So Long, Farewell, Auf wiedersehen, Good Night

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

Well, this is AndrewTheory’s final post. In total, this is the 24th, but if we count just the active, functional ones (the ones that dealt with Literary Criticism and not just announcements) then there are 20. Below, you’ll find a list of all of the blog posts here. The announcements, which are not counted for anything, are in italics; including this post there are four of them. The numbered posts are the functional ones, with their word counts in parenthesis for ease of use.

a. Welcome to AndrewTheory

1. Emerson Radio (272w)

2. Hey, Arnold! (623w)

b. A Note on our Epoch

c. Been a while?

3. Raymond Williams: Marxism and Blogging (320w)

4. Howe Now, Browne Cow? (450w)

5. Ayn Rant, or, Shallowism (319w)

6. The Didablogalicon, or, On the Study of Blogging (565w)

7. The Cleverist Pro-Pontiff, Pope (304w)

8. Miʃɛl Fuko (Part One) (319w)

9. Miʃɛl Fuko (Part Two) (742w)

10. Bear with me here (261w)

11. Wolf-Gang Iser: A Group of Lupine Cake-Decorators (410w)

12. Re: Kant (423w)

13. Pierre Corneille and the Sorcerer’s Stone (458w)

14. Pierre Corneille and the Goblet of Fire (491w)

15. Pierre Corneille and the Deathly Hallows (459w)

16. Blogs Gone Wilde (509w)

17. Sartre in a Jiffy (337w)

18. Literature and Genre Fiction (1,792w, but probably only about 300 new words)

19. Hey, Lane? Seek Sue (283w)

20. Feminism: Take Two (506w)

d. So Long, Farewell, Auf wiedersehen, Good Night

8,351 words (if we can #18 as 300w). Divide by 20 posts. Average of 417.55w. Wow, that seems really low for some reason. Divided by 24, we get 348 words, meaning I’ve written more than enough words, even if not divided among enough blogs. I have enough other stuff to worry about; that’s close enough for me.

Thank you all for reading AndrewTheory— or trying to, despite the updating shortages, scares, and system errors.

See y’all around,

-Andrew Heil (a.k.a. AndrewTheory)

Feminism: Take Two

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

If you’re wondering if “Take Two” is a subtitle or a medication suggestion, its officially just a subtitle. After last time’s fiasco with Hélène Cixous, I’m going to take another crack at understanding Feminism via Virginia Wolfe. Wish me luck.

(Good luck!)

Shakespeare’s Sister: OK, I’ve got this one. Basically, if Shakespeare had a sister who was just as smart and talented as he was (or, if I’m reading it right, even if she was a hundred times better than him in every way), she would never have gotten to write and would have died insane. We discussed this one in class. Really, I like this essay. It’s clear and straightforward. I also happen to agree. Women, during that period, had none of the advantages that men had. However, the same cannot be true of the modern day. While there may still be discrimination (there is), the fact of the matter is that the advantages that guys enjoy have gotten far, far less important or prevalent. Screaming bloody murder? Take a look at my Literary Criticism class. There are, I guess, about 20 students in there. What percentage of them are male? Well, five percent. I’m the only male in an entire Senior-level English class in a respected college. That’s as far as my point goes here.

Chloe liked Olivia: So, a book has two females interacting without centering their relationship around a male. Again, things have changed for the better (in my opinion for the better, at least), since 1929. I’ve read a substantial number of books where female characters have relationships without any males even mentioned by any party. Just pointing this out. I’m glad this has changed since 1929, actually, since having deeper characters available for more situations is good for creativity. (Yes, there are other reasons it is good, too.)

Androgyny: OK, here are some still-applicable crunchy bits. Basically, in order to be whole people we need to be man-womanly or woman-manly. We need to have and develop aspects of both genders in order to understand the world and write well and truthfully. This makes sense to me. It also raises the question of what an author should attempt to do with their writing, and if any restrictions should morally be applied. Should a woman write about “women’s issues,” while men are relegated to writing about things under the dominion of the “men’s sphere?” Is our identity tied up in what we write, and should we strive to use our gendered voices or can we break out of our gender-related issues and write from the position of the other? Woolf is contending that we need to write from a balance; we need to find some way to write as someone androgynous, as someone who uses “both sides of the brain.” I have no choice but to concur. Multiple perspectives breed better writing, in general, and appeal to a larger audience by merit of their greater universality.

Feminism, check. I’ll scrape up something else for next time.

-AndrewTheory.

Hey, Lane? Seek Sue.

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

Hélène Cixous, a feminist writer. “Born in Oran, Algeria, to a multicultural, diasporic Jewish family that spoke German and French, she was surrounded by Spanish and Arabic . . . ,” etc., etc. Wow. I think I noted before that a lot of the people in our textbooks led interesting lives. Cixous does not disappoint in that respect.

On to Feminism. (“Laugh of the Medusa,” p. 2039.)

I’m confused by Cixous, just as I’m confused by most of what I read. I’ll read this essay. OK, she asserts that “woman must write women” “and man, man” (2041). OK. I’ll hold on to that thought as I keep reading. I admit that it’s hard to read this stuff, largely because I have little knowledge of Freud and even less knowledge of Greek mythology and other Classical stuff. Still, I gotta admit that Cixous has a great sense of style to her writing. OK, so . . . “either you want a kid or you don’t — that’s your business” (2053). Not really literary, but I guess it’s important. OK, reading some more. Oh, no, last page! Look for meaning, AndrewTheory! Not much time left! Oh, no! I’ve got nothing! OK, back to the biography pages, there must be some explanation there. OK, so sex is not a man completing a woman. Not literary, but still important, I guess. Uh… oh, wait, Cixous claims she’s not a feminist! Then what am I reading here? Wha—? OK, nothing new here. Crap. OK, folks, give me a second here. I need to think.

OK, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take another stab at feminism next time here on AndrewTheory. Probably Virginia Woolf. I mean, who’s afraid of Virginia Wolfe, after all?

Literature and Genre Fiction

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

Alternate Title: I Just Finished My Senior Project Presentation and Need To Talk About This

Heya, loyal readers! I’m done with my Senior Project, finally, and I’d like to repeat my feelings about Genre and Literature. A lot of this post is going to be pasted from my essay, but trust me, at least 300 words will be all new — unique, even — made specifically for this blog.

What is genre fiction. The first things that probably spring to mind for you are probably the most accurate; works of science fiction, fantasy, mystery, humor and similar pieces outside of contemporary realistic fiction fit the bill. This is an accurate, if not wholly complete description. An interesting thing is that while this sort of genre fiction can be seen as popular (since many non-Oprah bestsellers seem to be some kind of genre fiction), its very popularity can cause it to be viewed with disdain, both by your average above-average English scholar and by many normal people. Why is this?

During his recovery from an operation, former U.S. poet laureate Donald Hall notes that “I recover more mental energy each day, and I need no longer read John Le Carré but return to Peeps, Montaigne, Browning, and St. Paul.” Samuel Peeps, was a diarist, Michel de Montaigne was an essayist and literary scholar, Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning were both poets, and St. Paul presumably wrote fourteen books of the Bible’s New Testament. What of John Le Carré? John Le Carré writes books about spies, fictional narratives based loosely, quite loosely, on his own experiences within the world of intrigue and espionage. Yet, renewed mental energy drives Hall from this world of intrigue to “great” writers, none of them novelists, by the way. So, the question arises: what’s wrong with John Le Carré?

There is nothing wrong with genre fiction. Work that is good is good, regardless of genre conventions. I’ll examine genre a bit further. As an explorative measure, let’s consider a story that could be considered genre-less, or, at least, contemporary fiction. Here is the basic story:

A doctor, after many years of research, develops a drug which, when administered to a patient, will grant that person an augmented immune system and, with proper exercise and nutrition, a significantly longer life. He brings a few people together- another doctor, a businessman and a politician -and offers them the drug. None of them can pay enough, so he keeps his drug, even though the others almost resort to taking the drug by force.

It’s a decent plot, to be fair, similar to, but different from “The Best We Were.” It has nothing too far out of the realm of possibility. A drug to improve the immune system makes sense, and the important part is the relations and actions of the characters. However, it is quite a simple task to turn this story into a work of science fiction. Watch:

A scientist, after many years of research, develops a serum which, when administered to a patient, will grant that person augmented strength and speed and, with proper care, immortality. He brings a few people together- another scientist, a corporate engineer, and a planetary governor -and offers them the serum. None of them can pay enough, so he keeps his drug, even though the others almost resort to taking the serum by force.

Before we begin to discuss what these changes entail, let’s take one more example, derived from a nominal, generic fantasy setting:

An alchemist, after many years of research, develops a potion which, when administered to a mortal, will grant that person the strength and vigor of heroes and, with proper care, immortality. He brings a few people together- another wizard, a wealthy merchant, and a king -and offers them the potion. None of them can pay enough, so he keeps his potion, even though the others almost resort to taking the potion by force.

How do we make this story a mystery? Take the basic version, have the doctor die at the end, and have someone try to figure out whether it was the other doctor, the businessman or the politician that killed him. How do we make this story a comedy? Take the basic version and add the clause “hilarity ensues” after each sentence. What have these examples shown? They have shown that the primary difference between genre fiction and non-genre fiction is as simple as an examination of the trappings, the world and terminology which the story’s author chooses to use.

Now some of you may be crying “foul! The original example was not, as you proposed, non-genre! Since the premise revolves around the invention of something beyond current science, it is science fiction!” The immuno-stimulant drug, the serum, and the immortality potion in my story are all examples of a device known as a MacGuffin, a phrase coined by the legendary director Alfred Hitchcock. Hitchcock scholar Ken Mogg defines a MacGuffin as “something that sets the film’s plot revolving around it, [but] it’s really just an excuse and a diversion” (Mogg 101). In my story examples, the inventions are not really all that important. They’re conceits; The characters think that the items are important, however, and that brings us to the core of the stories, their commonality: the characters and their actions.

In all stories which are not exceptions to the rule (a tautological statement, I admit), it is the characters and/or the plot which drives the story, not the trappings. Thus, the first Star Wars film, A New Hope, was based (at least in part) on Japanese director Akira Kurosawa’s film The Hidden Fortress (MacDonald). The trappings of the two movies cannot be more different: Star Wars is set in space with a light-saber-wielding hero blowing up a Death Star space station while The Hidden Fortress is set in historical Japan with a sword-wielding General escorting a princess. Yes, the plot are substantially different, but the transition from historical adventure to science fiction adventure is fairly simple. Trade one setting for the other and the films themselves, at their core, would not be significantly changed. The spaceships of science fiction and the dragons of fantasy are largely decorative, and could easily be replaced or done away with. Thus, at its core, each and every story is about the same. At some level, genre is irrelevant.

So why is genre relevant?

It’s time to reveal why creative genre fiction is so great. When I was a kid, I lived a “normal” life. Normal lives are, to be fair, rather tame, and I found that reading and writing genre fiction was rather engrossing. Fiction which introduces new topics, new ideas, or new interpretations of our reality or other possible realities expands the mind by giving it an outlet beyond the normal, an insight into something universal. This allows us to see something from outside, as an “other,” looking more clearly at things which otherwise we may have a stronger attachment to in our own world.

When we read J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, the first things we notice are the little Hobbits, the noble Elves, the stalwart Dwarves (originally called dwarrow, even in the plural), and the bloodthirsty Orcs, Trolls, Black Riders, Spiders and other nasty folks. In the final summation, though, the book is mostly just an adventure tale about good people attempting to stop bad people from doing bad things, despite the overwhelming forces arrayed against them. If, however, Tolkien had not created Middle Earth for his fantasies, and had instead put together an epic about four Britons who had to transport a secret weapon behind enemy lines in WWI in order to destroy it in the foundries of Berlin from whence it came, it still may have been good, but it would not likely have been anything near what it was. Despite the first hand experience which Tolkien had with World War One, serving as a soldier during that conflict, it is the fictional world which he created which drives his work home. Lord of the Rings does not rely on the world- it relies on the actions of the characters- but it is the world which captures our imaginations and drives us to new thoughts and new ideas. By looking at Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, instead of Jack Smith and John Brown of London, we can come to new understandings from outside, without the connotations we would derive from any real-world locations or events. Genre trappings allow us to look at people, places, and things from a universal perspective. Instead of thinking, “oh, they’re in Amsterdam! I remember liking that one coffee shop there,” we can look at the world through the eyes of Middle Earth in a fresh way, maintaining wonder and the sense of the fantastic via new experiences and a mixture of cognitive resonance (from universality) and discordance (from the use of the new and different).

Genre fiction can do more than non-genre fiction because it looks at the world differently, showing the real world through the use of fictional worlds, forcing new perspectives by the use of the previously unknown and thus the previously undefined or unconnected.

If I have given the impression that all genre fiction is somehow better than all contemporary realistic fiction then I apologize, because that was not my intention. The quality of a work is dependant far, far more on the author’s diligence, plot and characters than to genre conventions. I have been merely attempting to explain why I think that genre can do more, in a theoretical sense.

Now, at my presentation, the objection was raised that the primary difference that is sometimes seen between genre fiction and literary fiction is that genre fiction is plot-based while literary fiction is character-based. I see this as a false dichotomy. I have read genre fiction which is character-based, and read “literature” which is plot-based. Since my definition of genre fiction revolves around the idea that the trappings are what makes something genre, then this can be shown in a few quick examples. Take Jane Eyre, definitely a work of literature (just as Dr. Crystal Downing at Messiah). Literature. I guess you could say it was character-driven. Now, put it in space. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? It isn’t, really. It’s the exact same story, still character-driven, but with different trappings. It is genre because it has space-ships, not because it is driven forward mostly by plot.

OK, I’m really interested in what comments you people have about this one. Let me know!

-AndrewTheory.

Also: All work here on AndrewTheory is © Andrew Heil, 2008.

Sartre in a Jiffy

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

Alternate Title: “I Spent Too Much Time Reading the Essay and Now I Only Have Ten Minutes Before I Need to Leave For a Meeting So Don’t Read This One As Typical of My Work, Because It Really Isn’t All That Good At All.

Ack! Not much time today! This blog post is a rushed job. Topic: Jean-Paul Sartre. Essay: “Why Write” from “From What is Literature?

A writer, according to Sartre, cannot write “for himself” (1338). “If he re-reads himself, it is already too late. The sentence will never quite be a thing in his eyes.” I concur. Not much on this one.

One of our major questions in class is “what is reading?” Well, according to Sartres, reading is “the synthesis of perception and creation.” It is what the reader does in his head, both reading the text as well as projecting what comes both before and elsewhere in the text. We read on, but are always just a bit ahead of the text, as well as off to the side. We see possibilities, which are either realized within the work or not, at the writer’s discretion, but we are always just a bit away from what we’re reading. Good call, Sartre.

The writer needs to write to the reader, because they have freedom and he needs them to use it, since he cannot write simply for himself. (Aside: Yes, masculine pronouns. Deal with them, I’m in a hurry today). Look, I don’t get what Sartre is saying here. The reader is important because they aren’t the author? OK, I guess this builds off of the earlier thing about writing for himself. But still, doesn’t it seem kind of baseless? Sartre goes on with a bunch of what he would probably consider proofs or whatever, but they’re really not all that interesting or persuasive.

Yeah. That’s it. This is a poor post, and I apologize if it just happens to be the one you turned to. Read a different one, you’ll feel better.

Blogs Gone Wilde

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

This is going to be a brief post; I feel I’ve earned a respite after the last three 450-word works.

Today’s topic is Oscar Wide, specifically his “Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray” which is on page 899 in our class textbooks. By the by, I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned what our book is, in case you’re not in my class and just happened to show up here. It’s The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, 2001. That’s just a quick note there. Back to Wilde.

If you remember back to my post “The Cleverist Pro-Pontiff, Pope” then you’ll know I have some degree of fondness for critics who write in the form of poems. The “Preface” is another of these texts. It also appeals to me because of the work it prefaces, The Picture of Dorian Gray. I loved that book in high-school, which I admit is kind of creepy, since it was a brilliant work of speculative fiction (perhaps even “horror” to some degree) which dealt with an interesting and driven character, which I like.

In any case, we better get onto the Literary Criticism stuff, since that’s why we’re all here, right?

“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” I disagree with the first idea to some degree, and to the same degree with the second. I think there can be moral or immoral books. They may be rare, but I think they can exist. A book with the sole purpose of convincing people to kill themselves or other, written in such a way as to be persuasive on that account, would be (without odd extenuating circumstances) immoral. The second part, however, that books are good or bad based on the writing and just in and of themselves, I agree to as much as I can with reference to the first part. If some of you are yelling about the intentional fallacy, let me remind you that I don’t care about the intentional fallacy at all.

“All art is at once surface and symbol.” According to a number of folks I’ve read and that we’ve read for class, words take on new meanings and define reality. Look at Foucault for one well-worn instance of this. I agree with Wilde. No matter how shallow a work is, it can’t help but have multiple meanings. Most works are not allegories, but all works can be seen in different ways (see Wolfgang Iser).

“It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.” Ah, yes, I agree. Life imitates art, but the interpretation of art mostly shows the person who is interpreting it. If I say that I like or do not like a text and state my reasons, it is not the text, nor life that you find out more about, but me and the preferences and ideas which I think about, support, or disapprove of.

“All art is quite useless.” Yup. Fair enough.

-AndrewTheory

p.s. By the way, yes, I realize that I said this was going to be a short post and yes, I realize the irony in that it is more than 500 words.

Pierre Corneille and the Deathly Hallows

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

OK, look, I’m back and I SWEAR this is the last entry about Pierre Corneille. He’s a nice guy and all, but third time is the charm. No more introduction; if you haven’t read the last two posts, don’t read this one. There’s just too much history behind it. Diving in:

For my senior project this year, I’m writing a story called The Best We Were (be sure to come to my presentation on April 28!). The story, with malice aforethought, I assure you, adheres to the three unities which Corneille mentions. Before you leap up and shout that something must be off here, since I started the story last year and only read this essay for the first time last Sunday, I’ll say that I did hear about these three unities somewhere before, and that I think it was in Helen Walker’s playwriting class. Now, my story is just that, a story, a short prose work, not a play. But ever since I was in Helen’s class, I’ve reflected on this idea of the unities. My story incorporates all three.

Unity of Action: All of the action in my story revolves around one set plot; several people come to a meeting, where a scientist shows them an immortality serum. Not a single thing happens in the story which is not, one way or another, about this plotline. There are subplots, but I made sure that each one ties in somehow (and if you ever get a chance to read it or hear it, keep this in mind. Some of the connections are kinda hidden).

Unity of Time: The action takes place from about 5:40 PM until around 7:00 PM on a Monday in November. There are brief, mental flashbacks, but everything always returns to the story’s present.

Unity of Place: Except for two well-thought-out exceptions, the entirety of the story takes place within a single room, an auditorium.

I think that Corneille is a genius. For keeping a story together, his ideas make a lot of sense. As an author, I like using all of the “dirty little tricks” that I can get my hands on, and Corneille’s ideas are pretty slick. While I am aiming to one day write more “high-brow literary” stuff in addition to my “lower-brow” writings (which I don’t see any reason to give up), I’m still on my way towards that goal, and am always happy to have an experienced writer, even one from the 1600’s, give me good and, above all, practical advice.

So ends the saga of AndrewTheory and Pierre Corneille. I hope this has been enlightening to you. I’ve enjoyed it over the course of this week. Tune in next time for . . . something completely different.

Pierre Corneille and the Goblet of Fire

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

OK, we’re back. If you haven’t read the last blog, go back and do so now, because this one just takes off from where the last one left off. We were talking about Pierre Corneille’s idea about the “unity of time.”

Here are two interesting examples and just a brief statement about each.

Mason Free (A Drama): All of the action takes place in a single office. For dramas, like I said, this rule makes a lot of sense. Most of the plays that I’ve seen do this, such as Keely and Du, last semester.

Lord of the Rings: I think Corneille would agree that some things, which are this epic, require more time to pass during the action. He even notes that “there are plays in which the crux of plot lies in an obscurity of birth which must be brought to light,” or other cases where it is a needful thing to have time pass. Lord of the Rings, despite what some die-hard fans may say, would not work as a drama, and undertaking to do so would be the most tremendous of follies.

I must restate at this point that while I agree with Corneille that drama should adhere to his rule, I disagree that it is a rule which must always be followed. If nothing else, the history of writing has been a history of innovation. New devices and reworkings of old devices is a prized facility for authors. Especially in short stories and novels, we do not need to be bound by this rule, but the basic premise that work should be tight and free from too many superfluous things is something good to hold on to.

Oh, good heavens. We’re already almost to 300 words. Bah! A pox on average word limits! Mine must be around 400 words per blog by now anyway.

The third “unity” which Corneille details is that of “Unity of Place.” This is not, as he points out, one of Aristotle’s or Horace’s ideas, but I agree that it makes a whole lot of sense (which is easy since I, like many modern folks, don’t always look to the Ancients for all wisdom, glory and power (amen)). Basically, this one boils down to “don’t switch places much or, if you must, keep it simple (stupid).” I concur. As a practical writer, I find that limiting the number of places wherein the action takes place helps the reader to identify with the story, be immersed, and stay interested. No deep reasoning for me here, just the fact that what works, works, and a writer whose writing works might not need to work an extra two or three jobs. Ahem, but that’s something else.

I — aw, no way! I’m already at 450 words again. Look, I’ll conclude my “Unity” stuff next time. Come on back soon for part three (either tomorrow or Friday), “Pierre Corneille and the Deathly Hallows,” here at AndrewTheory.

Pierre Corneille and the Sorcerer’s Stone

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

While it may seem odd, I prefer the biographical essays in our textbook far more than I tend to enjoy the “critical essays” themselves. A lot of these writers, like Pierre Cornielle’s, today’s (or this week’s) essayist, lead very interesting lives. It’s probably just the History-minor and Storyteller in me. Anyway, here we go: “Of the Three Unities of Action, Time, and Place” (textbook p. 367).

In the biography, I saw that Corneille had said that “the sole purpose of drama is to please the spectator” and immediately knew I was going to like this guy. “Three Unities” also mirrors many of my own thoughts on storytelling in general, even if it is directed specifically toward drama. Unity of action means that one story has one main plot; there is a story which serves as a backbone. Even in character-driven pieces, I feel that there should be a unified “something” (which I would call a plot, no matter how little it may seek to accomplish or how little it actually moves along). I enjoy subplots and I enjoy other, background actions occurring, but I feel that there must be unity in the primary action (call it “plot,” call it “characterization-in-motion,” call it “late for dinner” for all I care) in order for a story or drama to really succeed. Corneille’s point about not showing anything which does not need shown rings a bit harsh in my ears, though.

Unity of time, in its original sense that Corneille points out, meant all action should occur within one day. This seems pretty “tyrannical” (to quote Corneille on 374), but, as he points out, it makes some degree of sense. For the purpose of making the audience enjoy things, keeping the action tight makes everything seem more interesting. Keep things together, Corneille seems to say; trust me, he continues, it just plain works better. Have I mentioned how much I like Corneille? He’s got moxie (and experience to back it up). While for drama, this limitation may work (though my Sophomore Playwriting Play, Mason Free, was brief and yet still at least two days long), I find it difficult to really tie down so directly a proper length in prose fiction. However, from a “spirit of the law” over the “letter of the law,” I can still agree that not much time should be wasted, and that making a story tight (without just planing off interesting, engrossing, or useful bits) is overall a good idea. Lemme ’splain (or, “let me explain, if it so pleases you”).

Well, actually, this is already 450 words. I’ll get into some explanation next time. Sorry, but I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.

Re: Kant

Posted 4 May 2008 by atheil
Categories: Uncategorized

If it seems to you like I’m jumping around the book all willy-nilly, it’s probably because I am. I tend to poke around a bit for anything that looks interesting, and then reading it over and writing up a blog about it. Somehow, this way makes more sense to me than writing about what we’re covering in class.

This week, it’s Imperative you read this blog (not really, but I wanted another Kant pun). Immanuel Kant lived from 1724-1804. He’s best known as a philosopher, which I how I know him, and I was surprised to find him in our textbook for the class. Just a quick excerpt from his biography: “Kant was born in Konigsberg, East Prussia, where he attended the university, became a professor at the same university, and died shortly after his retirement” (499). While the biography actually extends to five pages, that one sentence is hilarious. But that’s a digression; here come the crunchy bits:

Kant argues that judgment of beauty is not cognitive, but aesthetic and imaginative. Judgments can be nothing but subjective. Yet, for the quality of judgment to be good, we cannot be biased, we cannot go by what we find agreeable, we cannot go by what we like “in concept,” nor what we would find “useful.” In short, Kant tells us how not to like something, as well as how not to not like something, or something like that.

The essay goes on. I would go on as well, but Kant writes with a sophisticated tongue (or pen, or whatever), and I find him difficult to read. My most common complaint with most literary criticism is one that I once again put forth for another author: Kant tells us what not to do, but not what to do. He explores beauty, yes, and he speaks of an “ideal of beauty,” but there is nothing too concrete, nothing which I can really grab on to. Academia, in general, is like this, at least in the Humanities (and, most distressingly, in the English departments), where abstraction and “one-off” debates (debates not of the thing, but debates on the debates of the thing) are the most prevalent point of study.

Bitter much? Well, yes, maybe I am. But I’m a practical kind of guy, which is why I’m a Creative Writing emphasis, and not a Literature emphasis.

In any case, I call for a truce. If you’re literature, or just disagree on principle, I apologize. Feel free to dispute with me in the comments.

-AndrewTheory.