Tag Archives: literarycriticism

One Last Word on Atwood and Neuman

It took me quite some time to put my finger on what frustrated me about Neuman’s article “‘Just a Backlash’: Margaret Atwood, Feminism and the Handmaid’s Tale“, after all, I agree with most of what Neuman points out in her argument: Atwood’s female characters can be read as symbolic, the personal is political, in every dystopia there is an implicit utopia, and vigilance is the key to staying abreast of rapidly changing political climates and the only way to ensure the world remains safe and free for everyone.

However, there is something that frightens me about reducing characters in dystopic novels to mere symbols. One of the great powers of literature, as we learned last semester, is that it speaks to people’s imaginations, allowing them to put themselves in the shoes of the characters they read about and thus picture themselves in circumstances they had never before imagined. And certainly one of the greatest rhetorical devices in The Handmaid’s Tale is just that- anyone and everyone can relate to Offred. Through Offred’s eyes readers can see all the injustice that happens in Gilead: the commander’s insistence that Gilead has made a huge improvement in the lives of many, Serena Joy’s vindictiveness, the horrors of the Red Centres, the pain of losing loved ones and wondering every day if it is their faces that hide behind blood-stained sacks on salvaging hooks. Even after Offred ceases, as Neuman claims, to be vigilant, readers still share in the terrifying spectacle of the salvaging and experience a chill of fear when discovering Ofglen is no longer the Ofglen she ought to be.

One of the greatest weapons in a dystopia’s arsenal is reducing people to symbols. A child playing happily on a lawn is symbolic of the success of the regime, and of other children, all of whom are surely similarly happy under the government. Hung “gender traitors” or other enemies of the state are symbolic of the regime’s strength, and it’s capacity to destroy those who stand in its way. A pregnant woman in a red dress symbolizes hope that one day there might be a generation of children that no longer remembers infertility, families that never struggle to conceive. The problem with turning people into symbols is that it erases their individuality and denies them the chance to represent themselves as they see themselves. Reducing people to symbols robs them of their story.

The personal is political, but the political is personal too. Reducing Offred to a symbolic warning sign to those of us who become easily complacent in our (relatively) egalitarian times is a denial of her complexity, but it is worse than even that. Reducing Offred’s story to a warning robs the story of the same impact that reading is trying to create. The strength of Offred’s warning comes from her realness- through Offred we see that oppression happens to people like us, pedestrian, fallible, complacent, peaceful, intelligent and curious people who never see grey skies approaching in time to really save themselves. Offred’s complexity is what lends her story credibility, and her unique experience and individuality is what makes her pain unbearable to watch. In the end, a symbolic reading of Offred may be possible, but it also does the very thing that the Gileadian regime was trying to do in the first place: silence a unique voice by reducing it to one attribute of many.

Subtle Elitism Embedded in Van Peer’s Argument

As much as I hate to be the keener with an extra post on her ASTU blog, it looks like that’s the way things are going to pan out- because  I’m hoping the post for the next deadline will be about Obasan, so this one isn’t going to be it.  On the other hand I still have one last point to flush out about Van Peer.

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I’ve really enjoyed reading Van Peer.  As a reader, I find his assertion of the importance of literature as an agent of social change and progress very compelling, and so academically I found it very easy to jump on the Van Peer bandwagon.  But after some closer reading and consideration of the in-class discussion on the stance he takes opposing romanticism, I began to notice a more sinister logic embedded in his arguments.

Although I wrote my summary on, in part, the danger of seeing literature as an entertainer and not an educator (a challenge to educational literature being, in van Peer’s vein of logic, a challenge to social progress and the advancement of human rights) I still strongly feel that van Peer is, in spite of his focus on enlightening encapsulated cultures, an elitist at heart.  Politically, he is for disencapsulation.  Socially, he supports encapsulation to a nearly archaic degree.  The canon van Peer holds so dear is exclusive and socially stratifying, undemocratic at the core and therefore, in opposition of the advancement of true equality.

I draw my claims about van Peer’s elitism from two main aspects of his argument.  First, his protest against Romanticism.  While the romantic movement in some ways diluted the educational impact of art, it was also a democratizing force in the art world, suggesting that art and its appreciation wasn’t something exclusive to the upper classes.  While van Peer might be right to question its effect on some of the effects it had on the quality of art, that doesn’t mean its effects on society itself were negligible.  Second, van Peer’s argument for the creation of social change through literature depends on the members of the encapsulated culture being the ones to read literature and shape change.  His argument completely ignores and undermines the valuable impact of the lower, or excluded classes and cultures as shapers and creators of social change.  Even when he addresses other publications outside of the category of fiction that shape society (like The Communist Manifesto) he isn’t adressing other, unwritten factors in cultural progress.

In short, van Peer isn’t writing from an inclusive perspective of society, but an exclusive one.  He isn’t writing a narrative from the perspective of the excluded as well as the encapsulated members of a society, but one from a strictly elitist perspective.  His words claim social progress, but it’s a progress that exists in legislation alone, not in thought or culture, and the bias of his argument shows that.  In van Peer’s article, there is no mention of the revolution of the masses and its impact on society after the industrial revolution.  There is no mention of the suffragettes or the Civil Rights Movement.  Van Peer spins a pretty narrative about Hard Times and how literature shaped the thoughts of the upper classes and says absolutely nothing about the lower classes.  The lower classes are as voiceless in van Peer as they are in the encapsulated worlds he writes of.  And that’s not really indicative of progress, is it?

How We Expand Horizons

Both Martha Nussbaum and Willie Van Peer offer valuable insights when they elaborate on the ways in which literature allows us as readers to view the world around us more complexly.  In Democratic Citizenship and the Narrative Imagination Nussbaum posits that a literary education from early childhood onward provides a reader with the tools required to view the people around them as “spacious and deep, with qualitative differences from oneself as well as hidden places worthy of respect”.  In a similar vein, Van Peer, in Literature, Imagination and Human Rights asserts that literature creates societal change on a much larger scale, prompting greater discussion about what it means to be human and thereby encouraging encapsulated cultures, that is, people groups with firmly defined and exclusive boundaries, to extend the definition of “human” to peoples they previously excluded.

Both argue that literature prompts people to expand their horizons.  Nussbaum even goes so far as to suggest that literature, among not only the arts but also a great many other disciplines, uniquely shapes minds and broadens thought.  As an avid reader myself, my first inclination is to agree with them.

However, I struggle to simply accept the claim that literature is the most basic, essential eye-opener.  I have two objections to this claim.  First, that the language of literature is, in and of itself, a factor in creating and preserving encapsulation.  Second, that the open-mindedness purveyed through literature cannot find its solitary source in literature, leaving open the question as to where the writer of a book received the idea that their definition of “human” was limited.

Language, particularly written language, has a limited, though ever increasing, sphere of influence.  (I know that language is used by all humans, but the words we use are in and of themselves exclusive).  Language itself is a huge factor in encapsulation.  The language of literature is exclusive to those who are literate, and often, in the case of the authoritative cannon that Van Peer centers his argument around, exclusive to those with an advanced degree of literacy and access to books.

One of my favourite books is A Room With A View by E.M. Forster.  When it comes to whether or not the man was sexist or truly open minded, all bets are off, but he had a lot to say about viewing women as complex individuals at a time when they were not typically seen in so advanced a light.  In one of my favourite scenes in the novel, one character is forced, not by literature, but by the words of his fiance as she breaks off their engagement to acknowledge that she is not, perhaps, as different from him as he’d imagined.

“But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment more desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living woman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even eluded art.”

So how and where did Cecil recieve the wisdom that encouraged him to see Lucy as a human as much as himself?  And more interestingly, where did Forster find this notion?  Although, by 1908 the idea that women were as human and complex as men was a fairly common concept, it’s source could not exclusively be literature.  Something had to have prompted the first writer of a book on the subject to put pen to paper, something that wasn’t simply another book.

I would argue, that literature does not instill in readers the notion that our concept of humanity is limited, but rather that it is one of many things that may awaken us to the knowledge of this limitation, a knowledge which is innate in all of us.  Literature, though an effective tool for expanding our horizons, and an enjoyable one at that, is by no means the only method or the best.