Why We Read: Note To Self 13.6.03

Poet Robert Bly used to describe his art as virile, rather than an effete practice for romantics and outsiders. I liked the way he did that, because as a boy who liked literature, I suffered the Neanderthal taunts from my comprehensive school peers. Friends? No not really. Deep inside, I think I’m permanently scarred by my experiences with those nasty little youths who jeered at me because I didn’t know who the captain of the England football team was. Didn’t know? I didn’t know then, don’t know now, and probably never have. If I ever thought about it. Which I don’t. So it gave me some satisfaction to see that one of the louder little ruffians (although not in my immediate circle) recently described himself as “a lorry driver” at Friends Reunited. Ha. Lorry driver. And get this, my lorry driving not-friend: in the world of English Literature, you usually find a high proportion of women. Which is rather nice. Preferable, in fact, to sitting alone in a lorry for eight hours a day.

OK so there’s nothing new about this. DH Lawrence was bullied and chastised by his father for his artistic inclinations, and in a similar working class context – although with a radically different art – adolescent Billy Elliot is ridiculed for wanting to be a dancer. Maybe not a great example because it’s not such a great film, but you get the idea. Men are constrained within the supposed role of masculinity – but just what is that supposed to mean? During A level English, one of my teachers remarked that I was the first person ever to consider King Lear’s predicament from his point of view. Silly old fool giving away his kingdom, yes, this daughter thinks this, that courtier thinks that etc. But what about poor old Lear? He’s not exactly a happy dude is he? And apparently, no one had ever considered this. Anyway here it is: my response was based on sensitivity. You know? Well maybe you don’t – if you’re my lorry driving not-friend.

Literature is not a wholly ‘intellectual’ subject and I find myself, after a few recent years being immersed in cyberculture and Internet theory, returning to thoughts about books. I enjoy immersing myself, not in freakin HTML or the latest wacky cyber-theory, but in stories. Characters, people, narrative, feelings. You enter the writer’s fictional world, and then you can talk about it with others. I like that. We recognise ourselves in novels and learn to fine tune our perceptions – hmm yes, that’s what I think about this character, or that circumstance. What do you think? Literature rocks – more so than a juddering lorry. Ha!

Seriously, there is a psychological dimension to reading and discussing novels which is very interesting and therapeutic. The novel is a neutral meeting ground where two or more people can swap notes, swap feelings, and thus learn about themselves and others. It is an especially rich cultural resource which reflects, expresses and crystallises psychology and society. I like to think of cyberspace as a ‘cultural space’ where people meet and talk with each other, and to some extent this is true. But it’s also true that the Internet is a very unsatisfactory medium if that is your objective. I.e., to engage in a cultural meeting ground with other people. At best it offers abbreviated, bite-size food rather than a sustaining meal, so you are constantly grazing. At worst it offers rambling, dilute, repetitive, predictable and sometimes abusive interaction. I’ve experienced this like everyone else, in chat rooms, web forums etc. Hmm maybe it was Mr Lorry Driver having a go at me? ;-)

At the end of Martin Scorcese’s book A Journey Through American Cinema, he describes film as a shared cultural resource, and I agree. It’s an especially useful one because while in the overall scheme of things not many people have read Donna Tart’s novels or Ian McEwan, but there are tens of thousands of people regularly checking out the latest offerings at the local multiplex. Film is the biggest cultural form on the planet, and the world-wide population follows it religiously, if not critically. So anyway, I recently investigated film studies, did a course or two, and read some of the books. I like film, but even something as interesting as Memento or Ghost Dog does not have the sustained intelligence of a novel. People try to philosophise about film and some of it is very interesting indeed. Some of it, however, is also rather contrived, trying too hard to redeem a supremely capitalist practice from the mass market, and make it something more special. More interesting. More relevant to critical and philosophical study.

There are popular and populist novels, of course, and indeed they are the main component of the market place. I don’t think we can be snooty and high-brow about this; there’s nothing wrong with a good, pacy story which is an easy and fun read. Speaking for myself, in the last few years I have discovered this kind of writing as a particular pleasure. It’s easy to read, and it achieves its one purpose: to entertain you for many hours, while you curl up in bed, lie on the grass, or sip your cappuccino in the café (of course). But literature has never had a problem with endemic dumbing-down, the way film has. There have always been quality writers producing novels, plays etc. which have something to say about the human condition, a beautiful and interesting way of saying it, and altogether providing you – dear reader – with a nourishing and educational experience, in the sense of the meaning of the Latin word educare which means ‘to bring forth from within’. Novels reflect human life in its full infinite diversity. I rather like the way the Victorians regarded reading, as an edifying activity worthy of serious interest. I’m sure Dickens had something to do with that.

When I studied literature at university I always felt there was more to literary criticism ‘than was dreamt of in your philosophy’ – ‘your’ being the normal English department. And I managed to avoid the traditions and constraints of the latter by conducting my degree within the superb Independent Studies department at Lancaster. My interest? I knew that literature was far more psychological than Average English Department acknowledges, or understands. I liked the notion of theatrum mundi, that theatre is a microcosm of the world; I like the symbolism of story whereby life can be represented in narrative. IS allowed me to pursue my own interests in my own way, and I eventually titled my degree Independent Studies in Humanistic Psychology and Literature. Which is pretty much what it was.

In NLP (neuro-linguistic programming) they talk about metaphor as a powerful way of accessing and changing unconscious patterns in the psyche. If someone is depressed, they might tell them a story about some dude wandering around a magical sea-bed kingdom (where he can breath), who constantly feels the weight of the surrounding water. Then one day he finds a casket containing magical pills which bestow the gift of levity. Instantly, he begins to feel better…etc. In NLP, metaphor is a therapeutic technique, and a powerful one. Now, literature has been doing this for thousands of years. Stories are good for you! – well, some of them anyway. And I am remembering, recovering, the kind of pleasure I used to have in a good story. Cyberspace? Yes it’s a fascinating medium. Film? Photographic and cinematic impressions have their own pleasures, their own power. But the novel? Well there is nothing else like it. Cyberspace may be a ‘cultural space’ (I do think this), but if it’s culture that you want – in the widest Martin Scorcesian sense – then maybe you should re-visit the novel.