Markos Literature

A Student's Guide
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-4335-3145-3
Verlag: Crossway
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten

Reihe: Reclaiming the Christian Intellectual Tradition

Enjoying poetry and novels can seem irrelevant and out of touch in a world of texting, tweeting, and blogging. But even in this technological age literature matters. Seasoned professor Louis Markos invites us into the great literary conversation that has been taking place throughout the ages and illuminates the wisdom to be found therein. He offers both a guide to studying and understanding literature, especially poetry, and an inspiring look at what it means to think like poets and view the world through literary eyes. This book holds out a truth for all: that the understanding and appreciation of literature draws us closer to God, his Word, and his work in the world.

Louis Markos (PhD, University of Michigan) is professor of English and scholar in residence at Houston Baptist University. He is the author of twelve books and has published over 120 book chapters, essays, and reviews in various magazines and journals. He lives in Houston with his wife, Donna, and their two children.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Markos, Louis

Leseproben

INTRODUCTION

Why Literature Matters

I mean to shoot straight in this book, and I will therefore begin—rather than end—by addressing the million-dollar question: What does studying literature have to do with real life? That’s a question, almost always asked rhetorically, that many biology, engineering, and business majors like to tease English majors with. And yet, ironically, I have found that the people who are best able to answer the question are not the English majors themselves but doctors, engineers, and businessmen in the fifth or sixth decade of their lives.

No need to find an eager sophomore devouring a Shakespeare play on the quadrangle. Just ask a successful and seasoned surgeon or chemist or investment banker, and he will tell you how vital the life of the mind is. He will tell you that to be a full and balanced human being one needs to struggle with issues, ideas, and images that lie outside the specialized boundaries of one’s chosen profession. True, one can achieve this balance in part by wrestling with art, music, history, philosophy, religion, and political science, but there is something about literature that personalizes and dramatizes the wrestling—that beckons the reader to enter into the arena.

It is a good thing to study the history, the cathedrals, and the scholasticism of the High Middle Ages, but it is a better thing to read the “General Prologue” to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. To do the latter is to meet, to dialogue, to interact with late fourteenth-century England in all its glory, strangeness, and diversity. Once we have done so, we can no longer hold the men and women who lived in that time and place at arm’s length. They are now members of our community, old friends and sparring partners with whom we have something very much like a relationship.

I have devoted many years to studying the archeology of Mycenaean Greece, the political structures of Golden Age Athens, and the history of the Roman Republic and Empire, but I know the people of those bygone eras because I have immersed myself in the epics of Homer, the tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, and the poetry of Virgil and Ovid. And the same holds true for the medieval Florentines of Dante, the Elizabethan Englanders of Shakespeare, and the Victorian Londoners of Charles Dickens. Literature holds up a mirror to life, and, in that mirror, it captures—or, better, holds in suspension—the subtle weave of beliefs and actions and passions that make us human.

But there is more! And that more reveals the true mystery behind great literature. The masterpieces that make up the Western literary canon present us, simultaneously, with the specific and the general, concrete details and universal themes, particular people living in a particular place and time, and transcendent character types that all readers at all times recognize immediately. They are, to paraphrase a line originally used of Shakespeare, not only of an age but for all time.

The orthodox believer who accepts the authority of Scripture will learn as much as he can about first-century Palestine, for the more he knows about the culture in which the early church was born, the more he will understand and profit from the letters of St. Paul. But he will not therefore reduce the epistles to mere products of Paul’s socioeconomic milieu. As one of the inspired authors of the New Testament, Paul was more than a gifted Pharisee: he was one of God’s chosen vessels through which revealed, eternal truths found their way into our fallen, time-and-space-bound world. Paul’s letters hold in tension truths that partake of a local, provincial color while yet embodying transcendent, permanent Meaning.

In an analogous, rather than identical, way, great authors from Homer to Virgil to Dante to Shakespeare reach, through the almost mystical power of their art, transcendent truths of permanent value. Though not inspired in the same direct way as Paul, Moses, and the other authors of the biblical canon, the authors of the literary canon—those to whom we ascribe the exalted title of “genius”—seem to have gained access to a fount of inspiration that, though not divine, is nevertheless supernatural. Even today, we speak of the great poets as being inspired by the Muse, or as having drunk from the Pierian Spring of the Muses. We recognize that they are tapping a source that lies somewhere beyond the narrow confines of their historical moment, and though we do not read their poems as prophecies, we treat them as prophetic in some way. And we are, I believe, right to do so.

I have always found it terribly ironic that people in the natural and social sciences will frequently claim that what they teach is more true than what literature teaches. I have often wondered how such people define the word true. Certainly one of the most essential qualities of truth is that it lasts, that it does not change radically from age to age and generation to generation, that it persists, endures, abides—which is precisely what does not happen in the sciences. Every fifty years—today it is more like every twenty—scientists reject the old paradigm in favor of a new one. The social sciences change even more rapidly, with one pedagogy giving way in quick succession to three others, and with psychology and sociology defining and redefining family, gender, and sexuality with dizzying speed. And when the paradigm shifts in these disciplines, those who still cling to the previous one are often dismissed as old-fashioned and backward. Of course, most of these old-fashioned scholars treated the “true believers” in the paradigm before them as equally primitive and backward, so perhaps there is justice (if not truth) in the whole cyclical game.

Contrast all this with the Iliad or Oedipus or Aeneid or Inferno or Hamlet. These works are as true today as they were when they were written. Indeed, our age stands just as close to, and just as far away from, these works as did the contemporaries of Homer, Sophocles, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare. Granted, the theories of the radical literary critics—most of whom are social scientists in humanistic clothing—do not share in the permanence of the classic works that they have spent the last half century deconstructing. Modernist and postmodernist readings of the Great Books have veered back and forth in an almost maddening dance, but the works themselves continue to delight, to instruct, to mean.

HUMANIZING TECHNOLOGY

“Very well,” answers the modern reader, “I will concede that the classic works of literature have endured for quite some time now, but what does that matter to someone living in the twenty-first century? We live in a new age of technology and specialization that has rendered the old age of literature obsolete.” Though not often stated so directly, the criticism is a ubiquitous one that must be addressed.

Over the last several decades, a number of factors have worked together to push the study of great literature to the margins. The ever-growing, all-consuming presence of Internet and digital systems, not to mention the ever-expanding emphasis on visual media, has disrupted the dominance of printed (and carefully composed) material as our main vehicle of communication. The amassing of endless databases has privileged the skills of reason and analysis over those of imagination and synthesis. The ever-widening demand for a technically specialized workforce has increased the reputation of vocational learning at the expense of traditional liberal arts universities that offer a core curriculum grounded in the humanities in general and literature in particular. Perhaps most troubling of all, the persistent focus on present gratification and future progress has tended to cut us off from our past, from our traditions, from those deep roots that extend back through the greatest works of the greatest minds. And these forces are often just as strong within the church as they are outside of it. In the face of such overwhelming forces, sincerity loses its human face, truth becomes diluted into efficiency, and design becomes but an impersonal, mechanical facsimile of that grander cosmic order celebrated by Dante, Shakespeare, and Milton.

Given such a state of affairs, the burden falls on the teachers and students of the literary canon to maintain a dialogue with the custodians of these great technological forces and to offer ourselves as midwives in a new and glorious birth through which even technology can become humanized and function as a friend to man’s endless search for self-growth and awareness. Indeed, at the very start of the Industrial Revolution, Romantic poet William Wordsworth, in his “Preface to Lyrical Ballads” (1800), prophesied: “If the time should ever come when what is now called science . . . shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.” Literature need not, and should not, reject scientific and technological progress out of hand. Such great poets as Donne, Pope, and Tennyson were strongly conversant in the scientific advances of their day and wrestled with those advances in their poetry—and by wrestling, humanized them.

A generation after Wordsworth, a more extreme Romantic poet named Percy Bysshe Shelley went even further in asserting the power of poetry to humanize the natural and social sciences. In his “Defense of Poetry,” Shelley argues vigorously...