10 things to do before I leave the country

1. Retrieve all post-its from various hiding places in and around my desk and place in a plastic bag for safe transportation abroad.
2. Go through college notes. Try to determine which I might need in London. Scan as many as possible to PDFs and store on my laptop.
3. Indulge myself by reading as many novels as possible while I still have an excuse not to read academic material.
4. Sort through my bookshelf and decide which of my hundreds of tomes I simply cannot live without. Attempt to determine whether it’s most cost efficient to put in checked luggage, stuff into my carry-on, or buy an extra copy in London.
5. Ditto for kitchen utensils. Find out if potential flatmates own a set of dishes. Can plates fit nicely in suitcases?
6. Move credit cards from wallet to passport holder and back again. Try to use up American change. Weigh merits of large purse as one of two carry-on bags vs. small purse inside second carry-on bag.
7. Try to anticipate which items of clothing are better purchased in London and which I should find (for cheaper) in the States: specifically, brown skirt, brown heels, scarves.
8. Purchase large supply of Blistex, which I know I cannot live without. England might be the perfect place to live if they sold Blistex. Also purchase Muppets DVDs for moments when I need some American-style humor.
9. Practice methods of folding clothes so as to maximize suitcase space. Discover a method of fitting the most towels possible into spacesaver bags.
10. Find a flatmate. Try not to worry about the fact that I have no flatmate yet.

Are english departments politicizing literature?

I’ve been reading Harold Bloom recently, partially because I’ve never read much of his work before and partially because I’m interested in his view of literature. He subscribes to an aesthetic theory of reading literature (if you can call it a theory), which means, I believe, that he reads literature looking for beauty and pleasure. He juxtaposes this to the other camps that exist within English departments in universities: the Marxists, the feminists, the New Historicists, the cultural materialists, etc.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have trouble grasping the differences between these groups. Richard Dutton, who I took a graduate course in Renaissance literature from at OSU, called my handle on these ill-formed, if I remember correctly. I asked him for some literature to help me correct this, which I dutifully read, but I don’t think it helped. Perhaps a reason for this is that I have always been flummoxed by why anyone would choose to read every piece of literature with a prescribed viewpoint.

I almost wrote “with a certain handicap.” Dare I compare reading say, Shakespeare, through a Freudian lens as playing tennis with one hand tied behind your back? Or maybe with a patch over one eye.

The next question, obviously, is whether Bloom’s aestheticism is another camp or, as he wants us to think, the natural position from which these other literary theories are aberrations. To use an image from Lewis: is Bloom’s theory the wood between the worlds, or is it just another pool within the wood?

My instinct is to agree with Bloom that reading aesthetically is the norm from which other readings wander. As a child, I didn’t choose books because I thought they advanced the cause of women, I read them because I liked them.

I had the curious feeling when I graduated from OSU that I was rediscovering how reading can be fun. For three years, I barely read anything because I wanted to; I was too inundated with class readings to have time for anything else. But once I graduated, that changed. I could enjoy reading again!

Bloom thinks that universities teach students not to enjoy reading. I’m somewhat inclined to agree. It’s no fun reading anything if you’re trying to politicize it, as Bloom charges that these camps of literary theory do. But then where would a person who wants to read for beauty and pleasure fit in? In a university? I don’t know.

This question, among others, has been troubling me recently as I try to decide whether I ought, in a couple years, to pursue a Ph.D. I doubt there is a simple answer.

No matter your job, it's still who you know

Jane Austen is my sixth cousin eight times removed. I’m also related to John Steinbeck, Hans Christian Anderson, Ray Bradbury, Truman Capote, William Faulkner, Agatha Christie, George Orwell, Robert Graves and Elizabeth Browning. My mother is into genealogy, you see. And one of the features of Ancestry.com is that if you enter in your family tree, they can tell you which famous people you’re related to. Our list has an impressive number of writers; Mom wondered if talent can be inherited. I’ll admit, I feeling almost like coming from this long line of writers must legitimate me somehow. Almost.

Last summer I read Old School by Tobias Wolff. The first chapter talks about his anticipation as a schoolboy of a visit by Robert Frost to his school. He said that, as an aspiring writer, he wanted to have a "great" take him under their wing. Lay their hands on him. Give them their blessing.

It’s who you know, right? A lot of times now it’s not where you studied, it’s who you studied with. As an undergraduate, I wrote a thesis and asked Lee K. Abbott to direct it. When asked by a fellow student who was directing my thesis, I sometimes got this response: “Oooh, Lee K. Impressive.”

That undergraduate thesis was a collection of short stories that attempted to mimic Shakespeare’s writing process by using the sources he used for his plays to create my own work. I explained: if trying to learn how to write by studying a specific writer, why not go to the best? But maybe, just maybe, I was also hoping that some of his—what shall I call it? mastery? magic? mojo?—would rub off on me.

Harold Bloom calls this the “anxiety of influence.” Strong poets, he says (although this applies to other writers), will creatively (and/or purposefully) misread a previous author. That’s exactly what I was doing, and I’ll be the first to admit that I did not get anywhere close to Shakespeare’s level of genius. But I did pick up a few tricks.

I don’t know if I have it in me to be a “strong” writer. And even though I’ve been reading a lot lately about the theory of writing and about canonical works and what the next major novel is going to look like, I still have no idea. What precisely, for example, does Bloom mean when he says that we’re about to usher in a new theological age of literature?

I am reminded of reading recently on the back cover of A Dash of Style by Noah Lukeman one of the marketing quotes, calling the book a “pageturner.” It’s a grammar manual. Normally, seeing a quote like this, I'd assume that at least one person was really enthralled, no matter how bad I thought the book was, this was not the kind of book you would read straight through, much less not be able to put down. I would hope that this is an extreme example, but my gut is telling me that it's not.

These quotes on book jackets seem to have dropped a long way from their original purpose: they’ve always been used as tools to help sell the book, but now no care is taken by those who are expected to give them. (I wish I could ask that these readers would take the time to think intelligently about the books they’re commenting on instead of churning out the clichés of the book reviewing industry, but this might be too much to ask.)

Isn’t this just an exercise in proving who you know? An extension of Bloom’s theory even into the vast body of writers whom he would not class as “strong.” But it seems to me that they also want this laying-hands-on.

And really, if I were the focal character in Old School, I’d want Robert Frost’s blessing too.