| Readers
value literary texts for different reasons – for their cultural
status, for their formal technique, for their ethical coherence
– but mainly for their peculiar power to engage us as co-authors
of unique patterns of discourse. Teachers, by contrast, often treat
literature as an object for analysis, explanation and evaluation.
In the language classroom, tasks and activities are primarily concerned
with language form and referential content, while response may be
acknowledged by spaces in the lesson which allow for the idiosyncratic
play of personal associations. I want to propose a fresh perspective
– one that proceeds from Bakhtin’s view of literature
as a “double-voiced discourse,” in which the writer
stands outside language and is at the same time engaged in finding
expression in the language. To teach literature as a dialogue between
reader and text, a methodology is required which puts students into
this double relationship with the text and which develops their
sensitivity to literature as discourse.
Let’s start, very simply, with a single word: Well! By itself,
without any contextual information, the word resists interpretation,
or rather opens up any number of possible interpretations. Imagine,
however, that the word is spoken in a room in Russia, that it is
the month of May and that outside it is snowing. Then the word takes
on a very particular range of probable meanings: incredulity, irritation,
an empathetic feeling between the interlocutors, sharing their dismay
at the late arrival of spring. The example – from Bakhtin
– is cited by David Lodge in After Bakhtin (1990). Bakhtin
makes the point that in real life, the meaning of the utterance
would be disambiguated by context, by paralinguistic features and
by intonation. For Bakhtin, intonation has a metaphorical relationship
to propositional content. He says: “If this potential were
realised, then the word Well! would unfold into something like the
following metaphorical expression: ‘How stubborn the winter
is, it won’t give way, even though it is high time!’
Language teachers may well find this observation about the significance
of context and intonation familiar, if not trite. As readers of
literary texts, however, we are constantly in the position of having
to construct context and discern the play of voices in the text.
The writer can give us fairly crude signals through the use of punctuation,
layout on the page and different typefaces. But the way in which
literature functions is much more complex than mere mimesis. Literature
holds a metaphor – rather than a mirror – up to nature.
The literary text is a nexus of discourse relationships: intra-textually,
between any given utterance and its co-text – the utterances
which surround it; between the text and the white spaces within
it; between the implied author and implied reader; between all the
voices within the text – and outside it; between the author
– real and implied – and these voices; and intertextually,
between the text and other texts. What in real life is accomplished
through paralinguistic and extra-linguistic signals, in literature
is made manifest through language alone. It is a commonplace observation
that literature is made of language, but it is not made of language
in quite the same way that a sculpture might be made of marble or
a painting of pigments: the world of a short story or of a novel
is a world fashioned from words, but while these words might be
regarded as the artist’s material, it is never raw material.
Words are derived from the voices that use them and give them meaning
(whether they are generic voices or particular ones) and as soon
as words are set in relation to each other, they begin to produce
an interplay of different voices. When the reader adds his or her
own voice to the host of voices present in the text, s/he experiences
the peculiar intimacy of reading, and each reader constructs the
meaning of the text afresh. Just as words do not mean without context,
the literary text does not contain meaning, determined by the writer,
which it is the reader’s task to extract. As Robert Scholes
puts it, “Reading is [...] never just the reduction of the
text to some kernel of predetermined intention....” An extreme
post-structuralist position maintains that “each time a reader
reads a text, a new text is created” – in other words,
that it is readers who write texts. This is a highly suggestive
reaction against the whole tradition of the sacrosanct nature of
the text, the notion of the literary canon and the critic as the
arbiter of public taste. It raises philosophical questions about
perception and representation, as well as political questions about
the social construction of language. But in reacting against tradition,
it minimises the role played by the writer to the point where it
becomes almost politically incorrect to pay any critical attention
to it.
The work of Bakhtin offers a way out of this critical impasse. Although
Bakhtin died as recently as 1975, his work did not begin to appear
in English until the 1980s and it is only in the last decade that
it has begun to reach a wider public. In Context and Culture in
Language Teaching, Claire Kramsch makes a case for Bakhtin’s
concept of the dialogic nature of language in general as a cornerstone
for what she calls a “dialogic pedagogy” for foreign
language teaching and learning. She cites Bakhtin in Discourse in
the Novel:
Language is not a neutral medium that passes freely and easily into
the private property of the speaker’s intentions; it is populated
– overpopulated – with the intentions of others. Expropriating
it, forcing it to submit to one’s own intentions and accents,
is a difficult and complicated process.
This
view of language per se may be seen to have very far-reaching implications
for teaching foreign languages in general, and a consideration of
an approach to teaching literature in a foreign language may be
just the first step.
The reader attempting to engage with a literary text in a foreign
language – however sophisticated his or her command of that
language may be – is always aware of a sense of linguistic
otherness. In spite of this, I believe that it is a mistake to view
the teaching of literature in a second language purely, or even
primarily, as an exercise in foreign language pedagogy. We need
to approach the text by way of our own responses as readers and
to devise a pedagogy which will be true to that response. A traditional
metaphor for fiction takes up the biblical image of a house with
many rooms. (The image was powerfully revived by Salman Rushdie
in the speech he wrote in 1990 in the wake of the fatwa, which was
delivered on his behalf at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in
London by Harold Pinter: “Literature is the one place in any
society where, within the secrecy of our own heads, we can hear
voices talking about everything in every possible way.”) These
rooms in the house of fiction are never quite self-contained, but
resound with echoes of voices from other rooms.
I want to examine the way in which the writer welcomes and incorporates
these other voices and to suggest that when the reader joins them,
another voice is added to – and modifies – the discourse.
To quote Roland Barthes, “And no doubt that is what reading
is: rewriting the text of the work within the text of our lives.”
Then I want to address the implications for foreign language teaching
of a view of literature as what Bakhtin calls “double-voiced
discourse.”
In There are no secrets, Peter Brook reproduces the text of a talk
which he gave at a prize-giving ceremony in Kyoto. For Brook, speaking
in public always provides an opportunity to demonstrate something
of the nature of a theatrical event, but on this occasion, knowing
that the text of his speech was to be published, he agreed to write
it in advance:
As
I write these words, the author – ‘myself, number one’
– is sitting in the south of France on a hot summer’s
day, trying to imagine the unknown: a Japanese audience in Kyoto
– in what sort of hall, how many people, in what relationship
I can’t tell.
[...] Now, for you at this moment, ‘myself, number one’,
the author, has disappeared; he has been replaced by ‘myself,
number two’, the speaker.
Brook is making a point about the relationship between dramatic
writing and theatrical performance, and he goes on to discuss the
effects on an audience of different styles of delivery, but this
theatrical metaphor is a vivid and suggestive one to represent the
relationship between writer, text and reader. For Bakhtin “the
writer is a person who knows how to work language while remaining
outside of it; he has the gift of indirect speech.” (In another
translation of this maxim, the verb work is more conventionally
intransitive – “a person who is able to work in the
language”; in fact the literal translation should have been
“with the language,” but the idea of the writer working
the stubborn material of language is a useful one, since it suggests
the paradoxical quality of the task – simultaneously within
and without.) By using language to create personae and give them
voices, by using language at all when it is “populated with
the voices of others,” the writer (as Lodge points out) reminds
us of the original title of The Waste Land – borrowed by Eliot
from Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend – “He Do the Police
in Different Voices.” Although we are concerned here with
writing, for Bakhtin language is always speech, always interactional,
even when the addressor and addressee are internalised within the
text, and crucially, even when the narrative voice seems to be monologic.
Bakhtin’s essays deal mainly with prose fiction, since poetry
has traditionally been concerned with creating more unified language
worlds – whereas a poet like Mallarmé wanted to “purify
the language of the tribe,” the writer of prose seeks immersion
in it. And the language of the tribe will always convene a multitude
of voices – what Bakhtin calls heteroglossia (or polyphony).
This plurality of voices can be perceived at its most explicit in
the practice of much Modernist fiction – Joyce in Ulysses,
Dos Passos in USA and Manhattan Transfer, Döblin in Berlin
Alexanderplatz and Musil in Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften all display
a highly conscious kind of literary ventriloquism – they literally
do the story in different voices. And the intrusion of the author
into the text to conduct a literal dialogue with his or her characters
has become a familiar trope of post-modernist fiction. But what
Bakhtin’s work suggests is that all fictional writing manifests
the quality of dramatic discourse – not only because the writer
can dramatise through the use of direct and indirect speech, but
because of the way in which the writer is able – is indeed
bound – to borrow from other discourses in the world.
I want to look at some examples of the “double-voiced discourse”
of prose fiction before considering how these insights might suggest
more principled criteria for designing tasks for the classroom.
In Katherine Mansfield’s story Feuille d’Album, Ian
French, a young English painter living alone in Paris is cultivated
– or wooed – by a number of Parisian women. They are
attracted by his fragile vulnerability, but he is impervious to
their attentions and they very soon give up their attempts to charm
him. The narrative shifts almost imperceptibly back and forth between
a voice that belongs to the women – or it may be several chattering
voices – and a more neutral and apparently omniscient authorial
voice. The story begins in free direct speech:
He
really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely
nothing to say for himself. And such a weight. Once he was in your
studio he never knew where to go, but would sit on and on until
you nearly screamed, and burned to throw something enormous after
him when he did finally blush his way out...
Once this perspective is established, a narrative voice takes over,
but one which includes the style and tone of the woman who has begun
the story:
Someone
else decided that he ought to fall in love. She summoned him to
her side, called him ‘boy’, leaned over him so that
he might smell the enchanting perfume of her hair, took his arm,
told him how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage,
and went round to his studio one evening and rang and rang.... Hopeless.
Someone
else here seems to introduce a more detached and possibly omniscient
narrator. Yet summoned him to her side, the enchanting perfume of
her hair and how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage
all echo the rhetorical conventions of the romantic novelette and
rang and rang belongs to the patterns of informal spoken anecdote.
When we get to Hopeless, the original voice (or one very like it)
is firmly re-established.
Halfway through this six-page story Ian sees a young woman on the
opposite balcony, as thin and dark and restrained as he is. He is
totally captivated by her and feels that she is literally the only
person in the world for him. This fairytale encounter is enacted
through another shift in narrative style, one which immediately
invokes another set of conventions – those of the fairytale
itself:
As
she turned she put her hands up to the handkerchief and tucked away
some wisps of hair. She looked down at the deserted market and up
at the sky, but where he sat there might have been a hollow in the
air. She simply did not see the house opposite. And then she disappeared.
His heart fell out of the side window of his studio, and down to
the balcony of the house opposite – buried itself in the pot
of daffodils under the half-opened buds and spears of green...
Mansfield works very deliberately through this variety of voices.
The voices of the romantic novelette and its reader are counter-balanced
by the purity and naïveté of the fairytale romance and
all of these voices are kept at an ironic distance by the rather
flat and knowing voice of the narrator. The constant shift between
these voices (including that of the narrator) which sometimes occurs
mid-paragraph without any overt signalling alerts the attentive
reader to a prismatic view of the characters and events. The narrator
herself, rather than being an omniscient super-voice, is one voice
among many, and by implication as fallible as any of them. The reader
is forced to locate himself/herself somewhere amongst these voices
and to join the chatter.
A more recent example of narrative polyphony is Muriel Spark’s
much-anthologised story “You should have seen the mess.”
This is narrated by Lorna, a lower middle-class girl of seventeen
or eighteen, who is obsessed by cleanliness and hygiene. Like many
first-person narratives, the story depends on an accumulation of
effects which produce an ironic distance between the (invisible)
writer and the narrator and a kind of complicity between writer
and reader. One of the ways in which this complicity is achieved
is through the reader’s growing awareness that Lorna lacks
her own voice – her discourse is inhabited by other “voices”
– primarily and quite explicitly, those of her parents, but
also those of advertisements and genteel magazines promoting a petit
bourgeois lifestyle and of almost everyone with whom she comes into
contact. It is difficult to choose one extract, since the whole
story is permeated with these echoes, which accumulate until the
reader becomes desperately aware of how Lorna’s discourse
– and hence her view of the world and the people in it –
have been colonised by these voices of authority. This is Lorna
describing her first day at work in a solicitor’s office:
I
was to start on the Monday morning, so along I went. They took me
to the general office, where there were two senior shorthand typists,
and a clerk, Mr Gresham, who was far from smart in appearance. You
should have seen the mess!! There was no floor covering whatsoever,
and so dusty everywhere. There were shelves all round the room,
with old box files on them. The box files were falling to pieces,
and all the old papers inside them were crumpled. The worst shock
of all was the tea-cups. It was my duty to make tea, mornings and
afternoons. Miss Bewlay showed me where everything was kept. It
was kept in an old orange box, and the cups were all cracked. There
were not enough saucers to go round, etc. I will not go into the
facilities, but they were also far from hygienic. After three days,
I told Mum, and she was upset, most of all about the cracked cups.
We never keep a cracked cup, but throw it out, because those cups
can harbour germs. So Mum gave me my own cup to take to the office.
We imagine that Lorna has been taken around the office on her first
day, introduced to the two senior shorthand typists and told that
it is her duty to make the tea mornings and afternoons. The only
language that seems to be available to her to relate the event is
borrowed, almost as though she is acknowledging that things must
be called by their “proper” names. The term floor covering
seems to have come out of a 1950s advertisement – it hardly
exists in contemporary spoken discourse – and all the examples
of litotes (far from clean, far from hygienic etc) and euphemism
– especially facilities and harbour germs – seem to
have been absorbed from her parents, perhaps unconsciously, but
possibly as conscious models of a way of speaking that is proper
in both senses of the word. The way that Lorna’s narrative
is constructed implicates us as readers, as we locate – and
pass judgement on – the origins of her discourse, and as we
recognise the degree to which this inherited view of the world and
the things and people in it has brought about her state of social
paralysis.
A recent and highly successful example of this kind of narrative
irony is Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, where the entire
narrative belongs to Stevens, the repressed butler. Here is a man
who has dedicated his life to the notion of service and in the process
has virtually effaced himself. Like Lorna in the Muriel Spark story,
Stevens hardly has a voice of his own: it has been part of his professional
conduct to suppress his own voice. When he speaks at all, he represents
the voices of others. This is a particularly extreme example of
the narrator as spokesperson and produces an entire novel of stifled
restraint. When you examine the text in detail, it is difficult
to locate a voice that belongs to Stevens – his narrative
is suffused with other voices. There is his father, who had been
in Stevens’ estimation, a great butler and the embodiment
of “dignity”; there are the colleagues he meets in the
pub, with whom he discusses standards of professional etiquette
and whose humorous anecdotes he tries, unsuccessfully, to imitate;
there is the journal A Quarterly for the Gentleman’s Gentleman,
published by a society that restricts membership to butlers of “only
the very first rank” and which is personified as “the
Society”; there is his current employer, the non-aristocratic
American, Mr Farraday, and there is the voice which has the greatest
effect on him – that of his former employer, Lord Darlington.
Again, it is difficult briefly to convey the subtlety of the way
in which the world of the novel is populated with these voices,
since the entire narrative works through these stylistic resonances.
This is part of Stevens’ apologia for Lord Darlington’s
attitude of appeasement towards Nazi Germany:
Let
me say that Lord Darlington was a man of great moral stature –
a stature to dwarf most of these persons you will find talking this
sort of nonsense about him – and I will readily vouch that
he remained that to the last. Nothing could be less accurate than
to suggest that I regret my association with such a gentleman. Indeed,
you will appreciate that to have served his lordship at Darlington
Hall during those years was to come as close to the hub of the world’s
wheel as one such as I could ever have dreamt. I gave thirty-five
years’ service to Lord Darlington; one would surely not be
unjustified in claiming that during those years, one was, in the
truest terms, “attached to a distinguished household.”
Stevens has served in an aristocratic household for over thirty-five
years. He has stood silently and unobtrusively and has assimilated
the outlook and the language of his masters. His prose style is
populated with echoes of the people who have populated the house
– a man of great moral stature, readily vouch, to the last
regret, my association, attached to a distinguished household and,
most strikingly, the hub of the world’s wheel.
In one of the novel’s key moments, the housekeeper, Miss Kenton,
curious to see what Stevens is reading, prises a book out of his
hands, which turns out to be a “sentimental romance”
– one of a number kept in the library, and also in several
of the guest bedrooms, for the entertainment of lady visitors. What
is interesting here is not that the discourse of the romantic novel
is invoked, as in the Katherine Mansfield story, but that it is
held at bay. Stevens clearly has sentimental leanings, but his rigid
sense of propriety will not allow him to adopt the voice or attitudes
of the romantic lover. The tension between the butler and the housekeeper
remains unspoken and the reader is acutely aware of an absence in
the text, a discourse which is longed for, but which remains unavailable.
Stevens, unconvincingly, explains it away to the reader:
I
suppose I should add a few words here concerning the matter of the
actual volume around which this small episode revolved. [...] There
was a simple reason for my having taken to perusing such works;
it was an extremely efficient way to maintain and develop one’s
command of the English language. [...] I often tended to choose
the sort of volume Miss Kenton had found me reading that evening
simply because such works tend to be written in good English, with
plenty of elegant dialogue of much practical value to me. [...]
I rarely had the time or the desire to read any of these romances
cover to cover, but so far as I could tell, their plots were invariably
absurd – indeed, sentimental – and I would not have
wasted one moment on them were it not for these aforementioned benefits.
Having said that, however, I do not mind confessing today –
and I see nothing to be ashamed of in this – that I did at
times gain a sort of incidental enjoyment from these stories. I
did not perhaps acknowledge this to myself at the time, but as I
say, what shame is there in it? Why should one not enjoy in a light-hearted
sort of way stories of ladies and gentlemen who fall in love and
express their feelings for each other, often in the most elegant
phrases?
Stevens, clearly, protests too much – and it is the juxtaposition
of the voices which populate his discourse that tells us so: perusing
such works, one’s command of the English language and these
aforementioned benefits belong to the elevated rhetoric of Lord
Darlington and his class, whereas I see nothing to be ashamed of
in this, what shame is there in it?, fall in love and express their
feelings for each other and in the most elegant phrases represent
just the kind of sentimental expression that the chronically repressed
Stevens has absorbed from his furtive reading of romantic novels,
but which he feels he has to deny. Interestingly, the key words
in the text which unite the worlds of reading and romance are desire
and enjoyment – sexual desire as a metaphor for reading or
reading as a sublimation of sexual desire – reminding us of
Roland Barthes’ notions of jouissance and le plaisir du texte.
What, then, are the implications of a Bakhtinian view of literature
as “double-voiced” discourse for the teaching of literature
in the foreign language classroom?
One of the values which we ascribe loosely to literature is the
sense of involvement that it can engender. We will justify our taste
for one book by saying, “It takes you into another world”
or explain our failure to appreciate another by saying, “I
just couldn’t get into it.” But involvement at a much
deeper level is precisely what reading fiction is all about. Readers
are both onlookers and players, both spectators and participants.
A methodology which privileges this double role will be pertinent
in any literature class, but it will be particularly helpful to
learners trying to overcome the remote and intractable quality of
fictional writing in the foreign language literature class.
The drama teacher, Dorothy Heathcote, would get her students to
inhabit dramatic roles, to “become” their characters.
When the improvisation reached an impasse – when the situation
became uncertain or confused or over-extended, or when it simply
played itself out – she would bring them out of role and back
into the role of students thinking about, discussing and evaluating
their experience. To encourage our learners to enter into literary
texts, a methodology of response is required which exploits the
peculiar power of role.
There is an important distinction to be made at this point between
role-playing and acting. Julia and Geoffrey Summerfield (teachers
of creative writing at the City University of New York), describe
the difference as follows: “The impersonations of role move
away from illusion, even though they may start there; the impersonations
of acting move toward a more finely tuned, a more complete illusion,
even though they may start in some perceived reality.” The
Summerfields, in their book Texts and Contexts, give some impressive
examples of writing in role by their students. Their interest is
in educating student writers, but the idea of role-based response
work is at least as vital in educating student readers.
When I began to work on literary texts with EFL students, my instinctive
strategy was to encourage them to attempt to articulate objective
critical responses to what they read. I felt that they should have
access to the analytical tools to substantiate their responses and
the linguistic tools to express those responses. I felt that this
activity was “good for the students,” at least in terms
of language learning. Despite some limited success with the more
motivated and linguistically competent of the students, the strategy
seemed increasingly inadequate. Then I became aware of some of the
work being done by colleagues in mainstream education: they were
getting their secondary school students to write in role: diaries,
memoirs, reports, letters, dialogues; to rewrite texts in different
modes; to adopt roles and improvise scenes from or arising out of
the fictional narratives they were studying. I began to try out
some of these approaches, tentatively at first and then with growing
confidence. The results were a revelation: students who found it
difficult, if not impossible, to articulate any explicit critical
judgements were drawn into the texts at a very profound level and
liberated by the roles they assumed. However, what emerged from
these activities was not simply entry into the texts, but subsequent
re-entry into the classroom – a greatly enhanced ability to
understand what was going on in the texts. The experience they had
undergone in role had unlocked the texts for them and given them
the awareness – and the confidence – to talk about the
writing. They had achieved the dual perspective of the writer –
“a person who knows how to work language while remaining outside
of it.”
Claire Kramsch (op cit) proposes a number of approaches to teaching
narrative which enable the student reader to enter into the text
and “[add] his or her voice to the voices in the text.”
She identifies these approaches with the “think-aloud”
protocols employed by researchers to investigate the processes of
reading. The “think-aloud” technique has also been adopted
by some American teachers in English composition classes. Kramsch
describes it as “a secondary dialogue that grafts itself onto
the text and elicits the kind of reader response necessary for active
interpretation” and as “a contrastive backdrop of a
more orate type to the more literate mode of a literary text.”
The categories of approach she suggests encourage students to explore
the functions of narrative discourse rather than simply exploring
the story:
Varying
the medium or the genre
Activities such as mime, designing a cover and producing different
text-types (epitaphs, letters, newspaper articles etc) will lead
students to consider the text at a thematic level and will draw
their attention to the decisions taken by the writer to cast the
text in a particular form.
Varying
the point of view
The voices in a fictional text are often at odds with each other
– and the stories that they tell, within the story of the
novel, have to be read in the light of other characters’ responses.
Thus, for example, in The Great Gatsby, there is the aura created
by Gatsby around himself and there are the reactions of Daisy, Tom
and above all, of Nick. There is no stable ego, no single truth
to be located: Gatsby is, in a sense, everything everyone says about
him. Getting students to rewrite scenes from different perspectives
is a powerful way of sensitising them to this kind of fragmentation
of character.
Varying text time
By rewriting the events of a narrative in a different time sequence,
students can be led to appreciate the particular discourse value
of flashbacks, ellipses and other fictional sequences.
Varying
the audience
To emphasise the significance of the nature of the audience to discourse
choices, students can be asked to read – and respond in role.
This will also highlight the way in which different readers read
– and in a sense “create” – different texts.
Varying the referential world of the story
Techniques such as withholding the ending of a narrative or offering
alternative endings can heighten students’ awareness of the
way in which their reading is constantly conditioned by progressive
accommodation to developing schemata.
Teasing
out the voices in the text
Here Kramsch suggests a variety of ways of concretising the interplay
of voices present in a text. Deciding which voices different parts
of a text “belong to”, holding a debate between contending
narrative voices, setting up simulations in which students literally
enter into the fictional situation and add their voices to the discourse.
The teaching of literature has long been subject to an exclusive,
monologic discourse – with authoritative statements made by
teachers and imitated by students. This single-voiced discourse
left little or no room for divergent views. The reader, like the
observer in Newtonian physics, stood outside the text and looked
in. Today quantum physics and relativity theory validate the simultaneous
vision of the participant/observer: light can be both wave and particle,
things can be both here and there, both now and then. The text is
no longer seen as an immobile and immutable object and the reader
as a totally objective seeker-after-truth. This subject/object duality
has been replaced by a model which makes the reader part of what
s/he reads. Like the quantum observer, the reader stands inside
what s/he observes, his/her own agenda and consciousness helping
to “construct” the reality of the text.
Notes:
This paper was previously published in The Hermetic Garage (La Plata,
Argentina) (1996)
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