Tag Archives: responsibility
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Giroux on Education

Henry Giroux states, in “Obama and the Promise of Education“:

One of the most important challenges, especially for educators, facing the US in a post-Bush period, is to take seriously the educational force of a culture that is central to constructing a new type of citizen. What is needed are citizens defined less through the hatred and bigotry of racism and the narrow obligations of consumerism than through the values, identities and social relations of a democratic society.

As I’ve learned during the past eight years: democracy cannot be fruitful without an educated, engaged citizenry. Perhaps we can finally put the time of anti-intellectualism behind us.

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Question 2

Does authority equal responsibility?

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Hector: Family Man, but Hero First

Hector: Family Man, but Hero First

For in my heart and soul I know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die, [. . .]
That is nothing, nothing beside your agony
when some brazen Argive hales you off in tears,
wrenching away your day of light and freedom!
–Hector to Andromache, the Iliad, VI.396-97, 405-07

Hector and FamilyBook VI of Homer’s Iliad shows the contention in the heart of Hector, Ilium’s champion, but also a husband and new father: he is torn between his responsibilities as a hero to his people and as a the head of the household. Like so many soldiers going off to battle today, Hector is a new father who must risk his life to maintain his people’s way of life. Hector knows that Troy is doomed, but he must do his duty as champion and prince, even though it means the enslavement of his wife and child. In Hector’s plight, we see what is perhaps the utmost position of humanity in war: to lose does not mean just the death of the hero, but his death precipitates the death of the society that he protects.

Read the rest at HumX.

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Poor, Confusing Elpenor

Poor, Confusing Elpenor

Near the end of his stay with Circe in Book X of the Odyssey, Odysseus and crew prepare to leave Aiaia and head for the Underworld. It wasn’t his idea: Circe told him to go to hell. Well, what does he expect? He hung out with her for a year, ate her food, shared her “flawless bed of love,” and one day — from the prompting of his men — decides to leave, and fairly urgently judging by what happens to Elpenor.

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Revisionary Mythmaking

Oppressive language does more than represent violence; it is violence; does more than represent the limits of knowledge; it limits knowledge. Whether it is obscuring state language or the faux-language of mindless media; whether it is the proud but calcified language of the academy or the commodity driven language of science; whether it is the malign language of law-without-ethics, or language designed for the estrangement of minorities, hiding its racist plunder in its literary cheek – it must be rejected, altered and exposed. It is the language that drinks blood, laps vulnerabilities, tucks its fascist boots under crinolines of respectability and patriotism as it moves relentlessly toward the bottom line and the bottomed-out mind. Sexist language, racist language, theistic language – all are typical of the policing languages of mastery, and cannot, do not permit new knowledge or encourage the mutual exchange of ideas.
Toni Morrison

Lately, I’ve been rethinking the contextual use of language. The more I teach writing and reading, the more I understand the need to use language strategically — to make it your own. Words must be carressed and nurtured, like a newborn. They must be used rhetorically: rhetoric here suggests a time and a place for everything, a kairos. Language is not used in isolation; therefore, every situation is rhetorical, textual even. I think that we often forget that words can be violent, and sometimes we need reminders.

A command of language gives one power. As we command that language — itself a metaphor for control — in our ever-increasing public utterances, we need to be even more thoughtful before we lash out with the cudgels of thoughtlessness and fear. In the ethical interpretation of literature, one looks at the value systems represented in the text and makes judgments on whether or not characters act “in good faith.” Good faith is not dictated by one’s isolated and absolute perspectives on the way things ought to be. Good faith is not practiced by labeling — using language — acts or people as evil out of context. Good faith requires a knowledge of one’s surroundings in order to work. Good faith requires us to look critically and thoughtfully and compassionately at the circumstances before pronouncing sentence.

Perhaps we should indulge in some revisionary mythmaking. We should often ask ourselves, in the words of Salman Rushdie in The Satanic Verses, “What kind of idea am I?” Verses addresses the theme of language as violence: that the moral majority has the power of description, and those whom they describe have no choice but to succumb to that description — to become evil, amoral, a threat. If you hear often that you are wrong, you’re eventually going to believe it. While we might not do physical harm to the other, the psychological impact of the majority is an oppressive, often violent act that hurts not only the other, but also the oppressors themselves. Have you ever wondered how difficult it is to practice Judiasm in this country? Ever wondered how difficult it is to black? A woman? Gay? Do we need to make others’ lives even more difficult by wielding the weapons of violent rhetoric?

I understand that mythology is a powerful force, and overcoming myths that marginalize might be a Sisyphean effort for all of us. Yet, as Morrison states in her Nobel Prize speech, “it’s in our hands.” We control language, and therefore reality. We will all die, but it’s how we live through our stories that’s important:

We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.

What language does for us is in our hands. We need to make up stories that are inclusive, not exclusive and damning. We need to find out what stories to pass on.

Along these lines, see Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” for a much more eloquent expression of this idea. Oh, and Michael Moore’s recent letter is fun and germane.

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Eliot’s Tradition

T. S. Eliot’s aesthetic in “Tradition and the Individual Talent” borders on a sort of mysticism. Ostensibly concerned with the foundation and history of poetry, Eliot only addresses the contemporaneous effects of poetry — both on the poet and the poet’s milieu. The poet, to Eliot, rewords, or (re)creates, not new art, but new form in an individual expression. The poet lives and expresses “the present moment of the past” concentrating on poetry’s living substance (34).

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T.S. Eliot’s Formalism

T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent” concerns itself with the literary text and how it relates to the reader, the writer, and the “real” world. Tradition, Eliot states, represents a knowledge of a historical sense, i.e. a feeling of history leading back to Homer that appears in the original artist’s work. The artist combines her/his temporal experience with that of the timelessness of all literature. Indeed, states Eliot, no artist has significance alone; it is derived from his/her relation to those who have come before. When the new art is released into history, continues Eliot, it, having been influenced by historical art, also influence past works in relation to the new addition to the whole. Art never changes, but the material of art keeps it new. The material, or text, is Eliot’s main focus, but its relation to the other aspects of Aristotle’s semiotic, especially “reality,” are equally important.

Aristotle’s semiotic may be visualized as a triangle which represents the text. The triangle’s various points are labeled “writer,” “reader,” and “reality” (or subject matter). Each of these elements interact to create the text, but existing texts — one of Eliot’s points — also influence the various points of the semiotic. Indeed, art, reality, and subjectivity cannot be separated. Eliot uses a catalyst as an analogy for this process. A strip of platinum present when mixing oxygen and sulfur dioxide, a sulfurous acid is formed; the platinum remains unaffected. If the platinum represents the poet’s mind, then, Eliot states, the oxygen and sulfur dioxide are emotions and feelings that affect and are affected by the poet’s mind, producing a new work of art, or the text. Interestingly enough, the feelings, or words and phrases used to create the text, and emotions exist in all three elements of the semiotic. A creator of art cannot live in a vacuum; s/he must have the influences of feeling and emotion — especially those feelings and emotions of past texts — or his/her mind will remain unaffected.

As mentioned above, the history of literature forms a whole. The artist’s new creation will, in the artist lives within a society, necessarily be affected by this rich tradition. In fact, escaping the history of writers would be impossible, unless the artist was born and raised on Mars. The dead poets, states Eliot, are our culture — they are what we know. While the artist is undoubtedly influenced by his/her particular, temporal culture, represented by the outside of the semiotic — the history of literature, i.e. that many texts that constitute its wholeness, is both present within the artist’s text and the history of the culture in general. Everyone has heard the expression “All the world’s a stage,” but how many people know it is from Shakespeare’s As You Like It? Eliot’s point seems valid. While not all artists have had the affect on society that Shakespeare has had, even Shakespeare was influenced by previous artists, fitting him into the textual wholeness of our culture.

But in order for a text to conform, it must rebel. Eliot makes the distinction between a work just aping its predecessors and one that is original. The latter, while an act of rebellion, is necessary in order to be creative and new, thus adding to the history of art. By rebelling, new art conforms. Yet, Eliot cautions, the poet must not search for the new emotions — this activity will only lead to the “perverse” — but s/he must look for new feelings and mediums for expressing them.

The poet, however, is not the most important element in Eliot’s semiotic. He suggests that the fusion that takes place between the poet’s mind, emotion, and feeling makes art — not the poet’s personality, but her/his medium. The medium lets unique “impressions and experiences combine in particular and unexpected ways” to form the original text (“Tradition” 31). Eliot suggests, by way of example, Keats feelings and reactions to the nightingale have nothing to do with the bird itself, but the bird, possibly because of its estimation in society, was able to evoke those feelings on that particular occasion. Indeed, the text, for Eliot, represents the most important part of the semiotic, for it is a most interesting and original combination of the other elements that is simultaneously universal and very particular.

Finally, Eliot emphasizes the text, not the poet, as the focus of his study. He suggests that the escape from personal history and emotions will endow the artist with the ability to create a new text. In an escape from the particular, and a surrender to the unconscious wholeness of the semiotic, a new expression of feeling may be created — a new text added to the rich historical tradition of our culture’s artistic expression, changing both the present and the past.

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