This is something I've been wrestling with posting for a while, but here it is. In all honesty, the past two months or so of teaching have been incredibly hard. Not the instructing part, but that of course is difficult at times too, the reality that teaching never is just instructing. It's you walking alongside a student through their struggles and learning how best to help them. I have had to improvise more times than I care to count. These are not put-together college students, and this isn't the last semester of the English program where we all sit around and discuss our wiritng and what moves us forward in our desire to read and write and do both well.
So, that being said, no two students are alike, and so it is with my two high school private (one-on-one) courses. One is a hard case, and the other enjoys learning; I have to teach to both of them. I have to teach to the one who has a solid hold on grammar, reads silently in class without pitching a fit, and participates in discussion as well as to the one who simply doesn’t want to be taught. My dad told me recently that there is a difference in being a teacher and an educator. A teacher instructs and goes home at the end of the day, her job finished, but an educator is concerned with the student as a whole, understanding that the student brings baggage from home with them into the classroom and that you can never have a student who isn’t affected by what the something-else-that-is-not-your-class is that they are dealing with in their life. No student sheds all burdens when coming to class, so an educator must be aware of the suitcases full of fathers telling them, “You are a lazy bag of s***. You’re not worth it,” “You will never make it to University,” and the others that hold the reality of again sitting alone in the lunch room in an hour. (Yes, all of these statements reside in the worried minds of my two students). These are the students we teach, the ones we are tasked with educating. It is hard, and we rejoice over the victories in the classroom, but we too, are affected when it’s apparent that they would rather be anywhere but sitting in front of you talking about a poem, a novel, or the entire study of English language and literature in general. It is a constant struggle, a daily liturgy that looks like an outward discussion of whether Winston rebels in 1984 and what that looks like as it does wondering if their lack of sleep is a product of them fighting with their father last night. One of my students was so desperate, he had nothing else to bargain with, that he deleted the three-week late draft of his essay just to be non-compliant towards his step-father. It was his only bargaining chip that he held over the man who told him he wasn’t worth it. This student has two cochlear implants and is so self-conscious about them that he will always sit in the back of a class room and never ask a question in fear he didn’t hear someone who just asked the same thing. When I met him, he had a ball cap on and a hoodie pulled over it; he would only talk in mumbles and whispers. Five weeks later, he was bare-headed, smiling and talking about 1984, giving ideas for a paper that he was going to write. It all seemed to be going well. Then he was 20 minutes late two weeks in a row and didn’t do any of the homework. I had to forgo another unit to continue working on his paper draft with him. His mother sat in their car one morning, crying, the student in the backseat with his hand over his face, hoodie and hat on, and the mom asked me to come outside. I sat in the passenger seat while she cried, telling me her son didn’t want to come inside. “I don’t know what to do.” She told me. He was doing his work well that week, but he hit an obstacle with quotes or something else that make him shut down and quit. I told her that I was here for both of them and that I wanted to have class. I turned around to tell the student I was not mad and I would love to have class with him that day, we could work on his paper draft if only he’d come inside, but it had to be his decision ultimately, not mine. I could not make the choice for him; he had to come to class willingly. They drove away thirty minutes later, and I erased the board, packed up my things and went back to my apartment. I had worked so hard to coax him in the door every Saturday morning, worrying every time he would tell him mother to drive away, that this was too difficult and not worth it. He was scared that it was true that he wasn’t good enough. I came home many days after the six hours of what looked more like counselling than teaching to cry because I was so frustrated. At the student’s lack of participation, his father’s abusive behavior, and at the situation itself. I have come to realise that my first foray into the world of teaching is in fact an extreme case, one that few teachers ever see. I have questioned my right to even think of myself as a teacher, “I am a hand-holder” I tell myself. But he is fragile, close to breaking. I am an educator, tasked with helping him, the student who doesn’t want to be taught, whose mind is focused on somewhere far beyond the task at hand. I have to encourage him as a human being, and he would make a wonderful graphic designer. His parents want him to go to university for something else. I am mindful of this as I teach. I am passionate about the subject and about the discussions we can have in-class. But I know not everyone I teach is the same, and I have to remember when things are difficult that I am an educator, not just a teacher. I was struck by a quote I read last night about teaching the students we have, not the ones we wish we had. It is not an easy task, but it is purposeful, so we press on.
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Discussion on literature and reading, how that affects a writer. What makes a book good? What is good literature? (30 minutes) McGuffin - an object or device in a movie or a book that serves merely as a trigger for the plot. A term that’s said to have been borrowed by the English film director Alfred Hitchcock, from a humorous story involving such a pivotal factor. Examples: Holy Grail, it’s never about the Holy Grail itself. It is an element which drives the plot onward to its conclusion, but the story is more about the searching and relationships, pride, determination, self-realization, etc. more so than the grail itself. Harry Potter – him fighting Voldemort. More about the scene in the train station with Dumbledore that then is a lens through which you see the rest of book 7 and the whole series in hindsight. The fight between Voldemort and Harry is simply the climax, but the story doesn’t stop there like you think it might. The train station scene is the denouement of the story of Hogwarts and the people in it, Harry’s life. Here, it all comes down to a choice of life apart from his family but with his friends, going after Voldemort who still has the Elderwand, or finally be reunited with those he has lost. The books are about friendships, relationships, relatable characters, Deathly Hallows, power and what you do with it, light vs. dark which you see in the battle, but isn’t the moment which the books rest on or what they are even, at the end of the day, about. Monster in Frankenstein. – About who the real monster actually is. Humanity created a monster. That in and of itself is rife with moral ambiguity, but the monster isn’t like what we think it is and see in movies. He is curious; he watches people and he emulates them, learns to read, reads philosophy, eloquent and seems more human at the end of the novel than the one who created him in the first place. Not about his monstrous qualities; it’s a philosophical questioning of what it truly means to be human and what happens when you put humans in an impossible scenario and how do you deal with the moral questions that follow. Why did Shelley choose to title the book, Frankenstein because the monster isn’t Frankenstein – he’s the man who created the monster. It’s about his decline into mania and obsession. Hazy moral ground, tears his life apart, flunks out of school. He is a sort of monster. The question is who is the real monster? Is the monster actually the monster? Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus Dracula- not about his vampirism. It’s about being afraid of the dark and what lurks in the dark. A girl dies a horrible death yes, and that’s in one way horrific, but this is a different level of horror that means something and is getting at something deeper than dark cloaks, pointed fangs, and a thirst for blood. Those things would be the McGuffin of Dracula. The story at its heart is really about a man dealing with being alone, hurting everyone around him, sadness and loss, and a grey sort of view of good and evil where Dracula changes in the reader’s eyes, and you hate him, pity him, even admire him. When they kill him in the end of the book, line “She thought for a brief moment that she could see a glimmer of peace on his face.” Not a redeemable quality in the entire book. Even his own existence is a cure, he despises himself, his own defeat is a relief to himself. Sin and evil, true victim of evil is him or the one he kills? He is also the victim of his wretchedness. His own evil dehumanizes himself. Fear of what a vampire actually is. They don’t kill people; they turn people into vampire. Turns to into something evil, takes what is good and distorts it, changes it and makes it evil. Real horror of it. There is a goodreads review of Dracula that is poignant to this topic: Dracula: the very name instantly brings to mind visions of vampires, stakes, garlic and crucifixes. But when I bothered to read the novel I realised, sadly, how twisted modern vampire fiction has become. Writing stories that are something of substance Good horror, real horror and real sci-fi, is about philosophy, real questions put into a supernatural setting. A setting that is evocative for modern culture. The vampire story isn’t just about a vampire sucking blood who lives in a coffin, it’s about marriage and love, loss and grief, and evil versus good. Frankenstein isn’t about creating a human being, effects of doing what should not be done. A good story is more than its elements. Not identifying what makes your skin crawl, it’s what gets into a person’s mind and causes them to question everything. Horror, modern slasher films. Something coming from behind. That’s easy to do. We should strive to write stories like these, ones with substance that mean more than their obvious elements. We should bare ourselves to out work. Much of those years' reaching will feed the work. Furhter, writing sentences is difficult whatever their subject. It is no less difficult to write sentences in a recipie than sentences in Moby-Dick. So you might as well write Moby-Dick. By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist
I love the idea that art is, in part, literature. It is visual imagery that relays a story to the viewer, and good art acts as well-written literature does: it makes a person want to look closer, to read closer, to delve into the work that is before them. Literaturic art intrigues people and prompts them to consider what story it tells. The concept of good Christian art has been on my mind these past couple of months. It closely ties into the article I wrote a few weeks ago on what makes good literature, but this idea touches more on the importance of creating good art as members of a Christian community. Right before Spring Break, I, along with other students in the English department, attended a conference in Minnesota. There was a sculpture in front of a church that was right across the street from our hotel. It intrigued me enough that finally I went and looked at it. It was made of geometric shapes and lifelike reliefs of humans stretching their hands skyward, and the visual relation of the figures connected by the curved shapes left me nearly speechless. I learned later that the sculpture is called "The Birth of Freedom." Galatians 5:1 was inscribed on the stone below proclaiming, 'For freedom Christ has set you free; stand fast therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.' The verse, though powerful, wasn't the focal point of the piece; if someone wasn’t looking very hard, they wouldn’t know the verse was even there. The words weren’t necessarily the point. The work itself was. I couldn't put my finger on what it was about that church's sculpture that struck me as so different from other religious art I had seen until a few days later, when I thought, “It’s good art. That’s why it’s different.” Sometimes we can be scared, and I put myself in this category too, to make good art that pushes the boundaries of what’s accepted by a larger community. Such as with the sculpture outside of the church, it shows naked human forms, but the piece as a whole is not offensive, and the choices the sculptor made are deliberate to the end he had in mind. It tells a story. It captures people’s attention. Sometimes literature is most affecting when it isn’t trying to fit into any particular structure, when the voice of the work isn’t forced. As we head into the last few weeks of our semester, this can be an encouraging point. We shouldn’t be scared to pursue what we are passionate about, and no matter what sort of expression of literature and story we create, we should do it well and enjoy it. For those who are curious, the church I am referring to is Westminster Presbyterian in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The church has its own art collection, and emphasizes the importance of art to their faith and their services on its website. In its description of the Westminster Collection, the website closes with the following: "A beautiful piece of art is pleasing to the eye and soul. Sometimes sad and ugly stories need telling and they might be disturbing and uncomfortable. These scenarios share a common goal: to capture attention and to elicit a reaction. Sometimes thinking is more important than liking." To visit the church's website and learn more about its dedication to art, click here. *originally posted on leeclarion.com as the final installment of my weekly lit column. I thoroughly enjoyed writing about and reflecting on literature and the importance of reading. After this was posted, I knew I wanted to continue to write and share my thoughts on books, so this book blog was born. Happy reading. :)
By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist
Author Scott Russell Sanders opened the first event of Lee's 2016 Writer's Festival, Feb. 24, with wise words. “You don’t become a writer only by studying writing. You do it by engaging in anything that interests you. It’s not just a subject; it’s a way of being in the world.” Sanders said. Sanders shared some of his most recent stories with students that are paired with photographs taken by Peter Forbes. He wrote each of the 8 stories he read based on one photograph in Forbes’ collection, and the combination of one image with a corresponding creative essay is a powerful pairing. Sanders looked through the collection of photos and wrote stories on the ones he kept coming back to because “something about the image struck me, provoked me.” The idea of writing based on a photograph intrigued me, and the way he incorporated the image into each piece as well as the words themselves mirrors his concern for the preservation of the world we inhabit. He found inspiration in seemingly unrelated photos and gave them a voice. I liked how we could see the image as he was reading, and it was a more poignant connection. I’m glad I had the opportunity to hear him speak and read his work because all writers think differently; their worldviews and experiences are unique to them, and they write out of interest for a particular story or subject. Sanders statement that writing is not merely a subject we enjoy or a major we may have in college—that “it’s a way of being in the world”—is thought-provoking, and it calls into question why we write. I don’t write or read because I’m an English major. I do it because it’s connected to something deeper, and my desire to write and to read definitely is related to what I am passionate about. It is freeing to think this way and to realize that it is true. Hopefully, when we create a work of art, a piece of writing, anything, we do so because we are drawn to something that strikes us about it, that provokes us. The stories he read Wednesday reflected his statement on writing as well as his passion for conservation and his deep concern for the world we live in. My writing reflects other things perhaps than Sanders’ writing, but it reflects who I am and what is important to me. Lee will host two more Writer’s Festival events which will be held in March and April. For more info on upcoming events, contact Dr. William Woolfitt, [email protected] *originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly literature column and in conjunction with the 2016 Writers' Festival hosted by Lee University's Department of Language and Literature. By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist Recently, it seems that I find encouragement in readings for class, since I don’t have much time to read anything else. One class discussion centered on the last part of Plato’s Phaedrus, which seemed daunting to read at first, but the latter part concerning writing versus speech intrigued me. Good literature is, as Socrates claims, “reminders for men who know.” Good literature both informs us of new ideas, but it also serves as a reminder of what we already know. It prompts us to think about characters and ourselves in light of what the author has written. Defining great literature can be difficult because everyone has a different opinion of what speaks to them and what “impactful and great” means. I do think that stories that are well-structured and well-written are worth our attention, and if an author has written them with individual readers and the community of readership in mind, such books hold weight and importance. Great literature should help us to remember things we have may have forgotten, and such books ought to remind us and point to some element of the truth of human experience; there is some aspect within the pages and sentences of quality literature that will stand the test of time and effectively speak to a wide range of readers. Bad literature often holds a poor picture of the world; even if it is fictional, we as readers expect books to portray some semblance of truth. We trust the author to adequately present us with a gripping, exciting story that informs us. Whether that’s a story detailing a chaotic world, one full of fantasy and mystery, or something we’d encounter in our day-to-day life, we expect it to be true in some way. We expect it to find a connection to some part of the story. We can read great literature that we end up disliking. Perhaps Dickens is too wordy for some and Fitzgerald too fixated on analogy for others. Our opinions sometimes cloud the waters of what a good book really is, but we can dislike a writer’s style and still uphold the truth and value of their work. Great literature includes classics, but works that fall into the category of good literature don’t necessarily have to be classic novels. Perhaps there are tiers where Shakespeare, Homer, Virgil, and Dante are the top and Milton, Adichie, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, Dickens, etc. are in the middle, and the lower tier of great literature exists in bookshops filled with unrecognized titles from unknown authors—but their works are still good literature, and readers benefit just as much from reading their works as reading The Iliad or Hamlet. These types of works hold a strong parallel to human experience, and it remains true to what we know to be true. At times it pushes the bounds of accepted writing, but great literature establishes a strong foundation for the reader that is personal. I spoke with numerous individuals about their thoughts on the definition of great literature, and everyone I talked with mentioned that good books are ones that stuck with them and impacted them at some level: Senior Nursing major, Michelle Tolliver says, “Great literature is made by a pure voice. It’s one that is not necessarily fresh and new but, genuine.” Junior English major, Rachel Hess believes, “Great literature is a story that leaves me thinking after I’m done reading.” Senior English and Psychology major, Sara Robertson considers great literature to be: “a book that I can read (and want to read) multiple times throughout my life, and it still means something to me.” Good writing, and good literature, says different things at different times for different people. It connects with society as a whole, often making a statement about our humanity and displaying truth. After encountering great literature, the hope and expectation is that you don’t remain the same reader you were at the beginning.
*originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly literature column with the paper. After writing on Lectio Divina, I feel as if I hadn’t thoroughly said all there is to say. The phrase was everywhere I looked last week, which was odd as I encountered it for the fist time last Sunday. I was reading Addie Zierman’s memoir, When We Were on Fire, for one of my classes and it was there in print, staring up at me in the midst of words about her life. I then wrote the article concerning why we should re-read books and why it is so important to us to slow down and take in a text that we may otherwise miss the small elements.
Then, Sons and Daughters was in chapel last Thursday; the female lead singer said she wanted to do something with us that they do at their church and before their shows. She said, “It’s called Lectio Divina, or the art of sacred reading.” I looked up from checking email on my phone to stare at her. She continued, saying, “It’s important to stop and reflect,” and, over the next five minutes or so, she proceeded to read scripture and act out Lectio right there in chapel. She read a passage from Philippians 4, paused, read it again, and we sat in silence as she asked us to take a minute to mediate on it; she then asked everyone to read aloud it with her. It was a neat moment, when she acted on the importance of reflection and response before moving into the songs they had prepared to sing. As readers, the next question after encountering the idea of Lectio Divina is “Now what? What text/book/novel should I read?” I have found myself more and more drawn to texts filled with quotes that encourage me to see the beauty of words and stories in the middle of assigned readings for class. I don’t read many books that I choose for pleasure these days, but one that I have come across recently in a class has reminded me that novels and books hold a certain kind of weight that cannot be filled by Netflix binge-watching. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life is a book by Anne Lamott that details the struggle of writing well, and how to make the most of the time and ideas you have been given. There are also numerous quotes throughout her book that highlight reading as essential— something that lifts our spirits and revives us—such as: “For some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die.” I love this quote because it truly sums up what it means to engage fully in an author’s text and how good novels often parallel life. Something I have begun doing recently is to pick up a novel from my middle and/or high school years that affected me in some way. I take a pen and underline new sentences that have taken on a new meaning, and I read to remember the feeling of picking up the book for the first time. I appreciate the familiarity that makes it easier to let myself be caught up in the story, in the words. I think looking back on, and re-reading, those texts that were important to us once is helpful as we consider how Lectio Divina can help us to better reflect on what we read. *originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly literature column. By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist Last week I wrote on setting a goal this semester of books to read, which can benefit us and prompt us to read more; we become better individuals for it. However, the other side of the conversation—the notion of fully investing in a text—is of equal importance. There is a phrase that I have come across recently that has kept me thinking about its implications constantly: Lectio Divina. It’s a Latin phrase that holds a piece of church history within it, prompting a reader to reconsider the way they approach a text. The notion behind Lectio Divina is rooted in an old monastic tradition where monks would choose a particular book of scripture and steep themselves in it for months on end. They would pour over the text, reading and rereading slowly and deliberately to get the most out of every passage and every word. It is something that at first glance seems strange and foreign—a practice that should stay inside the bounds of monastic life and come nowhere near our own. However, I think we need this. There is an ever-present question we face when we approach the vast world of literature and insurmountable accumulation of texts at a reader’s fingertips. What is the benefit of rereading a book when there is so much out there that I haven’t even encountered yet? This is where the idea of Lectio Divina comes in. Choosing to invest time in a particular novel forces us out of the hectic lives we lead, out of the mindset where we read solely to reach the end, to mark off another book on our list. We are so distracted by society and constantly pressured to go along with the constant flurry of activity and rapid change. We are conditioned to never stay in one place too long, never linger over something when we can easily be moving on to something else, something new and better. There is beauty in repetition, and I think we are afraid of it at times because we don’t know what to do with it. We feel that reading or encountering the same words over and over will cause them somehow to lose their meaning and fall by the wayside, empty. This just isn’t true. Lectio Divina introduces the idea of letting words surround you, to enter your thoughts as you read and to reside there. We ought to cherish the things we admire in books, holding on to them as we might hold on to the encouraging words of a friend, and seek to invest ourselves more fully in what we read. By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist
At the start of every January, many conversations turn toward those things we call New Years Resolutions. I was recently perusing Goodreads where I found a similar trend, but the focus of what I found there interested me more than the ever-present “I want to lose 10 pounds” resolutions. It involved books, so I was intrigued. The basis of the challenge I found on their website was to pledge a number of books that you will plan to read this year. And the great part is that they let you change the number. I ambitiously typed in 45 books and a day later I reevaluated my life and entered a more reasonable 35. Last week, I logged on and selected that I had finished reading a book, and it said I had 34 of 35 to go. There was a great feeling that accompanied finishing that book, so I quickly checked out the next book on my list from the library. I’m not sure how much more a digital counter encourages me in my quest to read than a desire to read another book does, but the nature of the challenge keeps you interested. Seeing the number change on the screen motivated me to think ahead to the next book, and I really appreciate that there is a goal I can set and look forward to completing. It shows you how far you have to go, how far you have already come, and prompts you to keep reading (telling you how many books you are behind or ahead of your set goal) when you don’t think about it for awhile. And besides, seeing as classes have just started again, I need all the help I can get when it comes to motivation. I like the Goodreads site a lot. It is quite helpful in organizing books that you have read, want to read, and for the avid review writer, a place to post reviews of favorite (and not-so-favorite) books. If you haven’t heard of or used the site before, I highly recommend that you check it out, and their 2016 Reading Challenge. So, what books should you put on your reading list this semester? Here are a few titles that I have heard great things about or have personally read and feel confident enough to recommend to you: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho A special 25th anniversary edition of this novel has recently been released, a testament to the longstanding acclaim and ability to move readers through the simple, yet meaningful structure and narrative. The Martian by Andy Weir Since the movie came out last year, I became interested in reading the book. Some reviews call this book out on the grounds that it is based on shoddy science; however, most reviewers agree that there is a fantastic depth of character in this book, well worth the possible not-all-true science. Wil Weaton (actor, Star Trek: The Next Generation) even remarks: “I have never wanted so badly for the characters in a book to be real.” Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel This novel, published in 2014, was a finalist for both the National Book Award and A PEN/Faulkner Award. I have not read it yet, but it is the next book on my to-read list, and has been on my mind for quite some time, as people continually have great things to say about it. If you want to see my list of books and to-read list, here is a link to my Goodreads page. https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/22494612-hannah-cole *originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly lit column. Literary Encouragement for Your Finals Season, AKA: Quotes About Books and How They Can Get Us to (and perhaps through) Finals By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist It is now November. This means we are in a season of frantic preparation for finals, papers, and tests—and if you’re like me at all, you too have wanted nothing more in these last few days than to hide in your dorm, watch Netflix, and catch up on the sleep that you haven’t truly gotten since August. The books I have to read for my classes are staring at me from my bookshelf, and I suddenly realize that the semester is nearly over. Those papers due at the end of the semester—the ones I don’t need to worry about yet—well, it’s time to worry about them. The problem is, I’m just not motivated. Even writing this article took much longer than it should have, because I was distracting myself with cleaning or going to get food, anything really except what I need to be doing. Even though books just remind me of the work I haven’t done for this week, literature is still valuable, it is still impactful. And this is the time when I need it most. Sometimes reading quotes about reading is what restores my faith every semester in the knowledge that I am supposed to be at college and I am in the right major. Reading such quotes about books revives my sense of wonder, so here are a few to help motivate you to push through these next few weeks with determination: You should listen to Benedict Cumberbatch, especially when he says things about reading. This quote makes me feel that everything I read should be for a purpose, as if the words I choose to put into my head will shape my thinking as well as my outlook. This one isn’t about reading in general, but it is a lovely quote that encourages me to read nonetheless. :) Inkheart is a wonderful series, and Funke’s words are always profound. “Books loved anyone…” So good. I love C.S. Lewis, especially when he writes about reading and its connection to childhood. This quote in particular makes me to want to keep reading; I want to find the sense of wonder I had when I was younger, and I can do that most often in reading. I love this. I’m not sure who is attributed with saying this, but it makes me stop and think. I can see books as more than paper and ink here, because they retain parts of us in the words we choose to underline, bookmarks we leave between the pages, the memories we have of reading certain words.
There is something powerful about that, and it sometimes takes quotes like this to remind me that reading (even for classes) is beneficial to me. It continues to help me grow and learn new things, and I should never shy away from that. Especially in November when the sky grows dismal and all I want to do is crawl under the covers. We will indeed make it to the end of this semester, so keep reading my friends. *originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly literature column. By Hannah Cole, Literature Columnist
My dad came to my elementary school when I was in second grade, and he told us a story. This was a story that my sister and I had heard many times before, but the day my father came to speak to us burns brightly in my memory. In thinking of the day my dad told us this story, I am reminded of how all tales used to be passed down—an oral tradition that we often forget about. Even though I knew what was going to happen, I leaned forward to hear what he was saying as if there was a chance the story would change this time. Similarly, I wonder how the audience of Aeneid reacted when they heard the epic tale from the lips of Vergil himself or of another storyteller. How did the narrative telling differ from reading it on paper today? With text you have to come up with voices—sometimes pronouncing things like Hermione’s name wrong for seven books (my bad)—and pay attention to the cadence and delivery of words at the same time you’re establishing the story in your head. Listening to books is a completely different framework than looking at varying ways to read text. Audiobooks are a distinctive way to experience literature; a narrator conveys the story within the framework of the text. Having a good narrator is the key of appreciating the story well. I was talking with one friend this past week who was describing her experience listening to an audiobook of John Adams, originally written by David McCullough. The novel is around 752 pages in the paperback edition, and it made sense when she told me, “it was the only way I would have read the book.” It is hard to find time to read books when we’re in class, on the road, running errands—living everyday life. We don’t have too much time to stop and read for pleasure. But we can listen. My friend told me, “When you’re driving down the road, it comes to life.” The audiobook added another dimension for her. She spoke of the fact that during a long, 16-hour drive she listened to over half of the audiobook, saying the time passed quickly and it was like a friend was sitting next to her telling her a story as she drove. Audiobooks capture your mind with stories in a way the text cannot. Voice is important, and long novels especially are strengthened by the voice of a skilled narrator. They are the one dictating the story, and a good or bad narrator can effect the way an audience perceives a text. Nelson Runger who narrated John Adams pronounces the French correctly, and reads in a conversational tone that keeps the reader engaged. Here are some audiobooks that I recommend:
*originally posted on leeclarion.com as part of my weekly literature column. |
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