
meta- level language without apprenticeship would
be empty, but withholding it because we doubt stu-
dents’ capacity to learn may be unfair. We should
reveal the man behind the curtain, making literary
analysis less mysterious, more achievable.
High school students may resist some lenses,
argue that theory is pointless, and achieve only a
simplified understanding of theory. On the other
hand, teenagers have the potential to grow sig-
nificantly by applying critical lenses to texts and
the world. Thus, incorporating theory responds to
Janet Emig’s call to action: “We must not merely
permit, we must actively sponsor those textual and
classroom encounters that will allow our students
to begin their own odysseys toward . . . theoreti-
cal maturity” (94). Teaching literary theory lays the
groundwork for many of the new ways of thinking
we’re expected to address, from media literacy to
social critique. To teach literary theory is to teach
critical thinking about texts of all kinds.
Recent scholarship has broadened the defini-
tion of literacy, offering statements like Gee’s that
literacy is about “saying (writing)- doing-being-
valuing-believing combinations” (“Literacy” 6). In
fact, the field has named so many kinds of literacy

6. that some, such as Anne Wysocki and and Johndan
Johnson- Eilola, object to the
flexibility with which the
term is used. Even so, there
is no denying that for to-
day’s students to flourish in
the 21st century, they must
go beyond “routine decod-
ing of textual information” (Unsworth 14). One way
to help students avoid “compliantly participating in
the established, institutionalized textual practices of
a culture” is to develop multiliteracies (Unsworth
14), for which literary theory is a useful tool.
Critical lenses can be a vehicle for what
the New London Group and others call criti-
cal literacy— increasingly important in a media-
drenched society. Our ultimate goal is for students
to “[question] the taken- for- grantedness of system-
atic knowledge, understanding that what appears
to be the ‘natural’ view of phenomena is actually a
view produced by particular combinations of his-
torical, social, political influences” (Unsworth 19).
With this kind of literacy, “people become aware of,
and are able to articulate, the cultural locatedness of
practices” (New London Group 85). A tall order, to
be sure. The payoff of tackling it is that “meaning-
makers remake themselves. They reconstruct and
renegotiate their identities” (New London Group
76); helping students gain critical literacy goes be-
yond preparing students for exit exams, college, and
work, to developing thoughtful, reflective citizens.
We should reveal the
man behind the curtain,

7. making literary analysis
less mysterious, more
achievable.
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 69 2/21/14 3:49 PM
70 March 2014
Teach the How: Critical Lenses and Critical Literacy
A complex literacy requires powerful and rich tools.
Literary theory is an effective addition to students’
kits because looking through varying lenses reveals
the systems that affect text production of all kinds,
from 17th- century plays to 21st- century pop lyrics.
Because these lenses provide the driving questions
and the language to challenge both readers’ and au-
thors’ assumptions, literary theory offers a frame-
work for teaching critical literacy.
The Common Core State Standards for En-
glish Language Arts and Literacy for both the 9– 10
and 11– 12 grade levels state that students should
be able to identify and analyze a central theme in
a work of literature (“En glish Language Arts Stan-
dards,” ELA- Literacy.RL.9- 10.2, 11- 12.2). The
standards emphasize analysis of textual details that
develop a theme, downplaying the complex think-
ing required to identify it in the first place. These
standards seem to reflect the same lack of emphasis
on that key first step that bothered me in my own

8. classroom, where I, like many of my colleagues,
have dropped hints and selected passages until stu-
dents pieced a theme together.
A teacher hoping to remedy this situation by
fitting theory into an already crowded course has a
few options. The least intrusive (although poten-
tially most reductive) is to present several theories
early in the year as tools to be accessed in future
units. To take this approach, introduce the concept
of theories as critical lenses (see sample lesson) and
survey a set of theories using brief, clear explana-
tions. Consider making the students theory cards
like the ones Deborah Appleman provides in Criti-
cal Encounters in High School En glish: Teaching Literary
Theory to Adolescents. Choose the theories carefully,
taking into account the literature that will follow.
In later units, have students apply the lenses and
their language to articulate the meaning those theo-
ries help students make of the texts. The approach of
offering an early, brief survey of lenses will require
the instructor to accept rudimentary understanding
early on, knowing it will develop as the students
circle back to the theories with each new text.
A second option is to build a unit around a
set of theories, inviting students to engage with
each one. Teachers may use one short work to teach
each theory— perhaps Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s
“The Yellow Wallpaper” for feminist theory, George
Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” for postcolonial
theory, and so on. Alternatively, a novel such as
Jane Eyre or The Color Purple can provide fodder for
discussing many theories and discovering the value
of layering or switching between theories to enrich

9. one’s reading of a text (see Figure 1). In this case, the
theories may be offered first or after an initial read-
ing of the text at hand, depending on other learning
objectives and students’ comprehension level.
Finally, consider a variation on these two ap-
proaches: use literary theory as a framework for an
entire course. Introduce all theories early on and
then tackle one theory in each subsequent unit, of-
fering varied texts to which the students apply the
lens at hand. This approach may work well for the
teacher who is happy with (or obligated to follow)
a particular reading list, but who is interested in a
new way to approach it with increased emphasis on
interpretive skills.
Is It Practicable?
Literary theory’s usefulness in high school class-
rooms can only be realized where theory meets
FIGURE 1. A single novel study can introduce
many theories.
Unit Outline: Jane Eyre Novel Study
I. The concept of literary theory
II. The Lens of Reader Response
a. What is reader response?
b. Jane Eyre: Gateshead section
III. The Social- Class Lens
a. What is Marxist theory?
b. Jane Eyre: Lowood and beginning of Thornfield
IV. The Lens of Gender

10. a. Begin reading Jane Eyre: Thornfield
b. What is gender theory?
i. Apply to Thornfield section thus far
ii. Carry forward in remaining chapters
c. Continue Jane Eyre: Thornfield
V. The Postcolonial Lens
a. What is postcolonial theory?
b. Revisit Jane Eyre: Thornfield, Bertha chapters
VI. Multiplicity of Lenses—Apply previous theories to
Moor House section
VII. The Deconstructionist Lens
a. What is deconstruction?
b. Jane Eyre: Ferndean
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 70 2/21/14 3:49 PM
71English Journal
Beth Wilson
practice, so the practical aspects of teaching theory
require careful attention. The New London Group
explains four types of pedagogical practice: situated
practice (immersion in the discourse), overt instruc-
tion (using metalanguages for conscious learning),
critical framing (interpreting the subject of learn-
ing in relation to its context), and transformed
practice (transfer of meaning- making practice to
new contexts). Much of what we do when we teach

11. literature in secondary En glish class is situated
practice (we model meaning- making and ask stu-
dents to participate in it), with some overt instruc-
tion as we teach students to know and recognize
literary strategies (such as metaphors or frame nar-
ratives). We may even do some critical framing and
transformed practice as we teach literary and media
analysis. But when we hold back literary theory
from overt instruction, we also hold students back
from learning as deeply as they can through the
other layers. This is especially true of transformed
practice, since naming and explaining the “how to”
of certain thinking skills makes them transferrable
to other contexts. Literary theory provides inter-
pretive skills that people can adapt to new texts,
including those created by today’s many “meaning-
makers” (New London Group 67), from Banksy to
Brad Paisley.
To use literary theory to develop critical lit-
eracy, we must avoid limiting “the scope of action
allowed to the students” to “receiving, filling, and
storing the deposits” of knowledge (Freire 100). In-
stead, we must invite inquiry and call students to
action. As I designed my first literary theory unit,
I found that I must craft essential questions care-
fully, sacrificing several that I considered important
but that (if I was honest) had only one acceptable
answer in my mind. I knew that I wouldn’t allow
students to genuinely pursue their own learning if
I had an agenda for the conclusions they drew. For
the same reason, I designed activities that required
me to keep my mouth shut while students spent
time with themselves and each other to gain under-
standing, allowing myself into the discussion only
when, with scaffolding and time, students had de-

12. veloped their ideas.
Anyone considering teaching literary theory
in high school should get her hands on not only
Appleman’s Critical Encounters but also a readable
literary theory text such as Stephen Bonnycastle’s
In Search of Authority: An Introductory Guide to Lit-
erary Theory or Lois Tyson’s Critical Theory Today:
A User- Friendly Guide. The following samples dem-
onstrate ways literary theory can be taught, includ-
ing an introductory touchstone activity, a lesson
plan for applying a single lens late in the study of a
work, and a sub- unit exploring one theory during a
multi- theory novel study.
Introducing the Concept
of Literary Theory
Students often think texts generate meaning in a
single, albeit complex, way. For this reason, scaffold
opening lessons so that students move toward an
understanding of how lenses offer new ways of see-
ing and reading. An opening, concrete experience
can act as a touchstone and metaphor for students’
ensuing work with theory. In this lesson, students
will face an overwhelming jumble of text and use
colored lenses as tools to begin making sense of
patterns within the language. Obtain a handful of
red and blue transparent films (science departments
may have some to lend) as well as red, pink, blue,
and green markers for a dry- erase board or large
piece of paper. Brainstorm lists of words that relate
to two pairs of related themes (see Figure 2 for an
example). Assign a marker color to each theme such
that green and blue are used for one pair while red

13. and pink are used for the other. Use these colors to
write the words in a dense, disordered mass on the
board.
In class, distribute the colored films (students
may share as needed), but warn students not to use
the lenses yet. Instruct students to spend three min-
utes making observations about the board (assure
FIGURE 2. Brainstorm lists of words related to two pairs of
themes, and assign colors.
Nature Society/culture
Peace Violence Religion Class
Pebble,
breeze,
babbling,
puppy, brook,
moonlight,
waterfall,
butterfly, etc.
Tornado, wolf,
cliff, lightning,
shark, swarm,
drought,
earthquake,
etc.
Pray, parable,
congregation,
chastity, litany,
collar, vow,
meditate,

14. praise, verse,
sanctuary, etc.
Aristocracy,
vote, master,
servant, pay,
peasant,
poor,
feudalism,
slave, power,
respect, etc.
Green Blue Red Pink
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 71 2/21/14 3:49 PM
72 March 2014
them that “there are many words” is a fine place
to start). Next, have them view the board through
the lenses, spending five minutes or more noting
their new observations. Finally, have them look
again without the films, noting any new observa-
tions. Viewed through the red lens, the green and
blue words will be much more prominent (and the
opposite for the blue lens), which will allow some
students to realize that those words relate to a com-
mon theme (e.g., “nature”). Looking again without
the films will help some discover that finer dis-
tinctions (e.g., peaceful and violent) can be made.
Other students may get no further than to observe
that the lenses make some words seem to disap-
pear. Ensure students that all of these observations
are valid.

15. Next, have students share their observations
at each stage. Ask students to articulate how the
colored lenses helped them discover something
new about the mass of words. While not all stu-
dents will have discovered patterns, it is likely that
they can do so with the help of their classmates. Fi-
nally, if any distinguished between the red and pink
words or the green and blue words, have them re-
count their process of discovery. End this discussion
by connecting critical lenses (or literary theories) to
this experience. Ask them if they recall times when
they have seen a work of literature as simply a mass
of language, only to have a teacher reveal some sig-
nificant theme they missed entirely. Ask how that
experience resembles their initial viewing of the
board full of text. Explain the similarity between
colored films and critical lenses: we can take them
up and use them to find out what stands out in a
text, revealing patterns and greater meaning. And
like those films, we can set one theory aside and
take up another one at will.
Such a physical experience offers a schema to
which students can attach subsequent concepts and
skills related to the complexities of critical literacy.
Specifically, seeing how physical lenses can reveal
patterns or highlight certain details prepares them
later, using critical lenses, to take on “the text ana-
lyst role, interrogating the visual and verbal codes
to make explicit how the choices of language and
image privilege certain viewpoints” (Unsworth 15).
Using colored lenses can change the way we see.

16. Teach the How: Critical Lenses and Critical Literacy
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 72 2/27/14 2:51 PM
73English Journal
Beth Wilson
you hope this Caliban will create in the audience?
What tone of voice would Prospero use here? What
gestures? What attitude do you want the audience
to perceive from him? To have toward him? Have
the students present their decisions as appropri-
ate, whether through brief performances, sketches,
oral presentations, or other means. Depending on
the teacher’s goals, this activity can take as little as
30 minutes or as much as two or three periods, with
the depth and elaborateness of student work vary-
ing accordingly.
In this lesson, the language of postcolonial
theory (colonizer, exploitation, identity formation,
and so on) acts as the meta- language that Gee says
is necessary for learning (as opposed to apprentice-
ship). Students may or may not instinctively sense
Caliban’s value and devaluation (for instance), but
introducing postcolonial theory as a rich tool offers
them greater means to recognize and articulate the
values and assumptions manifest in the play— in
other words, it offers them explicit access to criti-
cal literacy because it teaches them to recognize
one aspect of “cultural locatedness” (New London
Group 85).

17. Sample Sub- Unit: The Lens of Social Class
Introducing many theories during study of one
novel allows both a stronger grasp of the concept
of theory and a sense of lenses’ layerability. Some
lenses, however, may be tricky to “sell” to high
schoolers. In this sub- unit within a study of Jane
Eyre, students reflect on the principles of Marxism
to reach an unbiased understanding of the concept
before considering the text through a social- class
lens. Students pursue the following essential ques-
tions: How does social class affect people’s lives
and thought? What opportunities does applying a
social- class lens offer a reader? What are the risks of
social- class theory?
Because students may be resistant to Marxist
readings, introduce the concept of a social- class lens
in stages, first revealing the complex roles of social
class in our lives and then moving into its role in lit-
erary theory. Gauge student reactions and respond
flexibly, either spending more time on the concept
or transitioning more quickly to application. That
said, moving too quickly into use of the theory may
increase resistance or, worse, make students think
Lesson Plan: Postcolonial Theory
and The Tempest
If lenses have been introduced early on as a flexible
tool, introducing a theory for a day or two within
a larger unit can enrich students’ reading of litera-
ture. For instance, students might consider Shake-
speare’s The Tempest through a postcolonial lens.
To reactivate prior knowledge, begin with

18. a five- minute freewrite recording everything they
can recall about literary theory. Either in class or
for homework the night before, have students read
excerpts from Bonnycastle’s chapter “Post- Colonial
Criticism and Multiculturalism” in In Search of Au­
thority. Alternatively, a comparable explanation,
presentation, or guided note- taking session could
replace the reading.
Place students in small groups and direct
them to Bonnycastle’s list of driving questions,
including “How did the culture of the colonizer
affect that of the natives? How did exploitation
occur, and what reparations are in order? How open
were the people in power to the experience of the
natives? How does a person form a solid identity
when he or she is part of a group which is consis-
tently viewed as vicious, irrational or subhuman by
the dominant forces in society?” (207– 08). These
questions explicitly scaffold reflective or critical lit-
eracy because they help students “read” the choices
an author makes by “including certain values and
understandings and excluding others” (Unsworth
15). Ask students to apply the postcolonial lens in
general and the questions in particular to The Tem-
pest, especially the portrayals of Caliban, Ariel, and
Prospero. Groups should discuss potential answers
until they feel they’ve made some valuable observa-
tions, and then identify three sections of the play
that are illuminated by these questions, making
notes about their significance.
Once students have drawn conclusions, have
them imagine that they are a production team stag-
ing a modern performance of The Tempest that con-
veys their postcolonial reading of the play. They

19. will decide how to use casting, costuming, set de-
sign, and (most importantly) direction to stage the
three sections they identified. Questioning may
help them get started; for example, How would
you cast and costume Caliban? Which textual de-
tails led you to that decision? What perception do
EJ_Mar2014_B.indd 73 2/21/14 3:49 PM
74 March 2014
standing they have established over the pre-
vious two lessons to strengthen their grasp of
what a Marxist reading is and can do. Bonny-
castle’s text carefully delineates the objectives
of a committed Marxist and the benefits
available to a more diversified reader using a
Marxist lens. Push students to understand
both so they recognize that they can compre-
hend Marxism without agreeing to become
Marxists.
With the social- class lens and Marxism clari-
fied, proceed to apply the lens to the remaining Lo-
wood chapters. Remaining lessons should rely on
questioning, writing to learn, and group work to
maintain a focus on the students’ meaning­ making,
not on transmitting the teacher’s understanding to
the students. Student- driven research into the his-
torical context of the novel may be useful, since stu-
dents cannot understand Brontë’s representation of
class and power without understanding the world
in which she lived. Students could use technologi-
cal tools, the library, and history faculty to pursue

20. relevant research.
By applying the social- class lens to Jane Eyre,
students foreground hierarchical and capitalistic
patterns that they and/or Brontë’s characters ini-
tially accept as natural. Thus, teaching Marxist
theory supports a key aspect of the critical framing
layer of pedagogical practice because it “make[s]
strange” familiar structures and therefore invites
evaluation of the “historical, social, cultural, po-
litical, ideological, and value- centered relations of
particular systems of knowledge and social prac-
tice” (New London Group 86). Further, as students
incorporate Marxism’s central questions into their
critical repertoire, applying them to other parts of
the novel, other texts, and their own worlds, they
transfer their meaning- making skill to new con-
texts, demonstrating transformed practice, the
fourth layer of the New London Group’s pedagogi­
cal framework for multiliteracies.
Conclusion
In talking about literacy, our field almost always of-
fers something like Gee’s description of “a sort of
‘identity kit’” that we put on to play “a particular
role that others will recognize”— a role that will
offer a ticket to economic success (“Literacy” 7).
that the social- class lens applies to a 19th- century
British novel but not in modern American society.
At this stage of the unit, the teacher’s “efforts must
coincide with those of the students to engage in
critical thinking,” as the instructor reflects on what
has happened thus far and determines the best pac-
ing moving forward (Freire 102). Regardless of the

21. opening lessons’ pace, follow this sequence:
1. Pose a series of questions, such as, How do
economic and social classes shape society?
What advantages or disadvantages does one’s
class determine? How does class affect our
thinking and behavior? Do you see more
harmony or conflict between social classes?
Allow students time to freewrite to take
stock of their reactions. Use partners or small
groups and then a large- group discussion to
delve into the role of social class in students’
experience of the world. In particular, push
them beyond the walls of the school or the
limits of everyday experiences to consider
social class and power in their city, including
sectors they don’t encounter but are aware of.
Then ask them to think beyond their city
to the United States and the world. Do not
plan the course of this discussion; carefully
balance the learning goals with the topics
students put forth. Focus on the ways that
they interpret …
ESSAY
What Difference? The Theory and
Practice of Feminist Criticism
By J o y c e Q u i r i n g E r i c k s o n , W a r n e r P a c i f i c
C o l l e g e
The purpose of this essay is not to review feminist criticism
over the past
dozen years from its latest revival in the women's movement of

22. the late 1960s to
its present almost-respectable status in the literary critical
establishment, but to
consider some key issues that have engaged its practitioners and
theorists.1 Once
these issues have been raised, I hope to show briefly that the
difficulties and
rewards of such a critical approach bear some resemblance to
those attached to
"Christian criticism."
From the outset it is important to note a distinction between
practice and
theory in feminist criticism; that is, a distinction between the
examination of
literary w o r k s from a feminist p e r s p e c t i v e which r e s
u l t s in a feminist
interpretation of the work based on those biases, on the one
hand, and the search
for a critical theory whose assumptions about the work qua
literature are
exclusively feminist on the other. Another way to characterize
this search is to
see it as an attempt to determine what other critical theories are
complementary
to t h e p r a c t i c e of feminist c r i t i c i s m . T h o u g h it
may n o t a p p e a r so to
" o u t s i d e r s , " feminist criticism is not monolithic; debate
within the community
of feminist literary scholars is lively and reflects sharply
divergent opinions
about purpose and practice. Yet despite those differences, as
Annette Kolodny
says, the shared assumptions of feminist critics encourage a " c
o m m u n a l frame of
m i n d . " 2

23. What assumptions are shared? Stated briefly and generally, it
can be said that
"feminist critics look at how literature comprehends, transmits,
and shapes
female experience and is, in turn, shaped by i t . " 3 But the
enterprise is not
neutral in its assumptions about the social and intellectual
context from which
literature or female experience arises:
Though there are internal disagreements within most
perspectives,
nevertheless just as all Freudians believe in the unconscious, in
infantile sexuality,
in neurotic behavior as a form of purpose behavior; so all
feminists, I argue, would
agree that women are not automatically or necessarily inferior
to men, that role
models for females and males in the current Western societies
are inadequate,
that equal rights for women are necessary, that it is unclear
what by nature either
men or women are, that it is a matter for empirical investigation
to ascertain what
differences follow from the obvious psysiological ones, that in
these empirical
CHRISTIANITY & LITERATURE
investigations the hypotheses one employs are themselves open
to question,
revision, or replacement.4

24. In addition to these shared assumptions, most feminist critics
also assume the
u s e of c e r t a i n k e y t e r m s ; t h e d i s t i n c t i o n b e t
w e e n f e m a l e / m a l e a n d
masculine/feminine; the former is a biological gender
distinction, the latter a
cultural distinction, highly variable from culture to culture and
even within
cultures, concepts or expectations separable from biological
determinants. 5
(This distinction is not always rigidly adhered to in common
usage even among
feminists.) To distinguish between this set of terms does not
mean, as we shall
see, that how one determines difference between women and
men and what one
makes of the difference is a settled issue.
Another concept almost universally accepted as a given is
Simone de
Beauvoir's notion of women as other, an assertion that males
and male experience
have been understood to constitute the human norm. De
Beauvoir's analysis
shows that the relationship between male and female in the
human continuum is
not reciprocal; women can be categorized as " n o t m a l e " but
males have never
been categorized as " n o t female. ' ' Of course, all human
beings have the capacity
to make others of human beings who are not part of the group
they consider
definitive, but no distinction has been so pervasive in human
experience as the
distinction between men as the norm and women as the other,

25. nor has it been the
case that the asymmetry has been universal as it is with males
and females.
Thus it is that some feminists see the oppression of women as
the model for all
other oppressions—caste, class, race—which perceive the less
powerful as
other. It is not surprising, then, that one writer analyzes the
progress of feminist
criticism by comparing it to the stages of emergence of colonial
literature.6
Simone de Beauvoir's analysis of women as other appeared in
The Second Sex, a
book that is essential reading for anyone who wishes to trace
the history of
feminist criticism, though this work is not literary criticism per
se.1 It is Virginia
Woolf 's A Room of One's Own which serves as the earliest and,
in many ways
still the best introductory work delineating the issues and
difficulties that
confront women who purpose to become full participants in the
human
enterprise of reading, writing, and criticizing literature. Based
on a series of
lectures in 1928, the book's opening paragraph confronts the
possibilities for
understanding the meaning of the topic, women and fiction,
given her for the
lectures. The possible meanings she implies for the topic still
reflect some
contemporary approaches:
The words. . .might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny

26. Burney, . Jane
Austen, . .the Brontes, . .Miss Mitford, . .George Eliot, . .Mrs.
Gaskell. . . . The
title women and fiction might mean. . .women and what they are
like; or it might
mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean
women and the
fiction that is written about them; or it might mean that
somehow all three are
inextricably mixed together. . . .8
Yet, as she considered these complexities, she says, she was
always brought to a
WHAT DIFFERENCE?
"minor p o i n t " preliminary to these unresolved questions
about the nature of
women or the nature of fiction—that unless a woman has a room
of her own,
unless she is independent financially and emotionally, she
cannot become a full
participant in this enterprise. The process of thought and
reasoning that led
Woolf to this conclusion makes up the greater part of the essay.
But it is the manner as much as the matter of W o o l f s essay
that is seen as
significant in another important piece of feminist critical
exploration, Adrienne
Rich's " W h e n W e Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision."9
Rich is struck by the
"sense of effort, of pains taken, of dogged tentativeness in the t
o n e , " for what

27. this tone portrays, Rich thinks, is a woman who subdues her
passion because she
is "actually conscious. . .of being overheard by m e n " (p. 92).
Such concern for
o b j e c t i v i t y a n d r e s p e c t a b i l i t y , R i c h c o n t e
n d s , w h e t h e r c o n s c i o u s or
unconscious, is a hindrance for women writers. What will
energize w o m e n ' s
writing is the abandonment of an objective stance and a deep
surrender by
women to their own consciousness and experience.
W o o l f s perception for women who would write is quite
different from
Rich's call for surrender to the knowledge and understanding of
oneself as a
woman. At the end of her lecture, Woolf argues passionately for
the middle of the
writer, man or woman, as androgynous:
It is fatal for any one who writes to think of their sex. It is fatal
to be a man or
woman pure and simple; one must be woman-manly or man-
womanly. It is fatal
for a woman to lay the least stress on any grievance; to plead
even with justice any
cause; in any way to speak consciously as a woman. And fatal is
no figure of
speech; for anything written with that conscious bias is doomed
to death. It ceases
to be fertilised. Brilliant and effective, powerful and masterly,
as it may appear for
a day or two, it must wither at nightfall; it cannot grow in the
minds of others.
Some collaboration has to take place in the mind between the
woman and the man

28. before the act of creation can be accomplished. Some marriage
of opposites has to
be consummated. The whole of the mind must like wide open if
we are to get the
sense that the writer is communicating his experience with
perfect fullness. There
must be freedom and there must be peace (p. 108).
W o o l f s plea for an androgynous mind is elaborated on and
demonstrated in
a n o t h e r s i g n i f i c a n t w o r k , C a r o l y n H e i l b r u
n ' s Toward a Recognition of
Androgyny.11 Defining androgyny as ' 'a condition under which
the characteristics
of the sexes, and the human impulses expressed by men and
women, are not
rigidly defined" (p. x), Heilbrun surveys western literature and
finds " a hidden
river of androgyny." Her point is that the best human impulses
tend toward the
recognition of the essential humanness of both male and female,
and the
qualities of character and action that characterize the best of
human life and
culture are to be found in men and women (cf. the chapter titled
" T h e W o m a n
as H e r o " ) . Although she does not deny the limitations that
have been imposed
on women and is thoroughly committed to their being lifted, and
although she
sees feminist criticism as essential to that process, Heilbrun has
consistently
argued in other writings that the point of feminist criticism is to
reach the place

29. CHRISTIANITY & LITERATURE
where critics are "free to range ourselves on the spectrum of
human action for
reasons other than that of gender. . . ; it will be a place where
literary perceptions
will avail past the necessity of social a c t i o n . " 1 2
But whether this is a possible, or even a desirable, destination is
not acceded
to by all feminist critics.1 3 Why not? Because, as many critics
besides Rich say,
women have not been able to write as mere human beings; the
act of writing itself
has meant they were defining themselves as more than the
object of male desire,
adoration, or calumny as they have appeared in most literature.
The act of
writing defines them as subjects; by definition it is a
revolutionary act and hence
must, of necessity, be somehow inscribed in the text. It is the
self-consciousness
of that act that Rich sees in Woolf's tone of effort and
tentativeness.
Such self-consciousness may, in fact, be inscribed even more
deeply than in a
surface manifestation such as tone, Myra Jehlen suggests:
Women (and perhaps some men not of the universal kind) must
deal with their
situation as a precondition for writing about it. They have to
confront the
assumptions that render them a kind of fiction in themselves in
that they are

30. defined by others, as components of the language and thought of
others. . . . The
autonomous individuality of a woman's story or poem is framed
by engagement,
the engagement of its denial of dependent [on the male tradition
or on others'
definition of oneself]. We might think of the form this
necessary denial takes. . .
as analogous to genre, in being an issue, not of content, but of
the structural
formulation of the work's relationship to the inherently formally
patriarchal
language which is the only language we have.14
This implies another reason for postponing the marriage of male
and female
consciousness in an androgynous mind. In fact, such a marriage
may be
impossible until female experience and certain so-called
traditional feminine
values are incorporated into our cultural or literary
consciousness as necessary
human values:
Much feminist criticism is. . .corective criticism designed to
redress the
imbalance in current literary curricula, . . .to retrieve the
extensive body of
women's literature and art that has been neglected in the past—
not only to
retrieve it but to integrate it into the canon. If, in this process of
integration, we
establish that there is a woman's culture, so much the better for
the purposes of
our politics—to make the world a place in which woman is no
longer other.15

31. Until reciprocity between masculine and feminine ways of being
and knowing
is assumed as the human way of being and knowing, these
feminists insist, the
exploration of w o m e n ' s experience and consciousness must
be of the highest
p r i o r i t y . In fact, w i t h o u t such h i g h l i g h t i n g of
w o m e n ' s e x p e r i e n c e , t h e
reciprocity will not occur.
An awareness of a special consciousness in women and of
disabilities which
they have faced is not a substitute for but a prologue to literary
study, not only as a
sotto voce accompaniment to biography, but as soil and context
for the works
WHAT DIFFERENCE?
themselves. Art has a life of its own, and an awareness of
injustices toward women
is not going to make a bad book better; yet it is criticism that
evaluates and
preserves that life, and criticism which is sexually, as opposed
to intellectually,
discriminating, will hide and withhold a significant portion of
the life of a book.
Elements in women's writing which have been unappreciated or
denigrated by
male critics may appear in a different light once the prejudices
of these critics
have been named as such.16

32. As this quotation implies, the task of feminist criticism is not
only to highlight
women's consciousness and experience but also to uncover ways
in which that
experience has been misunderstood or denigrated in the writings
of men or
masked and trivialized in the writings of women. The burst of
critical activity
early in the last decade which exposed stereotypical treatments
of women
exemplifies this kind of critical activity, but that is perhaps the
most obvious and
also, once learned, the most perfunctory kind of feminist
reading. A more
thorough critique of literature " w a n t s to decode and
demystify all the disguised
questions and answers that have always shadowed the
connections between
textuality and sexuality, genre and gender, psychosexual
identity and cultural
authority." 1 7
Elaine Showalter distinguishes between t w o modes of feminist
criticism, one
mode "concerned with the feminist as reader, . . .in essence a m
o d e of
interpretation, one of many which any complex text will
accomodate and
p e r m i t . " 1 8 But focusing solely on the feminist as reader
means " t h e feminist
critique can only compete with alternative readings, all of
which have the built-
in obsolescence of Buicks, cast away as newer readings take
their p l a c e " (p .
182).

33. That is why Showalter argues for a second mode, " t h e study
of women as
writers; . . .its subjects are the history, styles, themes, genres,
and structure of
writing by women; the psychodynamics of female creativity; the
trajectory of
the individual or collective female career; and the evolution and
laws of a female
literary t r a d i t i o n " (pp. 184-85). This shift from " a n
androcentric to gynocentric
feminist criticism" has produced a spate of book-length studies,
not to mention
numerous essays and papers.1 9
The ascendance of a gynocentric criticism does not assure a
unity of approach
to the list of subjects in Showalter's second mode or to
agreement on the crux of
the difference in w o m e n ' s writing. The ways in which the
difference can be
articulated are physical/biological—the difference of women's
bodies (an
approach taken by French feminists who are influenced by
Lacan); linguistic—
the difference of w o m e n ' s language (another interest of
French feminists who
argue for a parler femme); psychological—the difference of w o
m e n ' s perceptions
of the self and of the creative act; cultural—the difference of w
o m e n ' s
experience as part of a female culture.
Although Showalter finds each of the approaches has yielded
fruitful insights,
she believes the last difference is the most defensible and most
promising as a

34. ground for articulating differences. Using Edwin Ardener's
model of a muted
CHRISTIANITY & LITERATURE
and d o m i n a n t g r o u p , she argues t h a t w o m e n and m
e n share p a r t i c u l a r
experiences, but each has areas of experience that are shared
only with members
of the same gender. It is this area of unshared experience, or the
aspects of a
woman's text that reflect both the shared and unshared
experiences, that may
provide the distinctive difference for gynocentric criticism. " O
n e of the great
advantages of the w o m e n ' s culture model is that it shows
how the female
tradition can be a positive source of strength and solidarity as
well as a negative
source of powerlessness; it can generate its own experiences
and symbols which
are not simply the obverse of the male t r a d i t i o n " (p. 204).
Still, this model focuses almost necessarily on content or
context and, as Ellen
Messer-Davidow points out, is philosophically based in an
author-centered
criticism.2 0 She argues that most feminist criticism can be
fitted into the four
philosophical approaches to a work of art first delineated by
Meyer Abrams
(author, audience, universe work) or as responsive to the
approach that sees the
work as communication (structuralism, semiotics,

35. deconstructionism). Is it
possible to conceptualize the task in a way that is not so
dependent?2 1 Yes, says
Messer-Davidow, if the subject of feminist criticism is
conceived not as
literature but as ideas about sex (biological differences) and
gender (cultural
differences).22 These ideas are accessible and provable,
whereas the actual
differences themselves are not. Such ideas can be explored in
themselves,
related to the agent who uses them, examined with respect to
their effects on
people, and considered in their relationship with other ideas.
The epistemology
of such an approach recognizes not only the author, audience,
universe, work,
and language as a potential medium of communication but also
the critic, an
acknowledgement present but not explicit in certain other
models. Anyone who
approaches literature as a feminist, then, is necessarily
concerned with issues of
sex and gender.
The dependence of feminist criticism on other forms or modes
of literary
c r i t i c i s m , o r on o t h e r i d e o l o g i e s ( e . g . , M a r
x i s m , p s y c h o a n a l y s i s ) , has
engendered much discussion, perhaps because it appears that
feminist criticism
has two aims; criticism that is " a u t h e n t i c both as literary
criticism and as
feminist praxis.''23 If carried out in isolation, each negates the
other, but if
feminist criticism is conceived as a "dialectical m e d i a t i o n

36. " between feminism
and literary criticism, the result may be a restructuring of the
discipline, showing
that " t h e literary and critical tradition has betrayed its claims
to universality" at
the same time that it affirms the value of the tradition: "feminist
criticism is
devoted to the liberation of the ideal of beauty and aesthetic
pleasure from its
bondage to the patriarchal logic, which usually attaches these
values to the
representation of women as other. . . . It is an effort to preserve
what literature
and criticism can and ought to be against what they have b e c o
m e " (p. 175).
W h e t h e r or not one finds these projections plausible, it is
clear from
Schweickart's comments, and from those of other feminist
critics, that
disinterestedness is not held up as a critical ideal. (Of course,
critics other than
feminists have implicitly and explicitly acknowledged the
elusiveness of such an
ideal in the last several decades.) But it is also clear that
feminist critics do see
W H A T DIFFERENCE?
their enterprise as a "criticism of life." Is it really possible to
come up with an
adequate criticism of life without disinterestedness?
This perplexing issue—how to be true to the integrity of the

37. literary work and
to the extra-literary commitments that inform one's
understanding and hence
may affect one's reading of t h e w o r k — i s crucial not only
for feminist critical
theory and practice but also for Christian criticism.
Both feminism and Christianity posit visions of a world that is
better than the
present one; both can point to reasons the present is less than
perfect, and both
proffer remedies for the problem. If one holds such views
passionately—and
both assert that not to hold them so is hardly to hold them at all,
they will affect
every area of one's life, including one's intellectual endeavors.
How is it
possible, then not to judge a literary work by the standards of
one's ideology?
How can one avoid being guided by attitudes and beliefs that
are held to be
essential for understanding the self and the world? These are
questions that
animate critical discourse in either circle, feminist or Christian.
O n e predictable response to this dilemma is the assertion that
the work of art
is autonomous and sets its own standards for judgment. Yet
even if the many
arguments against this position—which have pretty well
demolished the
possibility of a naive formalism—are ignored, both feminism
and Christianity
would assert that such autonomy can only be penultimate:
feminism because art
is seen to be inextricably grounded in a human context that by

38. definition
involves ideas about and attitudes toward sex and gender
(humans are either
male or female; no neutral identity is possible), Christianity
because even art
must be judged in the light of eternity.
However one formulates a response to this theoretical dilemma,
in practice
the approaches of feminist and Christian critics bear some
similarity, taking
several forms: e.g., discussions about how a particular writer's
Christianity or
sex/gender attitudes shape a particular work; an examination of
forms or periods
in the light of the non-literary c o m m i t m e n t (e.g., Nathan
Scott's The Broken
Center); recovery of works considered marginal to the canon
because their
ideological values have obscured their literary value to the
supposedly objective
(e.g., Donald Davie's reconsideration of the hymns of Isaac W a
t t s ) . Another
related issue of practical criticism arises in the study of that
western literature
written in the Christian era when no alternative world view is
posited. W h a t is
the relationship between belief and literary practice; for
example, is the choice
of particular idioms or symbols deliberate or conventional?
Similarly, what
particular choices are guided by consciousness of one's gender
identity or
adoption of a conventional stance? What aspect of the context is
inextricable?

39. Though the answers to these questions are varied, it is clear that
people who
ask and a t t e m p t to answer such questions care deeply about
the products of
human creation, even though their ultimate allegiance compels
them to look
beyond and outside literature and art for answers. Such care is,
in fact, an
implicit expression of their concern for the future of human life,
just as their
ideological or religious commitments are explicit expressions of
this concern.
W h e t h e r implicitly or explicitly expressed, this caring for
literature and this
CHRISTIANITY & LITERATURE
concern for human life are the reasons it is important to raise
such questions in
the classroom as well as in the arenas of scholarly debate.
Insofar as the insights
of feminist critics are showing us ways we have made human
subjects into
objects or showing us we have accepted definitions of self that
exonerate us from
the effort of growing into full personhood; insofar as the
insights of feminist
critics have alerted us to the human tendency to make others of
those who are
different, especially of those who have less access to p o wer
than we, then
feminist critics are helping us to understand and carry out our
task carefully as

40. Christians.
And even if feminist critics were to have accomplished only a
set of alternate
readings in c o m p e t i t i o n w i t h o t h e r r e a d i n g s ( a l
t h o u g h I believe t h e i r
accomplishment is greater and still to be fully realized), these
alternate readings
can remind us of the powerful effects readers have on texts, and
conversely of
the powerful effect texts have on readers, not the least of whom
are our
students. 2 4 Jehlen makes a similar point in her comparison of
descriptions by
Henry Nash Smith and Ann Baym of the same sentimental
novel:
Smith reports that Wide Wide World is the tale of 'an orphan
exposed to poverty
and psychological hardships who finally attains economic
security and high social
status through marriage.' Baym reads the same novel as 'the
story of a young girl
who is deprived of the supports she had rightly or wrongly
depended on to sustain
her throughout life and is faced with the necessity of winning
her own way in the
world.' The second account stresses the role of the girl herself
in defining her
situation, so that the crux of her story becomes her passage
from passivity to
active engagement. On the contrary, with an eye to her
environment and its use to
her, Smith posits her as passive throughout, 'exposed' at first, in
the end married.
Clearly this is not a matter of right or wrong readings but of a

41. politics of vision.25
No one who reads criticism or who teaches students needs to be
told that
drastically different readings of a text exist. But perhaps we do
need be reminded
that readings have the power to h u r t and to help. In fact, for
both feminist and
Christian critics the high value accorded literature and art is
linked to the
conviction that they have the power to affect human life, a
power that extends
into the future, for some even as " f a r " as eternity. Dare we
use that p o wer
carelessly?
To whom much is given, from them much is required.
1 Readers who are interested in such reviews are referred to the
following, listed
chronologically: Annis Pratt, "The New Feminist Criticism,"
College English, 32 (May,
1971), 872-889; Elaine Showalter, "Literary Criticism," Signs, 1
(Winter, 1975), 435-
460; Annette Kolodny, "Literary Criticism," Signs, 2 (Winter,
1976), 404-421; Cheri
Register, "Literary Criticism," Signs, 6 (Winter, 1980), 268-
282.
W H A T D I F F E R E N C E ?
2
A n n e t t e Kolodny, " S o m e N o t e s on Defining a
'Feminist Literary C r i t i c i s m ' , " ^ 3

42. Critical Inquiry, 2 (Autumn, 1975), 91
3
Register, ρ 269
4
A n n e t t e Barnes, " F e m a l e Criticism A P r o l o g u e , "
in Arlyn D i a m o n d and Lee R
Edwards, eds , The Authority of Experience Essays m Feminist
Criticism (Amherst University
of Massachusetts Press, 1977), ρ 9
5
This distinction is p o i n t e d o u t in Mary M c D e r m o t t
Shideler's i n t r o d u c t i o n to
D o r o t h y Sayer's Are Women Human? ( G r a n d Rapids
Lerdmans, 1971), ρ 12
6
Register, p p 281 282
7
Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans , H M Parshley
(New York Alfred A
Knopf, Ine , 1953)
8
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own (New York H a r c o u r
t , Brace & W o r l d
[ H a r b i n g e r ] , 1929), ρ 3
9
Adrienne Rich's Poetry, ed Barbara C h a r l e s w o r t h Gelpi
and Albert Gelpi (New York

43. N o r t o n , 1975), pp 90 98
1 0
Cf Marilyn R Farwell, " A d r i e n n e Rich and an Organic
Feminist C r i t i c i s m , "
College English, 39 ( O c t o b e r , 1977), 199 203
1 1
Carolyn G Heilbrun, Toward a Recognition of Androgyny ( N e
w York Harper & Row,
1973)
1 2
Carolyn Heilbrun and C a t h e r i n e Simpson, " T h e o r i e s
of Feminist Criticism A
D i a l o g u e , " in Feminist Literary Criticism, ed Josephine
Donovan (Lexington T h e
University Press of Kentucky, 1975), ρ 72
1 3
O n e writer, w h o claims t o have long been a convinced
feminist, argues that
a t t e m p t s to define differences in w o m e n ' s literature are
foolish, certainly w o m e n have
been stereotyped, but w o m e n are not special types " W o m e
n ' s l i t e r a t u r e " is in the same
c a t e g o r y as " J e w i s h l i t e r a t u r e , " a r g u e s M i n
d a Rae A m i r a n , " W h a t W o m e n ' s

44. L i t e r a t u r e , " College English, 39 (February, 1978), 653
661
1 4
Myra Jehlen, " A r c h i m e d e s and the Paradox of Feminist
C r i t i c i s m , " Signs, 6
( S u m m e r , 1981), 582
1 5
Josephine Donovan, " F e m i n i s m and A e s t h e t i c s , "
Critical Inquiry, 4 (Spring, 1977),
606
1 6
Lynn Sukenick, " O n W o m e n and F i c t i o n , " in Diamond
and Edwards, ρ 44
1 7
Sandra M Gilbert, " W h a t Do Feminist Critics W a n t
9
, or, a Postcard from t h e
V o l c a n o , " ADF Bulletin ( W i n t e r , 1980), ρ 19
1 8
Flame Showalter, " F e m i n i s t Criticism in t h e W i l d e r n
e s s , " Critical Inquiry, 8
( W i n t e r , 1981), 182 This issue of Critical Inquiry has been
issued as a separate volume,
Writing and Sexual Difference ed Elizabeth Abel (Chicago
University of Chicago Press,

45. 1982) …
Christianity and Literature
Vol 52. No. I {Autumn 2002)
REVIEW ESSAY
What Is Reading For?
Michael Vander Weele
Griffiths, Paul J. Religious Reading: The Place of Reading in
the Practice of Religion.
New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. ISBN 0-19-512577-
0. Pp. x i i + 210.
$39.95.
Illich, Ivan. In the Vineyard of the Text: A Commentary to
Hugh's Didascalicon.
Ghicago: University of Ghicago Press, 1993. ISBN 0-2263-
7235-9 (cloth), 0-2263-
7236-7 (paper). Pp. 154. $24.95 (cloth), $15.00 (paper).
Jacobs, Alan. A Theology of Reading: The Hermeneutics of
Love. Boulder: Westview
Press, 2001. ISBN 0-8^33-6577-5 (cloth), 0-8133-6556-X
(paper). Pp. ix + 186.
$65.00 (cloth), $20.00 (paper).
Jeffrey, David Lyle. People of the Book: Christian Identity and
Literary Culture. Grand
Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1996. ISBN 0-8028-
3817-0. Pp.xx + 396.
$25.00 (paper).

46. Ritchie, Daniel E. Reconstructing Literature in an Ideological
Age: A Biblical Poetics
and Literary Studies from Milton to Burke. Grand Rapids:
William B. Eerdmans
Publishing, 1996. ISBN 0-8028-4140-6. Pp.302. $27.00 (paper).
Stock, Brian. After Augustine: The Meditative Reader and the
Text. Philadelphia:
Universityof Pennsylvania Press, 2001. ISBN 0-8122-3602-5.
Pp.132. $32.50.
. Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-Ktjowledgey and the
Ethics of Inter-
pretation. Gambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996. ISBN 0-
674-05276-5 (cloth),
0-674-05277-3 (paper). Pp.463. $48.50 (cloth), $21.95 (paper).
What do we do when we read? The 1990s brought us a small
library of
books trying to answer that question. These included popular
books such
57
58 M I C H A E L V A N D E R W E E L E
as Sven Birkerts' The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading
in an Electronic
Age {1994), Alberto Manguel's A History of Reading (1996),
Anne Fadimans
Ex Libris: Gonfessions of a Gomnwn Reader (1998), Harold
Bloom's How to
Read ami Why (2000), and even an anthology, Steven Gilbar's

47. Reading in Bed:
Perso)ial Essays on the Glories of Reading (1995). Some books
on writing, such
as Nadine Gordimer's Writing and Being (1995), also told us
much about
reading. This small library included books on reading during a
particular
historical period and books on the production as well as the
reception of
books. Louise M. Rosenblatt's The Reader, the Texty the Poem:
The Transac-
tional Theory of the Literary Work (1979; rpt.1994) made a new
appearance,
as had her Literature as Exploration a decade earlier (1938; rpt.
1983). Faced
with such a rapidly expanding library, we might ask: Why all
this attention
to reading now? What is reading for? and Where are we most
likely to find
help in rethinking the place of reading today? These questions
are related,
of course, but I will briefly address each one separately before
launching this
review of the seven books that instigated them.
First, why all this attention to reading now? There are more
contribut-
ing factors than we can name, no doubt, but we should at least
recognize the
confluence of academic and cultural affairs. In part, literary
criticism has
brought us to this state of affairs. Even after the 1960s'
challenges to the
dominance of the author had largely run their course, interest
continued in
readers reading. This interest grew, not only in response to a

48. philosophical
or metacritical question but especially through a new emphasis
on the ma-
terial culture of the book. So the discipline brought us here. So,
too, did social
realities. As far as I can tell, there has been no decline in the
book business
(sadly, the decline of small book shops is another story), but in
the 1990s
readers grew concerned about the implications of the computer,
e-books, and
Internet novels for reading as we have known it. Though the
production of
books has not declined, their power as governing image has.
The screen has
largely replaced the book as the metaphor around which we
organize our
lives. Many of the popular books on reading have been written
as a sort of
testimonial to the private reading of books that the electronic
age seems to
threaten. Finally, the diminishment of the book as organizing
metaphor
accompanies a more general cultural crisis—the separation of
ethics and
technique, private and public life—that both liberal and
conservative thought
seem insufficient to address. This question of values strikes our
discipline
as well. In literary studies we swing between literature as
formal apprecia-
tion and literature as social symptom, without enough
exploration of the
space between.
Second, the epistemological question may become manageable

49. if we give
it a more practical turn: not "What is reading?" but "What is
reading for?"
The return of pragmatism helps this question receive a hearing
today, but I
W H A T IS R E A D I N G F O R ? 59
have in mind not so much William James or John Dewey, or
their modern-
day champions, as the contemporary writer and farmer Wendell
Berry. In
his short essay "What Are People For?" Berry describes the
government's
forty-year history of moving people off the farm and into the
cities, all the
while improving efficiencies of scale to do so.' Berry rightly
asserts that this
efficiency cannot be judged on its own terms but rather requires
us to an-
swer the antecedent question of what people are for. He uses the
language
of "economy" to make such a claim, a term to which we will
return at the
end of this essay. If a discussion of farm economy seems too
distant from a
discussion of reading. Berry makes a similar argument about the
"industri-
al university." He asks us to consider the education it makes
available in light
of the prior question of what learning is for. The question of
education, of
course, is inseparable from the question of reading.

50. Third, where are we most likely to find help in rethinking the
place of
reading today? In what follows I shall emphasize the particular,
though re-
lated, sources of premodern literature and theological reflection,
both his-
torical and contemporary. First, premodern literature has two
advantages:
sufficient distance to question what we now take for granted,
and an impor-
tant focus for what Paul Saenger calls "the nascent discipline of
the history
of reading" {Space between Words 244). It is a complicated
task, however, to
explicate the uses of history for life. Second, theology not only
has a long
tradition of reflection on reading (Augustine and Hugh of St.
Victor, for start-
ers), but contemporary theologians may also situate reading
within its so-
cial situation in less deterministic ways than literary critics
have. Alert to the
importance of memory for reading and to the roles of public as
well as pri-
vate reading, theology challenges us to think of reading in terms
other than
those of textual dominance. Historical and comparative theology
keeps
before us—or should keep before us—the relationship of
reading to Berry's
finally religious question of what people are for. In addition to
these two
sources, a third can be found in the history of rhetoric. Though
too large a
field to be covered here, near the end of the essay I will suggest
a few helpful

51. resources in this field as well.
An early puzzle one finds in trying to answer the question of
what read-
ing is for concerns the autonomy of the text. How do we judge
the literary
text's relation to its culture's values and technologies, to the
history of con-
ventions associated with its genre, and to the social, religious,
and political
interests of its reader? Christians have given very different
responses to this
question. While Christianity's influence on the spread of
reading is relatively
easy to mark (e.g., the early affirmation of classical education;
the rescuing
of classical texts through the work of monasteries and cathedral
schools, as
well as through Islamic scholarship; the rise of literacy and a
growing pub-
lic sphere after the Reformation; the push toward literacy
wherever the Gospel
M I C H A E L V A N D E R W E E L E
has been preached), the question of the relative autonomy of the
text leads
to a puzzling contradiction: Christians have been more prone to
defend the
autonomy of the text in modern than in premodern times. In the
history of
aesthetics we find clear traces of religion's role in asserting the
autonomy of
the text. However, in the medieval tradition from Augustine to

52. Hugh of St.
Victor, the text was never granted such autonomy.
Martha Woodmansee's important work on the intersection of
econom-
ics and literature. The Aiithon Art, and the Market: Rereading
the History of
Aesthetics, includes an analysis of the theological traces found
in secular aes-
thetic theory. She shows, convincingly I'm afraid, that the
principle of "dis-
interested pleasure" was transferred from a quietist brand of
German Pietism
and its understanding of the appropriate approach to God.
Woodmansee
quotes from Karl Philipp Moritz's 1785 autobiographical novel:
[They] are concerned for the most part with that . .. total
abandonment of
the self and entry upon a blissful state of nothingness, with that
complete
extermination of all so-called 5t'//-Aiess [Eigenheit] or self-
love [Eigenliebe], znd
a totally disinterested [uninteressierte] love of God, in which
not the merest
spark of self-love may mingle, if it is to be pure; and out of this
there arises
in the end a perfect, blissful tranquillity which is the highest
goal of all these
strivings.
This summary of the religious goals of his father's group of
extreme Pietists
"is transported," Woodmansee writes, "almost verbatim into
Moritz's theo-
ry of art, where it serves precisely to characterize what we now

53. term the 'aes-
thetic attitude.'" This aesthetic attitude, with its principle of
disinterested-
ness or of unselfish pleasure, suggested art's self-sufficiency
rather than its
"instrumental," or what I would call its "rhetorical," value.
When Moritz
wrote Toward a Unification of All the Eine Arts and Letters
under the Goncept
of Self-Stifficiency {Versuch einer Vereinigung aller schonen
Kilnste und Vfis-
senschaften unter dem Begriff des in sich selbst Vollendeten),
also in 1785, he
used a language similar to his father's language for
contemplating God but
turned it toward his ideal attitude for contemplating a work of
art:
As the beautiful object completely captivates our attention, it
diverts our at-
tention momentarily from ourselves with the result that we seem
to lose
ourselves in the beautiful object; and precisely this loss, this
forgetfulness of
ourselves, is the highest degree of pure and disinterested
[uneigeyuuitzigen]
pleasure which beauty grants us. (19)
Just as God had been seen as an end in Himself, so the attitude
described here
suggests that art should be viewed as an end unto itself.
Woodmansee's claim of historical influence seems right: "In its
origins

54. W H A T IS R E A D I N G F O R ? 61
the theory of art's autonomy is clearly a displaced theology"
(20). Though
other elements may have been involved, Woodmansee's
evidence of theolog-
ical influence seems compelling. In the mid-twentieth century
the New
Critics, several of whom were confessing Christians, similarly
associated liter-
ary texts with disinterested pleasure. In "Ars Poetica" Archibald
MacLeish
described the reader's appropriate stance toward the aesthetic
work in his
famous lines, "The poem should not mean / but be." For
students of read-
ing seeking a longer theological trace, however, there is an
earlier, radically
different approach to consider. In People of the Book: Ghristian
Identity and
Literary Gtdture, David Lyle Jeffrey argues that "Christian
literary theory in
late antiquity and the early Middle Ages was itself explicitly,
not merely tac-
itly, ideological" (90). Jerome and Augustine were important
influences,
using the image of "Egyptian gold" (Augustine) or "captive
beauty" (Jerome)
to describe the appropriate use of classical literature. Both also
took seri-
ously PauFs injunction to "take every thought captive for
Christ" (2 Cor.
10:5). This led to an early Christian conviction that "no reading
takes place
in an ethical vacuum, and that even the most technical

55. elaborations of lin-
guistic and genre conventions will have at their foundation the
question of
function, of action" (Jeffrey 90). Nothing could be clearer: in
early Chris-
tianity the reading and writing of literature were considered
useful, not ends
unto themselves. Literature was, in Woodmansee's too narrow
terms, taken
to be "instrumental" or rhetorical. Jeffrey describes the tension
between early
and modern Christian approaches to reading this way: "What
must seem
odd about many'Christian' defenses of formalism is their
apparent forget-
fulness that the inaugural commitment of Christianity to
hterature was it-
self hardly of a formalist character" (95).
It would be a safe assumption for most of us that in the West
"the inau-
gural commitment of Christianity to literature" developed
through Augus-
tine. Brian Stock's recent work makes such a position
incontrovertible. In
Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-Knowledge, and the
Ethics of Interpre-
tation, Stock's analysis ranges from Augustine's earliest letters
and dialogues
to his late work on teaching and on the Trinity, though the
Gonfessions is
never left far behind. The reader has to work through a lot of
close summa-
ry, but this brilliant as well as patient study gives enough of the
early, minor
texts to mark the development of Augustine's thought. Indeed,

56. at times read-
ing Stock on Augustine is like reading one of John Freccero's
students on
Dante, marking the various repetitions and pahnodes as we
move from one
canticle (or book) to another. Put another way. Stock reads like
a musician,
both vertically and horizontally, giving us the movement as well
as the chordal
structures of Augustine's thought.
Stock shows Augustine's shift, for example, from early attention
to the text
that is read to later focus on the mind of the reader. Texts, like
pointing or.
^̂ 2 M I C H A E L V A N D E R W E E L E
better, gesture, are eventually found inadequate. The minds of
readers, not
texts, create coherent philosophies of life. In this view a passive
reader is a
bad reader, and reading is never a goal unto itself. The reader
must com-
pare, assimilate, and transform what is read. The ethical
requirement for the
reader is hardly disinterestedness but personal judgment.
Memory both
establishes the link between text and mind (reading : text and
telling : : re-
membering : storage and recall) and forms the foundation for a
moral life.
The analysis of the way memory links text and life takes two
rival directions

57. in Stock's narrative. The first analyzes reading in relation to
self-understand-
ing; the second analyzes reading in relation to social conduct.
For the first,
reading is related to stories of self-representation already
available through
memory. These stories comprise what Stock calls a "second
narrative." Read-
ing the physical text or "first narrative" helps us read our
minds. It clarifies
and eventually joins our "second narrative." The act of reading
can give us
an idealized, instructive version of self or life against which we
can judge the
remembered narrative and have the possibility of transforming
it.
The second direction Stock takes, that of analyzing the relation
of read-
ing to social conduct, is weaker than the first due to Stock's
overemphasis
on an ascetic ("world-denying") Augustine whose primary
interest is in de-
veloping his own interiority. (Indeed, the language of "self,"
"interiority,"
and "asceticism" became somewhat jarring to this reader.)
Thankfully, Stock
gives enough quotation and analysis, some of it through
footnotes, to track
the relation of reading to conduct as well. Stock is clear, for
example, that
for Augustine reading is shaped by a prior behavioral pattern,
but reading
leads to subsequent behavior and has the potential to transform
it. Stock
also states that for Augustine a text's relation to life resembles

58. the relation of
discipline to conduct, but for the most part his reading of
Augustine drives
toward a tradition of private meditation rather than public
action. The so-
cial is named but regularly plays a secondary role to the
individual.
To his credit the self-understanding in Augustine that interests
Stock so
much is not only contemplative but also transformative. Stock
describes
Augustine's division between kinds of reading not in terms of
aesthetic or
nonaesthetic reading but in terms of informing and transforming
reading,
or between the comparative scrutiny of texts and the
deliberative reflection
that can reorient the ethical direction of one's life. Augustine
writes in On
Ghristian Doctrine that through reading we travel a road "'not of
places but
of affections'" (195), and these affections trigger choices to
attach our lives
to larger commitments that Stock refers to as "nonpersonal
frameworks for
behavior" (126).
Stock presents more that we can learn from in agreement or
disagreement
with Augustine. For example, he tells us that for Augustine
meaning is cre-
ated for events by putting them in a sequence (157). (This
seems, for Aug-

59. W H A T IS READING FOR? 63
ustine, to resemble the clarity that comes to a qualifier only
after we know
its object.) He also states that it is not particular representations
but a prin-
ciple of organization that Augustine finds worthy of imitation:
"It is the life-
informing process that is imitated, not the content of a
narrative" (215). In
Augustine's instructions not to neglect pagan teachings
necessary for living
in society, we also find a principle for reading that which falls
outside one's
belief system and beyond one's own pleasure. Finally, Stock
finds in Augus-
tine a "hermeneutics of tradition." By this phrase he suggests
that reading
can become an instrument of behavioral and intellectual change
when a
common tradition holds together separate but similarly oriented
states of
mind. This recognition of a hermeneutics of tradition lets
Augustine move
beyond his early interest in the inspired or suddenly illuminated
reader, since
the later Augustine finds it illusory to believe that the narratives
we live are
our own constructions. "The reading process," Stock writes, "is
institution-
alized through group memory. If memory fails, rules are of little
use" (193).
Memory links past and future through empathetic love, the
focus of Augus-
tine's mature writings: "A community of readership overcomes

60. the tempo-
ral distance that separates the two narratives in time" (165).
Such a textual
community is "interpretive in formation and behavioral in
possibility" (215).
Stock approves Augustine's shift of attention from text to
reader. He con-
siders reading very much an ethical activity that requires our
personal judg-
ment of the current text in relation to the older narrative of our
life held in
memory. While Stock's primary emphasis is on self-reflection,
the notion
of memory links reading to conduct, and his notion of group
memory
("hermeneutics of tradition") keeps open the relation of reading
to society.
In his slimmer sequel. After Augustine: Tlie Meditative Reader
and the Texty
Stock becomes more of an advocate, less of an explicator, than
in the earlier
text. He moves from the fourth to the seventeenth century,
tracing the de-
velopment of lectio spiritualis out of lectio divinis. He clearly
is interested in
those Renaissance and post-Renaissance figures (Montaigne,
Pascal, Vico)
who "envisaged cultural understanding as a contemplative
experience" (7),
or those who preceded them in introducing "contemplative
practice into their
reflections on the problem of the European identity" (114). At
stake is wheth-
er reading is a means to an end or an end in itself, an
autonomous activity.

61. The end Stock imagines is "a contemplative state of mind" (16).
Stock is concerned about our shrinking knowledge of the
Western tradi-
tion, given the near demise of Latin in educational programs
and the con-
comitant disconnection of the vernacular literatures of Western
Europe from
each other. He redefines the problem, however, from the loss of
Latin lan-
guage and literature to the loss of a type of reading that is
largely forgotten,
though still recoverable, today. This type of reading he sees as a
development
of lectio spiritualis, which itself developed out of the earlier
and stricter lee-
64 M I C H A E L V A N D E R W E E L E
tio divina. Sometimes, as at the end of his fourth chapter. Stock
seems sorry
that the post-Petrarchan world transferred "from the divine to
the human
sphere" the authority for making statements about the self. He
sees the in-
creased difficuhy this transfer created in "connect[ing] the inner
nature of
the self with its outer literary expression in a convincing
manner, as well as
the incapacity to portray inwardness without play, irony,
theatrics, or philo-
sophical ambiguity." He ends this chapter somewhat
nostalgically: "The
question is not whether this transition 1 from the divine to the

62. human sphere]
took place in reality or just in words, as Augustine might have
asked, but
whether representations of the self in literature ever fully
recovered from it"
(70).
At other times it is not religious reading so much as the "poetry
of the
inner life" whose loss Stock regrets. He fears that "the century
of Proust was
the period in which literary studies finalized its detachment
from tradition-
al Western methods of relating literature to the problem of self-
knowledge."
We have "considerably obscured the relationship between
reading and con-
templative practice that was deliberately incorporated into many
late ancient
and medieval writings on the self." The result is dismal: "A new
generation
of readers has largely been deprived of the historical disciplines
that are need-
ed to attain an understanding of this poetry of the inner life"
(23). Stock has
much to teach us about the meditative reader and the reception
of texts af-
ter Augustine, but the question is whether "poetry of the inner
life" will pro-
vide a strong enough site of resistance to transform the
disconnection be-
tween inner nature and outer expression. I don't think it does.
Stock does
help us to ask, however, what account a Christian learning
community could
give of reading after the early modern age when reading is no

63. longer tied,
culturally, to religious self-understanding.
The question of terms for Stock's argument becomes more
insistent in
this sequel than in Augustine the Reader. It is difficult to take
at face value
such terms as "self-improvement," "self-discovery," or "self-
mastery" in re-
lation to Augustine or early Christianity. Phrases such as "the
subject's in-
ner experience" or "methods of self-analysis" also seem to me
quite distant
from his subject. Dissonance is not limited to terms and phrases
either.
Claims such as the following will seem incomprehensible to
many Christian
readers: "Contemplative practice thereby helps men and women
to attain
the objective of transcending the body that is common to
neoplatonic and
Christian theology" (6). Stock gives a great deal of help to one
trying to
understand an early Christian tradition of reading, but his
language and
argument can be oft-putting at times, especially for one who
otherwise is such
an important guide.
Stock is on more solid ground when he marks a shift in
Augustine's work
to philosophy as "a way of knowing and living, not an abstract
body of know-

64. W H A T IS R E A D I N G F O R ? 65
ledge." It was to "give the individual some guidance in
reorienting himself
or herself in relation to others" (36). This new understanding of
philoso-
phy's role meant that narrative, memory, and the body grew in
importance:
"[In Augustinian terms] our memory of the real is inseparable
from our
awareness of the passage of time in which sensory reality is
perceived" (43).
Stock sees a second shift as well, a postmedieval shift to
reading as a more
autonomous activity.
Stock marks this later shift in the work of Petrarch, More, and
Descartes,
with special sympathy for the first two. In Descartes he sees
most clearly a
return to the pre-Christian "trust in the logic of one's own
thinking" (71).
The stories of More and Petrarch are more complicated and
more impor-
tant for understanding the transition to modern notions of
reading. More's
behef in the limits of human rationality made him more suited.
Stock argues,
to work out of the tradition of lectio spiritualis, which Stock
describes as an
internal voyage based on a variety of both biblical and
nonbiblical texts. At
the same time. More wished to transform "this ascetic exercise
into a pro-
gram for achieving social change" (97). More is close to
"Augustine's pessi-

65. mistic hermeneutics, which proposes that our understanding of
texts is like
our understanding of time and language—fragmentary and
incomplete"
(99), close enough to Augustine, in fact, that his trust in the
logic of his own
thinking could never match Descarte's. More works the seam
between the
modern and premodern world. His problem is our own—"not
only how to
create a rational society, but how to prevent the creation of a
society that was
only rational." "More did not solve that problem," Stock writes.
"Nor, for
that matter, have we" (100).
In his final chapter Stock tries to bridge the gap that E. R.
Curtius found
between theology and poetry in the Middle Ages. Stock argues
for a major
but overlooked tradition of reflection on ethics that included
contemplative
as well as analytic practice. To contemplative practice he ties
the reading of
poetry or other kinds of imaginative writing. As Latin fades
today, we might
still learn how even the vernacular authors "had been taught
[through the
influence of lectio spiritualis] to meditate on words and images
in essential-
ly the same way" (104). But what was this lectio spiritualis that
had roots in
the Middle Ages but became prominent from the fourteenth to
the early
seventeenth century?

66. Stock describes twelve differences between divine and spiritual
reading,
ofwhich I will highlight five. 1. The continuity in lectio divina
between read-
ing, meditation, and prayer modulated in lectio spiritualis to a
continuity on
the frontier between reading, interior reflection, and "a number
of other
devotional activities" (106). 2. In lectio divina meditation
focused on the
words actually read, while in lectio spiritualis it focused on
words or images
that arose during or after reading. 3. Lectio divina was not an
autonomous
66 MICHAEL VANDER WEELE
activity, whereas in lectio spiritualis the reading process
acquired an auton-
omous status. 4. Lectio spiritualis included texts other than the
Bible and texts
that could not all be read in the same way. Further, it suggested
an inner
discipline that could involve self-exploration as part of one's
spiritual pro-
gress. 5. Wliile lectio divina focused on content and constantly
returned the
reader to Scripture, lectio spiritualis attended to the reader's
emotions dur-
ing and after reading and saw expression as an outgrowth of the
individu-
al's affective lite. In fact, the thinking subject. Stock claims,
was the "central-
izing element" of lectio spiritualis (108). This seems to be

67. where Stock takes
his stance, too. It remains to be seen whether such a transitional
stage can
be reclaimed or whether the separation of theology and poetry,
ethics and
reading, does not require a more radical turn, one in which it is
more clear-
ly understood that neither reading nor self is its own end.
Such a commitment is clearly present in Jeffrey's People of the
Book. Jef-
frey covers much the same ground as Stock, and he also depends
upon Aug-
ustine as the source for much of his theory of reading. Though
his atten-
tion to Augustine is less detailed than Stock's, he gives more
attention to the
English tradition: from Bede and Alcuin to Chaucer; then to
Bunyan, New-
ton, Baxter, and Cowper; and finally to Coleridge and Arnold,
with Goethe
as the one prominent non-English author he considers. In his
final chapter
Jeffrey attends to American writers, primarily Melville and
Hawthorne from
the nineteenth century and Flannery O'Connor, Walker Percy,
and Wendell
Berry from the twentieth. The final chapter also includes
references to one
of former President Ronald Reagan's speeches and to
televangelism. This is
an impressive historical range, though it is not intended as
history so much
as a series of historical reflections on Christian identity and
contemporary
critical concerns. In this way, at least, Jeffrey's book might be

68. compared to
the goals and the genre of Erich Auerbach's Mimesis: The
Representation of
Reality in Western Literature. At the center of these historical
reflections is
the question of reading.
Jeffrey raises an inevitable question about doing literary
criticism …
LITERARY THEORY
THE BASICS
Now in its third edition, Literary Theory: The Basics is a clear
and
engaging introduction to this core area of study. Exploring a
broad
range of topics, from the New Criticism of the 1930s to the
Ecocriticism and Posthumanism of the twenty-first century, it
guides the reader through the sometimes confusing world of
literary
theory to answer such questions as:
� Why is theory so important?
� Can I use modern theories to analyse texts from other
periods?
� What are issues like gender or race doing in literary theory?
� How do I decide which theory to use and must I pick just
one?
� What comes after theory?

69. Now with updated case studies and suggestions for further
reading,
Literary Theory: The Basics is a must read for anyone wishing
to approach the many debates and theories in this field with
confidence.
Hans Bertens is Professor of Comparative Literature at Utrecht
University, the Netherlands.
The Basics
ACTING
Bella Merlin
AMERICAN PHILOSOPHY
Nancy Stanlick
ANTHROPOLOGY
Peter Metcalf
ARCHAEOLOGY (SECOND EDITION)
Clive Gamble
ART HISTORY
Grant Pooke and Diana Newall
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
Kevin Warwick
THE BIBLE
John Barton
BUDDHISM
Cathy Cantwell

70. THE CITY
Kevin Archer
CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE
Suman Gupta
CRIMINAL LAW
Jonathan Herring
CRIMINOLOGY (SECOND EDITION)
Sandra Walklate
DANCE STUDIES
Jo Butterworth
EASTERN PHILOSOPHY
Victoria S. Harrison
ECONOMICS (SECOND EDITION)
Tony Cleaver
EDUCATION
Kay Wood
EUROPEAN UNION (SECOND EDITION)
Alex Warleigh-Lack
EVOLUTION
Sherrie Lyons
FILM STUDIES (SECOND EDITION)
Amy Villarejo
FINANCE (SECOND EDITION)
Erik Banks

71. FREE WILL
Meghan Griffith
HUMAN GENETICS
Ricki Lewis
HUMAN GEOGRAPHY
Andrew Jones
INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
Peter Sutch and Juanita Elias
ISLAM (SECOND EDITION)
Colin Turner
JOURNALISM STUDIES
Martin Conboy
JUDAISM
Jacob Neusner
LANGUAGE (SECOND EDITION)
R.L. Trask
LAW
Gary Slapper and David Kelly
LITERARY THEORY (THIRD EDITION)
Hans Bertens
LOGIC
J.C. Beall

72. MANAGEMENT
Morgen Witzel
MARKETING (SECOND EDITION)
Karl Moore and Niketh Pareek
MEDIA STUDIES
Julian McDougall
THE OLYMPICS
Andy Miah and Beatriz Garcia
PHILOSOPHY (FIFTH EDITION)
Nigel Warburton
PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY
Joseph Holden
POETRY (SECOND EDITION)
Jeffrey Wainwright
POLITICS (FOURTH EDITION)
Stephen Tansey and Nigel Jackson
THE QUR’AN
Massimo Campanini
RACE AND ETHNICITY
Peter Kivisto and Paul R. Croll
RELIGION (SECOND EDITION)
Malory Nye
RELIGION AND SCIENCE
Philip Clayton

73. RESEARCH METHODS
Nicholas Walliman
ROMAN CATHOLICISM
Michael Walsh
SEMIOTICS (SECOND EDITION)
Daniel Chandler
SHAKESPEARE (THIRD EDITION)
Sean McEvoy
SOCIAL WORK
Mark Doel
SOCIOLOGY
Ken Plummer
SPECIAL EDUCATIONAL NEEDS
Janice Wearmouth
TELEVISION STUDIES
Toby Miller
TERRORISM
James Lutz and Brenda Lutz
THEATRE STUDIES (SECOND EDITION)
Robert Leach
WOMEN’S STUDIES
Bonnie Smith
WORLD HISTORY
Peter N. Stearns

74. This page intentionally left blank
LITERARY THEORY
THE BASICS
Third edi t ion
Hans Bertens
Third edition published 2014
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an
informa business
© 2014 Hans Bertens
The right of Hans Bertens to be identified as author has been
asserted by him in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means,
now known or hereafter

75. invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publishers.
Whilst every effort has been made to trace copyright holders,
this has not been possible in all cases. Any omissions brought
to our attention will be remedied in future editions.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be
trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
First published 2001 by Routledge
Second edition published 2008 by Routledge
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Bertens, Johannes Willem.
Literary theory : the basics / Hans Bertens. – Third edition.
pages cm. – (The Basics; 3)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Criticism–History–20th century. 2. Literature–History and
criticism–Theory, etc. I. Title.
Pn94.B47 2013
801’.950904–dc23
2013010557
ISBN: 978-0-415-53806-0 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-0-415-53807-7 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-203-48883-6 (ebk)

76. Typeset in Bembo
by Taylor & Francis Books
Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence (1922, Penguin) reproduced
by permission of Pollinger Limited
and The Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagli.
The work of Louise Bennett Coverley is copyrighted, and
permission to use said material has
been obtained from the Executors of the Louise Bennett
Coverley (LBC) Estate, messrs: Judge
Pamela Appelt ([email protected]) and Fabian Coverley B.Th
([email protected]).
CONTENTS
Introduction 1
1 Reading for meaning: practical criticism and New
Criticism 4
2 Reading for form I: formalism and early structuralism,
1914–60 28
3 Reading for form II: French structuralism, 1950–75 46
4 Political reading: class, gender, and race in the 1970s
and 1980s 67
5 The poststructuralist revolution: Derrida and
deconstruction 102
6 Poststructuralism continued: Foucault, Lacan, French
feminism, and postmodernism 123

77. 7 Literature and culture: cultural studies, the new
historicism, and cultural materialism 150
8 Postcolonial criticism and theory 168
9 Sexuality, literature, and culture 195
10 Posthumanism, ecocriticism, and animal studies 213
11 Conclusion 233
Bibliography 240
Index 259
This page intentionally left blank
INTRODUCTION
There was a time when the interpretation of literary texts and
lit-
erary theory seemed two different and almost unrelated things.
Interpretation was about the actual meaning of a poem, a novel,
or
a play, while theory seemed alien to what the study of literature
was really about and even presented a threat to the reading of
individual poems, novels, and other literary texts because of its
reductive generalizations. In the last thirty years, however,
inter-
pretation and theory have moved closer and closer to each other.
In
fact, for many people involved in literary studies, interpretation
and
theory cannot be separated at all. They would argue that when
we
interpret a text we always do so from a theoretical perspective,

78. whether we are aware of it or not, and they would also argue
that
theory cannot do without interpretation.
The premise of Literary Theory: The Basics is that literary
theory and
literary practice – the practice of interpretation – can indeed not
be
separated very well and certainly not at the more advanced level
of
academic literary studies. One of its aims, then, is to show how
theory and practice are inevitably connected and have always
been
connected. Although the emphasis is on the 1970s and after, the
first
three chapters focus on the most important views of literature
and
of the individual literary work of the earlier part of the
twentieth
century. This is not a merely historical exercise. A good
understanding of, for instance, the New Criticism that
dominated
literary criticism in the United States from the mid-1930s until
1970
is indispensable for students of literature. Knowing about the
New
Criticism will make it a lot easier to understand other, later,
modes of
reading. More importantly, the New Criticism has by no means
disappeared. In many places, and especially in secondary
education, it
is still very much alive. Likewise, an understanding of what is
called

79. structuralism makes the complexities of so-called
poststructuralist
theory a good deal less daunting and has the added value of
offering
an instrument that is helpful in thinking about culture in
general.
This book, then, is both an introduction to literary theory and an
admittedly somewhat sketchy history of theory. But it is a
history
in which what has become historical is simultaneously still
actual: in
the field of literary studies a whole range of approaches and
theo-
retical perspectives, those focused on meaning and those
focused on
form, those that are political and those that are (seemingly)
apoli-
tical, the old and the new, operate next to each other in
relatively
peaceful coexistence. In its survey of that range of positions
Literary
Theory: The Basics will try to do equal justice to a still actual
tradi-
tion and to the radical character of the new departures of the
last
four decades. We still ask, ‘What does it mean?’ when we read a
poem or novel or see a play. But we have additional questions.
We
ask, ‘Has it always had this meaning?’ or, ‘What does it mean
and to
whom?’ and, ‘Why does it mean what it means?’ Or, perhaps
surprisingly, ‘Who wants it to have this meaning and for what
reasons?’ As we will see, such questions do not diminish
literature.
On the contrary, they make it even more relevant.

80. In recent years, a number of critics have expressed a certain
impatience with what is now simply called ‘theory’ – and which
has, as we will see, ventured far beyond strictly literary
territory.
There is no denying that theory, in its eagerness to uncover
hidden
patterns and bring to light hidden assumptions, has sometimes
pushed things to rather implausible extremes or that theory’s
desire
to be radical has occasionally seemed a goal in itself. Especially
after
9/11 and subsequent events theory’s more extravagant claims
seemed to some commentators armchair exercises that had little
or
no relation to what happened in the real world.
But a return to modes of critical interpretation that are not, in
one way or another, informed by some form of theory is
INTRODUCTION2
impossible. As I have already noted, most literary critics would
claim that all interpretation is governed by certain assumptions
and
that interpretation can seem theory-free only if we are unaware
of
those assumptions – if we are, in effect, blind to what we are
doing.
If we prefer awareness, our interpretational practice will
inevitably
be marked by the theoretical interventions of the last forty
years.
We could, of course, choose to work with the assumptions of

81. tra-
ditional interpretation, but we would (ideally) have thought long
and hard about them and have realized that these assumptions,
taken together, in themselves constitute theories with regard to
reading and literary value. We can’t go home again. Or, to be
more
precise, perhaps we can go home again, but not with the illusion
that our home is theory-free.
Theory, then, is here to stay and the great majority of literary
academics would not want it otherwise. They believe that theory
has dramatically sharpened and widened our understanding of a
great many fundamental issues and expect that theory, in its
restless
grappling with ever new issues, will continue to enhance our
understanding (even if it may in the process also come up with
things that severely test our intellectual patience). A case in
point is
the relatively new field of ecocriticism, which also illustrates
theory’s flexibility. More than earlier theoretical ventures, it
recog-
nizes the importance of empirical, even scientific, evidence for
its
political project, in this case that of raising our ecological con-
sciousness.
This new edition of Literary Theory: The Basics has been
revised,
brought up to date, and expanded with discussions of
posthuman-
ism, animal studies, and very recent developments such as
‘world
literature’. And, like the earlier editions, it casts its net rather
wide.
Since the theories that have emerged within literary studies
have