Until the age of ten, I lived in a rural area. The school wasn't the best. I didn't live on some surburban street where I could ride my bike or hang out with friends. As a result of this *slightly* isolated existence, most of my time was spent reading.
I was considerably more advanced than the majority of my video-game-playing classmates, so my teachers introduced me to literature early on. I eagerly followed my first-grade teacher out of the See-Spot-Run world into the neighboring fourth-grade classroom, where I was handed real books. I started with American Girl; historical fiction was my first favorite genre. I moved into realistic fiction with The Black Stallion and fantasy with Redwall. I read countless books well past my level in elementary school, and enjoyed them immensely.
And was that what counted? The enjoyment? That I found them to be entertaining? Beautiful? Or...was it that they had some higher meaning? I doubt it. I believe that I have always enjoyed books and films...I prefer not to interpret them. Interpretation is for anthropologists and biblical scholars. Enjoyment is for readers.
Then high school hit. Now I live in the suburbs. I go to an excellent school. English class, however, has become one of my least favorite. I have even found myself dreading books. We're being forced to examine them under these...microscopes...in English class. I find myself attempting to read outside of class, for enjoyment, and I'm finding that it's no longer enjoyable. Now, I see everything as "motifs" and "metaphors" and "underlying theme". I know they were there before, but they were more like gentle and extremely subtle seasoning that I picked up on and didn't consciously label. Seasoning is exactly what it was. One does not taste food and say, "Why, the paprika truly enhances this!" One tastes food and says, "That's delicious. This stuff the cook put on just hits the spot."
I can no more define a human being by listing each property of his genes than I can define a work of literature by listing its properties in the form of elements and devices. This is not to say that science is useless, or that literary analysis is useless; these things may help us better understand what we living in, but nothing can ever fully define life or art. We will never fully understand the feeling of being ALIVE or the true appreciation of art.
Sophomore year (just wait 'til I'm a junior) is slowly and painfully constructing my newest philosophy; that one does not need to be educated in literature to fully enjoy it. At the fully uneducated age of nine, I knew nothing of underlying meanings, of metaphors, of motifs, but I was still impacted by what I read. I'm quite capable of analyzing classic literature, but my grades in English are barely A's...I can't stand to do it. It doesn't make me feel ALIVE. Literature is an experience, not a recipe.
Most novels, plays, films, and other long works have some sort of this elusive thing called "meaning", but does a poem have to have meaning? Does it have to be about some higher ideal? Must it express some timeless idea about life? Or...can it simply exist for its own purposes? Is its existence enough to justify its purpose? Is it enough that the writer cares enough to create it? That the reader enjoys it or finds it beautiful or provocative? Experiences it fully?
See the middle stanza of my poem "Splenda" for more rambling food analogies. See "Introduction to Poetry" by one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins, for a a concise and well-written version of everything I just tried to say.
Thank you for your time,
Colleen
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