The Institution of English Literature: Formation and Mediation [1 ed.] 9783737006293, 9783847106296

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Barbara Schaff / Johannes Schlegel / Carola Surkamp (eds.)

The Institution of English Literature Formation and Mediation

With 12 figures

V& R unipress

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de. ISBN 978-3-7370-0629-3 You can find alternative editions of this book and additional material on our website: www.v-r.de  2017, V& R unipress GmbH, Robert-Bosch-Breite 6, D-37079 Gçttingen, Germany / www.v-r.de All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. Cover image: John Crerar Library. Book stacks, in: “Annual report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution”. Washington 1846: Smithsonian Institution, p. 586 [flickr: annualreportofbo1903smit].

Contents

Johannes Schlegel By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions . . . . . . . . .

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Konrad Schröder “Hardly has a university had a more distinguished master of languages than Tompson was.” (Johann David Michaelis, 1768) – John Tompson’s Personality, his Biography, and his Significance for English Language Teaching and English Studies in Germany . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Barbara Schaff John Tompson’s English Miscellanies 1737–1766 in the Context of Eighteenth-Century British-German Cultural Relations . . . . . . . . . .

45

Susan Bassnett The Pleasures and Pains of Anthologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

57

Martina Witt-Jauch Miscellany or Masterpiece? – Defining the Discipline of Comparative Literature Through Its Anthologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

69

Christian Schmitt-Kilb Envisioning Cultural Imperialism and the Invention of English Literature in Elizabethan England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

89

Frauke Reitemeier Navigation Guides for the Vast Ocean of Literature: Writing and Teaching the History of (English) Literature in 1800 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

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Contents

Karolin Echarti Late 18th Century Women Translators as Actors in the Literary Field: Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind and Therese Forster-Huber . . . . . . . . 127 Elizabeth Bracker Negotiating Literary Texts – a Nexus between Different Realms of Competence? Examples of a Qualitative Case Study with Advanced EFL Learners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Christine Gardemann Literary Aesthetics and Classroom Realities: English Teachers’ Practices in Hamburg’s Secondary Schools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Laurenz Volkmann Functions of Literary Texts in the Tradition of German EFL Teaching Daniel Xerri Teachers’ Beliefs and Literature Teaching: The Case of Poetry

. . 179

. . . . . . 207

Janice Bland Radical Children’s Literature in English Education: Escaping Disney with Dialogic Fairy Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 Carola Surkamp On the History of the Canons of English Literature at German Schools . . 257 Thomas Kullmann Canon Formation in English Literature Studies: A Comparison of Britain and Germany . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273 Georgia Christinidis Genre, Canon-Formation, and Bildung: Transformations of a Critical Category . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 Anna Auguscik Sharing Strains: The Booker Prize and the Institution of Literary Prizes . 311 Notes on Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331

Johannes Schlegel

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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Introduction

Towards the end of the first decade of the new millennium, the literary scene of the Anglophone world witnessed one of the most remarkable incidents of posthumous success in a long time – Stoner. Upon its American debut in 1965, John Williams’s quixotic novel about an undistinguished Midwestern professor of English was largely ignored by the public and its initial print run of 2.000 copies barely made a lasting impression on the book trade. Given that from the outset the book both had prominent advocates and received enthusiastic reviews,1 all of which agreed on the book’s indisputable merits and qualities, the neglect by a readership at large is all the more striking. When it first came out in Britain in 1973, and thus a whole eight years after being published in the US, C.P. Snow, upon reviewing Stoner for The Financial Times, could not help but wonder : “Why isn’t this book famous?” (p. 20). The literary market, however, is a curious thing, and when the novel was republished by New York Review Books Classics – an imprint of the New York Review of Books – in 2006, it returned from the burial ground of forgotten books with a vengeance. Again, critics and public figures, including actor Tom Hanks and the renowned writers Julian Barnes and Bret Easton Ellis, readily endorsed the book. This time, however, it sold rather well, not least across Europe. According to an overview provided by Gabe Habash in Publishers Weekly, it proved to be a tremendous economic success in the Netherlands, Israel, France, Spain, Italy, and Germany (p. 6). But why is it that sometimes a novel – or play, or volume of poems respectively – initially hardly has any impact, just to take the reading public by storm half a century later? A trivial answer to this question would suggest that the respective text was ‘out of its time’ and that only now, that is in the presence of its success, its time has finally come. This view, however, is problematic for a 1 See, for instance, Howe.

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number of reasons. It seems to imply a teleology or linearity of sorts, leading more or less by necessity towards a more favourable outcome, from rags to riches, and towards a place in the literary histories. Of course it could always be argued that there are indeed numerous texts that never make it to the surface again, implying that those which do, indeed strike a cord with readers at a later time. Plausible as this sounds, however, this kind of argument is ultimately a circular one, because cause and effect, so to speak, are identical. What renders the initial question almost impossible to answer is that monocausal explanations necessarily fall short of the complex structures at work. While it could be argued, for instance, that the book’s fatalistic, i. e. un-American, tone was the main reason for its lack of success in the US, or success in continental Europe respectively, this view ultimately seems a fallacy : Firstly, it equates the number of books sold with the number of books actually read. What is more, readers sometimes leave their books unfinished, for whatever reasons.2 Secondly, the assumption of a shared ‘reading mentality’ seems to rest on a notion of a collective aesthetic experience that exists regardless of differences of race, class, and gender. Finally, it seems to invert cause and effect, as the aesthetic experience that occurs in the act of reading is put forward as the reason for choosing a given book in the first place. Last but not least, the suggested answer would fail to acknowledge the fact that benevolent reviews of Stoner did exist from the outset. The lack of a wide reception of Stoner, in other words, was not due to a lack, but happened despite of institutional structures supporting the novel: In addition to the favourable reviews, it has to be mentioned that Williams was no stranger to the literary industry. Prior to Stoner, he had already published two novels – Nothing but the Night (1948) and Butcher’s Crossing (1960) – and a collection of poetry entitled The Broken Landscape (1949). The question thus remains unanswered: Which mechanisms and institutions, then, trigger, enable, sustain, and regulate the processes on which either (literary) success or failure are contingent? What renders Stoner interesting in this regard is maybe not so much the fact of its revenant-like capacity and triumph, as well deserved as it surely is, but rather its peculiar (temporary) commercial ‘failure’ despite various institutional structures. Stoner’s failure, then, ultimately is the failure of institutional tactics that otherwise constitute and shape the literary field! According to Pierre Bourdieu, the literary field is characterized by “the an2 Assuming that if readers, who usually mark and comment their copies of a text, stop marking and commenting also stop reading the given text, then shared digital libraries provided by reading devices such as the Amazon kindle are instructive, as they can illustrate the actual reading ‘progress’.

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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tagonistic coexistence of two modes of production” (p. 145), that is by a struggle between the commercial or economic sphere on the one hand, and the sphere of symbolic value on the other. Despite their struggle and the asymmetrical hierarchy between these two spheres, they are, of course, interconnected, as is illustrated, for instance, by Stoner’s publication history and the several institutions inevitably involved, providing means of distribution and reception, and, last but not least, by bestowing symbolic capital on the novel. The latter guaranteed an increase in actual capital as well: In 2013, Stoner was named Waterstones Book of the Year.3 An interesting point that Bourdieu’s theory of the literary field raises, albeit in passing, is that said two spheres can be distinguished by the share a publishing house gives to risky long-term investments in forms of, say, experimental avantgarde literature, or to sure, short-term investments, respectively, that respond to pre-existing demands in pre-established forms (142). But while this explains the Stoner phenomenon to some extent, it still cannot explain all of its specifics. What it possibly does, however, is to raise awareness for the fact that the literary field as a whole, with all of its various institutions, can be observed as a black box, because the output of the literary field is, as the case of Stoner illustrates, hardly predictable.4

2

Black Boxes

As a thought experiment, the concept of the black box was invented by the Scottish 19th-century physicist James Clerk Maxwell, and introduced to (secondorder) cybernetics both by W. Ross Ashby and Ranulph Glanville.5 While in some fields the black box is quite literally a material object that is not even required to be black – think of the flight recorder –, the blackness in cybernetics is an allegory indicating that the mechanisms within a given box, which in itself exists only figuratively, are unobservable, regardless of whether there are actual mechanisms at work within the box or not. To illustrate this, Ashby gives the striking example of a door handle used by a child: The child who tries to open a door has to manipulate the handle (the input) so as to produce the desired movement at the latch (the output); and he has to learn how to control the one by the other without being able to see the internal mechanism that links 3 On the institution of literary prizes, see Anna Auguscik’s contribution to this volume. 4 Cultural problems of predictability in general are discussed by Koch/Köhler et al. 5 On this and for the following, cf. Glanville “Black Boxes”, “Inside Every White Box”. On second-order cybernetics, or the cybernetics of cybernetics, see Glanville, “The purpose of second-order cybernetics”, and von Foerster.

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them. In our daily lives we are confronted at every turn with systems whose internal mechanisms are not fully open to inspection, and which must be treated by the methods appropriate to the Black Box. (p. 86)

A black box, in other words, is what transforms an input into an output, while rendering the exact procedures of this process opaque. What is more, observing the literary field – or, to use a different terminology, the social system of literature – as a black box helps understanding that the above-mentioned explanations of literary success are more or less contingent constructions made by observers of literary history. Glanville emphasizes the unavoidable necessity of the observer’s participation when it comes to black boxes as follows: Because we take the pattern we create to account for our observations as general, we treat the mechanism in the Black Box as cause. […] But note, all this takes place in the observer (or as Ashby called him, the investigator), who is an active participant in forming and operating the Black Box. It is the observer who introduces the phantasm that is the Black Box, who creates the input and output, who modifies the input in the light of the output, who constructs the pattern that connects and hence the explanatory principle (and who tests it), in interaction with the Black Box. (“Black Boxes”, p. 156)

A striking case in point is, as the contributions by Carola Surkamp, Georgia Christinidis, and Thomas Kullmann to this volume illustrate, the construction of a literary canon and its subsequent ‘naturalization’, which always serves various agendas and necessarily, by means of exclusion, leads to a rarefaction of literary subjects. Here, the term naturalization is used to indicate processes of the constructions of literary canons that negate their constitutive circularity and arbitrariness, or render it opaque, that is, in Glanville’s words, treating the mechanism as the cause. In fact, processes of canon formation cannot be understood adequately without acknowledging that they always transcend evaluative judgements by fulfilling social functions and institutional protocols.

3

Institutions of Literature

It follows that if the social system of literature is indeed an arbitrary, complex, and contingent field, then a decisive function of literary institutions is precisely to reduce said contingencies and complexities, that is, to reduce the blackness of the box. Canon formation and numerous other institutional and institutionalized processes such as the musealization of literature, advertising campaigns, or the teaching of literature in higher education thus fulfil a double function: While on the one hand they serve to maintain and consolidate a given status quo, they always already consist of dynamic and transformative aspects. It

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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is especially in the latter function, however, that both the relevance and the influence of literary institutions manifest themselves: If they are conditions of possibilities, then they inevitably structure, organize, and shape their respective outcome. Samuel Weber, in his book Institution and Interpretation, accordingly distinguishes between the ‘instituted organizations’ (l’institu8) on the one hand, and the ‘instituting processes’ (l’instituant) on the other (p. xv). Institutions, in other words, generate the elements they manage and administer, and are thus akin to performative speech acts.6 Literature, therefore, is inevitably contingent on its institutions. Ultimately, this view entails a somewhat surprising inversion of the seemingly intuitive, commonsensical assumption that assigns an ontological status to literature independent of and paramount to instituting processes. According to this view, literature exists as such and logically precedes its institutions: Without literature, this position claims, there would be no literary institutions. The focus on the often neglected, yet decisive instituting moments, however, reveals that, on the contrary, literature does only exist because of the institutions which reflect and negotiate it, that is, which render a given medium or text literary. Not least, this can be seen in moments of conceived or experienced disciplinary crises, regardless of whether they are actual ones or not: If literature existed ontologically, then the theoretical debates about, say, the relation between literary studies and Kulturwissenschaften or literary studies and media studies would have certainly looked different. What is more, these debates often revolve around questions concerning not only the status of literature in evolving institutional contexts and frameworks,7 but first and foremost its limits and boundaries.8 The concept of literature, therefore, is just as multifaceted and at times even just as contradictory as are its respective institutions – and the plural is of vital importance here. Especially in German Studies, the notion seems to prevail that only academia can be literature’s defining institution. Both Oliver Jahraus and, prior to him, Niels Werber, for instance, speak of the “invention of literature” by literary studies.9 While both of them put a strong emphasis on a non-ontological notion of literature, they categorically seem to endorse a specific Humboldtian 6 For John Searle, for instance, speech acts have a fundamental role in the construction of social institutions: “With the exception of language itself, all of institutional reality […] is created by speech acts”. (p. 12f.) 7 To give but only two examples: For Kulturwissenschaften cf. Walter Erhart, for media studies see Christoph Reinfandt. The notion of a crisis of English studies is explicitly addressed – and debunked – by English. See also Albanese. 8 For instance Lauer/Winko et al. 9 “Die Erfindung der Literatur”. My translation.

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and Western idea of the university as literature’s sovereign institution. The university as we know it is, after all, a German invention of the 19th century. Ray Chow, however, has repeatedly pointed out the mechanisms of exclusion that underlie such assumptions (1998). This means that even though in Western culture the university is a very important institution of literature, it is by no means its only one: Even without literary studies, artefacts can and will always be observed as literary. This fact is illustrated not least by yet another institution of literature: Creative Writing. Introduced to the academic realm as early as in 1897, academic writing is now taught both within and outside of the university (Cf. Morrison; Myers), and it soon became the site of a continued debate about the professionalization of writing, opening up “an intellectual and theoretical division between the creative practice of writing and the scholarly or critical study of literature.” (Dawson, p. 2) We must keep this rift in mind in order to understand why it is not necessarily a contradiction in terms when established writers who function as instructors of creative writing discourage prospective students from enrolling in their programmes – as most prominently put forward by Hanif Kureishi, who, while teaching at Kingston University, claimed that creative writing courses are ‘a waste of time’. This debate, however, crystallizes a struggle over the authority of interpretation as to what literature is, or, in other words, the extent to which literary institutions are still haunted by spectres of the Romantic genius. Given the aforementioned instituting capacities, the pejorative claim that a specific piece of fiction reads like ‘an exercise from a creative writing course’ is, therefore, just as silly as it sometimes seems to be ubiquitous. In his influential study The Program Era, MarkMcGurl has shown how creative writing programmes have influenced the idea of post-war fiction. The notion, however, that literature does not precede, but depends on its institutions, has some serious implications: When the institutional structures change and thus put literature and the relevance of literary studies into question – as happening currently in the wake of recent neoliberal cultural politics – it is hard to find a bulwark against it.10

10 During a roundtable discussion at the MLA convention in 2013, Richard Grusin claimed that the recent turn towards Digital Humanities plays a crucial part in the crisis in the humanities as it more often than not adheres to a neoliberal insistence that the value of higher education must be understood strictly in economic terms. His text is available online at http:// www.c21uwm.com/2013/01/09/dark-side-of-the-digital-humanities-part-2/.

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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13

Instituting Politics

Stoner, to come back to my initial example, does not only address questions of the institutions of literature due to its remarkable publishing history, but also on the level of its content: As a campus novel of sorts, it inevitably reflects some key aspects of its very own institutional setting. Williams’s novel tells the story of its eponymous hero, William Stoner, who, being brought up as an only son to two hardworking, unschooled farmers in Missouri at the turn of the twentieth century, enters the university more or less by chance in order to study agriculture, but soon settles for English literature. After graduation, Stoner eventually stays at his alma mater for his PhD. Among his colleagues and peers, he befriends two men in particular : David Masters and Gordon Finch. The three men regularly spend their evenings together, discussing the state of affairs. On one of these evenings, Masters, whom Stoner believes to be one of the most brilliant men he has ever met, delineates the true nature of their institution: It is an asylum or – what do they call them now?– a rest home, for the infirm, the aged, the discontent, and the otherwise incompetent. Look at the three of us – we are the University. […] And so providence, or society, or fate, or whatever name you want to give it, has created this hovel for us, so that we can go in out of the storm. It’s for us that the University exists, for the dispossessed of the world; not for the students, not for the selfless pursuit of knowledge, not for any of the reasons that you hear. We give out the reasons, and we let a few of the ordinary ones in; […] but that’s just protective coloration.’ (p. 29f.)

Here, two meanings of the word institution coincide: Academia is a madhouse and, as a heterotopia, seems doubly removed from the world. It is the sad fate of William Stoner to fail both in the real world – his unhappy marriage shipwrecks due to his manipulative wife – and in the academic realm partly in consequence of a colleague’s animosities after a fallout over a student’s performance. The enduring dispute between Stoner and his colleague Hollis N. Lomax implicitly illustrates the severe political dimensions that are, sui generis, an inevitable part of all institutions, because they serve powerful interests not least the interests of power, as we have learned from Foucault, Habermas, Bourdieu, and others. Institutions are in themselves not only places of hegemonic discourse; rather, they always already generate hegemonic discourse and watch over it. When Michel Foucault delivered his now famous inaugural lecture at the CollHge de France in 1970, he voiced precisely this as the institutional reply when confronted by a hesitation to enter the ‘risky world of discourse’: But you have nothing to fear from launching out; we’re here to show you discourse is within the established order of things, that we’ve waited a long time for its arrival, that a

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place has been set aside for it – a place which both honours and disarms it; and if it should happen to have a certain power, then it is we, and we alone, who give it that power. (p. 216)

Consequently there is, in a way, no outside to instituted and instituting discourse, and all relevant utterances about literature are only relevant when they are uttered within the frames, boundaries, and contexts of institutions. This, in turn, might be the structural reason for the disciplinary overestimation that could be seen in Jahraus and Werber : The reason why especially the university proves to be such a dominant institution stems from the fact that all relevant descriptions of it are by necessity self-descriptions. Lennard J. Davis has repeatedly stressed this: While we talk about self-policing, the gaze, state and ideological apparatuses, and the panopticon, we continue to attend megacorporate gatherings like the annual Modern Language Association convention, belong to periodicized professional organizations, read their journals, and engage in activities of the profession. In short, we participate willingly in self-policing, the gaze, and the panopticon, but because the institutions are our own, we see them as part of the background of life in academia. (p. 154)

5

Institution and Mediation

There is, however, a way in which institutions, including the university, are connected to the outside world: By definition, institutions are places of mediation. While the term institution is somewhat unclear both in everyday language and scholarly texts, the notion of mediation seems to be at least implied in most key sociological definitions.11 Here, the term is used to describe complex social structures that reproduce and maintain themselves – structures, in other words, that are both instituted and instituting. According to Jonathan Turner, an institution is “a complex of positions, roles, norms and values lodged in particular types of social structures and organising relatively stable patterns of human activity with respect to fundamental problems in producing life-sustaining resources, in reproducing individuals, and in sustaining viable societal structures within a given environment.” (p. 6) Institutions thus play a fundamental role in the (self-)organisation of social and cultural systems, while, at the same time, they provide structures for human behaviour and communication and thus mediate, as a third, either between two individual subject positions or between an individual and a social structure of a higher order.12 11 For a concise overview, see the lemma “Institution” in Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie. 12 From a systems theoretical perspective, this was laid out by Talcott Parsons (1960).

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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The motif of mediation is addressed constantly in Stoner as well. The novel’s hero is, after all, a dedicated teacher of literature. However, the institution plays a crucial role as well, as it seems to provide a space in which a specific aesthetic experience is enabled, which is constitutive for literature. During his sophomore year, Stoner has to take an obligatory class in English literature, where he becomes the target of his disillusioned teacher Archer Sloane’s scorn. It is in one of Sloane’s classes that Stoner is confronted with Shakespeare’s sonnet 73 and the question what the poem actually means. This proves to be a hard nut to crack: “Sloane’s eyes came back to William Stoner, and he said dryly, ‘Mr Shakespeare speaks to you across three hundred years, Mr Stoner; do you hear him?’” (p. 11). While this passage seems to invoke a rather modern, new historicist gesture that Stephen Greenblatt famously introduced in his Shakespearean Negotiation,13 Williams’s – and hence Stoner’s – answer to this could hardly be more different: Sloane was speaking again. ‘What does he say to you, Mr Stoner? What does his sonnet mean?’ Stoner’s eyes lifted slowly and reluctantly. ‘It means,’ he said, and with a small movement raised his hands up toward the air ; he felt his eyes glaze over as they sought the figure of Archer Sloane. ‘It means,’ he said again, and could not finish what he had begun to say. Sloane looked at him curiously. Then he nodded abruptly and said, ‘Class is dismissed’

A poem’s true meaning thus does not lie in the intricate webs of significance – its contexts – that it is embedded in, nor in the circulation of cultural energy as Greenblatt would have it, but rather in its sheer, unspeakable and thus immediate aesthetic presence. The class, and, by extension, the institution thus provides the environment which renders possible the aesthetic experience and, in a way, Stoner’s transition from nature to culture. What Stoner seems to suggest, then, is that there is no literature outside of institutions – of which the university is only one – , their formations, and mediations. ***

On this Volume The papers collected in this volume were first presented at an international conference which was organized jointly both by the Department of British Literature and Culture and the Department of English Language Teaching at Göttingen University. The conference celebrated the 250th anniversary of the election of John Tompson as the first Professor of English at Göttingen in 2012. His 13 “I began with the desire to speak with the dead” (p. 1).

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English Miscellanies, first published in 1737, was one of the first English publications ever in Germany, and was also the first anthology composed in an academic context for the purpose of the mediation of English literature and culture to German students of English. The Miscellanies was therefore an important watershed in the development of British-German literary and cultural transfer. Konrad Schröder, in his article on “John Tompson’s Personality, his Biography, and his Significance for English Language Teaching and English Studies in Germany”, discusses Tompons’s relevance as a pioneer and driving force in the formation of English Studies in Germany. Schröder contextualizes Tompon’s work to the close relationship between England as a country and as a spiritual universe on the one hand, and the city of Goettingen on the other, as well as to the field of pre-1750 English language teaching in Germany. According to Schröder, the English Miscellanies were intended for language learners, so they could develop both receptive and productive communicative skills plus a more general text competence and an action-oriented cultural proficiency. Their target was not only to enable the student to read and translate, which was a major goal within 18th century English language teaching in Germany, but also to prepare him to participate in the more immediate political, cultural, and scientific exchange with England, this country being, from a Göttingen point of view, the political, and also, to a certain extent, the spiritual fatherland. Barbara Schaff discusses “John Tompson’s English Miscellanies 1737–1766 in the Context of Eighteenth-Century British-German Cultural Relations”. In her article, she pays close attention to the fact the Miscellanies were published as an anthology. If miscellanies represent a rather unspecific literary genre, anthologies by contrast are works that were designed by publishers with certain thematic or aesthetic purposes as well as a claim for quality. Given the changes and additions to the third and fourth editions, the Miscellanies appear to be a finely tuned selection of texts that can be described as representing mainstream or polite culture, new aesthetic forms as well as established and classical ones. Most importantly, they were informed by a distinctly British tone that would have helped to form distinctive concepts of eighteenth-century British culture and identity in their readers’ minds. Tompson’s text therefore represents a unique combination of language instruction with the mediation of what we have come to call intercultural competence. Anthologies are also the central concern of two further essays. “The Pleasure and Pain of Anthologies” is analysed by Susan Bassnett. The fact that so many anthologies are personal selections, reflecting the tastes and prejudices of a single individual may be one of the main reasons why anthologies have tended on the whole not to find favour in British universities. In addition, since literary histories are continually being revised, with radical questioning every few years about what

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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constitutes a canon, so the inclusion and exclusion of poets reflects those changes. Anthologies are therefore not only personal, they are also the product of a particular time and so date quickly. Both these factors inhibit their usefulness as a pedagogical tool. In “Miscellany or Masterpiece? – Defining the Discipline of Comparative Literature Through Its Anthologies”, Martina Witt-Jauch sketches the disciplinal development of Comparative Literature in relation to its Anthologies. Her starting point is the observation that they precede the institutional foundation of comparative or world literature by more than a century. Just as the anthologies and their creators are oftentimes accused of default complicity with the political or literary hegemony of the current system, comparative literature as a field has been said to go even farther and invade the territory of national literatures and subvert portions of it in an almost terrorist manner. While this seems to be a somewhat excessive metaphor for the institution of an abstracted construct of world literature as championed by David Damrosch, there is an inherent problematic in the self-image of the field that, to some extent, relies on systematically reiterated states of emergency or cultural politics of difference. It is the aim of this paper to come to an understanding of how current anthologies of world literature can shed light on the understanding and scope of a field in crisis. It thus explores in what ways the works of this genre can contribute valid insights into the discipline’s concepts of hypercanon, countercanon and shadow canon as well as common denominators of comparatist study. The following group of three articles is concerned with the formation and mediation of English literature and culture. Christian Schmitt-Kilb’s contribution is entitled “Envisioning Cultural Imperialism and the Invention of English Literature in Elizabethan England”. It argues that the early modern invention of English Literature goes hand in hand with the invention of a tradition, a vernacular canon, which is suitable to support, ennoble and provide meaning for the new institution. This development is identifiable in texts ranging from Tottel’s Miscellany (1557) and Edmund Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender (1579) to Samuel Daniel’s Defence of Ryme (1603). Moreover, English Literature in the making is inscribed right from the start in the discourse of national identity, national rivalry and cultural nationalism. In Elizabethan England, the claims to a high cultural status of literature in the vernacular are contested even within the national boundaries. In this context, it is surprising to see that the rise of the idea of English Literature is interspersed right from the start with ideological set pieces of what today is called cultural and linguistic imperialism – navel-gazing involving anxious comparison with the continental neighbours. This is particularly visible in a passage in Samuel Daniel’s dialogic poem “Musophilus” where one of the speakers casts a utopian glance and suggestively asks: “to what strange shores / This gain of our best glory [i. e. English

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Literature] shall be sent, / T’ inrich unknowing Nations with our stores?” The chapter traces the nexus between expansionist ambitions which so often accompany national(ist) ideas and the evocation of a literature of the nation in Elizabethan England. Once established and institutionalized, the field of (English) literature needs to be mediated, that is: to be consolidated and expanded. Frauke Reitemeier addresses this in her article “Navigation Guides for the Vast Ocean of Literature: Writing and Teaching the History of (English) Literature in 1800”. By 1810, a learner of English could choose between three different books on the history of English literature. According to what, how much and how he wanted to learn from the books, the choice would be different; the books available had very different layouts and intentions. By drawing on the theory of Hayden White, Reitemeier argues that Eichhorn’s (Litterärgeschichte, Geschichte der Litteratur von ihrem Anfang bis auf die neuesten Zeiten) and Bouterwek’s (Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit seit dem Ende des dreizehnten Jahrhunderts) histories of English literature effectively occupy different ends of White’s stratum of historiographical works. This is interesting as both were products of the University of Göttingen, their authors influenced by the same academic teachers, with the help of the same university library – and published within merely ten years of each other. Karolin Echarti investigates “Late 18th Century Women Translators as Actors in the Literary Field: Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind and Therese ForsterHuber”. As only a small number of people in Germany had a good command of English in the 18th century – even among the learned –, translations were generally the only way to make scientific (or in fact any written) work known in Germany. In published translations – if a translator is mentioned at all – the translator would be male. The work, however, was often done by women, who were commissioned with the translation by those who in the end put their name on the front cover. A group of women translators in Göttingen have become known as “Universitätsmamsellen” (University mademoiselles). As daughters of university professors they were well educated – either by their own fathers or friends of the family – which later enabled them to translate literary as well as scientific works into German. They were in contact with many scholars, assisted their husbands – among them scientists like Georg Forster and Johann Nikolaus Forkel – with their translations, essays and reviews or were commissioned with translations themselves. The following group of five essays negotiates key functions of literary institutions: mediation and/in the classroom. Elizabeth Braker’s contribution is entitled “Negotiating Literary Texts – a Nexus between Different Realms of Competence? Examples of a Qualitative Case Study with Advanced EFL Learners”. The aim of her qualitative case study, theoretically based on a reader-

By Way of Introduction. Stoner, Black Boxes, Institutions

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response understanding of reading as a creative act, is to empirically reconstruct this potential of aesthetic texts in the classroom – something that was lost in the wake of international large-scale assessments. Braker’s case study closely analyses small group discussions between advanced English learners (German Sekundarstufe II) that focus on a literary short story. The results show a close correlation between content-based and language-based negotiation of meaning. In addition, the analyses show that especially those groups with comparably low language skills manage to generate complex literary (and intercultural) discussions by negotiating their linguistic insecurity. This ultimately suggests that dealing with literary texts and foreign language learning are not only closely related, but also form a highly productive interplay : a result which grants literary texts an irreplaceable role in the foreign language classroom. Christine Gardemann engages with “Literary Aesthetics and Classroom Realities: English Teachers’ Practices in Hamburg’s Secondary Schools”. Also using a qualitative approach, Gardemann poses questions that are of key concern to the English as foreign language classroom in secondary schools: Do rather sophisticated, recent theoretical concepts really make their way into the actual foreign language classroom? Or do teachers, as many suspect, still teach ‘the way they were taught’? How do teachers balance teaching literature and using literature to teach English? While literary texts are hardly given any space in the Common European Framework of Reference and the Educational Standards for the First Foreign Language, it becomes obvious that the English curricula in Hamburg are rather clear about their obligatory inclusion in English lessons from years 5 to 10. However, using literary texts is just one part of English lessons. Gardemann’s empirical study sheds some light on the complex realities and challenges in the English language classroom. Laurenz Volkmann, in his contribution entitled “Functions of Literary Texts in the Tradition of German EFL Teaching”, argues decidedly against any position which reduces English to the function of a mere linguistic tool in the age of globalization and lingua franca English. Rather, cultural and intercultural competences must be part and parcel of foreign language learning. Foreign languages cannot be learned without duly considering the foreign culture element. Literature, Volkmann argues, is crucial in this respect. Learning is, after all, not just about acquiring knowledge and skills but also about the emotional responses that are part of the learning process – the change in attitudes regarding other cultures, for instance. The emphasis on education again calls for a new kind of integration, in this case interdisciplinary explorations of what foreign literature does in the classroom. Daniel Xerri’s “Teachers’ Beliefs and Literature Teaching: The Case of Poetry” reports the results of a study investigating how educators perceive themselves as teachers of poetry and explores their attitude towards the value of

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poetry teaching in the present educational milieu. It discusses the methods teachers consider to be most effective in helping students to engage with poetry in light of the contentious idea that is probably not popular with students. In an attempt to better understand the beliefs held by teachers and the methods they employ when teaching literature as distinct from teaching language, this paper also examines the role that literature played in the initial training of the teachers that took part in the study and its contribution to their continuous professional development. By means of an interdisciplinary approach this paper attempts to problematise the status of literature teaching in the contemporary epoch. Janice Bland’s article “Radical Children’s Literature in English Education: Escaping Disney with Dialogic Fairy Tales” concludes this section. This chapter discusses the potential of dialogic fairy tales for the lower secondary EFL classroom, as an alternative to the Disneyfication of the fairy-tale experience; moreover as representing the potential of postmodern children’s texts for understanding literature creatively and responding to social reality. Bland claims that it is precisely multimodal tales that encourage reader and learner empowerment, as they demand active participation in order to unravel the enigmatic, pluri-significational texts. The following three chapters all investigate aspects of canon formation. Carola Surkamp’s article “On the History of the Canons of English Literature at German Schools” opens this section. Not only German universities, but also German secondary schools have used literary texts in teaching and learning English as a foreign language since the institutionalisation of modern language classes in the 19th century. By selecting set texts, foreign language teaching at school has always contributed to the formation of literary canons. However, forming a canon of literature at school is subject to different objectives and influences than that of literary studies at universities. The latter mainly aims at criteria such as representativeness, originality and tradition. In contrast, literary texts at school are primarily chosen in close connection with the general aims of foreign language teaching. These constantly develop depending on historical, political and institutional conditions as well as on influences from related disciplines (including psychology and pedagogy, linguistics, literary and cultural studies). The historical overview of discussions on a canon of English literary texts for German schools illustrates amongst other things the close interrelation of the two institutions, school and university. Through an examination of scholarly journals and university syllabuses, Thomas Kullmann’s “Canon Formation in English Literature Studies: A Comparison of Britain and Germany” aims at exploring the mechanisms that are key to canon formation and the institutionalization of English studies: What were the guiding principles which informed the selection of authors and texts? What did scholars wish to find out when they studied and researched these texts?

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What kind of knowledge did they wish to convey to students when they set these texts as required reading? As far as Germany is concerned this chapter suggests that while there was canon formation as well, the canon and the principles which led to its formation were significantly different. The main reasons could be the example of German Literature studies as well as preconceptions about Britain and the British which German scholars expected to come across in English texts. Various German movements of patriotism and nationalism, before, during and after World War I forced German scholars of English to mediate between their (politically-correct) love for their home country and their appreciation of English Literature. The article asks the question in what way this problem informed canon formation and the character of English Literature studies. Georgia Christinidis’s “Genre, Canon-Formation, and Bildung: Transformations of a Critical Category” claims that the struggle over the definition of the Bildungsroman is indicative of the central role conflict plays in defining and redefining the literary field. A lack of consensus concerning the meaning of Bildung and its importance in defining the genre is a central source of conflict. However, a democratised idea of Bildung, not as a luxury for the wealthy, but as a basic human necessity, challenges the logic of the market; this seems to be particularly necessary at a time when higher education policies are dominated by the rhetoric of employability and when, in those parts of the world that a few decades ago had committed themselves to welfare and the expansion of free education for all, the idea of Bildung seems to be further away from being realised than at any other time since 1945. Anna Auguscik concludes this volume with her article “Sharing Strains: The Booker Prize and the Institution of Literary Prizes”. She examines the various interests and investments in literary prizes and describes them as veritable literary institutions in their own right: Prizes canonize and promote authors, create literary celebrities; they boost sales and structure the market in shaping genres.

Works Cited Albanese, Denise (2011), “The Literary. Cultural Capital and the Specter of Elitism”, in: Paul Smith (ed.), The Renewal of Cultural Studies. Philadelphia, Temple UP: pp. 53–62. Ashby, W. Ross (1957), An Introduction to Cybernetics, London: Chapman. Bourdieu, Pierre (1995), The Rules of Art. Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field. Stanford: Stanford UP. Chow, Rey (1998), Ethics after Idealism: Theory, Culture, Ethnicity, Reading. Bloomington, Indiana UP. Dawson, Paul (2005), Creative Writing and the New Humanities. London: Routledge.

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Davis, Lennard J. (2001), “Dancing in the Dark. A Manifesto against Professional Organizations”, in: J. J. Williams (ed.), The Institution of Literature. Albany : State University of New York Press: pp. 153–172. English, James F. (2012), The Global Future of English Studies. Malden: Wiley. Erhart, Walter (ed.) (2004), Grenzen der Germanistik. Rephilologisierung oder Erweiterung? Stuttgart: Metzler. Foucault, Michel (1972), “The Discourse on Language”, in: The Archaeology of Knowledge. New York: Pantheon, pp. 215–238. Gabe Habash (2013), “A ‘Perfect’ American Novel Strikes Gold Overseas”, in: Publishers Weekly 260.17, p. 6. Glanville, Ranulph (2009), “Black Boxes”, in: Cybernetics and Human Knowing 16.1–2, pp. 153–167. – (1982), “Inside Every White Box there are Two Black Boxes Trying to Get Out”, in: Behavioral Science 27.1, pp. 1–11. – (2004), “The purpose of second-order cybernetics”, in: Kybernetes 33.9–10, pp. 1379–1386. Greenblatt, Stephen (1988), Shakespearean Negotiations. The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England. Berkeley : University of California Press. Howe, Irving (1966), “The Virtues of Failing”, in: The New Republic February 12, p. 19. Jahraus, Oliver (2013), “Die Erfindung der Literatur durch die Literaturwissenschaft und die Rache der Literatur”, in: Susanne Knaller & Doris Pichler (eds.), Literaturwissenschaft heute: Gegenstand, Positionen, Relevanz. Göttingen: V& R unipress, pp. 27–39. Koch, Mathias et al. (eds.) (2015), Planlos. Zu den Grenzen der Planbarkeit. München: Fink. Lauer, Gerhard et al. (eds.) (2009), Grenzen der Literatur. Zu Begriff und Phänomen des Literarischen. Berlin: de Gruyter. McGurl, Mark (2009), The Program Era. Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing. Cambridge: Harvard UP. Morrison, Blake (2013), “The Rise of Creative Writing Programmes”, in: Changing English. Studies in Culture and Education 20.1, pp. 23–28. Myers, David Gershom (1996), The Elephants Teach: Creative Writing since 1880. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Parsons, Talcott (1960), Structure and Process in Modern Societies. Glencoe: The Free Press. Reinfandt, Christoph (2009), “Literatur als Medium”, in: Grenzen der Literatur. Zu Begriff und Phänomen des Literarischen, ed. Gerhard Lauer et al. Berlin: de Gruyter, pp. 161–187. Searle, John (2010), Making the Social World: The Structure of Human Civilization, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Snow, Charles Percy (1973), “Good man and foes”, in: The Financial Times May 24. Turner, Jonathan (1997), The Institutional Order. New York: Longman. von Foerster, Heinz (2003), Understanding Understanding. Essays on Cybernetics and Cognition. New York: Springer. Weber, Samuel (2010), Institution and Interpretation. Standford: Stanford UP.

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Werber, Niels (1997), “Es gibt keine Literatur – ohne Literaturwissenschaft”, in: Anne Bentfeld & Walter Delabar (eds.), Perspektiven der Germanistik. Neueste Ansichten zu einem alten Problem. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, pp. 176–194. Williams, John (2006), Stoner. New York: New York Review Books.

Konrad Schröder

“Hardly has a university had a more distinguished master of languages than Tompson was.” (Johann David Michaelis, 1768) – John Tompson’s Personality, his Biography, and his Significance for English Language Teaching and English Studies in Germany 1

Few historical sources and a tentative approach

The present article commemorates a master of languages who taught English at the University of Goettingen for a third of a century, from 1735 until his death in 1768: John Tompson.1 What is it that makes Tompson so interesting, so important, so unique even? He was neither a full member of the Goettingen professorial staff, nor was he obviously a major figure in the urban meritocracy. We know rather little about his status as a Goettingen citizen (which he would have been since he had a positive reputation, a fixed salary, and a house) and his social contacts outside the University remain obscure. Tompson did not have a family ; he lived with two ladies, the Misses Connor, obviously his relatives. There was no glamour, and there were no scandals. Thomson lived and worked quietly without apparently striving for academic immortality. He did not publish much, and testimonies about his public life are scarce. There seems to be no portrait, and the biographical archives of the British Library do not even give his name. What has come down to us, however, is a vision of his character, the fabric of his personality, as revealed in letters and biographical notes by some of his students and major contemporaries – amongst them Johann David Michaelis and also Abbot Jerusalem. His charisma as a teacher of English (language, cul1 The paper is based on sources from the Niedersächsisches Staatsarchiv Wolfenbüttel and the Universitätsarchiv Goettingen, on the Indices Lectionum 1736–1780 of the University of Goettingen, and on printed material such as Brandes, Ebel, Puetter and von Selle. Most of the research was undertaken by the author and his former teacher and Augsburg colleague Thomas Finkenstaedt in the context of a conference held at Herzog Augsburg Bibliothek Wolfenbuettel in 1988 (Schröder, ed. 1992). Evidence from outside Goettingen, e. g. concerning Johann Jacob Dusch or Johann Matthias Kramer, was taken from the author’s BioBibliographical Dictionary of Foreign Language Teachers in the German-Speaking Countries (1987–1999, published in German), this work including findings from local archives as well as from 18th and 19th century printed sources. A visit to the British Library, London, in June 2013 did not yield any further material.

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ture, and literature) can be witnessed both through respective statements made by his students, and by taking into account that later in their lives, a fair number of these, such as Christian Ernst von Windheim (Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 4, 293), Professor of Oriental Languages in Erlangen, and Johann Jacob Dusch (ibid., vol. 2, 46seqq.; vol. 5, 273seq.), Professor of Belles Lettres at the Christianeum in Altona after 1760, were very successful as teachers of English. John Tompson was an initiator, obviously the prototype of the intrinsic motivator ; in more than one respect he paved the way for ELT in Germany, and what has been called Pre-Anglistics. At the same time, since his role was to act as a cultural herald, he was supposed to remain apart from the rest of contemporary German society, to stay aloof, as the incarnation of the perfect gentleman, a cherished yet somewhat novel and alien ideal to the German mind of the day, even in a “Londres en miniature”, as Goettingen was depicted somewhat later by Caroline Michaelis (v. Selle 1937, 186). The following overview lists the little we know of John Tompson’s biography.2 These facts will then be contextualized by a summary of the historical reasons for the close relationship between England as a country and as a spiritual universe on the one hand, and the city of Goettingen on the other. Additionally a synopsis of pre-1750 English language teaching in Germany will be provided, and Tompson’s professional endeavours, as they can be reconstructed from his very successful anthology English Miscellanies and from miscellaneous comments on his teaching, will be placed into perspective. The final part of the article will try to evaluate in more detail Tompson’s personality, his role in history, and his didactic and academic significance.

2

The bare facts

1693, April 25 Tompson is born in London. No further details are known. There is no information on his family, upbringing or education. As a young man, Tompson travelled extensively in Europe and Asia. 1731 seqq. Tompson teaches English and Italian at the University of Helmstedt. 1733, May Tompson writes a letter to Duke Ludwig Rudolph of BrunswickLuneburg asking for a post as Public Lecturer (lectura publica of modern languages) at the University of Helmstedt, and a fixed salary. His application is supported by the Vice Rector of the University.

2 The list is based on Finkenstaedt 1992, 58seqq.

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1733, June 01 A memorandum is placed on record saying that Tompson’s application and the Vice Rector’s appraisal are scheduled to be submitted to the Privy Council of the Electorate at Hanover. Whether the application is finally successful is not known. 1735, January The newly founded University of Goettingen asks Tompson to act as Lector Publicus Linguae Anglicae (public lecturer in English). 1735, April King George II as Elector of Hanover appoints Tompson as Master of Languages at Goettingen University. Whether Tompson obtains a fixed salary during his early years in Goettingen, remains uncertain. 1737 Tompson publishes an anthology English Miscellanies. 1738, June 10 The University receives orders to pay an annual amount of 25 rth to Tompson. The Payment is extraordinarie, ex gratia. 1743 The Collegium Carolinum in Brunswick (an academy for noblemen, the distant precursor of Brunswick Technical University) plans to install Tompson as a permanent director of studies. Tompson, however, remains in Goettingen. 1745 seqq. The Staatskalender (Annual Account of Civil Servants and other Employees) of the Electorate of Hanover lists Tompson as Lector Linguae Anglicae et Italicae at Goettingen University. From 1752 onward he is listed as Professor Extraordinarius, and inserted in between Antoine Rougemont, the Linguae Gallicae Professor Publicus, and the second offical teacher of French, Isaac de Colom du Clos. The order follows the principle of aciennet8 (length of tenure). 1746 The second edition of the English Miscellanies appears and receives a positive review in 1747 in the journal Göttinger Gelehrte Anzeigen. 1747, Dec 21 Tompson is granted an annual pay rise of another 50 rth. 1748 Following a royal visit by George II Tompson publishes [A] Short Account of His Majesty’s Late Journey to Goettingen. 1748, Nov 09 Tompson is awarded a gift of 25 rth “because of a certain written piece”, obviously the Short Account. 1748 The English travellers John Douglas and Thomas Nugent visit Tompson in Goettingen. 1749/50 Johann Arnold Ebert, director of studies at the Brunswick Collegium Carolinum since 1748, uses Tompson’s Miscellanies in his lower level English language classes.

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1751, July 12 The Vice Rector of Goettingen writes a memorandum on the question of precedence within the University (Präzedenz) regarding Colom, Rougemont and Tompson. 1751, Aug 25 Tompson is promoted to the rank of Professor Extraordinarius by George II. Seven days later the University states that Tompson should enjoy the same Präzedenz as hitherto. 1752, Jan 05 Professor Gessner is asked by the University authorities in a letter, whether the rising demand for English should not be accounted for by employing a second master of languages. Gesner immediately reacts in favour of Tompson, the result being a second letter dated January 14th, saying that the idea of a parallel post was dismissed, in order not to arouse Tompson’s anger. 1754 The Danish student J.G. Bärens writes a positive account of Tompson. 1755 The third edition of the Miscellanies appears. 1762, Aug 18 Privy Councillor Michaelis receives a letter saying that Tompson will be promoted to the rank of a Professor Ordinarius Philosophiae. 1762, Aug 25 King George III orders the University to appoint Tompson to his new rank of Ordinary Professor. 1762, Sept 12 In order to avoid academic friction, the University decides that Tompson should remain in his former position in the lecture catalogue. 1766 The fourth edition of the Miscellanies appears. 1767–1774 Georg Christoph Lichtenberg lives in Tompson’s house in Weender Street, Goettingen. 1767, Jan 02 The University of Goettingen is ordered to pay the sum of 50 rth to Tompson as a supplementary remuneration. 1767 Tompson’s Miscellanies are used in Brunswick (as before) and at the Protestant convent school at Ilfeld (Thuringia). 1768, Oct 26 Tompson dies in Goettingen. The same day, Lichtenberg writes a letter to his friend Karl August Duke of Hardenberg, the subsequent Prussian Chancellor and reformer, informing him of Tompson’s death. 1768, Oct 27 The Hanover Government is informed by the Goettingen Vice Rector. 1773 Johann David Michaelis in his famous Räsonnement über die protestantischen Universitäten in Deutschland (A Reasoning Concerning the Protestant Universities in Germany) makes a positive comment about Tompson.

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1773

Johann Jacob Dusch, Professor at the Christianeum in Altona, uses Tompson’s Miscellanies in his English lessons.

1779

Dusch publishes an anthology The Student’s Miscellany (Flensburg). In the introduction to his book he discusses Tompson’s anthology.

1780

The Helmstedt Lector Linguae Anglicae Georg Ludwig Hertell explains selected texts from Tompson’s Miscellanies to his students.

3

Foreign Language Politics and Policies in Early Modern Times and the role of Goettingen University

In order to understand Tompson’s position within the university and his approach to teaching English, it is worthwile considering the impact of national languages in Early Modern Times, and of English in particular, and the role of Goettingen as a “British” university within the Electorate of Hanover. The newly born nation states of the 16th and 17th centuries, and amongst them England, were determined to see the languages of their capital cities (in our case London – Thompson’s birthplace) promoted to the status of national languages (Schröder 1995, 22seqq., Schröder 2000a–c). National languages thus became symbols of sovereignty, cultivated so as to place them on a par with Latin and enable them to take become the languages of science, literarature, and the arts. The promotion of national languages abroad was part of the strategy ; national languages were used as a vehicle of foreign and cultural policy, and sometimes also as a tool in the context of power politics, especially in the case of France. The 16th century thus marks the birth of language politics. Europe’s most successful nation in this regard, France, managed to establish French as the international language of the 18th century, thus broadly supplanting Latin as the Euro-language. This is why Goettingen, though a “British” university within the German system, had from its start a Professor Extraordinarius of French, Rougemont (Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 4, 58seq.; vol. 6, 193), and after 1747 a second official teacher of this language, Colom du Clos (ibid., vol. 1, 151seqq.; vol. 5, 173), as Linguae Gallicae Lector Publicus. Tompson as a teacher of English was alone, and was only made Extraordinarius after 16 years of Goettingen service. One way of boosting the national language and culture abroad was by enhancing their study at schools and universities in dynastically associated territories. In the course of the 18th century, the Danish University of Kiel had for a while a Professor of Danish law and literature, and the Swedish University of

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Greifswald had a professor of Swedish language and literature.3 Likewise, Helmstedt and Goettingen, as universities at least indirectly linked with Britain, had public lecturers of English, which means that some of the teaching of English was free of charge. Viewed from this angle it becomes evident that the public lecturer of English at the more glamorous of the two universities, Tompson, a gentleman from the British Capital, was predestined to be appointed as Professor at some stage. Caroline Michaelis described Goettingen as a Londres en miniature: How British was Goettingen when Tompson started out on his job in 1735? And how British was it when he died in 1768? How did the multiple links between Goettingen and London, between Goettingen and the Royal Court come into being, and what was Tompson’s role in developing the existing links? And more generally speaking: How politically and culturally close were Britain and the Electorate of Hanover between 1735 and 1770? Georg August, Elector of Hanover, had ascended the thrones of England and Scotland in 1714 as George I, after the death of Queen Anne, the last Protestant mainline Stuart.4 Georg August was the son of Princess Sophia, a daughter of Frederick Vof the Palatinate, the so-called Winter King, whose wife was English, a daughter of James I of England, the Stuart king who had come to the throne after the death of Queen Elizabeth in 1603. Through Sophia, the Electors of Hanover had become a Protestant collateral line of the House of Stuart. In 1714, the British Parliament had had to choose between two evils: either accept this somewhat alien German duke as King of England and Scotland, or alter the law assuring a Protestant succession to the throne (the Act of Settlement of 1701) and go for the so-called “Old Pretender” James Francis Edward, the Roman-Catholic mainline Stuart who lived at Versailles, sponsored by Louis XIV. Parliament chose the lesser evil. As George I in his merciless realism would put it in one of his favourite phrases, “You take what you can get”. George did not take much interest in British affairs, which was a perfect way of helping British parliamentary democracy develop. It had taken him more than a month to respond to the Parliament’s offer, and he had come to Britain basically for the money that could be made from being a king: Here as well, his guideline would have been “you take what you can get”. And as he went ashore at Greenwich, without excitement, he was well aware of the fact that the British were not going to love him, nor his German household. In fact, George spent more than half of the remaining 13 years of his life in his native electorate, and when he 3 The Professor of Danish Law and Poetry at the University of Kiel was Holger de Fine Olivarius (1758–1838), who also taught English for a while (cf. Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 3, 265seq.). The Greifswald professor was Thomas Thorild (Thor8n) (1759–1808, cf. ibid., vol. 4, 208seq.; vol 6, 273seq.). 4 The following account is based on Schröder 2006.

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finally died of apoplexy in 1727, aged 67, at Osnabrück, he was buried in his native Hanover, and not in Westminster Abbey. Whereas 18th century Europe gradually started to take an interest in the English language, George I had no such inclination. Why learn a language that you don’t really need? Until 1717, his son, the Prince of Wales, would accompany him to Parliament, in order to let his father know what was going on. In fact, George II, born and educated in Germany, and married to Caroline of Ansbach, spoke good English, but when he fell out with his father in 1717, a new solution for the King’s presence in Parliament had to be found. Now one of the ministers, later called Chief Minister, had to report to the King, using an interpreter where necessary. In fact, the reluctance of King George I to study English helped to bring about the office of Prime Minister. And yet, George I was a remarkable man. Whereas he ruled his native electorate very much along the lines of an absolute sovereign, he followed a much more liberal approach when in Britain and acting as King of England and Scotland. Politically he relied on the gentry and the urban meritocracy rather then on the nobility. He tended to be frank about his likes and dislikes, one of his key phrases being “I hate all poets and painters”, but he would not prosecute those who overtly criticized him. He thus became a central figure in the process of turning Britain into the kind of progress-oriented, liberal and constitutional polity that later generations all over Europe were willing to admire, not the least in Goettingen. Politically speaking, George II, the founder of Goettingen University, very much followed his father’s example. Being well educated and bi-cultural he was, in a way, a perfect mediator between England and Germany, and could be perceived as a figure-head of mutual understanding. As we have seen, he came to Goettingen during a visit to his electorate in 1748, which Tompson has described in detail. In spite of the encouraging political context, however, the rapprochement between Goettingen and London, and in a larger sense between the German regions and Britain, was a slow and somewhat one-sided process in which Tompson was a pioneer, and the Goettingen professors Johann David Michaelis and Georg Christoph Lichtenberg5 were the central figures. Together they inspired the post-1765 anglomania amongst Goettingen students, whose ideal was to become semi-English. During the reign of George III (1760–1820) the number of British students in Goettingen underwent a sharp rise, and some more members of the Goettingen teaching staff now offered tuition in German as a foreign language. The King 5 As to their relevance for English language teaching and for modern foreign language study in general cf. Finkenstaedt 1992. On Lichtenberg cf. also Deneke 1944 and Promies 1967.

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himself, born and educated in England and very strictly British in his lifestyle, his views, and his policies, made three of his sons study in Goettingen, as a sign of his goodwill. So in fact, Goettingen, in 1765, was definitely a lot more “British” than it had been when Tompson, in 1735, started teaching.

4

Pre-1750 teaching of English in Germany: its spread, teachers and targets

How does John Tompson, as a teacher of English, compare with his colleagues in other regions of Germany? How much teaching of English was there in Germany at his time, who were the teachers, and what were the targets, the topics and the methods? The last part of the question is of particular interest since, for lack of personal comment from Tompson, we do not know how he actually taught his lessons. European multilingualism developed as a consequence of the birth of nation states, and it grew with the advancement of national politics and international trade. In the 16th century, Italian (as Toscano, Veneziano or Romano) and French were the most important languages, followed by Spanish, Dutch, English, and Portuguese. (Schröder 2000a–c, Schröder 2005, Spieckermann 2005) Initially English was, because of its geographical situation, fairly isolated, but with the building of a fleet in Elizabethan times and after the defeat of the Spanish Armada, its impact increased as the idiom of seafaring.(Schröder 2000c) The first city in which English as a foreign language was taught to a greater extent, was London itself. When, in 1554, the Hanseatic London Steel Yard issued new statutes, it became obligatory for Hanseatic merchants doing business in London to prove their proficiency in English. If they did not meet the standards, they were made to spend one year with an English master weaver, in order to learn the language of the textile trade, before they were admitted to the Yard. (Dietze 1927, 10) In the last quarter of the 16th century, London is the home of three foreign language teachers of international renown, and all three of them also teach English as a foreign language: Jacques Bellot, Claudius Holyband alias Claude de Sainliens, both Frenchmen, and John Florio, master of Italian to the Royal Family. (Howatt 1984, 12seqq.) London is also the place of publication, in 1687, of a voluminous pedagogical grammar of English and German plus conversation book written by Henrik Offelen (Schröder 1975, 104seq., Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 3, 263seq.), a lawyer and London master of languages, obviously of northern German or Dutch origin. Rather little is known about 17th century English language teaching in the German-speaking regions. It must have existed in some of the ports along the

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English Channel, the North Sea, and the Baltic Sea (in particular in Antwerp, Amsterdam, Bremen, Hamburg, and Danzig). Some Protestant commercial and/ or University cities in the interior of Germany, such as Augsburg, or Jena, also had private English language tuition by masters of languages, at least on a temporary basis. In 1668, the Vice Rector of Korbach Grammar School (HessenWaldeck – not far from Goettingen) offers English in private lessons (Genthe 1879: 15). 17th century English manuals in Germany are S. Tellaeus’ Grammatica Anglicana (Strassburg 1665 – probably the oldest pedagogical grammar of English in the German-speaking countries), Johann Podensteiner’s Clavis Linguae Anglicanae (Wittenberg [?] 1670, new edition 1685), Johann Nicolay’s Grammatica Nova Anglicana (Jena 1689, later editions Giessen 1693 and Marburg 1696), and Johann Jacob Lungershausen’s Nursery of Young English Trees, i. e. Arboretum Anglicum (Jena 1695). The second decade of the 18th century witnesses the publication of the first English conversational grammars of nationwide importance: Johann Koenig’s Complete English Guide for High-Germans (Leipzig 1715, 12th edition 1802), Christian Ludwig’s Gründliche Anleitung zur englischen Sprache (Leipzig 1717), and Theodor Arnold’s New English Grammar (Hanover 1718, 12th edition of a shortened version 1809). In 1725, Thomas Lediard, another gentleman from Britain, master of the English language in Hamburg and Secretary to the Royal British Envoy8 Extraordinaire, publishes his Grammatica Anglicana Critica (2nd edition Hamburg 1726). (Schröder 1975) Before the last quarter of the 18th century English language teaching in the German-speaking world is largely restricted to the Protestant regions. With the establishment of the Anglican Church under Henry VIII and Elizabeth I, English had become one of the major languages of Protestantism. Being a “heretic” language, it was not accepted in the Catholic world. This is why in 1778, when the University of Vienna applies for an academic teacher of English, Empress Maria Theresa calls English “an alien and dangerous tongue exposing the students to irreligious and immoral principles.” She decrees that no master of the English language should ever be appointed at any of the Universities and Academies of her kingdoms: “Wäre niemals ein englischer Professor an keiner Universität anzustellen, auch nicht in Akademien; es wäre besser, dass die Sprachen, die in mein Landen Gang haben, als eine fremde, so gefährliche Sprache wegen religions- und sittenverderblichen Principiis gelehret würde.” (Kink 1854: 516) There is one exception, however, to the confessional bias of English: The Counter-Reformation had produced a Catholic order to the name of “Virgines Anglicanae”. Its founder, Mary Ward, a British expatriate, came from the ranks of the nobility, and most of her fellow-sisters had a similar background. They established Catholic schools on the Continent for the re-education of girls, very

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much along the pedagogical lines of the Jesuits. English was the language used in the training of novices. In 1627, Mary Ward founded a girls’ school at Nymphenburg (Munich), where English was amongst the subjects taught. A second school was opened up in Augsburg in 1663, again offering the opportunity for Catholic girls to study English under the guidance of native speakers. The network was extended in the course of the 17th and 18th centuries, but with the ethnic structure of the order gradually changing, English lost its place in the curriculum. (Leitner 1869, Glück, Häberlein & Schröder 2013) The motivations and targets for learning English were sometimes very different from those relating to French or Italian (Schröder 2010): These languages were to be used in trade, as international languages, or as the medium for appreciating belles lettres and the conversational culture of the day. Developing listening comprehension and oral production were the focus of tuition, and it was advisable to have an educated native speaker as personal teacher. English, however, was mostly studied for reading and translation, and not so much for listening and speaking, because English was not an international language, and could not be used at any of the regional Courts outside the Electorate of Hanover. Furthermore there were very few travellers from Britain, before the 1760s, and the number of expatriate residents was even smaller. In addition, English was considered to be an extremely difficult language, because of its “irregular” pronunciation and intonation, and its supposed lack of grammatical clarity. As a consequence, learning to speak English properly without access to a native speaker, seemed almost impossible. Nevertheless mastery of English had its advantages: An adequate reading proficiency in English gave access to theological publications of international fame, to excellent collections of sermons which could be translated and used by the German clergy, to alternative philosophical treatises that provided welcome alternatives to the more traditional, continental modes of thinking, and to scientific and medical literature. After 1765, the option of belles lettres (reading and translating literature) also became prominent. This is why the percentage of Protestant clergymen and other academics studying English in 17th and 18th century Germany – at times without a proper teacher – is comparatively high. These learners would pronounce what they could understand as if it was German. There is a fair number of 18th century publications giving reasons for studying English, starting with Talander (1706) and Seidelmann (1724 – cf. Zapp & Schröder 1984).

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John Tompson – an evaluation of his late years

Looking at this very incomplete overview it becomes clear that the study of English is, after 1715 at least, of growing importance in Protestant Germany, and not restricted to the Hanoverian territories. Although John Tompson had his predecessors, and his outstanding contemporaries, he was innovative. He helped to further develop the art of teaching modern languages. In fact his publication English Miscellanies is the first anthology for English language teaching proper. Furthermore, Goettingen, as a developing haven of Britishness, was different from other university cities: As Tompson points out in his Short Account of His Majesty’s Late Journey to Goettingen and of the State of the New University there, in a Letter to my Lord **[NN] (Tompson 1748: passim), the Goettingen theologian Karthold “has lived a considerable time in England”, his colleague in the faculty of law, Claproth is well “acquainted with the best of our English poets”, who he can “imitate most dextrously”. The Faculty of Medecine is well known in England through Haller, “who has a constant correspondence with many of our learned countrymen”. Moreover, at the time of publication, the prosector of the Goettingen anatomy is on a scientific study tour through England; Britain playing a leading role in medical research and the training of medical practitioners. One of the teachers of the Faculty of Arts, Mr. Kahle, “has also been to England”. Then there are Johann David Michaelis, “a poet that understands English”, and who “has succeeded perfectly well in translating one of our most celebrated authors” (i. e. Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa), and Christian Ernst von Windheim, who is appointed, in 1750, as Professor of Oriental Languages and teacher of English at the University of Erlangen, “another admirer of our language, who has translated into German Delany’s Life of David, and Middleton’s Account of the Roman Senate”. Summarizing the evidence Tompson states: Thus your Lordship sees that several of the learned gentlemen here are acquainted with our tongue; nay more than I have met with in any other German university. There are three Fellows of our Royal Society amongst the number of the professors, Mr. Haller, Segner, and Hollman […]. (ibid., 30seq.)

As Tompson has not left any autobiographical or personal statements behind, the ensuing part of his Short Account where he describes the masters of languages at Goettingen University is of particular interest: There is among the teachers of modern languages here only Mr. Tompson, a countryman of ours, that understands some of the European languages, most in use, but especially the German; wherefore I take him to be a very proper person for teaching this language to English gentlemen. The choice he has made for several pieces in prose and verse, taken out of some of our best authors, and printed here for the use of his scholars, deserves commendation.

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And that is all in the way of Tompson about Tompson. He goes on to mention his colleagues: Mr. Rougemont, who has the title of Professor, Mr. Colom du Clos, and Mr. Kramer, are persons of merit, and able teachers; the two first of the French, and the latter of the Italian language, who also gives lessons in English. They all three have good salaries. (ibid., 31seq.)

Tompson does not at all mention his own teaching of English at all, though he is the official Linguae Anglicae Lector of the University. Instead he gives good marks to Mr. Kramer, who casually does some English teaching in order to survive. On the other hand he mentions the fact that he teaches German as a foreign language to English gentlemen. This can be explained by the general perspective of the Account, which was to advertise Goettingen, as an alternative to Oxford and Cambridge. In spite of this particular focus though, Tompson’s remarks as a whole remain difficult to interpret, unless one sees them as a manifestation of personal modesty. After all, throughout the 18th century in Germany, the native speaker is largely considered to be the more appropriate foreign language teacher. In the context of modern foreign language teaching in Goettingen and beyond, Tompson’s colleague Mr. Kramer is of particular interest. Johann Matthias Kramer (Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 3, 55seq.; vol 5, 474) was the only son of the Nuremberg master of languages, lexicographer and didactician Matthias Cramer (1640–1727, cf. ibid., vol. 1, 158seqq.), the latter a key figure both in early foreign language teaching and linguistics, and a corresponding member of the Berlin Academy of Sciences. Johann Matthias was a Calvinist. He had been Private Secretary to Nikolaus Ludwig Graf von Zinzendorf, the founder of the Herrnhuter Brüdergemeine, from 1737 until 1739. He came to Goettingen in 1746, apparently after a stay of several years in Georgia, British North America. In 1751 he became a member of the board of the Goettingen Presbyterian Church. He left the University in July, 1753, to emigrate permanently to Germantown, Pennsylvania, where he founded his own school of languages, and spent the rest of his life as a very successful teacher of German, English, and Italian. By 1748, obviously, Tompson had started to act as a director of studies for visiting British students; he was the trustworthy person that their families would contact, as can be gathered from the travel account of the young Englishman John Douglas who went to Goettingen the same year, together with his fellowtraveller Thomas Nugent, in order to visit Tompson. Strangely enough, as Thomas Finkenstaedt has pointed out, Nugent, in the four volume-account of his Grand Tour published in London in 1778, does not mention the University of Goettingen at all. Appointed to the rank of Extraordinarius in August, 1751, Tompson was held

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in high esteem not only by most of his colleagues, but also by the students, as becomes evident from an account by the Danish student Johann Georg Bärens (Kurtze Nachricht von Göttingen entworfen im Jahre 1754), another valuable biographical source: Mr. Tompson, an Englishman, is actually the teacher of his mother-tongue. A man of excellent qualities who has deserved a higher rank than the one to which fortune has placed him. The circumstances of his life are enigmatic. Not only has he travelled through most of Europe, but also through the largest part of Asia, which has given him such a knowledge of the world as to earn him the highest esteem of everybody. His excellent way of behaving earns him everybody’s love and reinforces his teaching, and those who know him regret that he is no longer a young man, and so much plagued by gout and deafness. (Bärens 1754, 98)

Tompson, now 61, has another 14 years to live. Not everybody had been happy about Tompson’s promotion in 1751, since the change of rank implied changing the lecture catalogue (Catalogus Lectionum), which was the instrument for disclosing the university hierarchy to the academic world in general. In the catalogue, it was important to be mentioned before other people, thus giving people precedence (Präzedenz). This is the very reason why King George III stated in 1762, when Tompson was appointed as Professor Ordinarius of Philosophy, that it was not intended to change Tompson’s slot in the catalogue, “daß selbiger im Lections-Catalog aus seinem bisherigen Platz zu Vermehrung des bey verschiedenen schon entstandenen Misvergnügens verrückt werden sollte”, as the German document puts it. (Finkenstaedt 1992, 64) The last official document by the University of Goettingen concerning Tompson dates from October 27th, 1768. The University informs the Government of the Electorate of Tompson’s death the day before. The message is signed by Vice Rector Johann Christoph Gatterer : Euren Hoch- und Hochwohlgebohrnen Excellentzen berichten wir in Unterthänigkeit, wasmaaßen unser verdienstvolle(r)Kollege der Professor philosophiae Extraordinarius Joannes Tompson nach einer langwierigen Krankheit gestern als dem 26. Okt. d. J. das Zeitliche mit dem Ewigen verwechselt hat. (ibid., 64seq.)

A note introduced between the salutation and the text, probably by one of the clerks in Hanover, states that Tompson had an annual salary of 150 rtl plus a pension of 50 rtl, and that there had “lately” been a present of another 50 rtl, the extra payment of 1767 mentioned above. On the very day of Tompson’s death, Lichtenberg, who had lived in Tompson’s house since 1767 as a Hofmeister (supervisor and tutor) of affluent British students, wrote the letter already mentioned to his friend von Hardenberg, who had shared his accommodation in Tompson’s house for a couple of semesters:

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Liebster Herr v. Hardenberg. Der alte ehrliche Tompson ist tot. […] Der gute Alte starb am 26. October mit der bekannten Gelassenheit, mit welcher er Wohltaten tat, Verweise gab, Freude und Schmerz und andre Widerwärtigkeiten ertrug: er verlor seine Sprache 20 Tage vor seinem Tod; ihn in diesem Zustand zu sehen mußte notwendig in jedermann, er sei Christ oder Türk, unbeschreibliche Empfindungen erregen […]6

Lichtenberg had got to know Tompson in 1763 just after his arrival in Goettingen. The fact that he had moved to Tompson’s house in 1767 to act as a tutor for English students is another indication of the informal function that Tompson had within the University besides being Lector Linguae Anglicae: His home was a haven and a centre of guided tuition for British students. In the 1760s and possibly much earlier Tompson had become a vital link between Goettingen and the British nobility and gentry, who in their turn, acted as image boosters and sponsors. Lichtenberg spoke and wrote excellent English. Unfortunately he never made any mention as to who had actually taught him. He may have developed his proficiency after 1763 in close contact with Tompson, who may even have asked him, in 1767, to move to Weender Street and work as a tutor from there. Lichtenberg’s letter on the occasion of Tompson’s death shows personal affliction and compassion, and it is worth noticing that seven years after Tompson’s death, in 1775, Lichtenberg wanted to return to Tompson’s house, as he mentions in a letter to Chr. Dieterich: He wanted to spend the winter in Weender Street. (Finkenstaedt 1992, 60, quoted from Promies 1967, vol. 4, 242)

6

De mortuis nil nisi vere

John Tompson was a charismatic foreign language teacher and educator, he was widely travelled, and he was an impartial and broad-minded mediator between the two cultures, English and German, in a place predestined for this rile: the University of Goettingen. The comparatively few comments we have on his life and behaviour cover a long period, from 1733 to 1768, and all of them are positive. Tompson was – in a modern perspective – less of a research person than a teacher. This may appear somewhat bewildering in an era like ours, where 6 “Honest old Tompson is dead. … The good old man died on 26th October showing his familiar calmness with which he had always shared out benefits, uttered criticism, and borne the joys and sorrows and any other adversities of life: he lost his speech 20 days before he died; to see him in such a state was bound to arouse in anybody, whether he be Christian or Turk, sensations that cannot be described.” – The integral text of the letter is printed in Deneke 1944, 67, and Finkenstaedt 1992, 65.

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academic success is so closely linked with research and the acquisition of funding. We must bear in mind though that the subjects Tompson taught – modern languages, comparative cultural studies, didactics perhaps – were new, and that research in these fields was not considered by the contemporary academic world to be of vital significance. Another important reason may be that, since his fixed salary was by comparison fairly low, Tompson would have had a very heavy teaching load of ten to twelve hours per day and consequently no time for educational or other treatises. The main point to be taken into account, however, is that the 18th century university was simply different. There was no system of “publish or perish”, and teaching was the central concern of a professor or lecturer, as the very terms suggest. Of course research, both theoretical and empirical, was being done, but the academics of the day were well aware of the fact that genuine research was an extraordinary activity for the benefit of mankind, an activity which was dependent on continuous personal endeavour as much as God’s blessing. Meanwhile, and especially so in the cultural and social sciences, the terms “research” and “researcher” (Forscher) have suffered a terrible inflation leading to a plethora of self-centred, trivial and badly written papers, and simultaneously sometimes to shallow and irrelevant teaching – but this is a different topic. Tompson was an educator and a trainer, as Lichtenberg’s letter suggests, and being a learned generalist, he obviously knew most of the time what he was talking about; the long-term success of his teaching and training is historically proven. In the context of the 18th century university, this was plenty. Tompson was described by his contemporaries as modest and calm; he would have admired what he considered to be the valuable research of others, but it is unlikely that he would have chosen to be a “researcher” in an attempt of self-promotion. Perhaps, being a gentleman, he would have smiled at the modern coinage of “research professor” (Forschungsprofessor) as opposed to the supposedly inferior “teaching professor” (Lehrprofessor). Times have unfortunately changed.

7

A brief note on Tompson’s English Miscellanies

Tompson’s only full size academic publication English Miscellanies presents itself in its first edition of 1737 as a neat, well edited pocket book anthology of no less than 608 pages. As the subtitle suggests it consists “of various pieces of divinity, morals, politics, philosophy and history, as likewise of some choice poems, all collected out of the most approved authors of the English tongue, viz. Tillotson, Denham, Nichols, Dryden, Locke, Buckingham, Milton, Prior, Cowley, Addison, Waller, Pope, etc.” The book is, according to its compiler, “chiefly intended for the advantage of such, as are willing to apply themselves to the

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learning of this useful language.” In the fourth and last edition, which appeared in 1766, some of the texts of the first edition were exchanged for more modern ones. None of the editions has an introduction. There is, at page 533 of the first edition, a brief note by Tompson on the unfortunate passion of Eloisa and Abelard. The first edition of the anthology is dedicated “to the right honourable Ferdinand Casimir, Albrecht August, William Reinhart, Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, Isenburg and Budingen, the hopes and glory of their most illustrious family and country ; and the chief ornaments of the Royal Georgia Augusta.” The three counts obviously were Tompson’s students. The English Miscellanies were intended for language learners, so they could develop both receptive and productive communicative skills plus a more general text competence and an action-oriented cultural proficiency. Their target was not only to enable the student to read and translate, which, as we have seen, was a major goal within 18th century English language teaching in Germany, but also to prepare him to participate in the more immediate political, cultural, and scientific exchange with England, this country being, from a Goettingen point of view, the political, and also, to a certain extent, the spiritual fatherland. The English Miscellanies were not intended as an introduction tool to literary history or literary theory. Therefore the book should not be criticised for what a literary scholar might address as certain weaknesses in the choice of authors and texts (e. g. lacking balance, lacking feeling for literary turns and developments). For his anthology, Tompson selected texts that he considered useful for his didactic goals, and for the development of taste, and in choosing the most approved authors of his times he followed the pre-1770 understanding of literature. The literary works of the most approved authors were thought of as documents of good taste, and therefore of good language, and a language use that could serve as an example. For this reason, the texts concerned were didactic models. Tompson’s didactic approach breaks with the older type of a mixed conversational grammar plus model dialogues; he focusses on the belles letters, because texts taken from this domain are conceived by his students as being authentic, challenging, and meaningful. This is the important innovation. Dialogues and grammatical explanations of the ordinary type were to be had in Goettingen, anyhow: From the 1740s onward, there were enough native speakers or advanced learners of English around. However, literature was not an aim in itself. Understanding literature as the prime target of advanced English language teaching comes at a later date, and we all know that this didactic turn has led, over a period of almost 200 years, to an underperformance of students and nonnative teachers in advanced communicative skills. To put things in a nutshell: 19th and 20th century school anthologies tried to teach literature as a facet of formal education, Tompson’s anthology, however, tried to teach high-level

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communicative performance through a great variety of literary texts, and that was, and still is, a different matter. In terms of English language teaching, Tompson’s publication was avantgarde, and it was successful. Printed in four editions, the book would have sold between 1.500 and 2.500 copies. As mentioned above, the anthology was used in a number of places outside Goettingen, and it served as an example to authors in Tompson’s immediate surroundings: In 1752 his successor in Helmstedt, Columba King (Schröder 1987–1999, vol. 3, 26), published an anthology Select Pieces from the Best English Authors, followed, in 1779, by an anthology The Strains of the British Muses compiled by Tompson’s successor in Goettingen, Philip Pepin (ibid., vol. 3, 309seqq.). Moreover, the Tuebingen Professor of modern languages Johann Heinrich Emmert (ibid., vol. 2, 68seqq.) a student and a private lecturer (Privatdozent) at Goettingen in the early 1770s, published an Anthology The Flowers of the British Literature (Gera 1795). The most interesting publication in this context, however, is, in 1779, the Student’s Miscellany compiled by Johann Jacob Dusch, the former Goettingen student and teacher of English at the Altona Christianeum. The very title suggests an anthology in emulation of Tompson’s work. And in fact, Dusch, in the introduction to his book, discusses the Goettingen Miscellanies after stating that for the last six years at least, he has not used any other book for his teaching. Reviewing Tompson, Dusch criticises the lack of a “progression” (to use a modern term); some of the extracts are too short, and there are not enough texts in the domain of the “didactische Schreibart” (scientific prose related to the humanities). At the same time, there is a shortage of philosophical texts, and the poetic part is “aus Mangel aller Regel und Ordnung, ein durcheinander geworfenes Gemisch” (an utter mixture without rules and order). (Finkenstaedt 1992, 67; Schröder 1987–1999, vol 2, 47) Of course Dusch needs a raison d’Þtre for his own publication, but he also represents a new generation of readers, and he is a grammar school teacher. After about 1770 neo-humanism and the idea of a non-utilitarian, formal education (zweckfreie Formalbildung) start casting a shadow on 18th century trans-national communicative competence. For sure, Tompson’s anthology does not go from easy to difficult, and it does not have – and cannot have – a grammatical progression, but a closer look reveals at least elements of a communicative spiral progression, from catechismtype texts in questions and answers, to expository prose (third person), to personal expository prose (first person), to personal emotional prose (you and I), and finally to poetic diction. As to the shortage of philosophical texts, it is difficult to agree with Dusch either, since a fair number of the extracts contained in the first part of the Miscellanies do in fact offer philosophical content, but of course in the contemporary British sense of the term, including enlightened

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theology, epistemology, and historical, political, or constitutional reasoning. Dusch’s criticism of Tompson bears the scar of a cultural misunderstanding on the German side. At the end of this paper the reader may have the impression that the picture of John Tompson provided here may be likened to a refurbished fresco in a medieval church: Some bits and pieces are quite clear and colourful, and even hint at the more general layout and texture, but there are also vast blanks of white plaster, where most valuable details have been lost, and probably lost for ever. People leave traces on earth. John Tompson has left a fair number of traces worth looking at and considering, almost 250 years after his death. These very traces make him significant, and it is this significance that makes him live on.

Works Cited Anon. [Universität Göttingen]. Lektionskataloge [different titles, Latin and German versions] SS 1736 – SS 1742, SS 1743 – SS 1780. Auroux, Sylvain et al. (eds.) (2000), History of Language Sciences. Geschichte der Sprachwissenschaften. Histoire des sciences du langage. An International Handbook on the Evolution of the Study of Language from the Beginnings to the Present. Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, Vol. 1. Bärens, Johann Georg (1908), “Kurtze Nachricht von Göttingen entworfen im Jahre 1754”, in: Jahrbuch des Geschichtsvereins für Göttingen und Umgebung 1, pp. 55–116. Brandes, E. (1802), “Über den gegenwärtigen Zustand der Universität Göttingen”, in: Hannoversches Magazin 12, pp. 161–546. Deneke, Otto (1944), Lichtenbergs Leben. Vol. 1. München: Heimeran. Dietze, Hugo (1927), Methodik des fremdsprachlichen Unterrichts an Handelsschulen. Leipzig: Gloeckner. Ebel, Wilhelm (1962), Catalogus Professorum Goettingensium 1734–1962. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Fabian, Bernhard (1985), “Englisch als neue Fremdsprache des 18. Jahrhunderts”, in: Kimpel, Dieter (ed.). Mehrsprachigkeit in der deutschen Aufklärung. Hamburg: Meiner, pp. 178–196. Finkenstaedt, Thomas (1992), “Auf der Suche nach dem Göttinger Ordinarius des Englischen, John Tompson (1697–1768)”, in: Schröder, Konrad (ed.), pp. 57–74. Genthe, H.: Kurze Geschichte des Fürstlich Waldeckischen Landesgymnasiums Friedericianum zu Korbach. Ein Gedenkblatt zur dritten Säkularfeier desselben. Mengeringhausen 1879. Glück, Helmut, Mark Häberlein & Konrad Schröder. Mehrsprachigkeit in der Frühen Neuzeit. Die Reichsstädte Augsburg und Nürnberg vom 15. bis ins frühe 19. Jahrhundert. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2013. Howatt, A.P.R. A History of English Language Teaching. Oxford: OUP, 1984. Hüllen, Werner & Friederike Klippel (eds.). Sprachen der Bildung – Bildung durch Sprachen im Deutschland des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005.

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Kink, R. Geschichte der Kaiserlichen Universität zu Wien. Bd. 1. Teil 1. Wien 1854. Repr. Frankfurt/Main: Minerva, 1969. Leitner, Jacob. Geschichte der Englischen Fräulein und ihrer Institute seit ihrer Gründung bis auf unsere Zeit. Aus den Quellen dargestellt. Regensburg, 1869. Michaelis, Johann David. Räsonnement über die protestantischen Universitäten in Deutschland. Teil 3. Frankfurt, Leipzig 1773. Repr. Aalen, Scientia 1973. Nugent, Thomas. The Grand Tour; or a journey through the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, and France. […] 3rd ed., corrected. To which is added the European Itinerary. 4 vols. London: Rivington and Sons et al., 1778. Promies, Wolfgang (ed.). Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, Schriften und Briefe. Vol 4: Briefe. Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft, 1967. Pütter, Johann Stephan. Versuch einer academischen Gelehrten-Geschichte von der GeorgAugust-Universität zu Göttingen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, vol. 1. 1765, vol. 2. 1788. Schröder, Konrad. Die Entwicklung des Englischunterrichts an den deutschsprachigen Universitäten bis zum Jahre 1850. Mit einer Analyse zur Verbreitung und Stellung des Englischen als Schulfach an den deutschen Schulen im Zeitalter des Neuhumanismus. Ratingen: Henn, 1969. Schröder, Konrad. Lehrwerke für den Englischunterricht im deutschsprachigen Raum 1665–1900. Einführung und Versuch einer Bibliographie. Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft, 1975. Schröder, Konrad. Biographisches und bibliographisches Lexikon der Fremdsprachenlehrer des deutschsprachigen Raumes, Spätmittelalter bis 1800. 6 vols. Augsburg: Universität, 1987/1999. Schröder, Konrad. Fremdsprachenunterricht 1500 bis 1800. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1992. Schröder, Konrad. “Languages.” Shelley, Monica and Margaret Winck: Aspects of European Cultural Diversity. London, New York: Routledge 2nd. ed. 1995. 13–64. Schröder, Konrad (2000a). “Kommerzielle und kulturelle Interessen am Unterricht der Volkssprachen im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert.” Auroux, Sylvain et al. (eds.) 2000. Vol. 1. 681–687. Schröder, Konrad (2000b). “Die Traditionen des Sprachunterrichts im Europa des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts.” Auroux, Sylvain et al. (eds.) 2000. Vol. 1. 734–741. Schröder, Konrad (2000c). “Der Unterricht des Englischen im 16. Jahrhundert.” Auroux, Sylvain et al. (eds.) 2000. Vol. 1. 723–728. Schröder, Konrad. “Die modernen Fremdsprachen im frühen 18. Jahrhundert.” Hüllen, Werner & Friederike Klippel (eds.) 2005. 11–28. Schröder, Konrad. “Georg I. Das Haus Hannover in Großbritannien.” Beck, Rudolf & Konrad Schröder (eds.): Handbuch der britischen Kulturgeschichte. München: Fink 2006, 166–171. Schröder, Konrad. “Zur Begründung des Englischlernens im Deutschland des 18. Jahrhunderts.” Fremdsprachen Lehren und Lernen (FLuL) 39 (2010): 13–25. Selle, Götz v. Die Georg-August-Universität zu Göttingen 1737–1937. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1937.

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Spieckermann, Marie-Louise. “Zur Verbreitung des Englischen im achtzehnten Jahrhundert im Spiegel von Buchmarkt und Bibliotheken.” Hüllen, Werner & Friederike Klippel (eds.) 2005. 29–46. Talander [Bohse, August]. Der getreue Hofmeister adeliger und bürgerlicher Jugend oder Aufrichtige Anleitung, wie sowohl ein Junger von Adel als anderer, der von guter Extraktion, soll rechtschaffen auferzogen werden, […]. Leipzig: Gleditsch, 1706. Tompson, John. English Miscellanies, consisting of Various Pieces of Divinity, Morals, Politicks, Philosophy and History ; as Likewise of some choice Poems; All collected out of the most approved Authors in the English Tongue, Viz. Tillotson, Denham, Nichols, Dryden, Lock, Buckingham, Milton, Prior, Cowley, Addison, Waller, Pope etc. And chiefly intended for the Advantage of such, as are willing to apply themselves to the learning of this useful Language. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck 1737. 2 nd ed. 1746, 3rd ed. 1755, 4th ed. 1766. Tompson, John. A Short Account of His Majesty’s Late Journey to Goettingen and of the State of the New University there. In a Letter to my Lord**. (Göttingen) 1748. Zapp, Franz Josef & Konrad Schröder (eds.). Chr. F. Seidelmann, Tractatus philosophicophilologicus de Methodo recte tractandi linguas exoticas, speciatim gallicam, italicam et anglicam (1724). Faksimiliert, übersetzt und herausgegeben mit einer Darstellung der Geschichte des Fremdsprachenunterrichts an der Universität Wittenberg. Augsburg: Universität, 1984.

Barbara Schaff

John Tompson’s English Miscellanies 1737–1766 in the Context of Eighteenth-Century British-German Cultural Relations

1

The Context

The recognition of English literature as a subject worthy of academic teaching and the institutionalisation of English literature are historically quite recent phenomena. It was no earlier than 1828 that the first British Chair of Literature was established at University College, London; and at Oxford, the first Chair of English literature was instituted only in 1904. Clearly, the professionalization of literary studies in Britain had long been developing within the related fields of Theology, Rhetoric, and Classics. The Chair of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres at the University of Edinburgh, founded in 1762 for the theologian Hugh Blair, is a good example for how in the eighteenth century literary studies were conducted in Britain outside the framework of a national literary and linguistic tradition. In Germany, however, the teaching of English as a foreign language, i. e. of grammar, style, and rhetoric, began to have a much closer connection with the corpus of English literature in the second half of the eighteenth century. In the early part of the century the average German reader of British publications was still mostly a scholarly reader who would read them in Latin rather than in English, and, as Bernhard Fabian has demonstrated, would have been interested in history, science, philosophy and theology, but have little interest in poetry, drama or the emerging genre of the novel (Fabian 1994, 11). Comparatively few British authors were known and available in translation in Germany and, until about 1750, so few people in Germany were familiar with the English language that translations of literary works into German were often translations of a second order, produced from previous translations (Inbar, 15 and Fabian 1994, 11). This was going to change rapidly from the second half of the century onwards, when the German interest in British science, politics, philosophy, society and, last but not least, literature increased. Influential on the distribution of British literature on the continent was the emergence of a higher level of linguistic competence which also generated more able translators, and the availability of core texts that would introduce a German readership to contemporary

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and classical British literature. Centres for the reception of British literature and culture in German speaking countries were Zurich and Hamburg and especially the electorate of Hanover, joined with England in Personal Union since 1714. It was a particularly fortunate consequence of the Union that the University of Göttingen, founded in 1737 by the British king and Elector of Hanover, enjoyed close relations with Britain from its inception, enabling what Konrad Schröder has called a “new era of English Studies” with John Tompson, first lecturer of English and from 1762, Professor of English as an outstanding mediator of British literature and culture (Schröder, 55). In the context of eighteenth-century Anglo-German cultural relations, the University and Tompson in particular played a crucial role in the mediation of science and culture. The connections Göttingen had with Britain as a consequence of the Personal Union were manifold. British aristocrats would send their sons to study at Göttingen, and the matriculation of the George III. three sons brought in many more British students in subsequent years (Oehler, 37). The University would soon become a household name in Britain1, associated with the intellectual spirit of the Enlightenment if not German academia in general. Apart from the general public awareness of Göttingen University in Britain, specific academic connections between the University and Britain were flourishing, resulting in productive processes of cultural transfer. Several research networks between Göttingen and British scholars and members of the Royal Society developed, not least the most famous one involving Johann Blumenbach, who became a fellow of the Royal Society in 1793, and Joseph Banks. The University Library systematically acquired a considerable number of books in English in cooperation with London booksellers and the German Chancery in London (Gierl, 14). The appointment of Abraham Vandenhoeck University Printer, an English-speaking publisher with well-established connections in London, further promoted the reception of English publications and their translations, not least through David Michaelis’ famous translation of Richardson’s Clarissa, published by Vandenhoeck nearly simultaneously with the English original and before a translation into French (Krake, 28). Göttingen’s excellent University Library provided students with material in English at a time when English books were still expensive and difficult to buy on the Continent. Its collection policy of the early years was based on the Enlightenment approach of collecting all literature in all areas of scholarship from all over the world as well as the sources from which that literature derived. In 1748, the historian Justus Claproth writes in a letter that “hardly a month 1 See, for example, George Canning’s burlesque drama The Rovers (1798), a parody of Schiller’s The Robbers, which has the imprisoned hero reflect in a comic song on his student days at Göttingen University : Whene’er with haggard eyes I view / This dungeon that I’m rotting in, / I think of those companions true Who / studied with me at the U— / - -niversity of Gottingen, / - -niversity of Gottingen. (Lonsdale, 826)

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passes by without one or more boxes arriving from Holland or England” (quoted in Fabian 1979, 212). By the end of the eighteenth century, Göttingen university library would exhibit the largest collection of English literature on the European continent, and the library’s catalogue still partly allows us to reconstruct the process of research and reception in the field of English literature.2 The demand for English publications such as novels, histories and travel writing in German increased steadily and as a consequence more and more competent translators were needed. All these factors contributed to the recognition of the need for a solid instruction in English at the University.

2

The English Miscellanies

With the appointment of John Tompson as a public lecturer in English in 1735, the importance of tuition in English for students and professors at Göttingen3 was duly acknowledged. One of the most outstanding achievements in this process of cultural mediation was certainly John Tompson’s collection, the English Miscellanies, Consisting of Various Pieces of Divinity, Philosophy, Morals, Politicks and History ; As Likewise of Some Choice Poems Collected out of Some of the Most Approved Authors in the English Tongue, the first collection of British literature ever printed on the Continent. It was published in 4 editions between 1737 and 1766 by Abraham Vandenhoeck and later his widow Anna. The Miscellanies was targeted at students of English, compiled “for the Advantage of such as are willing to apply themselves to the learning of this usefull Language” (Tompson, title page). As Fabian has maintained, the importance of Tompson and this work which remained “without a serious rival for nearly three decades and dominated the period in which the eighteenth-century German taste in English literature was formed” can hardly be overestimated (Fabian, 1994, 99). Several aspects of Tompson’s collection are especially remarkable: The first is the fact that the publication was one of the very first English publications ever in Germany, as well as being the first anthology composed in an academic context for the purpose of the mediation of English literature and culture to German students of English. The collection was so successful that it went into four editions in 1737, 1746, 1755 and 1766, each of which showed changes and substantial additions: as compared to the first octavo edition of 600 pages, the last, two-volumed edition had nearly 1100 pages altogether (Wolpers, 100). This 2 For a comprehensive and critical appraisal of the Göttingen university research collection see Fabian 1979. 3 One of Tompson’s most famous students was Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, who was also a lodger in Tompson’s house in 1767.

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success of the Miscellanies is, as Thomas Finkenstaedt has claimed, without parallel in the eighteenth century (Finkenstaedt, 57). It supports the assumption that the Miscellanies was used not only in Göttingen by Tompson and his students, but in a wider context of English language instruction in Germany, and it was certainly the publication that gained Tompson the position of an ordinary professor of English in 1762.4 Tompson’s appointment honours an achievement of cultural, linguistic and literary mediation that was instrumental to the increased knowledge transfer between Britain and Hannover in the era of the Personal Union. The enlightened understanding of language instruction by the means of literary examples rather than a dictionary singles Tompson out as an innovative language instructor who understood that there is no achievement of linguistic competence without an embeddedness in the cultural context, and who finely tuned his selection principles along the cultural circumstances of both countries. One example to illustrate Tompson sensibility towards the particular circumstances of Göttingen University, which, as an Enlightenment university, was not committed to the primacy of theology, is the arrangement of his texts. As Theodor Wolpers has reminded us, the subtitle of the Miscellanies begins with “Various Pieces of Divinity, Morals, Politicks, Philosophy and History”, and yet the first piece disrupts this order beginning with “A lecture upon the Roman History”, thus identifying Roman history as the British 18th century ideal paradigm of a republic and putting divinity further behind (Wolpers, 103). Wolpers further convincingly shows how later pieces representing Divinity are perfectly in accordance with the Göttingen approach to theology. They emphasise rational arguments for religion and are rooted in British empiricism, as is for example the excerpt from John Locke’s “Of Our knowledge of the Existence of a God” (Wolpers, 107). In the first place, however, the collection is arranged according to the requirements of language students. The aforementioned first entry is a particularly 4 In the same year Hugh Blair was appointed as the allegedly first professor of literature at Edinburgh. Göttingen and Edinburgh university have both celebrated their anniversaries of these professorships in 2012, and both have since made a claim about their departments being the world’s first department of English literature (Edinburgh) and the world’s first department of English (Göttingen). These claims should perhaps not be regarded as competitive assertions for the origin of the institution of English literature but rather appreciated in their nuanced differences of context. Blair’s appointment marks a shift away from the classical languages and literatures as tools for the instruction in stylistics and rhetorics towards the recognition of English as a literary language. With Blair’s chair in rhetoric and belles lettres, the emphasis would be put on a hermeneutic and stylistic approach to literature as such, on the recognition of English literature as a medium to convey moral truth, aesthetic pleasure and intellectual arguments: the didactic aim clearly was to train students in in their own national language.

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apposite example of Tompson’s search for texts to improve the linguistic skills of his readers. Modelled on the question and answer format of the catechism – “Q. What is history? A. A true Account of the principle Events that have happened in a country.” (Tompson, 1) – it serves the purpose of a rudimentary dialogue for unskilled practitioners of English, who could read them out in class.5 In a period when language instruction was based primarily on studying works in a foreign language with the help of grammars and dictionaries and, if available, a German translation, Tompson’s anthology marked a radically new approach to language acquisition as it compensated for a lack of textbooks designed for students. It is easy to see why anthologies would provide students with much more accessible material than novels, histories or biographies: the pieces included were shorter, they would familiarise German readers with a variety of texts, genres, forms and themes, and they could be selected according to specific topical interests. In the context of eighteenth-century English anthologies, Tompson’s Miscellanies holds a unique position as targeted to a non-English readership. Anthologies6 have long been regarded as a by-product of the emerging mass-produced book market in the eighteenth century but they were in fact instrumental in the dissemination of literature, the development of its themes and forms, its fashion and critical assessments (Korte, 5). An early example, the widely received Miscellanies edited by Pope and Swift between 1726 and 1728 are exactly this: A collection of contemporary pieces of prose and verse that made literature available and visible to a wider audience and served as vehicles of dominant aesthetic forms and cultural values such as religious, philosophical and moral principles, and of topical social or political contemporary discourses.7 Thomas Bonnell has demonstrated, how instrumental comprehensive collections of English poetry had been for the development of the nation’s awareness of its poetical legacy (Bonnell, 9), and Barbara Benedict has emphasised the outstanding cultural importance of eighteenth-century literary anthologies as pedagogical instruments. Emerging as a product of the institutionalising book trade, they quickly became the standard means of consuming literature, shaping as well as reflecting the readership, their manners of reading and, last but not 5 Tompson’s Miscellanies were in fact widely used in the German higher education system. An entry from the Hannoverisches Magazin from 21 October 1768 gives a survey of the lessons taught at the Pädagogium Ilfeld, an institution closely connected with Göttingen university and preparing pupils for the university. 6 For further exploration of the importance of anthologies in processes of canon formation or the constitution of a discipline see the contributions by Susan Bassnett and Martina WittJauch in this volume. 7 A good example for topicality is, for instance, Swift’s notorious ‘Modest Proposal’, which addresses the effects of the penal laws in Ireland as well as it satirises the Augustan faith in reason. It was first published in the first volume in 1729 in Dublin as a pamphlet and appeared in 1732 under the editorship of Pope in the fourth volume of the Swift-Pope Miscellanies.

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least, their collective identity. As the typical genre of the age of mass print, anthologies could be produced and read quickly (Benedict 2001, 377f.) so that, by the end of the century, the anthology had turned into a central force for defining what was deemed to be of value in the national literary culture8 (Benedict 2001, 389). Benedict reminds us that both the terms ‘anthology’, derived from the Greek for a collection of flowers, and ‘miscellany’, meaning a dish of mixed fruits, designate a collection (Benedict 2003: 236), but she makes a significant distinction between miscellanies and anthologies that is informed by ideas of cultural value: Miscellanies are compilations from pre-printed pamphlets by booksellers and printers, and as such they are designed to recycle outof-the-way literary works. Further, as “literary potpourris” (Benedict 1990, 407), miscellanies “combine signals of high culture with the reassuring and familiar signals of popular and children’s literature, indicating variety and brevity and a design suitable for those with a limited attention span” (Benedict: 1990, 411). If miscellanies represent a rather unspecific literary genre, anthologies by contrast are works that were designed by publishers with certain thematic or aesthetic purposes as well as a claim for quality. They had a somewhat narrower focus: “Exploiting its indefinitely flexible form, publishers made anthologies for every taste. Collections of topical verse appealed to urbanites, while collections of jests, jokes or specific genres like the epigram and the epitaph were sold to country audiences and antiquarians.” (Benedict 2001: 385). Although this distinction is certainly helpful, I would, however, argue that one needs to discriminate between the generic terms miscellanies and anthologies and their actual contents. By looking at single anthologies or miscellanies one may find that the boundaries between the two are not that stable at all. Tompson’s Miscellanies provide a good example for a collection that fulfils many of the criteria Benedict sets up for anthologies. The thematic purpose, the claim for quality and the target audience all are very clearly formulated on the title page: the Miscellanies consist of works by “some of the most approved authors in the English tongue” and, secondly, they are “chiefly intended for the advantage of such as are willing to apply themselves to the learning of this usefull Language”. Their function in terms of language acquisition is clearly emphasised and may be understood as an indication for the pedagogical benefits of those with yet little proficiency in English. Another remarkable aspect of the Miscellanies is its focus on the contemporary literary scene. The names of authors on the title page confirms Tompson’s claim: the chosen authors are indeed well-known if not famous authors of the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries like Milton, Dryden and 8 Johannes Schlegel points to the generative capacities of institutions in his introduction to this volume.

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Pope. Added to these are letters and examples from contemporary journalism – articles taken from the Tatler, the Spectator and other journals, as well as religious sermons. There are, however, no older canonical authors included – no Shakespeare, Spenser, or Chaucer. Clearly, the texts had been chosen according to their particular relevance in Tompson’s contemporary cultural context, reflecting the spirit of the age rather than presenting a diachronic overview of the English canon. The label “Approved Authors in the English tongue” should therefore not be understood as canonical authors, but rather as contemporary bestsellers, as authors who had prevailed in the contemporary competing bookmarket and were representative of the aesthetic, philosophical, moral and literary taste of their time. Negotiating between the classical and the fashionable, the topical and the general, the two volumes contain an astounding variety of literary forms and genres. The only genre missing is, for obvious reasons, the novel, but other examples of prose, such as passages from philosophical texts (for instance Locke’s Essay Concerning Human Understanding) and historiography are well represented. Altogether, the collection helped students of English to improve their linguistic proficiency in an entertaining way and provided them an insight into what contemporary British culture looked like. A further aspect of the Miscellanies that deserves consideration is the changes and additions to the third and fourth editions. They mark a major shift from the more classically informed taste of the first edition to the new sensibilities of the second half of the century. It is important to remember that Tompson made these significant changes after he had been living in Germany for more than fifteen years and had been, if not cut off from the intellectual centre of Britain, at least moved to the periphery of English culture. And yet, it is quite striking to see that the Miscellanies were by no means a provincial product, but a finely tuned selection of texts that can be described as representing mainstream or polite culture, new aesthetic forms as well as established and classical ones. Most importantly perhaps, they were informed by a distinctly British tone that would have helped to form distinctive concepts of eighteenth-century British culture and identity in their readers’ minds. For example, the amount of verse became in general proportionally bigger than prose in the course of the four editions, and also the section representing British journalism was considerably larger in the now two-volumed edition. Particularly in these extracts from contemporary British periodicals such as the Tatler, Spectator, Guardian, Gentleman’s Magazine or the London Magazine, German readers were confronted with a British journalism that stood for the taste and judgement of the polite civil society. Tompson also showed a sensitivity to the taste of his German readers. Included in the letter section is an example from Elizabeth Rowe’s then widely known moral exhortation Friendship in Death: In Twenty Letters from the Dead

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to the Living (1728). These letters were not just examples of what was topical in Britain, but were perhaps also chosen because of their popularity and availability in a German translation: they were first translated into German and published in Göttingen in 1734. They later inspired Wieland to compose his Briefe von Verstorbenen an hinterlassene Freunde in 1753. The inclusion of English texts that had been available in German translations for some time and popular among German readers meant that students could read the English text parallel to the German translation – then a widely used method for language acquisition. On the whole, Tompson carefully manoeuvered between a desire for topicality on the one hand and the danger of a possibly too specific political or social referentiality on the other which would be difficult for foreigners to comprehend. The one genre that is most closely connected with the political and social issues of its time and is therefore difficult for readers who lack the familiarity with these extra-literary contexts is, of course, satire. Although the eighteenth century marks a ‘Golden Age’ for satire in Britain – not least due to the general absence of censorship – Tompson eschews the inclusion of examples of what was one the most prominent genres of British literature of his time. A good example for this is a comparison of the use of one of the most popular Augustan plays, Joseph Addison’s heroic drama Cato, published in 1713 and translated into German in 1732 and 1763, in Tompson’s anthology and Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope’s Miscellanies in Four Volumes (1742). In Tompson’s collection, the complete drama is offered as an example of classical Augustan British literature, reflecting in its heroic celebration of the protagonist’s republican struggle against tyranny the morals, sentiments and political creed of the age without any critical distance. Tompson also includes Pope’s glowing prologue, which calls on the British audience to “have the virtue to be moved” and praises Addison for his mediation of the virtues of the republican Cato to the British in the light of the deplorable state of the national theatrical scene: “Our scene precariously subsists to long / On French Translation, and Italian song” (Tompson, 212). Pope on the other hand, who had later distanced himself from Addison, does not include his own prologue to Cato in the Pope-Swift Miscellanies but decides instead on a satirical epigram: “On a Lady who Pisst at the Tragedy of Cato, occasioned by an Epigram on a Lady who wept at it” (148). This satirical swipe at the profusion of sentiment in Addison’s text, placed in the context of British party politics and a critique of the eighteenth-century culture of sensibility, would not have worked in Tompson’s anthology. It would have been outside the competence of a German readership, if not to say inappropriate for a student textbook. The second volume of the last edition from 1766 acknowledges the by now rising importance of the Graveyard School of poetry including poems by Edward Young and others that reflect the new anti-Enlightenment tendencies and fore-

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shadow Romanticism. In addition to the observation of contemporary poetical trends, Tompson’s editorial policy also shows a shrewd awareness of his unique appointment as a professor of English by a royal decree. The last volume pays far more credit to the British monarchy than previous editions. This is apparent from the beginning, with the first text in the second volume of the 1766 edition being a Dedication to the King of the comedy The Non-Juror by the then poet laureate Colley Cibber. A timely choice of poems refers to the death of King George II and the subsequent accession of his grandson George III. There are two poems on the death of George II, an anonymous “Ode to George III after his Accession to the Throne” by “A lady of Quality”. Matthew Prior’s elegiac “Ode Presented to the King, on His Majesty’s Arrival in Holland, after the Queen’s Death” from 1695 adds a historical dimension in the form of a lament on a royal death. The “Stanzas occasioned by the Death of his late Most Sacred Majesty”, composed by an obscure Mr Wott and first published in the Gentleman’s Magazine, may rather have been included for reasons of topicality and acknowledgement of the obligation to the monarch than poetical merit: the grief for the deceased king is followed by a passionate eulogy of the new king (who had appointed Tompson four years earlier as a full professor) as a benevolent peacemaker and defender of liberty : I turned around, when strait my wondr’ing eyes Saw Britain’s Guardian genius rise. The lustre of his cheek was fled And with a comely grief was bent his awful head. […] Then frequent sobbings from his bosom stole That spoke the pathos of his soul Full bitterly he wept, and weeping said, The good old king—the venerable George is dead. […] ’tis vain to wish his dear return: I will not mourn, he deign’d to say, Since Britons bow the knee unto his grandson’s sway. Sweet are the virtues that adorn his mind, To soft benevolence inclin’d, Ever sincere, and ever free, As this his native isle, the land of liberty. (Tompson 1766, 537–38).

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Tompson’s Legacy

The unequivocal acknowledgement of Tompson’s unique and outstanding achievement as an eighteenth-century mediator of British literature and culture leads to the overall question of his position in the history of the emerging institution of English literature. As many scholars have observed, the English Miscellanies represent a unique combination of language instruction with the mediation of what we have come to call intercultural competence. In the eighteenth-century development of British-German literary transfer processes, the English Miscellanies stand out as an important milestone which carefully balanced the mediation of representative British literature with the interests and needs of the recipient culture in an exemplary manner. The high standards set by Tompson, namely language tuition combined with the instruction in contemporary British literature and culture, were not always met by later practitioners. His successor in Göttingen, Philip Pepin, edited a collection of British literature under the title Strains of the British Muses (1779) which lacked the literary taste and sensibility of Tompson’s Miscellanies (Wolpers, 115). What is more, Tompson’s principle of cautious modernising and adaptation that had informed the four editions and was responsible for the ongoing success of the Miscellanies, came to an end with Tompson’s death. Although they continued to be used in classrooms for language tuition purposes, the topicality of the chosen texts and their cultural currency which had guaranteed their attractiveness to a German readership would soon fade. But if it is difficult to trace a direct continuation of this particular form of British-German cultural mediation as first introduced by John Tompson, there is considerable evidence that his work continued to have an impact. As Konrad Schröder has shown, the implementation of English as the second foreign language in Northern-German grammar schools in the late eighteenth century created a demand for teachers of English who were very often graduates form Göttingen. Similarly, the booming translation industry from around 1800 included names like Meta Forkel-Liebeskind or Therese Huber who grew up in the Göttingen anglophile academic circle.9 And lastly, there are individuals like Georg Christoph Lichtenberg who had studied English with Tompson and whose profound interest in so many aspects of British culture made him into one of the foremost eighteenth-century British-German mediators. While the relative popularity of the Miscellanies would seem to confirm its influence in the eighteenth century, it is the more subtle and pervasive presence of Tompson’s

9 For a thorough discussion of women translators and their struggle with contemporary gender norms see Karolin Echarti’s contribution to this volume.

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remarkable volume in the intellectual milieu of Germany and throughout the German speaking world that secured its ongoing significance.

Works Cited Benedict, Barbara (1996), Making the Modern Reader. Cultural Mediation in Early Modern Literary Anthologies, Princeton UP. – (1990), “Literary Miscellanies: The Cultural Mediation of Fragmented Feeling”, in: ELH 57.2, pp. 407–430. – (2001), “The Eighteenth-Century Anthology and the Construction of the Expert Reader”, in: Poetics 28.5–6, pp. 377–397. – (2003), “The Paradox of the Anthology. Collecting and Difference in Eighteenth-Century Britain”, in: New Literary History 34.2, pp. 231–256. Canning, George (1985), “Rogero’s Song from The Rovers”, in: Roger Lonsdale (ed.), The New Oxford Book of Eighteenth Century Verse. Oxford: Oxford UP, pp. 826–827. Bonnell, Thomas F. (2008), The Most Disreputable Trade: Publishing the Classics of English Poetry 1765–1810. Oxford: Oxford UP. Fabian, Bernhard (1994), Selecta Anglicana. Buchgeschichtliche Studien zur Aufnahme der englischen Literatur in Deutschland im achtzehnten Jahrhundert. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. – (1979), “An Eighteenth-Century Research Collection: English Books at Göttingen University Library”, in: The Library, Sixth Series, Volume I, No. 3, pp. 209–224. Finkenstaedt, Thomas (1992), “Auf der Suche nach dem Göttinger Ordinarius des Englischen John Tompson (1697–1768)”, in: Konrad Schröder (ed.), Fremdsprachenunterricht 1500 bis 1800. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 57–74. Gierl, Martin (2015), “Die Göttinger Aufklärung”, in: WP Fahrenberg and Martin van Gelderen (eds.), Lichtenberg lacht. Aufklärung und Satire. Göttingen: Göttinger Verlag der Kunst, pp. 9–44. Inbar, Eva-Maria (1980), “Zum Englischstudium im Deutschland des XVIII. Jahrhunderts”, in: Arcadia 15, pp. 14–28. Korte, Barbara/Schneider, Ralf/Lethbridge, Stefanie (eds.) (2000), Anthologies of British Poetry. Critical Perspectives from Literary and Cultural Studies. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Krake, Astrid (2000), “Der deutsche Richardson. Übersetzungsgeschichte als Beitrag zur Rezeptionsgeschichte”, in: Susanne Stark (ed.), The Novel in Anglo-German Context. Cultural Cross-Currents and Affinities. Amsterdam: Rodopi, pp. 23–36. Lauer, Reinhard (2001), Philologie in Göttingen. Sprach und Literaturwissenschaft an der Georgia-Augusta. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Lonsdale, Roger (ed.) (1984), The New Oxford Book of Eighteenth Century Verse. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Oehler, Johanna (2015), ‘Abroad at a University in the Electorate of Hanover’. Britische Studenten an der Universität Göttingen als Akteure des kulturellen und wissenschaftlichen Transfers 1735–1837. Unveröffentlichtes Dissertationsmanuskript, Universität Göttingen. Pope, Alexander, Swift, Jonathan et al. (1742), Miscellanies. London.

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Schröder, Konrad (1983), “The Pre-History of English Studies in Germany 1554 to 1813”, in: Thomas Finkenstaedt and Gertrud Scholtes (eds), Towards a History of English Studies in Europe, Augsburger I-& I- Schriften, Universität Augsburg, pp. 49–66. Tompson, John. English Miscellanies. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck 1737, 1746, 1755 and 1766. Wolpers, Theodor (2001), “Göttingen als Vermittlungszentrum englischer Literatur im 18. Jahrhundert”, in: Reinhard Lauer (ed.), Philologie in Göttingen. Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft an der Georgia-Augusta. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, pp. 91–136.

Susan Bassnett

The Pleasures and Pains of Anthologies

My interest in anthologies was rekindled at the start of the new Millennium, when Ulrich Broich and I collaborated on a special issue of European Studies, entitled ‘Britain at the turn of the 21st Century’. My contribution was an essay on how the Oxford Book of English Verse had changed through its several twentiethcentury editions, from the 1900 edition compiled by the founding father of Cambridge English, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, known generally as ‘Q’, up to the 1999 edition compiled by Christopher Ricks (Bassnett 2001). It was a highly enjoyable project, from which I learned a great deal, not only about changes in taste and differences of opinion about what might constitute a canon at different points over a century, but also about the ideological implications of editing. For the rather cerebral, slightly anxious edition put together by Ricks, who was very concerned about inclusiveness, was very different from the self-assured first edition, whose editor believed in the civilizing power of poetry and, like Matthew Arnold before him, selected poems that he felt reflected ideals of harmony and order. In the century that elapsed between the first and the latest edition the world had shifted on its axis, with the radical changes brought about by wars, universal suffrage, technological innovation, the end of empire and mass migration reflected epistemologically. Q’s revised edition in 1939, on the eve of the Second World War and twenty years after the end of the devastating First World War, revealed a very different mood from that displayed in the 1900 edition. Q was dismayed by what he saw now as the attitude of a younger generation with very different values. As he said in his preface, ‘Writing in 1939, I am at a loss what to do with a fashion of morose disparagement; of sneering at things long by catholic consent accounted beautiful’ (Quiller-Couch 1939: xiii). The changing fashion of modernism had seen Q’s admired Victorians relegated to the second division, from which they have never fully recovered, while metaphysical poets found a new set of readers and, of course, there was, by the 1930s, a whole new generation of poets appalled by the slaughter of the trenches during the First World War, and disillusioned by an out-dated imperial idea of patriotism. For a man trained in the classics as Q had

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been, with an antipathy to what he termed the ‘German trick of philosophising art’ and resulting chatter about ‘schools’, ‘influences’ and revolts’ (QuillerCouch 1919: 79), the generation of W.H. Auden and Stephen Spender was both incomprehensible and reprehensible. Nevertheless, he added an extra hundred pages of entries to the 1939 edition, though significantly he used the metaphor of an ancient building to explain what he had done, claiming to have added ‘a stone here, a tile there’ to the structure rather than attempting any major reconstruction (Quiller-Couch 1939: xii). The house of English poetry could be touched up a little, but no rebuilding was deemed necessary. The Oxford Book of English Verse has obviously found a broad readership over the years, purporting as it does to introduce readers to the canon of English poetry from the Middle Ages to the present and with the advantage of the Oxford University Press (OUP) distribution network and reputation. OUP has gone on to produce a large number of other poetry anthologies, including, selected at random, Thomas Kinsella’s book of Irish verse, Philip Larkin’s book of twentieth-century English verse, Donald Davie’s anthology of Christian Verse, Jon Stallworthy’s book of war poetry and many more. Yet one of the most successful English poetry anthologies of the twentieth century was not compiled by a poet or an academic at all, but by an unlikely military man, Field-Marshall Archibald, Lord Wavell, who for a short time became Viceroy of India from 1943–47. Wavell’s anthology, entitled Other Men’s Flowers was published in 1944 by Jonathan Cape, and was regularly reprinted over the ensuing decades. The book was an unexpected success, and to date has sold over 130,000 copies; not long before his death in 1950, Wavell became President of the Royal Society of Literature. Assessing its success in an article in The Guardian in 2005, Ian Jack relates how the original idea to produce a book came in fact from Peter Fleming, best known as a journalist, travel writer and brother of Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond, who served on Wavell’s staff in India. Fleming suggested that Wavell should compile a collection of the poems he was so fond of reciting in the evenings, and send it to his own publisher, Jonathan Cape. The book was rejected at first, with the strong critical comment that the choice of poems was merely ‘familiar school recitations advancing in close formation’. Fleming used his influence to lobby on Wavell’s behalf, arguing that the book would sell well, and was proved right, for since it appeared in 1944 it remained in print for decades. Ian Jack speculates on the book’s unexpected success: My guess is that it made poetry respectable for manly men-Wavell’s section on war is called “Good Fighting” but his section on love a tongue-tied “Love and All That” – in an age when recitable poetry still had a popular appeal (Jack, 2005).

The collection seems at first to have appealed to a generation for whom poetry had meant rote learning at school. Jack notes that his father-in-law could recite

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the whole of The Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam by heart, while his own father similarly could recite long poems by Burns and Coleridge, despite both men having left school at 14. As Jack says: They had uneducated memories compared to Wavell, who wrote in his introduction that while, nearing 60, he couldn’t claim he could repeat by heart all the 600 or so poems in the anthology, he thought he could safely claim that he once could (Jack, 2005).

Reciting poetry, like playing the piano or singing, was a popular pastime before the age of radio and the cinema, and educational practice continued to promote learning by heart until the great educational changes of the 1960s. Wavell’s anthology was compiled entirely from memory, so in some cases only extracts from longer works were included, and he apologises in his preface for any deficiencies. The anthology is divided into 9 sections: Section I is Music, Mystery and Magic, which includes Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ and ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, along with Francis Thompson’s ‘The Hound of Heaven’, Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’, Browning’s ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad’ and poems by Milton, Keats, Shakespeare, Kipling. Section 2 is ‘Good Fighting’ where we predictably find more Kipling, Henry Newbolt, Lord Macauley and an interesting choice of two short poems under the heading of Leaders: Old Style, New Style. Under Old style is an extract from Walter Scott’s Marmion, while the new style is represented by Siegfried Sassoon’s bitterly ironic ‘The General’. Section 3 is ‘Love and All That’, Section 4 is ‘The Call of the Wild’ , where Kipling is heavily present, along with John Masefield and Browning again. Sections 5, 6 and 7 are much shorter : 5 is entitled ‘Conversation Pieces’ (which include Wilde’s ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol’ and Fitzgerald’s Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam along with a lot more Browning and Kipling; 6 is a selection of comic verse, ‘The Lighter Side’, 7, ‘Hymns of Hate’, includes Blake’s ‘Auguries of Innocence’ and a lot more Browning. Section 8 is entitled ‘Ragbag’ and includes a random selection of poems including Emerson’s ‘Faith’, a poem by Sir Henry Wotton to Elizabeth of Bohemia, James Elroy Flecker’s ‘Golden Road’ and poems by such diverse writers as Christina Rossetti, Samuel Johnson, Edna St Vincent Millay and James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. The final section is a selection of poems about death, entitled ‘Last Post’. Here we find Housman, Rupert Brooke, W.B. Yeats, Cristina Rossetti again, Robert Burns and Thomas Nashe and, surprisingly, perhaps, Ann Finch, Countess of Winchelsea whose poem, ‘The Soldier’s Death’ –‘Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,/March in a slow procession from afar’- must surely have triggered W.H. Auden’s ‘Stop All the clocks…’ Bravely, Wavell included as a kind of postscript a sonnet he wrote himself in 1943, ‘For the Madonna of the Cherries’. As he explains in his preface, the title for Other Men’s Flowers was borrowed from Montaigne (‘I have gathered a posy of other men’s flowers and nothing but

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the thread that binds them is my own’), who in his time had been playing with the original Greek word anthologia (flower-gathering) (Wavell 1986:20). Wavell’s preface is very personal. He explains that he enjoyed committing poems to memory, in particular work by Kipling and Browning, but has never been able to memorize blank verse easily, hence the relative absence of Shakespeare in his book. He tells us that some poets, such as Tennyson or Wordsworth fail to move him, and though he claims to have enjoyed Keats and Shelley, he can remember little of their work. These details explain their absence from his anthology, which was put together entirely from poems that he could remember. Wavell makes no attempt to justify his choices, other than the purely personal, but does try to make a case for poetry as a significant oral form: Poetry in its origins was certainly a declamatory art, usually post-prandial or postproeliatory (sic). It is one of my charges against modern poetry that it does not easily lend itself to memorizing or declamation…. My experience is that one can never properly appreciate a poem until one has got it by heart; memory stumbles over a word or a line and so wonders why the poet wrote it so, and then savours it slowly that its meaning and relish may stay (Wavell, 1986: 22).

Wavell’s conservatism comes out most clearly in the short prefaces he wrote for each of his sections. The preface to ‘Music, mystery and magic’ contains an inditement of what he terms ‘modern poetry’, and he asks the question as to what use is a poet’s vision if ‘he expresses it in words unintelligible to all but a small circle’ (Wavell, 1986:26). Wavell liked his poetry to be instantly accessible, and though he praises T.S. Eliot he is also critical of someone who, he says wrapped ‘his great talent in a napkin of obscurity’(Wavell, 1986:26). He has almost nothing to say in the brief preface to his section on love poetry, nor on ‘The Call of the Wild,’ which he describes as poetry of youth and adventure, and he gives only a few lines to most of his sections. Yet the preface to ‘Good Fighting’ is oddly touching and self-reflective. As he points out, ‘war is not only a grim but mainly a dull business and does not tend to inspire poetry in those who practice it’ (Wavell, 1986:83). Love poems, he claims, tend to be written by lovers, whereas battle poems are rarely written by those who have been in battle. Significantly, he places poems by three poets, all of whom were killed in the First World War at the start of this section. Jack’s suggestion that Wavell’s anthology made poetry respectable for men is interesting. He comments that Wavell was ‘far from a bluff fool who kept himself going on the march with a few verses of Kipling’, pointing out that Wavell had understood that one of the keys to poetry’s success is its memorability. Jack includes a comment written in 1961 by T.S Eliot describing Wavell as ‘a great man’ and adding ‘This is not a term I use easily…’ After Wavell’s death in 1950, a memorial edition of the anthology was published in 1952, with an introduction

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by his son, who acknowledges his father’s conservative taste and suggests a list of his own favourite poets whom he might have included had he been the editor, such as C.D. Lewis, Auden, Ezra Pound, Eliot and Gerald Manley Hopkins. He also recounts how his father’s reciting of poetry in his childhood had made a lasting impression, and ends his introduction with a short account of the poetry that helped him come to terms with his father’s death. I did not know Wavell’s anthology until Geoffrey Moorhouse, the late travel writer, gave me a battered Penguin edition with a note inside that said this had been the copy he had taken with him on his epic trek across the Sahara, recounted in his best-selling The Fearful Void (1973) – in German, Fata Morgana. Giving me the treasured old book was an important statement of affection on his part, and gave me an insight into the character of a writer who only wrote prose, and yet for whom poetry mattered. In The Fearful Void he writes about reading Wavell’s anthology when exhaustion was setting in. Noting that he was generally too tired to read and needed available daylight to write his notes, he nevertheless notes with astonishment that poems such as those of Kipling which ‘at home I generally disdained, I fairly wallowed in now’: Nothing at all moved me more than an unsuspecting thing like Dorothy Sayers’ ‘The English War’, which read like all the most militant Churchill speeches rolled into one rhythmic form, but which, safe in London, I might have found more emetic than inspiring (Moorhouse, 1973: 196).

The circumstances under which Moorhouse says he read the poems affected his judgement; poems that he would have dismissed in London acquired a different significance in a different context- in short, the poems appealed to his emotions, not to his intellectual judgement or to his aesthetic sensibility. We can find a parallel to this in opera, for example, where we may be fully aware that we are being manipulated by Verdi in the last act of Aida, or by Puccini in La Boheme or by Wagner in Die Valkure and yet are still moved to tears. Just as we can suspend disbelief in the theatre or the cinema and allow ourselves to be manipulated (the English phrase ‘not a dry eye in the house’ reflects the impact of a particularly emotional performance) so certain poems appear to appeal to the emotions in a similar way. For example, one of the poems Wavell included was Jean Ingelow’s ‘High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire’. Jean Ingelow has all but vanished from the literary canon, but in 1892 after Tennyson died, there was some suggestion that she might become the next Poet Laureate. When I came across ‘High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire’ I was astonished to find that I could remember so much of it; I had read it in childhood in another anthology and been deeply moved by this story of the great flood in 1571 in Lincolnshire, told by an old woman who remembers how her son’s wife and children were drowned while she survived. The poem is in heavily rhythmical ballad form, with a predominance

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of 7 line stanzas with lines repeated- ‘a sweeter woman ne’er drew breath/ than my son’s wife, Elizabeth’ and two longer verses that take up Elizabeth’s calling to the cows at milking time. The narrative of love and loss, framed within the ballad form moved me hugely as a child, coming on holiday to England to see my grandmother and reading by daylight during the long summer nights that were so different from the Southern European summer nights I was familiar with. I don’t remember committing Jean Ingelow’s poem to memory, only reading and rereading it, yet the rereadings and the poem’s very structure increased its memorability. What is apparent from Wavell’s anthology and the countless anthologies that sit on people’s bookshelves in dusty corners or take up space in second-hand bookshops is that for English readers, the anthology has played a role in bringing poetry to a wider public than purely to those readers who deliberately set out to buy a collection by a specific poet. In other words, there is a populist aspect to many anthologies, and the variety of poems included in a collection ensures its breadth of readership outside the university world and the members of the Poetry Society. Reflecting on anthologies thus led me to reflect also on the difference between readers, and to reflect on the relative absence of anthologies in British academia, which is in contrast to the ways in which US universities use such texts as the Norton anthologies. For there seems to be a tacit assumption that the anthology is somehow unscholarly, that the anthology is for personal use, for pleasure and not for anything more serious. Today, anthologies are marketed around themes or on the name of the editor- Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney have produced anthologies, and in 2011, Jacqueline Wilson, the UK’s most successful children’s writer, produced an anthology of poems for girls, Green Glass Beads, a title taken from a poem she too memorized in childhood. I now realise that I have a schizophrenic attitude to the anthology, an attitude that comes from having two different conceptualizations of what an anthology is and does that come from inhabiting two cultures. As anyone working in more than one language understands, the complexities of moving between cultures mean that constant negotiation is required for subtle differences of meaning. Bilingual dictionaries, premised on a notion of dualistic equivalence are useful, of course, but limited in their usefulness, for all too often what has to be negotiated is not a lexical item but the relationship of that lexical item to two different cultural contexts. Hence the terms ‘intercultural mediation’ or ‘rewriting’ more aptly explain what happens when we start to transfer material from one context into another, that is, to translate. Sometimes the gap between languages and cultures is a yawning divide: consider, for example, the problems posed by the Aymara language of Northern Chile/Southern Peru/Western Bolivia which has a totally different way of conceptualizing time. In their essay in Cognitive Science 30 (2006) Rafael Nunez and Eve Sweetser examine the meta-

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phoric mappings found in Aymara, where the basic word for front is nayra (eye/ front/sight) is also the basic term for past, while the basic word for back/behind is qhipa is also the term for future. In other words, contrary to the more widely accepted notion of the past being behind us as we walk forward into the future, the Aymara reason that the future is what cannot be seen, therefore is behind, and the past is spread out before us in our memory. Negotiating this kind of difference appears vast, but closer to home, here in Europe, there can also be cultural and linguistic abysses to negotiate. Here is a passage from Milan Kundera’s novel, Ignorance, where he writes about the subtle untranslatability of terms around the idea of loss and sadness generated by exile: The Greek word for ‘return’ is nostos. Algos means ‘suffering’. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion most Europeans can utilize a word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie) as well as other words with roots in their national languages: anoranza, say the Spaniards, saudade say the Portuguese. In each language these words have a different semantic nuance. Often they mean only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one’s country : a longing for the country, for home. What in English is called ‘homesickness’. Or in German: Heimweh. In Dutch: Heimwee. But this reduces that great notion to just its spatial element. (Kundera, 2002: 5).

Kundera’s example exposes the impossibility of equivalence across languages understood as sameness, for all translation necessarily involves negotiation of meaning. So if we return to the idea of the anthology, that word in Italian is, predictably antologia, but where the difference comes is with the signification of those terms. When I first began lecturing in Rome, at the University of La Sapienza in the 1970s, I was given one of the introductory courses to English literature to teach, using the antologia compiled by the man referred to not by name but simply as Il Maestro, Mario Praz. The anthology was organised chronologically, and my task was to teach from Beowulf to the Elizabethans. The chronological anthology was familiar to me, as I had used just such a book in middle school in Rome, where the class was not referred to as letteratura italiana, but simply as l’antologia (note the definite article!).The objective of the school antologia was to provide a chronological map, and exams were tailored around knowledge of that chronology. In school, the only complete works were given were classical ones, Homer first, in an eighteenth century translation and then Virgil, first in translation then book by book from Latin. What was interesting about teaching students at university using Praz’s anthology was the emphasis placed on understanding the historical context of a piece of writing and seeing it in relationship to other writing of the period. Students were not especially interested in following up the journey through the anthologized fragments by reading an entire work, though in their later years they would be given set texts. But between my early school years in Rome and

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taking up the lectureship in that same city, I had by then been exposed to the old style English university literature teaching, where anthologies were frowned upon and students were expected to read in depth. What should I read, I asked my tutor as a bewildered first year student when given the names of five writers, including Ben Jonson, John Donne and John Dryden who were pretty prolific, only to be sent away with a wave of the hand and the command: “Everything! Go away and read everything they wrote”. Everything! And I had never even heard of any of them- that seemed like a tall order indeed. Nevertheless, the strategy of saturation reading worked for me, and when put together with the chronological mapping provided by l’antologia has been of immense value throughout my subsequent career as a writer and academic. However, the practical criticism approach of those English university years which provided me with tools for reading and also for writing was fundamentally ahistorical, and needed to be combined with the training provided from the Italian system via the chronologically organized antologia. Of course the Oxford Book of English Verse, like many other English anthologies is also organised chronologically, but the difference is that in the English classroom, the historical dimension is not highlighted in the same way. The current debates in the UK about the teaching of history and literature in schools revolve around the issue of whether pupils should focus on particular authors or periods decontextualized, or whether they should be given some kind of chronological map. Reflecting on anthologies, I have come to see that although obviously the anthology exists in both English and Italian contexts, there are differences in how anthologies are used pedagogically, and in consequence differences in the value attributed to them. In the Italian context, the anthology is a fundamental teaching tool, as the very word l’antologia suggests. In English other context, the word ‘anthology’ is avoided in common usage; what we have instead are set texts by selected writers. The Oxford anthologies have been successful with general readers, and even more successful have been the Penguin anthologies. Al Alvarez’ The New Poetry which came out in 1962 was hugely influential (this too was a highly personal selection), while the 27 volumes of the Penguin Modern Poets series introduced English readers to a range of other European writers. With hindsight, the Penguin anthologies (or rather Books, as there have been Penguin Books of Modern Verse, of Italian Verse, of Japanese Verse etc.) can be seen as part of a shift in the late 1950s and 60s away from insularity, also marked by such significant events as the visit of the Berliner Ensemble to London in 1956, the Aldwych World Theatre Seasons from 1964,and the founding of Modern Poetry in Translation in 1965 by Ted Hughes and Daniel Weissbort. The publisher Jonathan Cape began publishing bilingual poetry collections and ambitious translations in a series edited by Nathanial Tarn in the late 1960s, and here we can see the anthology starting to

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assume another role, not so immediately personal, though, of course, the editing of any collection involves personal choice. The increase in the number of collections of international poetry in the 50s and 60s seems to have reflected a desire on the part of a broad reading public in Britain reach out to other cultures in an age when the British Empire was coming to an end and the country was rebuilding itself after a devastating war. This social reconstruction was reflected epistemologically, through an interest in writing, cinema, music and theatre from elsewhere, as works from other cultures were introduced to the British public and contributed to the wave of innovative creativity that characterized the period. Through translation, new literary forms and ideas can be promulgated and take root in new soil. In his book, Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame, Andre Lefevere argues that editing, anthologization, criticism and translation should all be seen as modes of rewriting, wherein rewriters ‘manipulate the originals they work with to some extent, usually to make them fit in with the dominant, or one of the dominant ideological and poetological currents of their time’ (Lefevere, 1992). This seems to have been the case in the UK in the post-war period, as exemplified by the popularity of new accessible translations, in particular the publications of the Penguin Books imprint. Penguin Books had been established in the 1930s, and had gained considerable success in the book market with cheap, easily available books. Then in 1946 a new Penguin series appeared, the Penguin Classics, edited by E.V. Rieu. The first in the series was Rieu’s own translation of Homer’s Odyssey, which sold some 100,000 copies in the first few months, and fifty years later had sold over three million. Rieu argued that the epic form had ceased to have any significance for contemporary readers, so chose to translate Homer in to prose. The Odyssey, he declared in his preface, was ‘the true ancestor of the long line of novels that have followed’ (Rieu, 1946). His aim was to reach a new, popular market and to create a new generation of readers for ancient texts. To do this, he proposed to move away from the use of archaic English that has been a prominent feature of much classical translation in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and to provide works in modern English prose, ‘not the stilted, old-fashioned and otherwise un-English style which has too often been adopted by translators’ (Rieu, 1946). Building on the success of the Penguin Classics series in the post-war years, Penguin commissioned a new set of anthologies of non-English material with J.M. Cohen as the series editor. The books consisted of poems in the original language, with English prose translations at the foot of the page. There were no endnotes, but a short biographical note was included for each poet in the Table of Contents, and each volume contain a brief introduction by the editor. Cohen set out his philosophy in his General Editor’s Foreword to the first volumes:

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The purpose of the Penguin books of verse in the chief European languages is to make a fair selection of the world’s finest poetry available to readers who could not, but for the translations at the foot of each page, approach it without dictionaries and a slow plodding from line to line. They offer to those with a fair linguistic knowledge, the readiest introduction to each country’s lyrical inheritance, and a sound base from which to make further explorations (Cohen, 1956).

Any readers’ problems, Cohen continues, can be solved by ‘a glance at the bottom of the page’. However, the books are not only intended for readers with some command of other languages: They should appeal also to the adventurous who, for sheer love of poetry, will attack a poem in a language unknown to them, guided only by their previous reading and some Latin or French. In this way, if they are willing to start with a careful word for word comparison, they will soon dispense with the English, and read a poem by Petrarch, Campanella or Montale, by Garcilaso, Gongora or Lorca straight through. Even German poetry can be approached in this unorthodox way. Something will, of course, always be lost, but not so much as will be gained (Cohen, 1956).

The idealism of this preface seems to belong to another world altogether, particularly for those of us whose government (the Blair government of 2004) abolished compulsory foreign language learning in secondary schools. Cohen’s readers were expected to have a passion for poetry that would enable them to over-ride linguistic difficulties and lead them directly to even the most difficult of poets. He points out that the only poetry included in these volumes is poetry than can be read for pleasure, noting sternly that ‘no specimens have been included for their historical interest, or to represent some particular school or phase of literary history’ (Cohen, 1956). The editor of The Penguin Book of Italian Verse, George R. Kay reinforces Cohen’s approach in his introduction from 1958. The selection, he declares, has been determined by what he terms modern taste and modern questionings. The purpose of the translations is to assist readers so as to make accessible Italy’s lyric wealth to all. Kay has also followed Cohen’s idea of omitting particular schools, since he includes only two poems by Metastasio, commenting that although this poet was ‘the delight of the eighteenth century’, his influence proved ‘more disastrous than Marino’s’. As for Marino, Kay comments that ‘if we pass over his followers, the Marinisti, who are occasionally rewarding to the lover of pure style, little than can be called poetry was met with in Italy for the next two hundred years’ (Kay, 1958). Cohen himself edited The Penguin Book of Spanish Verse in 1956, which includes a number of Latin American poets. In his introduction, written in 1954, Cohen says that by the end of the Spanish Civil War, ‘all Spain’s principal poets

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were dead or silenced, in prison or exile; the metropolis of Spanish poetry was now Mexico, its chief publishers were in Buenos Aires’. In the second edition of 1959, Cohen adds a further note, excusing his lack of awareness of the new Spanish poetry of resistance, and including some of these poets, along with two new poems by Vicente Aleixandre. But, he declares, he has added nothing new from Latin America, ‘having found nothing of the first importance in these last years’ (Cohen, 1959). Such is the power of editors! The bilingual Penguin books of verse had more limited success than the Penguin Classics series, probably because they appealed to a much narrower range of readers. Moreover, despite the hope that the translations would lead readers to attempt the originals, often the translations were so poor that readers were more likely to be deterred from doing so. Just one example may serve to indicate the poor quality of some of the prose versions. Kay’s translation of Giuseppe Ungaretti’s powerful and moving poem, ‘Il fiume’ (The River) reads as follows: I lean upon this wounded tree abandoned in this depression that has the listlessness of a circus before or after the show, and I look at the clouds quietly passing over the moon. Later Penguin anthologies would abandon the blilingual premise, opting instead for wholly translated collections, but Cohen’s venture did result in some books remaining in print for several decades, and the objective, that of giving English readers a taste of poetry from other cultures was surely met. Today, a click of the mouse in a search for anthologies brings up hundreds of titles: anthologies of love poetry, war poetry, poems for marriages, epitaphs, poems about cats or dogs or Christmas birds, anthologies of poems about the seas, the desert, the Scottish Highlands, anthologies of women’s poetry, children’s poetry, best-loved poetry- the lists go on and on. These books, aimed at a general readership, maintain steady sales; some are beautifully illustrated, some are edited by well-known names. But the fact that so many anthologies are personal selections, reflecting the tastes and prejudices of a single individual may be one of the main reasons why anthologies have tended on the whole not to find favour in British universities. In addition, since literary histories are continually being revised, with radical questioning every few years about what constitutes a canon, so the inclusion and exclusion of poets reflects those changes. Anthologies are therefore not only personal, they are also the product of a particular time and so date quickly. Both these factors inhibit their usefulness as a pedagogical tool. Until recently, that is, for there are signs now that this is changing, both in UK schools and universities. One possible explanation is the well-documented shift in students’ attention span and their inability to read long books. In British universities, these changes have affected the number of texts set in a given curriculum,

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and have also had an impact on methods of assessment, with a reduction in the length of course work essays and the introduction of group work or tick box assessments. What this suggests is that the anthology could become a useful tool for a generation more used to reading shorter pieces, and there are signs of this too in the rising number of handbooks, companions, readers and other selections of short texts that now feature prominently in publishers’ lists. In countries such as Italy, the anthology has been accepted as a useful pedagogical tool, and has not been seen, as has been the tendency in the UK context, to be viewed as overtly personal and therefore somehow less scholarly. Perhaps now, as creative writing courses proliferate in literature programmes, we are moving towards a rapprochement between the academic and the personal. As someone who has lived with a schizophrenic attitude towards the anthology, as a result of being educated in two different systems, I can only welcome this trend as yet one more indication of greater transnational and transgeneration harmonization.

Works Cited Bassnett, Susan (2001), “A Century of Editing”, in: Britain at the Turn of the Twenty-first Century, Special Issue of European Studies Vol 16 edited by Susan Bassnett and Ulrich Broich, pp. 251–264. Cohen, J.M. transl. and ed. (1956) (2nd ed. 1959), The Penguin Book of Spanish Verse. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Jack, Ian (2005), “Way over yonder. Ian Jack on Other Men’s Flowers”, in: The Guardian Sat. Oct. 1st accessed via http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2005/oct/01/featuresre views.guardian.co.uk Kay, George R. transl. and ed.(1958), The Penguin Book of Italian Verse Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kundera, Milan (2002), transl. Linda Asher, Ignorance. London: Faber. Lefevere, Andre (1992), Translation, Rewriting and the Manipulation of Literary Fame. London: Routledge. Moorhouse, Geoffrey (1974), The Fearful Void. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Nunez, Rafael E. and Eve Sweetser (2006), “With the Future Behind Them: Convergent Evidence From Aymara Language and Gesture in the Crosslinguistic Comparison of Spatial Constructs of Time”, in: Cognitive Science 30, pp. 401–450. Quiller-Couch, Arthur (ed.) (1900), The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1918. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Quiller-Couch, Arthur (ed.) (1939), The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1918. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Quiller-Couch, Arthur (1925), On the Art of Reading. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rieu, E.V. transl. and ed (1946), The Odyssey. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Wavell, A.P. ed (1986) (first pub. 1944), Other Men’s Flowers. London: Cape.

Martina Witt-Jauch

Miscellany or Masterpiece? – Defining the Discipline of Comparative Literature Through Its Anthologies

Often defined as vehicles for establishing or declaring cultural identity, literary anthologies are by and large a collection of selections that present a “frisson of difference in sameness”. While canons have always existed – even though the term was only coined by David Ruhnken in 1768 – (Ross 247), anthologies have generally been the product of more or less rational choices to present plenitude and promote the cultural survival of worthy textual productions. Their restorative power comes from their agenda to subordinate to the pleasure of the consuming reader for the sake of avoiding cultural loss as well as creating a realm whose literary contents bind the supposedly universal forms of the national mind. Synonymous with “rules” – as Eliot and Wordsworth claim – (Kennedy 562ff.), the canon cannot be separated entirely from the anthology as a means to distribute cultural capital in print and cater to the modern consumer. This sentiment prevails in Haun Saussy’s latest assessment of comparative literature as uniquely qualified to bring about a “marketplace of ideas” (Saussy 225) that allows the discipline to export its practices despite the often lamented lack of institutional implementation. The ground was thus already prepared for embracing theory or what Terry Eagleton calls a “systematic reflection on our guiding assumptions” (Saussy 225). Yet in creating a market for anthologies, Britain added literature to the school curriculum in lieu of the previously used moralistic instructional readers of the Victorian period. Similarly, considerations in the US at the beginning of the twentieth century aimed at providing educational textbooks for the mass market, which had been created by the influx of immigrants. The very existence of literature anthologies is thus closely tied to the marketplace – not only in the form of ideas, but for the purpose of transmitting knowledge and tools to fulfill the demands of a mass readership. Not to be neglected is the background of cultural imperialism. Similar to the politics of the canon, “gaining entrance clearly allows a work to be enjoyed; failing to do so thrusts it into the limbo of the unnoticed, unread, unenjoyed, unexisting. (…) Precisely such appearance within the frame guarantees its aesthetic contemplation – its capacity to make the viewer respect it, take it with

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respect”. (Landow 1) The comparative literature anthology becomes a vehicle for works from the periphery as well as a means to display the center of achievement. This is precisely the core ambition of comparative literature as opposed to world literature. While world literature as a concept is usually a collection of works which might even compare well with each other, comparative anthologies are designed to promote inquiries into relationships between the authors, works, and backgrounds as well as “the relationship between literature and other orbits” (Remak 12). Notions of individual masterpieces thus seem to go against this prescriptive method. While anthologies have been used and adapted across national borders for centuries (e. g. Spalding, Shaw)1, they nonetheless claim to reflect a consensus, especially evident in W. W. Norton’s efforts at democratic evaluation of their anthologies. Most importantly, they precede the institutional foundation of comparative or world literature by more than a century. Just as the anthologies and their creators are oftentimes accused of default complicity with the political or literary hegemony of the current system, comparative literature as a field has been said to go even farther and invade the territory of national literatures and subvert portions of it in an almost terrorist manner (Kadir in Saussy 68–77). While this seems to be a somewhat excessive metaphor for the institution of an abstracted construct of world literature as championed by David Damrosch, there is an inherent problematic in the self-image of the field that, to some extent, relies on systematically reiterated states of emergency or cultural politics of difference. It is the aim of this paper to come to an understanding of how current anthologies of world literature can shed light on the understanding and scope of “a field in crisis” (Damrosch 7). It thus explores in what ways the works of this genre can contribute valid insights into the discipline’s concepts of hypercanon, countercanon and shadow canon as well as common denominators of comparatist study.2 Following an “imaginary canon” as opposed to a pedagogical canon in teaching, as John Guillory terms it (Gallagher 53), one has to acknowledge that the construction of canons themselves is often an imprecise process. Critical assessments and public responses alongside accidental encounters facilitated by 1 Sarah Lawall (2012) gives a valuable overview of the history of world literature anthologies, e. g. Alden’s Cyclopedia of Universal Literature (1885–91) and Charles D. Warner’s A Library of the World’s Best Literature, Ancient and Modern. 2 Rosendahl Thomson (2008). A definition of these three terms can be found on pages 18 to 19 of this book. Hypercanons are made up of the older “major” authors who have held or gained their position in the last twenty years, while a counter-canon consists of the subaltern authors and shadow canons are composed of authors that everyone knows but which are seldom discussed in print. All have been labeled by David Damrosch to replace the old, two-tiered system of major and minor authors.

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professional encounters or material availability of works play equally important roles. In order to move beyond the culture and canon wars of the 1980s one thus needs to approach this issue and various canons from the direct material available to instructors, a large part of which are anthologies. Some of those earlier ideas still sound familiar in the context of anthologies. Discussions still abate around requiring a certain amount of women’s and minority literature in anthologies, while the task to “unmask the texts” has been taken far from the original desire to see texts as having an unmasking function themselves. Critic Martha Nussbaum even laments “a loss of respect for the humanities as essential ingredients of democracy” (Donadio 2)3. The question of choice and selectivity of works and authors remains a highly contested battleground especially when survey courses and anthologies are often the only exposure of neophyte students from other disciplines to comparative literature. In this sense I would also understand David Damrosch’s statement that “we should no longer rest content with a choice between a self-centered construction of the world and a highly decentered one. Instead, we need more of an elliptical approach, to use the image of the geometric figure that is generated from two foci at once” (Damrosch 2003, 133 and Coste 47). Intended to consider the one-andwhole both as the origin and goal and to realize bipolarities, this elliptical approach echoes the preface of an early 1917 anthology : “From these volumes, the thorough reader may learn valuable lessons in comparative literature. […] he will inevitably come to the conclusion that striking national difference in this respect ought in the interest of mankind to be perpetuated and developed, and not obliterated, averaged, or harrowed down” (Damrosch 2000, 8). Leaving the realm of superior present perspectives, a more cosmopolitan, Arnoldian view made its entrance with this Harvard Classics edition.4 Several decades and open admissions of prioritizing the Western world in anthologies later, world literature anthologies may no longer oscillate between extremes of assimilation and discontinuity, but have been drawn into and illustrate the crisis of defining comparative literature in the early twenty-first century. Djelal Kadir’s insistence on the field as a practice rather than corpus or problem also means that “comparative literature takes on its significance by 3 The original source for this comment is an email message written by Martha Nussbaum, which also includes the quote: “Our nation, like most nations of the world, is devaluing humanities vis-/-vis science and technology, so constant vigilance is required lest these disciplines be cut.” Nussbaum also panned Bloom’s book in The New York Review in 1987. 4 According to this view, the purpose of world literature is oriented at who reads and why, not just what is being read canonically. The editor Charles W. Eliot designed it to broaden the reader’s horizon through encountering cultural and social differences, which the other anthology, The Best of the World’s Classics, published in 1909 by editor Henry Cabot Lodge, did not aim to do.

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what is done in its name and by how those practices become ascertained, instituted, and managed” (Kadir 1). This takes us to the crossroads of a pedagogical and theoretically determined literary canon of world literature. Of particular importance here are specific sections in anthologies that aim to guide educators through the conglomerate of texts, most notably in the Longman Anthology’s “resonance” section, which offers “sources for a specific text or responses to it, often from a different time and place” (Damrosch et al. xxvii). Claiming to link texts across time as well as space, however, seems to go against the tendency of sorting all of these texts along a timeline and further focusing on specific areas of the world in the “perspectives” sections. The main tension of most anthologies is present even in this highly respected work and sheds light on new definitions of the studied texts of the discipline. In an attempt to shift the focus of literary history away from extraordinary events to “the large mass of [literary] facts”, Franco Moretti’s analysis draws from quantitative history, geography and evolutionary theory to lay out a system that can be followed by graphs, maps and aims to interpret literary history more rationally (Moretti 67). In contrast to Haun Saussy’s previously mentioned chapter title, in his opinion, “a field this large cannot be understood by stitching together separate bits of knowledge about individual cases, because it (…) is a collective system, that should be grasped as such, as a whole” (Moretti 68). His assertion that this system can only be glimpsed “at the level of the cycle” (Moretti 90) corresponds to Longman’s timeline approach, although it is now the mixture of authors that occludes potential cycles of influence. It accomplishes its function as a comparative interrogation and Moretti’s inclination toward genres and thus goes beyond general survey works that qualify as nothing more than providing a collection of pigeonholes that would not fit any other anthology. Whereas Moretti favors notions of progress and evolution – a time-focused approach, planetary literature offers yet another version of the intermingling of time and space in the concept of comparative literature. It is a concept that caters best to works like Concert of Voices, whose aim is to destabilize prior notions of core and periphery and seemingly prioritizing notions of space. The anthology aims to be an anthology of world writing in English for the global age, both transnational in nature and geared towards a twenty-first century readership with a balance of established and less widely known authors from all – but mainly often neglected parts – of the world. “And while Spivak idealizes planetarity as a space beyond reclamation, a ‘species of alterity belonging to another system; and yet we inhabit it, on loan’, she does not see it as immune to ‘the auspices of a Comparative Literature supplemented by Area Studies,’ noting with a flush of confidence, ‘The planet is easily claimed’” (Saussy 72). She does away with global agents, one-world residence and political imaginaries and embraces

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the need to defamiliarize the reader.5 Suspicious of most contemporary world literature anthologies, Spivak theorizes on the hegemonic map that these works create and that Concert of Voices criticizes in equal measure, although the latter cannot avoid publishing its contents in English translation as it is also geared at an English-speaking audience – as noble as its intentions might be. Yet both challenge presumptions about the formation of canons as well as the tendency to essentialize patterns of reading. While all three discussed anthologies claim to investigate political and cultural imaginaries and circumstances of publication, one main difference between postcolonial-oriented or world literature-oriented anthologies remains the issue of language, translation and, accordingly, accessibility that also accounts for Longman’s section on “Translation Across Cultures” in the Preface. It claims to show “the varied ways in which translators over the centuries have sought to carry works over from one time and place to another – not so much by mirroring and reflecting an unchanged meaning, as by refracting it, in a prismatic process that can add new highlights and reveal new facets in a classic text” (Damrosch et al. xxx). As elaborate as this description may be, the reader will oftentimes be unable to judge the quality of the translation professionally. As such, translation becomes a form of reading in the broadest possible sense that precedes the interpretation by the English-speaking reader. In Spivak’s and Susan Bassnett’s view, it even constitutes a form of translation to put the original ideas into foreign language words, thus the reader is yet further removed from the grasping the essence of the text. Just as Bassnett proclaims translation studies to subsume comparative studies in its scope and research questions, Spivak argues for the empowerment of discourse in original languages and the subsequent study in the English language. Essentially, it is a question of relations between nation, globe and planet as productive or marginalizing spaces that will always be overshadowed by abilities to know the language and particularly contemporary and original meanings that will need to be provided by instructors. Not only are the boundaries between world literature, favored by Moretti and Damrosch, global literature, supported by Dimock and Shih, as well as Spivak’s planetary literature becoming more fluid, but the characteristic terminus for comparative literature has been “crisis” since Ren8 Wellek’s mid-twentieth century definition (Saussy 75). In the most recent assessment of the field, Haun 5 Information on planetary literature can be found in Spivak (2009, p. 613) as well as in an essay by Davis Ferris (2006) and in Waggoner (2005, p. 140). After the oldest term world literature, the newer and vague model of global literature and the label comparative literature as a purpose, process or study, planetary literature made its entrance in the early 2000s as part of a crisis of definition, as comparative literature topics were increasingly exported into other fields and postcolonialism required a rethinking of traditional definitions.

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Saussy’s Comparative Literature in an Age of Globalization – a 2004 report of the state of the discipline –, the introduction is appropriately titled “exquisite cadavers stitched from fresh nightmares”. The discipline is now defined as supplying the “instructions, the labor, and the glue” to the conglomerate of national literatures and singled out by the investment in methods rather than subject matter. In light of these judgments, Saussy admits that “if the specific object of comparative literature is not found in the thematic content of works, perhaps it lies in a dimension of which works and their contents are only symptoms” (Saussy 14). Earliest anthologies were directed at the common reader intending to educate themselves, thus embracing the romance of higher education taking hold in America and reflecting the shift from classical studies towards modern culture. Editors had to “make such a selection as any intellectually ambitious American family might use to advantage, even if their early opportunities of education had been scanty” (Damrosch 2000, 8). Nowadays, they are still believed to respond to changing currents in society and supposed to help students “engage literature not across some reverential distance but with immediacy (…) – as products acting in and being acted upon by, the world” (Damrosch 2000, 27). Beyond the label “prepackaged creatures of consumer capitalism” (Banta 331), I would now like to outline some of the crucial aspects of Paul Davis’ Bedford Anthology of World Literature (2008), Victor J. Ramraj’s Concert of Voices (2009), and David Damrosch’s Longman Anthology of World Literature (2004). New editions were preferred in order to consider the changes that had been implemented with each new version in recent years.6 The Longman Anthology, alongside the Norton Anthology, is probably one of the most widely used comparative works in the English-speaking world and most often used for survey courses or world literature seminars. It has, similar to “the Norton”, often struggled with the decision to retain a one-volume edition or split into several eras and volumes. According to the publisher, the “editors of the anthology have sought to find economical ways to place texts within their cultural contexts (…) intended to foster connections and conversations across the anthology”. As with the Bedford volume(s), there is also an instructor’s manual to offer practical suggestions for teaching. The authors themselves aim to “share directly with you our best ideas on how to bring these texts alive in class”, “discuss every major author or combination of authors (…) opening up possible lines of approach, indicating good connections that can be made, and sketching important trends in scholarly debate”. Thirdly, they intend to be 6 Due to considerations of length and the extensive scholarship that already exists on Norton Anthologies, this essay concentrates on the three other mentioned anthologies, yet comments occasionally on the Norton Anthology of World Literature if a comparison is useful.

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“suggestive rather than prescriptive, and we hope to inform instructors who are new to some of this material while also intriguing people interested in a fresh take on familiar works” (Manual xi).7 Following his own advice, Damrosch’s anthology embodies world literature as a “mode of circulation and reading” (Damrosch 2003, 4) in that the works are arranged so as to engage in the double conversation between their culture of origin and the contexts into which they travel away from home. As the preface outlines, so-called “perspectives” sections provide cultural context, while the sections titled “resonances” link the respective work to other comparable ones. Regarding the nineteenth century, one encounters an almost complete reprint of Goethe’s Faust I and II, followed by perspectives on romantic nature, which combines British, German, Russian and US authors. However, this only leaves space for one Arabic and one Indian author, even though Ghalib’s work is reprinted extensively and Tagore is presented in one chapter. Yet despite its efforts it remains a somewhat forced attempt to retain the Western classics and find appropriate conversation partners elsewhere. Interestingly enough, Damrosch himself mentions his anthology alongside Bedford and Norton in the aforementioned assessment of comparative literature by Haun Saussy as a positive example of one that includes dozens of countries and fulfills Christopher Braider’s ideas of what postcolonialism has accomplished. Scholars “have not only completed the critical dismantling of the inherited literary canon but have displaced the European literary metropolis from the traditional center of comparatist attention” (Saussy 44). The chapter on the medieval period is indeed made up of as many Chinese and other works as traditional Western ones, such as, Beowulf. Much of the section concerning the twentieth century consists of similarly hitherto unconsidered works. The Longman Anthology strikes a compromise between major authors that can stand alone and direct comparisons of shorter works that favor no particular order or hierarchy. As is true for the Longman Anthology of British Literature, one has the impression of a fragmentation and intense selectivity of works when reading their World Literature Anthology. Presenting a hybrid selection of works, Damrosch leaves it up to the teacher to choose their preferred works rather than opting for an established consensus. Directed at one-semester survey courses, its purpose is to “navigate the sea of stories – as Salman Rushdie has described the world’s literary heritage” (Damrosch et al. xxvii) and achieve cultural translation of works with abiding importance at home. Although ambitious and inclusive in its 7 In order to distinguish the Longman anthology from the instructor’s manual, both of which have the same authors, the latter will from hereon be referred to as “Manual” in in-text citations.

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intentions, the main aim seems to be the pedagogic adaptation of an extensive field without being bound by national norms, as the Norton Anthology has the habit of imposing on its contents. While proper translation practices focus on communicating meaning into a target language without spill-over of idiom and usage, cultural translation as a field takes into account that multiple transnational identities – especially of exiles, emigrants and refugees – are procuded and have to be incorporated as a result of the practice of everyday life and therefore translations of original works of literature. Even though the thematic organization imposes a kind of order into the apparent, yet chronological chaos of the Longman Anthology, readers will quickly reach their limits without the accompanying teacher’s guide and other online materials. It confirms – more or less incidentally – Damrosch’s suspicion that world literature must “also be a way of studying literature” (Rosendahl Thomsen 58) instead of a set of works. Notable, however, is certainly the generous use of illustrations and connections that are drawn to other arts. In taking the Greek root of “gathering flowers” for the term “anthology”, the connection to other arts is not limited to comparative anthologies, but rather stems from the earliest imitations of classical poetry anthologies in Britain, which goes back to Elizabethan times. It was a format well suited to selective reading and teacher-directed study, whereas the former miscellany had emphasized repetition, memorization and self-study. A distinct benefit was precisely its capacity for additional materials, including glossaries, maps, and illustrations (Ferry). Home reading was still a wide-spread use for anthologies in the nineteenth century even before its success spread to the United States or continental Europe. When space is limited, the Longman Anthology as well as others still opts for the inclusion of a shorter, yet distinctive and remarkable poem to avoid the difficulty of shortening a novel or selecting an appropriate drama excerpt, both of which usually require much information on plotline and characters. The Longman Anthology has now also submitted to the trend of splitting into volumes A, B and C to reflect the trend towards college courses on literary epochs. This arrangement also does not allow for direct textual reading without having to read other people’s research and thus readers experience everything second-hand. Franco Moretti understands literary history in terms of a worldsystem rather than particular national or linguistic traditions. This “patchwork of other people’s research” (Owens 105) allows the reader to focus on thematic and much smaller units as conditions of knowledge, which further accepts the idea that something might be lost in the process of understanding the system in its entirety. Thematic units are the backbone of the Bedford Anthology, which essentially extends the smaller “perspectives” sections of Damrosch’s anthology, but subscribes to entirely different views.

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The Bedford Anthology has, according to Jeffrey DiLeo, “a mission to represent cultural themes on an international scale; it also exemplifies the tradeoff between a large proportion of representative excerpts and concomitant limits on the number of complete texts” (DiLeo 83). Yet he admits that the Longman Anthology is simply the more complicated and less colorfully organized version of the Bedford one. The reader’s attention is shifted to the more complex and distanced level of analysis as the excerpts become shorter and the sections “in the world” as well as “in the tradition” provide much more rigid guidance. Outwardly, the anthology’s goal is “to give emphasis to the works most commonly taught in the survey course. […] A distinctive variety of pedagogical features gives students the help they need to understand individual works of literature” (Damrosch et al. v). In an attempt to preserve the experience of close reading, the Bedford’s editors opted for a break with the dominant textbook form that the Norton Anthologies, according to M. H. Abrams, first realized to create a more pleasurable reading experience. The same demand has been made of canons, which are designed to fundamentally afford specific works “a guarantee of quality, and that guarantee of high aesthetic quality serves as a promise, a contract, that announces to the viewer, ‘Here is something to be enjoyed as an aesthetic object. Complex, difficult, privileged, the object before you has been winnowed by the sensitive few and the not-so-sensitive many, and it will repay your attention. You will receive frission; at least you’re supposed to, and if you don’t, well, perhaps there’s something wrong with your apparatus’” (Landow 294). These assertions of giving pleasure are vital to the Bedford Anthology, yet practical considerations are paramount for the Longman one. Its mission regarding students’ pleasure can only be deduced from the editors’ goal of “presenting ways to engage students, to foster understanding, and to stimulate lively discussion of all our major texts and groupings of works”. (Manual 1) As embodiments of theoretical stances and caterers to the pedagogical demands of world literature courses, both the Longman and Norton anthologies promote the comparison of various traditions, polyglossia, and ecumenicity. These echo the texts that inaugurated the discipline of comparative literature: “the desire to understand the connections between literary traditions in the original languages and a defense of cosmopolitanism” (Jusdanis 104). In order to avoid repeating early static paradigms, both anthologies are in a rush to prove that literature can be collected according to aesthetic principles, which Jeffrey DiLeo understands to be synonymous with “liberal” as in contemporary political discourse, where it is often also a rhetorical tool (DiLeo 85). This idea of art for art’s sake incorporates the idea of individual works as anchor points for all sorts of critical study. In a way, both these anthologies might thus be responses to Charles Bernheimer’s 1993 report of the state of Comparative Literature, which

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“has broadened the field of comparison to such an extent that it is in danger of losing its focus on literature” (Jusdanis 107). Despite nods to other fields of the arts, the revision and expansion of the canon of Comparative Literature, to which the Bedford editors allude, has forced anthologies to indeed cut some longer works in favor of excerpts or miscellanies in the sense of the Latin “miscellane” – “a dish of mixed corn.” While these anthologies still convey the notion of an evolution, they have distanced themselves from the hierarchical recognition of masterpieces to continue to fulfill their premise of prolonged study. The Norton Anthology of World Literature, for one, has replaced its older Masterpiece collection to embrace the new title “anthology” or “collection” from the Greek word. In Gregory Jusdanis’ understanding, Goethe meant world literature to be “less a collection of masterpieces than a state of mind and, more generally, a course of literary traffic and a vehicle for inter-cultural understanding” (Jusdanis 108). Both the Bedford and Longman anthologies interpret literature in precisely that manner as a process. Just as Goethe’s Faust is a firm staple in most anthologies, at least in parts, his theory of world literature is inspired not only by considerations of the progress of humanity, but also by the observation of the Germans by other nations, “praising or blaming, understanding or misunderstanding them”. (Pizer 2011, 4) Of great importance to the assessment of current anthologies, however, is not only this cultural imperialism, but also his idea of increased traffic among several European nations as “trigger[ing] a process of cross-border corrections” (Pizer 2011, 5). While this corresponds to the idea of sections and specific comparisons of these texts (through the editors’ guidance), it collides with aforementioned views on the translation and planetary literature. Noticeably, the Longman Anthology refuses to include the imperialist view in the same segment titled “The Conquest and Its Aftermath”, which consists solely of the conquered nations’ literatures and avoids direct discourse with the other side. Cross-border connections are more difficult to draw, but sacrificed for the sake of political correctness. Paul Van Thiegem has claimed that the term “general literature” is indeed still on the table and that even in a general study of literature, “national literatures would simply provide examples for international trends”, while comparative studies would retain national literatures as “anchors of investigation” (Stallknecht 15). While the hitherto mentioned anthologies all claim to package literary works into coherent units through special sections in their works, e. g. “Romantic Nature” or “Postcolonial Conditions”, Van Tieghem asserts that the number of creative, historical and critical works that a scholar needs to absorb to become proficient in a particular national literature or literary period simply exceeds the abilities to “assemble and integrate the researches of more than two national literatures” (Stallknecht 16). Those who engage in this Herculean task

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needs to be a particular set of scholars that will, however, lose touch with the reader and the literary text over time. However questionable and outdated this assertion may seem, it raises important questions to ask with regard to comparative literature anthologies: Did they indeed fall victim to the “seeds of mechanization, superficialization and dehumanization of literature”? (Stallknecht 16) Is the division of labour visible in the finished product? The preface of the Longman Anthology, for one, merely mentions that introductions for each author, unit and section were written by one of the editors, yet no comments can be found whether there was a selection according to specialty or prior knowledge. The introductions themselves were designed to be read by a less scholarly audience requiring little background knowledge. Of course, these efforts are also made by other mainstream anthologies and a certain amount of superficialization while attempting to incorporate the most important illustrations, facts and elements, e. g. Caspar David Friedrich paintings in the unit “Romantic nature”. In an attempt to humanize global authors and their works, Ramraj includes very little commentary, which could also be interpreted as superficialization. There is also a kind of mechanized construction in most mainstream anthologies, which results in a very similar design and layout of most anthologies in general. Along with those tendencies one notices an increasing digitalization of anthologies, usually very alike among them and resulting in websites or a CD-ROM with additional material desired by the editors. This partly has to do with the book trade developments over the last few years, which has seen a market that recontextualizes and reinterprets texts at the same time as it trademarks particular works as “French”, “Swedish”, or other nationalities. Studying the selection and trends of overall prize winners and popular literature in the international market is similarly reflected in the contents.8 Amidst the flood of titles, anthologies thus provide one of the staple and easy to produce sellers of publishing houses with a consistent readership. Overall, however, the division of labor remains hidden in the crevices of construction, overshadowed, for instance, by the various explanations in the preface. Criticism of Ramraj’s anthology Concert of Voices is even more elegiac than the prefaces of the hitherto discussed ones. John Clement Ball of the University of New Brunswick is quoted as claiming that “this concert features the frisson of dissonance as well as the pleasures of harmony ; it will get students tuning in to the voices of the world and wanting to hear more” (Broadview Press) – although his other writings suggest a critique of imposingn a common agenda onto Commonwealth nations or merely focusing on subversive texts, which become 8 Ann Steiner’s chapter “World Literature and the Book Market” in The Routledge Companion to World Literature (Routledge, 2012) is the most recent exploration of this topic.

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performers of resistance in place of people9. This anthology of world literature in English, also published in 2004, contains mostly non-traditional, non-Western writings that appear to follow no particular order at first sight. The postcolonial focus amends its recommended use in contemporary literary studies. Crosscultural and multicultural in scope, Ramraj’s anthology links its contents by the common language of English imposed by centuries of British imperial expansion, thus taking a different stance from our previous works. Without closer definition of what actually constitutes this counter-tradition, Concert of Voices adopts the same approach as the Norton Anthology of English Literature, which also defines its scope by uniting works with the common bond of language. Their chapter “The Persistence of English” builds on the tradition of Anthony Trollope’s mental culture, “that part of our consciousness that is shaped and shared by way of a common language” (Saupe 202). The anthology further follows in the footsteps of Gayatri Spivak’s commitment to a radical alterity defined by the politics of translation, proposing “the planet to overwrite the globe” (Apter in Saussy 60). It counters a new parochialism in which all places are discussed as virtual or theoretical spaces, which is sanctioned by the false piety to not want to mistranslate the other. In her manifesto for a new comparative literature, ironically entitled Death of a Discipline,10 Spivak asks us to imagine ourselves as planetary creatures and define ourselves with reference to underived alterity, opening us up to an embrace of inexhaustible difference (Waggoner 140). Defamiliarization may engage us in a literary-critical disciplinary exercise in othering the self in order to find what anthology editor Ramraj describes as our common humanity (Ramraj xv). The purpose of the anthology according to the editor is thus to provide an alternative text to anthologies of traditional and established writings (also assuming that new writings in English are invariable displaced and marginalized) and at the same time to complement these anthologies (Ramraj xv). As Ramraj claims, that “in this regard, the word ‘other’ – which points up apartness and division – was found wanting and dropped from the main title” (Ramraj xv). Goethe’s concern with world literature “as a means to develop a cosmopolitan sensibility” might indeed be imperiled by the age-old desire to instrumentalize literatures of the world for political purposes – a process that Shu-mei Shih 9 Further insight into John Clement Ball’s stance on postcolonial writing and anthologies can be deduced from his work Imaginingn London: Postcolonial Fiction and the Transnational Metropolis, pp. 12ff. 10 Apart from its symbiotic genesis of Comparative Literature and Area Studies, this book’s argument of a methodological reversal in which the site of production should become a field of engaged self-other relations and the acknowledgement that the other as producer of knowledge has to be turned against one to question one’s positionality as investigator or researcher is of great use regarding the study of anthologies.

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labels “technologies of recognition” (Saussy 75). The same claim is ventured by Itamer Even-Zohar, who explains that there is an inherent discrepancy between the use of anthologies and the response by the reading public around the globe (Damrosch, Melas et al. 402). Powerful literatures from the core (i. e. Western tradition) constantly “interfere with the trajectory of peripheral ones”, thus perpetually increasing the inequality of the system. (Damrosch, Melas et al. 402) The procedure exhibits a stunning sameness of conservatism when peripheral literatures become part of the canon and are “drawn into the orbit” of core literatures. Of course, I doubt that there is any desire on the part of editors of current mainstream anthologies to perpetuate this pattern, yet the urge by Ramraj and like editors remains to distance themselves in the selection of texts and promotion of their anthologies. This absence of a communal sense amidst an increasingly dissenting array of editors and publishers already has an effect on anthologies that become the focal point of protest and critique, while Spivak, for one, has realized that the true purpose of the anthology remains the education and pedagogical aims of such works nowadays (Spivak 2009, 615). Is there a discrepancy between educating the students to become critics and the critical diversity and value of the discussed anthologies? The patchwork of other people’s research and criticism that allows for a distinct focus on points of encounter simultaneously impacts the student’s approach to the text and proclaims to the instructors what theory might best suit a piece of literature – even before the latter open an instructor’s manual. Indeed, both the Bedford and Longman anthologies engage in a sorting pattern that suggests particular pairings, such as Franz Kafka (Germany) and Lu Xun (China)11 with a critical psychoanalytical approach. The length (or rather lack thereof) of the printed excerpts seems to discourage a closer engagement and it depends upon the instructor to offer additional readings if time allows. Ramraj’s anthology imposes fewer restrictions but still concentrates on its (rather less well hidden) agenda of postcolonial investigation with themes like in-betweenness, writing back from the colonized’s perspective, and a combination of essential passions of the heart, and mimicry regarding social and class perspectives, as the introduction by the editor notes (Ramraj xxviii). Although the diversity of literary traditions is indeed exemplary for such a comparably small volume, its “performance space” (Vervliet 155) is almost too full with textual possibilities and offers indeed what Barthes called “a galaxy of signi11 Using similar metaphors of biological metamorphosis as signs of alienation in high modernism as well as similar symbolism, Kafka and Xun – often considered China’s greatest modern writer of the twentieth century and called “commander of China’s cultural revolution” by Mao Zedong – show that Chinese and Western society shared similar concerns, although Xun does not directly recite and adopt Kafka’s storytelling as has often been claimed.

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fiers”, but manages to block a number of entrances that do not correspond with his ideals and thus discriminates against a number of theories of Western origin. The global marketing of ideas through anthologies has eventually come full circle, as we once again witness the loss of (some of the) particulars in the face of literary universalism. Despite this more or less minor fault, Ramraj’s anthology succeeds in overcoming the binary logic of a “politics of recognition” (Shih 14) and includes Western works without only valorizing the most dominant and the most resistant texts or authors. This form of transnational moment fosters the emergence of a new space that is structured by uneven power relations and reminiscent of Cooppan’s attempts to combine national narratives and global theory in the uncanny postcolonial present. In doing so, she leans on Erich Auerbach’s theory of points of departure, the characteristics of which are “its concreteness and its precision on the one hand, and on the other, its potential for centrifugal radiation” (Cooppan 2009, 12 & 15). A literary continuum, however, is only provided by footnotes and few explanations. In effect, it takes the Bedford anthology’s aim to draw students into the texts through a pleasant reading experience even further to resemble a borderless collection that any attempt at a geo-literary map appears futile to novel scholars. This borderless reading experience, in turn, reflects Damrosch’s idea of elliptical circulation of texts beyond their spatial and temporal points of origin. Students are taken into an unfamiliar territory that is positively uncanny – at once familiar yet long known to us. In turning students into critics, the Longman Anthology editors point out that “students can be encouraged – individually or in small groups – to research and develop their own perspectival clusters of materials, using as a point of departure some text or some issue that has particularly intrigued them” (Manual xiii). This leaves the impression of paying lip service rather than actively teaching the students techniques of reading and analyzing these sometimes very foreign texts. The Norton Anthology of World Literature, alongside the Longman and Bedford versions, do not find the space for aspirations to turn students into critics of literature. However, all three provide guidance in the form of online essays, sample essay questions and such through Discovery Modules or similarly labeled resources. As springboards for a deeper engagement of students with the text, they still require the instructors’ guidance to not only point them towards these resources but also to judge and critique their efforts. Even though many students might not go on to become literary scholars with advanced degrees, comparative literature anthologies – as the example of ones in the field of English literature shows – are often kept as reading material. As Stephen Greenblatt has said in an interview on the fiftieth anniversary edition in 2012, “the anthology changes, but it is meant to last. Even now in its somewhat

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bulky form, people keep their Norton Anthology for their whole lives. And they do that for a reason. They do it because they sense that it’s not something that just comes and goes. They trust it and want to return to it. That’s something again that our culture has too little of and that the anthology has passionately served.” (Abrams 1) Yet a discussion between scholars and anthology editors Di Leo and Graff shows that there is indeed criticism about the anthology’s ability or even need to teach criticism. A nostalgic glance at the anthology twenty years later does not always suffice or even constitute a purpose of such a collection. Graff proclaims at the very beginning that “one of the worst pedagogical results of literature” anthologies is “legitimating the primacy of literary texts and their supposed transparency, and obscuring the importance of criticism and interpretation (not even to mention theory) for the literature classroom” (Graff 113). Aside from the different audience of both quotes – the public versus scholarly journal readers, there is something to be said for the importance of becoming able to navigate the aforementioned sea of stories on your own even after the instructor is no longer around. This leads us to an inquiry into the role of the editors, who, after all, are critics in their methods of selecting and amending (with illustrations, comments or footnotes) the works that find their way into the anthology. Aside from personal, editorial and the publishers’ agenda in the choice of works, the anthology becomes a textual space which performs a particular role. Although even Karl Marx proclaimed that “a writer is a worker […] in so far as he enriches the publisher” (Marx 124), art – including anthologies – is both an economic practice and a form of social production, as Terry Eagleton argues in his essay “The Author as Producer” (Gale 487)12. This raises the issue to what extent it is a social practice and textual activity and to what degree it is in fact an object to be academically dissected. The consciousness of production, our relation to literature of the past, and Eagleton’s claim that Marxist criticism is part of the liberation from oppression, in contrast to other techniques of interpretation. In rearranging past literature more or less consciously depending on the respective editor, there emerges the danger of imposing cognitive maps and disciplinary assumptions identifiable as yet another form of the politics of translation by Spivak. Editors need to at once defamiliarize the reader into an inbetween contact zone and provide useful aids. Mainstream comparative literature anthologies are usually assembled by a variety of scholars from all age 12 In the essay “The Author as Producer”, Eagleton discusses that art is a form of social production, which closely determines its nature, and that literature as a text is simultaneously a social activity that interrelates with other forms of social and economic production. As such, it is potentially the most highly mediated of social products and also part of commodity production, just as anthologies are also designed to allow students to “rest content within that realm” of literary and human consciousness – despite its marketability.

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ranges, university backgrounds and geographical regions. In contrast to the strengthening of humanities departments at elite universities during the current financial crisis in the US and simultaneous dismissal of these at other institutions, anthologies rely on the variety of opinions and reviews in order to strengthen the impact of the work. Rarely does one find an anthology like Concert of Voices, which is the work of only a few or one scholarly mind. The erasure of boundaries through editors of various cultural and scholarly identities – a concept propagated by Judith Butler and Gayatri Spivak and encouraging transnational solidarity (Behdad) – has succeeded at least on this formal plane of requirements. They exemplify what Welleck has called the “foreign trade aspects” of comparative literature, namely, intermediaries, reception, success, influence, translations and national attitudes (Remak “How I Became a Comparatist” in Koppen 88). No field of endeavor in the academic sphere can function without knowing why it does what it does and that necessitates the continuing investigation of what comparative literature is by editors, publishers and readers alike. Fostering alertness to human commonalities, the urgent call for a new comparative literature has not gone unheard. It emphasizes the need for a selfaware theory of reading beyond the search for a point of reference and object for comparative projects. Instead, comparative literature alongside these anthologies provides “points of encounter”13. While Jonathan Culler calls for the field to liberate itself from the study of sources and influence and accede to a broader regime of intertextual studies (Culler in Saussy 237), these anthologies thrive and foster these kinds of comparisons. In the current field, authors from the shadow canon (that is, still known by the older scholarly generation) seem to disappear gradually from these anthologies and are replaced by more counter-canonical authors without compromising the hypercanon (major authors who have gained ground over the past twenty years). Torn between these various authors, anthologies, to some extent, have not yet been able to implement changes proposed after the crisis and declaration of the death of the discipline. A comparison of several anthologies, however, shows that their regularly and ever-changing contents and selection of works is of great use when it comes to the implementation and creation of a pedagogical canon and method. Critic Kadir’s claim that national literatures are indeed appropriated and subverted seems exaggerated in light of the field’s self-definition as reading these national works in a new mode (Kadir 1–9). Considering the many positive 13 The term “points of encounter” is adapted from Gilles Deleuze’s writings on literature and rhizones, claiming that these points function as intersections or crossed lines where creativity and enunciation are strongest and result in collective assemblages of enunciation – to borrow his term. For more information, see Gilles Deleuze and Claire Parnet (ed.)’s work Dialogues II (Columbia UP, 2007), pp. 27ff.

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aspects of these anthologies, future ones would certainly profit more from Haun Saussy’s advice regarding Comparative Literature as a whole: “Comparative Literature is not only legitimate: now, as often as not, ours is the first violin that sets the tone for the rest of the orchestra.” (Saussy 3)

Works Cited Abrams, M. H. / Greenblatt, Stephen (2012), “Built to Last”, in: The New York Times, August 23. Accessible online via http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/26/books/review/ norton-anthology-of-english-literature-turns-50.html?pagewanted=all/. Last Accessed on April 3, 2013. Ball, John Clement (2004), Imagining London: Postcolonial Fiction and the Transnational Metropolis. Toronto, Canada: U of Toronto P. Banta, Martha (1993), “Why Use Anthologies? Or One Small Candle Alight in a Naughty World”, in: American Literature 65.2, pp. 330–334. Behdad, Ali / Thomas, Dominic (eds.) (2011), A Companion to Comparative Literature. Chichester : Wiley and Sons. Bloom, Lynn Z. (2000), “Once More to the Essay : The Essay Canon and Textbook Anthologies”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 20–35. Chevigny, Bell Gale (1993), “Teaching Comparative Literature of the United States and Spanish America”, in: American Literature 65.2, pp. 354–358. Churchman, Philip H. (1922), “The Use of Anthologies in the Study of Literature”, in: The Modern Language Journal 7.3, pp. 149–154. Coopan, Vilashini (2004), “Ghosts in the Disciplinary Machine: The Uncanny Life of World Literature”, in: Comparative Literature Studies 41.1, pp. 10–35. – (2009), Worlds Within: National Narratives and Global Connections in Postcolonial Writing. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP. Coste, Didier (2004), “Is a non-global universe possible? What universals in the theory of comparative literature (1952–2002) have to say about it”, in: Comparative Literature Studies 41.1, pp. 37–48. Damrosch, David, Natalie Melas, and Mbongiseni Buthelezi (eds.) (2009.), The Princeton Sourcebook in Comparative Literature: From the European Enlightenment to the Global Present. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP. Damrosch, David (2001), “The Mirror and the Window: Reflections on Anthology Construction”, in: Pedagogy 1.1, pp. 207–214. – (2003), What is World Literature? Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP. – (2000), “World Literature Today : From the Old World to the Whole World”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 7–19. Damrosch, David et al (eds.) (2004), The Longman Anthology of World Literature: Part 2. Longman. Davis, Paul/ Gary Harrison/ David M. Johnson/ John F. Crawford (eds.) (2008), The Bedford Anthology of World Literature, Compact Edition, Volume 2: The Modern World (1650-Present). Bedford/ St. Martin’s. DiLeo, Jeffrey R. (2004), On Anthologies: Politics and Pedagogy. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P.

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Donadio, Rachel (2007), “Revisiting the Canon Wars”, in: The New York Times, September 16. Accessible online via http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/16/books/review/Donadio-t. html?pagewanted=all. Last Accessed on April 3, 2013. Drake, George (2001), “Placing the Canon: Literary History and the Longman Anthology of British Literature”, in: Pedagogy 1.1, pp. 197–201. Ferris, David (2006), “Indiscipline”, in: Haun Saussy (ed.), Comparative Literature in an Age of Globalization. Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, pp. 78–99. Ferry, Anne (2001), Tradition and the Individual Poem: An Inquiry Into Anthologies. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP. Gale, Maggie B. /Deeney John F (eds.) (2012), The Routledge Drama Anthology and Sourcebook: From Modernism to Contemporary Performance. New York: Routledge. Graff, Gerald /Jeffrey R. Di Leo (2000), “Anthologies, Literary Theory and the Teaching of Literature: An Exchange”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 113–128. Graff, Gerald, and Jeffrey R. Di Leo (2004), “Anthologies, Literary Theory, and the Teaching of Literature”, in: Jeffrey R. Di Leo (ed.), On Anthologies: Politics and Pedagogy. Lincoln, NE: U of Nebraska P, pp. 279–97. Jeliffe, R. A. (1947), “An Experiment in Comparative Literature”, in: College English 9.2, pp. 85–87. Jones, Ben (1974), “Dissent and Alternatives: A Review of Two Anthologies”, in: Boundary 2, pp. 616–20. Jusdanis, Gregory (2003), “World Literature: The Unbearable Lightness of Thinking Globally”, in: Diaspora 12.1, pp. 103–127. Kadir, Djelal (2004), “To World, to Globalize – Comparative Literature’s Crossroads”, in: Comparative Literature Studies 41.1, pp. 1–9. Kennedy, George Alexander et al. (1997), The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism: Volume 4, The Eighteenth Century. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP. Koppen, Erwin / Tiedemann, Rüdiger (eds.) (1983), Wege zur Komparatistik: Sonderheft für Horst Rüdiger zum 75. Geburtstag. De Gruyter. Kuipers, Christopher M. (2003), in: “The Anthology/ Corpus Dynamic: A Field Theory of the Canon”, in: College Literature 30.2, pp. 51–71. Landow, George P. (2006), Hypertext 3.0: Critical Theory and New Media in an Era of Globalization. Baltimore, MD: JHU Press. Lauter, Paul (2004), “Taking Anthologies Seriously”, in: MELUS 29.3/4, pp. 19–39. Lawall, Sarah (2012), “Anthologizing ‘World Literature’”, in: Theo D’haen et al. (eds.), World Literature: A Reader. New York: Routledge, pp. 239–258. Marx, Karl (2000), Theories of Surplus Value. New York, NY: Prometheus Books. McLaughlin, Robert L. (2000), “Anthologizing Contemporary Literature: Aesthetic, Cultural, Pedagogical, and Practical Considerations”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 90–100. Miner, Earl (1987), “Some Theoretical and Methodological Topics for Comparative Literature”, Poetics Today 8.1, pp. 123–140. Mujica, Barbara (1997), “Teaching Literature: Canon, Controversy, and the Literary Anthology”, in: Hispania 80.2, pp. 203–215. Owens, W.R. / Correa, Delia da Sousa (eds.) (2010), The Handbook to Literary Research. New York: Routledge. Parry, John T. (1944), “A Plea for Better Anthologies”, in: College English 5.6, pp. 318–324.

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Pizer, John David (2006), The Idea of World Literature: History and Pedagogical Practice. Lousiana State UP. – et al. (eds.) (2011), The Routledge Companion to World Literature. New York: Routledge. Pressman, Richard S. (2000) , “Is There a Future for the Heath Anthology in the NeoLiberal State?”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 57–67. Ramraj, Victor J. (ed.) (2009), Concert of Voices: An Anthology of World Writing in English. Peterborough: Broadview P. Remak, Henry H. H. (1989), “Comparative Literature”, in: Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature 38, pp. 9–15. Rosendahl Thomson, Mads (2008), Mapping World Literature: International Canonization and Transnational Literatures. London: Continuum. Ross, Trevor (1998), The Making of the English Literary Canon: From the Middle Ages to the Late Eighteenth Century. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s UP. – “Roundtable Discussion”, in: Pedagogy 3.3 (2003): 451–477. Saupe, Karen (2001), “Norton and Longman Travel Separate Roads”, in: Pedagogy 1.1, pp. 201–207. Schrift, Alan D. (2000), “Confessions of an Anthology Editor”, in: Symploke 8.1–2, pp. 164–176. Shih, Shu-mei / Lionnet, FranÅoise (eds.) (2005), Minor Transnationalisms. Durham: Duke UP. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty (2003), Death of a Discipline. New York, NY: Columbia UP. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty (2009), “Rethinking Comparativism”, in: NLH 40.3, pp. 609–626. Stallknecht, Newton P. / Frenz, Horst (eds.) (1961), Comparative Literature: Method and Perspective. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois UP. Van Zanten Gallagher, Susan (2001), “Contingencies and Intersections: The Formation of Pedagogical Canons”, in: Pedagogy 1.1, pp. 53–66. Vervliet, Raymond (2000), Methods for the Study of Literature as Cultural Memory. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Waggoner, Matt (2005), “The Death of a Discipline”, in: Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory 6.2, pp. 130–41.

Christian Schmitt-Kilb

Envisioning Cultural Imperialism and the Invention of English Literature in Elizabethan England

1

Introduction

In the context of a collection of essays which honors the occasion of 250 years of English Studies in Germany, a chapter on a number of Elizabethan writers is in need of an explanation. Without aiming to challenge the crucial role which the events of John Tompson’s publication of his English Miscellanies in 1737 and his call to Goettingen as Professor of English in 1762 played in the process of the institutionalization of English Studies, I am concerned on the following pages with the pre-history of the very possibility of the idea of English Studies, a concern which demands a look at the years of Elizabeth’s reign and even before, and certain texts and authors which appear to be of major importance in this context. The claim that English Literature is an invention of the second half of the sixteenth century is rather bold. Nevertheless, I hope that I will be able to provide convincing evidence that the notion is written into life, partly consciously and partly not, by poets, scholars, courtiers, printers and publishers in these decades. The early modern invention of English Literature goes hand in hand with the invention of a cultural tradition and a vernacular canon which is suitable to support, ennoble and provide meaning for the new institution. This development is identifiable in texts ranging from Tottel’s Miscellany (1557) and Edmund Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender (1579) to Samuel Daniel’s “Musophilus” (1599) and the same author’s A Defence of Ryme (1603). English Literature in the making is inscribed, in the 16th century, in the looming discourse of national identity, national rivalry and cultural nationalism – terms all of which have to be used cautiously in the context of a culture in which the claims to a high cultural status of literature in the vernacular are contested even within the national boundaries. This caution remains apposite even in the face of recent claims (eg. Shrank 2004, p. 3–4) to an already well-established national consciousness in 16th century England. As an integrative idea, the concept of the nation is clearly emerging; referencing John of Gaunt’s famous “This England” speech in Shakespeare’s Richard II (Shrank 2004: 4) does not

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suffice, though, to dissipate serious doubt concerning the existence of a fully fledged early modern English national consciousness. Against the backdrop of these reservations, it is surprising to see that the rise of the idea of English Literature is interspersed in this period not only with navelgazing involving anxious comparison with the continental neighbours but also with ideological set pieces of what, in critical literature today, has been called cultural and linguistic imperialism. This is particularly visible in Samuel Daniel’s didactic and dialogic poem “Musophilus” (1599). One of the speakers casts a utopian glance and suggestively asks: “to what strange shores / This gain of our best glory [i. e. English Literature] shall be sent, / T’ inrich unknowing Nations with our stores?” A short comment on William Shakespeare’s The Tempest which marks a prominent case of linguistic imperialism in the context of the (pre)colonial encounter between Caliban and Prospero, will conclude the considerations. To sum up: On the following pages, I will attempt to mark out the field in which the notion of cultural nationalism and the accompanying ideological set pieces of cultural and linguistic imperialism gain contours in early modern England. Therefore I will trace the (inescapable?) nexus between expansionist ambitions which so often accompany national(ist) ideas and the evocation of a literature of the nation in Elizabethan England.

2

Richard Tottel’s Miscellany (1557)

A long non-linear process of doubt, rejection, defence and self-assurance regarding the status of their national culture paved the way for English scholars, writers, poets and professors to conceive of English Studies as a subject worthy of academic attention – not only at home but also abroad. One of the outstanding documents which bear witness to this process is Richard Tottel’s Songes and Sonettes Written By the Ryght Honorable Lord Henry Howard, late Earle of Surrey, Thomas Wyatt the Elder and others, which became famous (and ran to nine early modern editions) under the title Tottel’s Miscellany. In an essay on the rise of national consciousness in Tudor England, Aleida Assmann has called this first printed anthology of English poetry published in 1557 the “zero hour of English Literature” (Assmann 1989, 443), mainly in honor of its name-giver’s boldness to publish a collection of 271 hitherto unpublished English poems written mainly in the 1530s. The form of Tottel’s publication rather than the poetry which it contains leads Assmann to this self-confident exaggeration. The importance which she attributes to Tottel’s collection, together with the recognition that it marks a beginning, was already recognized by Ben Jonson in 1635. He claimed that the writers published by Tottel “began eloquence with us” (Jonson in Aughterson 1998: 322). Maybe it was recognized even as early as 1589,

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when George Puttenham, in his poetological treatise The Arte of English Poesie, concedes that the writers published by Tottel, mainly Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey, “greatly pollished our rude and homely manner of vulgar Poesie from that it had bene before, and for that cause may justly be sayd the first reformers of our English meetre and stile” (Puttenham in Smith 1904: 62–63). Whether or not Tottel’s Miscellany can indeed be viewed “as the single text that originated the English Renaissance” (W. A. Sessions in Kinney, Swain 2001: 699) is debatable. Without doubt, though, Richard Tottel was a young entrepreneur with a clear eye for a financial and cultural coup when he decided to print and publish the first English anthology of poetry with a clear didactic mission. The volume’s success was a result of two strategic decisions, one thematic, one political: choosing mainly poems on the universal matters of love and death, he steered clear of the ideological battles which characterized public discourse under Mary ; at the same time, he managed to relate his text to the highest nobility by giving the Earl of Surrey, one of the last victims of Henry VIII, a prominent place in the collection’s title – his son, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was one of the most powerful English noblemen in 1557. Tottel’s effort was a novelty in many ways which had to be vindicated, as the printer’s address to the first edition demonstrates: THAT to have well written in verse, yea, and in small parcels, deserveth great praise, the works of divers Latins, Italians, and others, do prove sufficiently. That our tongue is able in that kind to do as praiseworthily as the rest, the honourable style of the noble Earl of Surrey, and the weightiness of the deep witted Sir Thomas Wyatt the elder’s verse, with several graces in sundry good English writers do show abundantly. It resteth now, gentle reader, that thou think it not evil done, to publish, to the honour of the English tongue, and for profit of the studious of English eloquence, those works which the ungentle horders up of such treasure have heretofore envied thee. And for this point, good reader, thine own profit and pleasure, in these presently, and in more hereafter, shall answer for my defence. (Tottel in Rollins 1965: 2)

In the context of the gradual rise of literacy between 1500 and 1600, Tottel wants to educate if not the nation, then the London literate groups which mainly consisted of gentry, clergy, merchants, tradesmen by making available to a wider readership in England the beauty of the English language in general and the beauty of English poetry in particular. His choice of poets, Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey, proved to be seminal. Many scholars involved in the invention of the tradition of English literary history in centuries to come followed in his steps letting their canons of the modern era begin with these two authors. Tottel’s project to promote the “honour of the English tongue” implies the collaboration of the traditional elite poet/reader (often in personal union) of circulated and unpublished texts and an anonymous and unknown mass readership usually despised by the former. Tottel critically targets the egoist attitude

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of the elite as well as the “swinelike grossness” of the unlearned. The “ungentle horders up of treasure” (Tottel in Rollins 1965: 2) will have to overcome their snobbishness in the name of the cultural nation, while the masses must be willing to learn. The result is an imagined community of middle-ground readers for whom English as a medium of cultural achievements is more important than the social divide between the courtly reader and the buyer of printed books – a fiction indeed in 1557, but an effective one, as the success of the anthology shows. In this context, the comparison of English with the classic languages but also with French and Italian serves to point to the necessity of the creation of an identity within. The “studious of English eloquence” to whom Tottel refers do not yet exist in large numbers. For the businessman Tottel, printer, publisher and bookseller, the appeal to a community of supporters of English is an act of customer acquisition. Like every good sales person, he has to create a target group to whom he can sell his product – the text book needs a student. Even though it would be anachronistic to speak of the interpenetration of academic learning and the forces of market economy in the sixteenth century, the first signatures of such an alliance seem to be tangible in this document. Tottel’s Miscellany is a document of transition. It testifies to the parallel existence and gradual supersession of two historically different and largely incompatible paradigms of social and cultural identity and the gradual supersession of the one by the other : the older courtly system relying on patronage and the central position of the Queen, and a new system which is based upon an economic alliance between author and printer with a notoriously vague, largely urban readership as an important factor. The transference of a set of poems from their original aristocratic environment into an emerging cultural field in which the book as commodity serves to generate a readership and profit for the printer may be seen as an example of direct contact and negotiation between both “cultures”. The book itself, Tottel’s Miscellany, marks the contact zone which serves as nucleus of crystallisation for this discourse. This is the background which gives meaning to the defensive “pearls before swine” – gesture with which Tottel, in the preface, justifies the publication of his seminal anthology.

3

Edmund Spenser’s The Shepheardes Calender (1579)

An equally plausible zero hour of English Literature is Edmund Spenser’s pastoral poem The Shepheardes Calender with which Spenser anonymously enters the literary stage for the first time in 1579. Right from the start, he fashions himself (and is fashioned in the introductory letter by an unidentifiable E.K., maybe his Cambridge acquaintance Edward Kirke, maybe Spenser himself) as

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the “New Poet” who has arrived with the mission to reinvent English Literature. Apart from the Tottel-like attempt to attract the attention of potential financial supporters and buyers of the Calender, the letter together with an elaborate glossary which accompanies the poetry has the aim to establish Spenser’s text as the founding document of a new, timely but yet to be written English literary canon. The poems present themselves as a literary workshop (comp. SchmittKilb 2004: 186; Shrank 2004: 220) in poetic form in which Spenser puts the potential of the most diverse literary traditions and models in English to the test: Greco-Roman, French, Italian, but also medieval English traditions, various rhythms, rhyme schemes and measures are combined to form an innovative literary language. Amongst the forms Spenser tries out are alliterative verse, ballad stanza, lay, ode, quatrains, and the first sestina in English, a mixture for which the author was severely criticized. The Calender’s English is equally heterogeneous: a mixture of archaisms, dialects, and also Celtic influences are, in the commentary and the letter, explained to be the true vernacular of Englishmen whose shame it is, notes E.K. “that they are not ashamed, in their own mother tonge straungers to be counted and alienes” (in Maclean 1993: 417). The didactic impetus of teaching the nation its own idiom and culture links Tottel and Spenser. If Tottel saw the need to defend the publication of the vernacular verse of Wyatt, the Earl of Surrey et al., Spenser had to make a case for writing, publishing and selling his own. Financially not so well endowed as many of his aristocratic peers, he fashioned himself as the first poet whose success was immediately bound to the seriousness and the professional expertise with which he pursued his craft. Nevertheless, his text is characterized, as Richard Helgerson has pointed out, by a tension between the self-confident claim to the role of “New Poet which distinguishes him from all other writers of English verse” and of “the familiar self-defeating one that limited the careers of his contemporaries” (Helgerson 1993: 680). This tension is omnipresent in the poetry of the Shepheardes Calender as well as in the impressive and highly unusual apparatus which accompanied the text when it was first published. The “October”-eclogue provides the best example. Here Cuddie, a stand-in for Spenser and “the perfect pattern of a Poete”” (Spenser in Maclean: 524), complains in a dialogue with Piers in beautiful poetry about the low status of poets and poetry in contemporary England. The reason he gives is a socialpolitical one, namely the lack of material to write about in what the speaker considers to be a post-heroic age (“Great Augustus long ygoe is dead: / And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade.” Spenser in Maclean 1993: 527, ll. 62–63); the tangible result for the poet is a lack of remuneration. Spenser here evokes a tone already adopted in the introductory letter, in which the poet is called (or calls himself, depending on the identity of E.K.) “Immerito”, the unworthy one – but

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also the one who does not earn and own enough! This stands in conflict with the extraordinariness implied by the imposing apparatus and by the claim that the new poet fundamentally differs from the ordinary “rakehellye route of our ragged rymers” (E.K. in Maclean: 503–504). Thus similar to Tottel’s preface, the Shepheardes Calender is characterized by the urgent need to overcome the sense of inferiority and the defensiveness which accompany the reflection upon literary texts in the English language – a defensiveness which can be found in virtually all poetological and rhetorical texts of the age, from Thomas Wilson’s Arte of Rhetoric (1553) to Sir Philip Sidney’s Apology for Poetry (1579?/publ. 1595) and George Puttenham’s Arte of English Poesie (1589). From different angles, both Tottel and Spenser weigh the possibilities of an English cultural identity founded upon language and literature. They both consider as urgent the establishment of a vernacular canon. Both texts are thus indicative of a rising consciousness regarding the importance of the cultural status of vernacular languages. These texts have to be understood against the backdrop of a world in which the humanist claims to the superiority and universality of classical antiquity are still predominant but no longer uncontested; a world, thus, which at least culturally begins to think along national lines.

4

Samuel Daniel, “Musophilus” (1599) and Defence of Ryme (1603)

I will now turn my attention to the important albeit today largely unread Samuel Daniel (1562–1619), hailed by Spenser in Colin Clout’s Come Home Again (1595) as the “new shepheard late upsprong, / The which doth all afore him far surpasse” (Spenser in Maclean: 570, ll. 416–417). Daniel was a poet, dramatist and historian who, as legend suggests (Rees 1964: 89), in 1599 took over for a short period of time the post of poet laureate from Edmund Spenser after Spenser’s death in the same year. I will focus on “Musophilus”, a philosophical and didactic dialogic poem, and the poetological treatise Defence of Ryme (1603), Daniel’s reply to Thomas Campion’s Observations in the Arte of English Poesie (1602) – the last important Elizabethan literary controversy. Daniel’s two texts make plain that for their author, history, politics and poetry are mutually informing areas of study. Considering the texts, a strong focus has to be put on the status of England, of English nationality and on the importance of the proper perspective on English cultural achievements which informs the national discourse. The main point is that in Daniel’s texts, two intellectual and ideological developments go hand in hand: the conscious concentration on the value of one’s own

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cultural achievements in an act of often aggressive outward demarcation and the urge to spread, or to plant, the national culture abroad in an act of megalomaniac (albeit fictional) expansion. Again self-doubts and a feeling of insuperable inferiority vis-/-vis the classics and the continental competitors go hand in hand with self-aggrandizement concerning the state and trade of the English poet.

5

Cultural Identity – Linguistic Identity – National Identity

The long didactic poem “Musophilus” consists of a debate between Musophilus, friend of the muses and of poetry, and his antagonist Philocosmus, lover of the world, who despises and rejects the life of the mind (vita contemplative) and urges Musophilus to quit his “ungainful arte” (Daniel in Sprague, ll. 10f.; all further quotes from “Musophilus” and their line numbers refer to Sprague’s edition): Other delights then these, other desires This wiser profit-seeking Age requires.

Musophilus refutes Philocosmus’s assertion. The power of the nation, he points out in the fashion of the convinced humanist, relies upon the “weapons of the mind” (l. 841). They are “states best strengths, and kingdoms chiefest grace” (l. 842) as they guarantee the continuity of the nation’s past, present and future; poetry and historiography forge and fixate cultural identity. The pen can achieve much more than “all the powers of princes” (l. 946) while eloquence guides man’s affections “more than all their swords” (l. 942). Daniel is keen to show that the life of the mind is an important worldly affair, and not mere ornament. After asserting the worldliness of the life of the mind and its usefulness for “real life”, the tensions between humanist universalism, cultural nationalism and imaginative national(ist) expansion move centre stage. Here it comes to the fore that in early modern England, the key to understand the impact of culture to the well-being of the nation is language. The mainstream opinion even amongst many scholars writing in the vernacular was that English was a confused hodgepodge of continental and classical languages which was not yet fit for poetry. (Only Philip Sidney, in his Apology for Poetry, turned this argument around and claimed that this was so much the better for English, as it has selected and incorporated only the best from the other languages and thus profited from the alleged impurity.) How should one forge “weapons of the mind” with such rude material? Moreover, English is conceived as a limited language due to its narrow circulation. This is thus expressed in 1578 by John Florio, translator, teacher and scholar :

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‘What thinke you of this English, tel me I pray you.’ ‘It is a language that wyl do you good in England but passe Dover, it is woorth nothing.’ ‘Is it not then used in other countreyes?’ ‘No, sir.’ (John Florio in Wyatt 2005: 6)

Michael Wyatt asks the modern reader not to forget that the predominance of English was a highly utopian notion in early modern England. “For our modern world in which English has so pervasively colonized the globe it is increasingly difficult to imagine a moment when this was anything but the case.” (Wyatt 2005: 6) As a remedy for the shortcomings of the English language, Florio suggests that the English learn Italian and other foreign languages in order to profit from their wisdom and to traffic with the world. This attitude to England, the English and their language is shared by Philocosmus. When Musophilus advocates the value of the English language and culture, Philocosmus ridicules him by pointing to the “narrow room” in which English, which he calls a barbarous language, is spoken. In a passage reminiscent of Shakespeare’s famous and, at the time of the publication of Musophilus, recently staged John of Gaunt-speech (in Act 2, sc. 1 of Richard II – more on this matter further down), Philocosmus exclaims: Is this the walke of all your wide renowne This little point, this scarce discerned Ile, Thrust from the world, with whom our speech unknown Made never any traffike of our stile. (ll. 426–429)

and he continues: How many thousands never heard the name Of Sydney, or of Spencer, or their bookes? And yet brave fellowes […] (ll. 440–442)

England is a small and isolated island, its language barbarous and its writers widely unknown. So why should a sixteenth-century scholar concern himself about English culture or culture in English? Musophilus first counters the argument as to England’s negligible size by alluding to the relativity of space – compared with the universe even the whole world is but a point – before he zooms in on England in order to appreciate its true value: But if we shall descend from that high stand Of ouer-looking Contemplation, And cast our thoughts but to, and not beyond This spatious circuit which we tread vpon, We then may estimate our mightie land A world within a world standing alone. (ll. 537–542)

The first step towards a strengthened self-confidence vis-/-vis the national culture is a close examination of one’s own place, the “world within a world”. The

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limitedness of the number of speakers, listeners and readers is turned into a privilege for the “happy few” (with an intended allusion to Shakespeare, Henry V, Act 4, sc. 3) who are now considered “all the world” (l. 556). The idea that England is in fact the world if only one takes the trouble to look closely is also captured in the term “universall Iland” which Daniel uses in his pamphlet A Defence of Ryme. As already said, the treatise is a reply to Thomas Campion’s Observations in the Arte of English Poesie (1602), in which Campion, from a humanist perspective, condemns the English tradition of the rhyme as a vulgar and barbarous custom of the dark ages. Daniel on the other hand defends the rhyme on grounds of tradition, custom and nature. In his argument, the rhyme is one of the cultural icons of essential Englishness whose appreciation is a categorical imperative for everybody who loves the nation. (It is remarkable that the term “nation”, hardly ever mentioned in the poetological treatises of Sidney, Puttenham et al., occurs fifteen times in Daniel’s short treatise.) Moreover, he fashions himself as the keeper of his country’s vital interests and as the spokesman for an unspecified we which constitutes the nation in the present as well as in the past. Ultimately, though, Daniel’s critical intervention needs to be understood in a context in which aesthetic issues are justifiable only as part of a (in this case very concrete) political discourse. Daniel first publishes the Defence in a volume dedicated to the new Stuart King James I., a volume which opens with the poem “A Panegyric Congratulatory to the King’s Most Excellent Majesty”. Congratulating the first Stuart on the English throne, the poem is saturated with fears of change while thematically, it appeals to tradition and continuation: We shall continue and remain all one. In Law, in Justice, and in Magistrate: Thou wilt not alter the foundation Thy Ancestors have laid of this Estate, Nor grieve thy Land with innovation. Nor take from us more than thou wilt collate; Knowing that course is best to be observed. Whereby a State hath longest been preserved. (Daniel in Grosart: 153)

The Defence of Ryme picks up the rhetorical mode of sometimes anxiously, sometimes aggressively demanding historical continuity in the context of a new reign. Daniel introduces his treatise with an appeal to “our Soueraignes happy inclination … whereby wee are rather to expect an incoragement to go on with what we do than that any innouation should checke vs.” (Daniel in Smith 1904: 357) The rhyme serves merely as a crystallization point to draw a picture of England as a historical continuum, as a mnemonic community of collective memory and as culturally homogeneous. Daniel the critical scholar and Daniel

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the member of the cultural community are indissolubly interwoven, his identity apparently hangs in the balance when he exclaims: Heere I stand foorth, onelie to make good the place we haue thus taken vp, and to defend the sacred monuments erected therein, which containe the honour of the dead, the fame of the liuing, the glory of peace, and the best power of speech. (Daniel in Smith 1904: 381)

Derek Attridge has pointed out that “not until Daniel’s Defence is the argument for the natural superiority of vernacular versification carried through without flinching” (Attridge 1988: 27). That he is able to do so is a result of a sense of national identity which, albeit being only vaguely graspable in early modern England, exerts its impact on the argumentation’s drive. As in the poem “Musophilus”, in the Defence national self-esteem is the result of an exact look at the particular and the concrete while the general and the overview are rejected. The map and the history book (“which is but a mappe of man”) are abstractions which fail to capture the true nature of their objects: We must not looke vpon the immense course of times past, as men ouer-looke spacious and wide countries, from off high Mountaines and are neuer to iudge of the true Nature of the soyle. (Daniel in Smith 1904: 370)

The negotiation between the concentration on the concrete praiseworthy constituents of one’s own country and missionary dreams of expansion are traditionally part and parcel of nationalist discourse. After highlighting the importance of the particulars of England and the English language for the English themselves, Daniel looks into the future and speculates about the potential of the English language to spread to foreign lands. His oeuvre contains various important passages emphasizing the hope that the English language and culture expand and transcend the “strict and narrow limits” of the island. Introversive self-assertion and proto-imperialist imaginations go hand in hand in Daniel’s attempt to create a new sense of national identity.

6

“Imperialism”

If the term nation has to be used cautiously in the historical context of Elizabethan England, this caution is even more pressing regarding the term ”imperialism” as imperialism seems to be entirely anachronistic and out of place when talking about the sixteenth century. In which sense may the term be meaningfully used to describe what is happening in early modern language debates in England? For many Englishmen in Elizabethan England (and still today, I dare say), the

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isolation of England, its island status was seen as a blessing guaranteeing its national strength. The locus classicus for the definition of an exceptional position in isolation are John of Gaunt’s words on his death bed in Shakespeare’s Richard II which were mentioned in passing already. In his famous dying speech, the Shakespearean character praises England as … precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, … England, bound in with the triumphant sea Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of wat’ry Neptune… (Richard II, Act 2, Sc. 1, ll. 46–49, 61–63)

Daniel picks up this Shakespearean mood – the play was written and performed only a couple of years prior to the publication of Daniel’s treatise – and similarly praises the special status of England but for him, the ocean is no mere blessing but also an obstacle which hinders cultural expansion. To protect England’s treasures against the envy of foreigners is the fictional John of Gaunt’s aim; to that inward gaze, Daniel adds the dream of spreading these treasures in an act of expansion. He envisions a future in which the superiority of the English language will be acknowledged by foreign countries and that it will be planted there. This is expressed first in a dedicatory poem to Daniel’s Tragedy Anthony and Cleopatra in 1594 where he writes: O that the Ocean did not bound our stile Within these strict and narrow limits so: But that the melody of our sweet Ile, Might now be heard to Tyber, Arne, and Po. That they might know how far Thames doth out-go The Musicke of declined Italy : And listning to our Songs another while, Might learne of thee, their notes to purifie. (Daniel in Rees 1964: 72, note)

English is superior to Italian, Italy might now learn from England and purify, as he says, its own language. A bold claim indeed in 1594! Daniel continues to include France and Germany in the list of potential candidates who would benefit from the establishment of “English Studies” in spe: O why may not some after-coming hand, Unlock these limits, open our confines: And breake a sunder this imprisoning band, T’ inlarge our spirits, and publish our designes; Planting our Roses on the Apenines? And teach to Rhene, to Loyre, and Rhodanus

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Our accents, and the wonders of our Land, That they might all admire and honour us. (Daniel in Rees 1964: 72, note)

Exporting England’s language and cultural wonders to the rest of the world is a future imperative which also informs the concluding passages of the poem “Musophilus”. After highlighting the status of England and the English language for the English themselves, as has been shown, Daniel here also looks into the future and speculates about the potential of the English language to spread to foreign lands. And who – in time – knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent To enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident May come refin’d with the accents that are ours? (ll. 956–961)

Samuel Daniel is a scholar and poet living in a country which at the time of his writing is still struggling very hard to define a proper place for its own vernacular culture in relation to its European rivals and in relation to the Latindominated humanism. Against this backdrop, his interventions may be read as indicative of his prophetic powers but also as texts in which, centuries before the emergence of fully fledged ideologies of nationhood or empire, the essence of the discourse of the nation is captured: the fact that navel-gazing in the name of national identity seems unavoidably linked with expansionist / imperialist aspirations. Indeed, many an “after coming hand unlock[ed] these limits” and helped to realize Daniel’s dream.

7

Conclusion

“Daniel does not consider the spread of English a conquest but rather a gift of inestimable value. He hasn’t the slightest sense that the natives might be reluctant to abandon their own tongue”, writes Stephen Greenblatt (1990: 17) in an important essay on linguistic colonialism in the sixteenth century. Daniel’s is not the only voice in England at the time to consider the relevance of linguistic and cultural expansion and its consequences. The most famous fictional expression of cultural and language encounter of the time is that between Prospero and Caliban in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. In the play, we are shown the consequences (in terms of conquest, of colonial hierarchies, of disappropriation, of imperialist claims, of the exertion of political power, also of the power of language) of what appears as mere benevolence in Daniel’s texts. Prospero, the Italian ex-duke and magician, has taught his supposedly civilized and civilizing

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language to Caliban, native of the island on which Prospero has landed together with his daughter Miranda after his usurping brother had deprived him of his dukedom and after surviving an attempt on his life and the life of his daughter. Prospero claims that he undertook the teaching of Caliban out of pity : I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other : when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes With words that made them known. (The Tempest, I, ii. 2, ll. 352–357)

Caliban, the “savage” who apparently lacks culture and self-knowledge before he is enlightened by a language which explains himself to himself, is a convenient yet persistent colonial fiction. If the inhabitants of the New World are considered a naked tabula rasa without language or culture who thankfully adopt the imprint of language, customs and beliefs of the conqueror, so much the better for the conqueror who is not forced to justify his act of imposition. But Caliban thinks politically. He is outraged when he exclaims: This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou takest from me. … (The Tempest, I. ii. ll. 331–332)

This shows that either he was able to reflect upon his situation and himself before being taught by Prospero, or that the logos of the conqueror has an inbuilt flaw which inevitably implies struggle for power and usurpation – the dominant theme of the play according to the cultural materialist position of Francis Barker and Peter Hulme (1989). You taught me language; and my profit on’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language! (The Tempest, I. ii. ll. 361–363)

Planting English flowers in the Italian mountains, Daniel’s metaphor for the imagined expansion of English across Europe as well as the triumph of the vernacular over classical antiquity, does not appear nearly as aggressive as the unequal verbal and physical struggle between Caliban and Prospero. It makes sense to regard both texts in the light of Walter Benjamin’s much-quoted seventh thesis on the philosophy of history in which he demands to see in all cultural achievements the traces of the victor’s prey. Historical materialism, Benjamin famously claims in the seventh thesis of his “Theses on the Philosophy of History”, teaches us that “[t]here is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism” (Benjamin 1968: 256). It is important, thus, to acknowledge the common discursive matrix of Daniel’s and Shakespeare’s texts, which may be described as the chauvinism which lurks beneath the surface

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and remains a force to be reckoned with as soon as nations, national identities or culturalist notions of nationhood are concerned. Far be it from me to consider the triumph of the English language and of English Studies as global phenomena as “Calibanist” curse. From a historical European perspective, the languages of Europe were enriched, or contaminated, depending on the perspective, rather than conquered by the English language in a reciprocal historical process which leaves much room for research still. The implementation of English Studies in academic institutions all over the world in the past 250 years is an exceptional success story the benefits of which to interand transcultural relations, to self-understanding and to the relativity of homogenizing notions of national and cultural identity are obvious. A self-conscious and self-confident English Studies which knows about its origins and its history ought to continue in its efforts to contribute to keeping the barbarism involved in cultural achievements of all kinds in check.

Works Cited Anderson, Benedict (1991), Imagined Communities. Reflections Upon the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London/New York: Verso. Assmann, Aleida (1989), “This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England: Zur Enstehung des englischen Nationalbewußtseins in der Tudorzeit”, in: Klaus Garber (ed.), Nation und Literatur im Europa der frühen Neuzeit, Tübingen: Niemeyer, pp. 429–452. Attridge, Derek (1988), Peculiar Language. Literature as Difference from the Renaissance to James Joyce, London: Routledge. Aughterson, Kate (ed., 1998), The English Renaissance. An Anthology of Sources and Documents, London: Routledge. Barker, Francis and Peter Hulme (1985), “Nymphs and Reapers Heavily Vanish: The Discursive Contexts of The Tempest”, in John Drakakis (ed.), Alternative Shakespeares, London: Routledge, pp. 195–209. Benjamin, Walter (1969), Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, New York: Schocken Books. Grosart, Alexander B. (ed. 1885–1896), Samuel Daniel: The Complete Works in Verse and Prose, 4 vols., London. Febvre, Lucien, Martin, Henri-Jean (1976), The Coming of the Book. The Impact of Printing 1450–1800, London: New Left Books. Greenblatt, Stephen (1990), “Learning to Curse: Aspects of Lingusitic Colonialism in the Sixteenth Century”, in: Learning to Curse: Essays in Early Modern Culture, London: Routledge, 16–39. Kinney, Arthur F., Swain, David W. (eds., 2001), Tudor England. An Encyclopeadia, New York & London: Garland Publishing. Maclean, Hugh and Anne Lake Prescott (eds., 1993), Edmund Spenser’s Poetry, New York & London: Norton.

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Rees, Joan (1964), Samuel Daniel. A Critical and Biographical Study. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Rollins, Hyder Edwards (ed., 1965), Tottel’s Miscellany (1557), Cambridge/Mass.: Harvard University Press. Helgerson, Richard (1993), “The New Poet Presents Himself”, in MacLean/Prescott (eds.) Edmund Spenser’s Poetry, New York/London: Norton. 675–686. Schmitt-Kilb, Christian (2004), “Never was the Albion Nation without Poetry”: Poetik, Rhetorik und Nation im England der Frühen Neuzeit, Frankfurt: Klostermann. Shrank, Cathy (2004), Writing the Nation in Reformation England 1530–1580, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, George Gregory (ed. 1904), Elizabethan Critical Essays, 2 vols., Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sprague A. C. (ed., 1930), Samuel Daniel: Poems and A Defence of Ryme, Cambridge/ Mass.: Harvard University Press. Wyatt, Michael (2005), The Italian Encounter with Tudor England: A Cultural Politics of Translation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Frauke Reitemeier

Navigation Guides for the Vast Ocean of Literature: Writing and Teaching the History of (English) Literature in 1800

1

Introduction: Students’ Miscellanies and the State of English Literary History

For English readers, 1737 was not exactly a year with many literary highlights. Richard Glover’s poem Leonidas came out, Henry Carey published the third edition of his burlesque opera The Dragon of Wantley, and George Lillo’s London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell went into its eigth and “much more correct” edition. In Germany, Carl Friedrich Schwertner wrote Medicina Vere Universalis, Ludwig Ernst von Faramond published his utopian Glückseeligste Insul auf der gantzen Welt, and in Göttingen, the “bookseller to the University” Abram Vandenhoeck published a 600 page anthology under the title English Miscellanies, intended explicitly “for the advantage of such, as are willing to apply themselves to the learning of this usefull language”, as the title page proclaims. The author is not named on the title page and appears only by his initials J.T. in the dedication; it is, of course, John Tompson, ‘ector publicus’ for English at the newly-founded Göttingen university. The book was, it seems, quite successful as it was republished several times over the next two decades; in 1766 it came out in its revised, corrected and enlarged fourth edition. By then Tompson was “professor philosophiae ordinaries” (Pütter 1765, 193). Tompson died in 1766. In his duties of teaching English he was followed by Philip Pepin, a Londoner by birth, who taught in Göttingen as ‘Professor linguae Anglicae’ from 1769 to 1788, and who also published a textbook, Strains of the British Muses (1779). Pepin’s book was more comprehensive with respect to the texts gathered, but ultimately less successful; only one edition can be traced. The same is true for the bilingual collection of “talks” (“Gespräche”), taken out of various plays and published in 1777, which Pepin also used as a textbook. Both anthologies share to a certain extent the same selection criteria: The texts were taken mainly from literature in the sense of ‘belles lettres’. Tompson’s Miscellanies contain extracts from Addison, Butler, Cowley, Milton, Pope, and

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Prior in addition to historical and religious authors; Pepin’s table of contents shows poems or extracts from Akenside, Dryden, Gay, Goldsmith, Moore, Shakespeare, Thomson, Young and others. With the exception of Shakespeare and Milton, all these are ‘recent’, eighteenth-century authors. For Pepin and Tompson, literary excerpts have a great advantage over other sorts of texts: their language “is well adapted to express the several styles of poetry, in all their pleasing variations of composition and taste. It is strong, nervous, comprehensive, polished, and melodious; equally fit for painting serious and splendid objects, as proper for tracing out those, which require a tender and simple colouring.” (Pepin 1779, [ii]) In short, their analysis will show the learner just how rich a language English is (and why it is rather difficult to master), and it will provide him with good examples to imitate. Neither Tompson nor Pepin – nor, for that matter, any of the authors of English textbooks in use like, for example, the professor of Philosophy at Halle Johann Ludwig Schulze (see his English Originals in Prose and Verse) – are interested in the particularly literary aspects of their collections. This is partly due to the restrictions laid upon the books because of their textbook characters. In the preface to his Student’s Miscellany the Flensburg lector Johann Jacob Dusch noted that while it would be highly desirable to go into greater detail so as to better introduce students to ‘book language’ (“Büchersprache” as opposed to “Sprache des Umgangs”, 1779, [v]) the extracts would have to be much longer than such a miscellany could warrant: In any case, such a textbook would be more perfect yet if the collected passages were to contain a number of examples and master versions of perhaps not all, but surely of most (and definitely of the best) types of writing; though students would have to be introduced to their characters and ‘colours’ at the same time as they would use this book. In that way both the student’s linguistic competences and the academic insights and the overall tastes would be set right, would be deepened and confirmed. Unfortunately, such a textbook would have to be much more comprehensive.1 ([iv])

Dusch tried to remedy the situation by adding extracts from Clarissa, the Sentimental Journey and Tristram Shandy, but with a total of 74 print pages, they were vastly outnumbered by the further 240 pages in volume 1 containing passages from history, natural history, philosophy and two essays on Shakespeare’s plays by Elizabeth Montagu and William Richardson. Still, this ratio sets 1 “Es wäre überhaupt eine größere Vollkommenheit eines solchen Lehrbuchs, wenn die gesammleten [sic] Stücke eine ausführliche Reihe von Proben und Mustern, wo nicht aller, doch der meisten und vorzüglichsten, Verschiedenheiten der Schreibart ausmachten, mit deren Charakter und Farben der Studirende in demjenigen Alter, wo er dieses Buch braucht, allerdings bekannt gemacht werden sollte. So wohl seine Sprachfertigkeit als wissenschaftliche Einsicht und Geschmack müßten dadurch gründlicher, feiner, richtiger und fester werden. Doch dazu würde ein Buch erfordert von ungleich größerer Stärke”.

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Dusch’s miscellany apart from the collections of Tompson and Pepin.2 In the preface to volume 2 he even dreamed of a radically new kind of anthology : It would be a most helpful attempt to collect a poetical library, made up of the most perfect pieces of all kinds of literature [in the sense of ‘belles lettres’]. Other examples could be added to that library. This collection should contain examples from all the remarkable ages of English poetry [taken in a broad sense] until our days and give both the authors’ names as well as relevant biographical information and details about the best collections of their works; in such a way the poetical library would be connected with a critical history of English literature, following Warton’s splendid volume.3

Dusch’s idea of combining literature, literary criticism and bio-bibliographical dictionary in one book was visionary for his days. Dusch himself confessed that the difficulties in selecting passages from Milton’s Paradise Lost and Shakespeare’s Othello that are at the same time comprehensive and useful in teaching effectively put him off this project (1780, [v]). The number of pages had to be kept in mind when selecting suitable texts; after all, books were expensive, and these were textbooks aimed at students with little money to spend. Yet the intended use – teaching English – must be considered. Dusch, like Tompson and Pepin, aimed at helping his students master the use of language, and at improving their style in writing English by setting before them examples of the best kinds of writing that can be found. None of them wanted to teach their students the history of English literature at the same time as they teach the English language, as their books very clearly show. For most learners of English in the early eighteenth century, this would have been enough. They were interested in acquiring English to make themselves understood during their business trips to England, as was the case for the growing number of merchants and tradesmen (Klippel 47), or to read English publications and treatises; this was particularly true for theologians, doctors of medicine and lawyers (Klippel 46–47). This changed only towards the 1750s, when English literature began to be read for its own sake in the original language, not in French translations (Klippel 48). The history of the English language had 2 The second volume of the miscellany published in 1780 contains a great variety of specimens from various kinds of poems, and, in addition, the complete text of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. While Tompson’s and Pepin’s textbooks had also contained poems, Dusch’s miscellany goes far beyond them in devoting a full 511 pages to poetry alone. 3 “Ein sehr nützliches Werk wär’ es, eine poetical library zusammenzusuchen aus den vortrefflichsten Stücken von allen Arten der Dichtkunst (welche denn noch um viele andere vermehrt werden könnten, als in dieser gewisser massen auf eine bestimmte Bogenzahl eingeschränkten Sammlung geschehen konnte) sie durch alle merkwürdige [sic] Alter der englischen Poesie bis auf unsere Zeiten hindurch zu führen, die Namen der Dichter so wohl, als die merkwürdigsten Lebensumstände, und die vorzüglichsten Ausgaben ihrer Werke nach der Zeitordnung anzuführen, und damit nach Wartons vortrefflichem Werke eine kritische Geschichte von der Englischen Poesie zu verbinden.” (1780, [v])

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long been a topic for learners of English; now, however, interest in the history of English literature began to grow. Thomas Warton wrote a History of English Poetry from the Close of the Eleventh to the Commencement of the Eighteenth Century (1774), but stopped short of treating the authors contemporary to eighteenth-century learners of English. Hugh Blair, in his famous lectures on rhetorics and belles lettres, was mainly concerned with questions of style in various forms of texts, though he also looked at the development of these with particular respect to classical Greek and Roman literature, to French and to English literature. Warton’s and Blair’s books could be procured relatively easily, depending on the learner’s location. In other words, a German-language history of English literature would be most welcome towards the end of the eighteenth century. Göttingen university played a central role in providing books to close that gap. From its foundation, Göttingen university had offered English alongside the more classical languages French, Latin and Greek. While this in itself was not all too remarkable – in today’s university hierarchy, the first English teacher John Tompson would be regarded as little more than a tutor – he was quickly promoted to a professorship; with this, the status of English also rose, though it was still a long way to establish English as a regular university subject. Apart from the first German professorship for English, though, Göttingen university could pride itself on a very large body of English books, largely acquired under the librarians Gerlach Adolph von Münchhausen and Christian Gottlob Heyne. In addition, Georg Christoph Lichtenberg’s keen interest in contemporary English literary and cultural developments was a strong incentive to enlarge the collection. Both as a liberal-minded ‘reformed’ university and because of its excellent range of materials on English language and literature, then, Göttingen was the place for new projects on the history of ideas (“Geistesgeschichte”); the university was interested in doing things differently from the more established universities which also meant opening up new fields of research and of teaching. A closer look at histories of English literature produced in precisely this atmosphere of liberal cooperation and comparative literary studies at Göttingen university, then, promises to be highly interesting, both with respect to the historians’ approaches and to the didactic ideas behind them.

2

The Trailblazer: Johann Gottfried Eichhorn

The first Göttingen attempt at writing a German history of English literature was made by someone who was at first glance not exactly fitted to the task: Johann Gottfried Eichhorn, professor of Oriental languages at the university. Eichhorn studied philology, theology and “Orientalia” (NDB, ‘Eichhorn (3)’, 377) under Christian Gottlob Heyne and Johann David Michaelis in Göttingen, became a

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teacher and was called to Jena as professor of Oriental languages in 1775. In 1788 he became Professor of Philology at Göttingen university and taught courses on the Old Testament, the development of Oriental languages, but also on history and literature. It was in this function that he began work on the Allgemeine Geschichte der Cultur und Litteratur des neueren Europa which was part of a multi-volume Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften seit der Wiederherstellung derselben bis an das Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (History of Arts and Sciences since its Restoration until the End of the Eighteenth Century) published between 1796 and 1820. Possibly because this was a work very long in the making, another Eichhorn book on the history of literature made it into print only three years later, in 1799: Simply entitled Litterärgeschichte it came in two volumes, printed by the Göttingen company Rosenbusch. Unlike its predecessor, the Litterärgeschichte is expressly meant as a textbook, as Eichhorn states in the preface: “This outline of a literary history is primarily meant to facilitate students’ understanding of the lectures that I like to give from time to time”4 (iii). Like Blair’s Lectures on Rhetoric, then, it was conceived as the print version of Eichhorn’s lectures, saving students the necessity to take down every single sentence. Eichhorn was not content with simply printing a backup of his ideas, though. He wanted more than that, namely “den deutschen Studirenden, wo es noch nöthig ist, Liebe zu einer Hülfswissenschaft ein[zu]flößen, ohne welche ihre gelehrte Ausbildung mangelhaft bleiben muß” ([iii]). Students who do not have the knowledge provided by the Litterärgeschichte, then, lack something; and the use of “mangelhaft” – the German word means “insufficient” and “flawed” at the same time – is an indication of how important a subject this was to Eichhorn. The Litterärgeschichte was not the last time Eichhorn tried his hand at writing the history of literature. Between 1805 and 1811 he wrote six volumes on the history of literature from its beginnings (Geschichte der Litteratur von ihrem Anfang bis auf die neuesten Zeiten), looking at world literature and the nature and development of languages in general, at the development of theology, and at rhetorics and the art of writing and speaking (“Redekünste”). Eichhorn’s multi-volume histories were not written by him alone. The first volume of the Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften contains a survey of the history of culture and literature in Europe, in particular that of the “more recent times” (“des neueren Europa”, title). In his preface, Eichhorn discussed how the developments of various areas – politics, culture, literature, and society – depend on each other. He noted: The history of arts and sciences, of their beginning and development, of their manifold changes can never be presented as detached from the history of the societies they 4 “Dieser Entwurf einer Litterärgeschichte soll zunächst zur Erleichterung der Lehrvorträge dienen, welche ich von Zeit zu Zeit über diese Wissenschaft zu halten pflege.”

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reflect. For Culture and Literature are twin sisters of the self-same father who continually mutually support each other. Their lives begin invisibly and unnoticed; Culture, the first-born daughter, prepares the birth of Literature, her younger sister ; from then they live and work together, undivided and indivisible, and they die together, too. Without the history of the one, the biography of the other would be full of mistakes and incomprehensible.5 (1796, vi–vii)

Consequently, writing the history of literature of necessity involves writing the history of culture at the same time, and likewise the history of politics and social developments, since these influence culture. Eichhorn’s approach is interdisciplinary, and his programmatic statement holds true not only for the Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften in which it is published but also for his later histories of literature, and indeed also for his colleagues’ endeavours. The Göttingen Professor of Philosophy Arnold Hermann Ludwig Heeren, for example, in his Entwurf zu seinen Vorlesungen über die Geschichte und Litteratur der schönen Wissenschaften (Draft Version: Lectures on the History and Publications of the Beaux Arts), shows a similar layout: a general history of ‘cultural products’ (“die Geschichte derjenigen schönen Geistesproducte”, 3) is combined with a more specific outline of literary developments, complete with a brief look at the cultural and social backgrounds. However, dealing with the various strands of historical developments was a highly ambitious project, especially on the scale that Eichhorn proposed, and Eichhorn was well aware that he himself, polymath though he may have been, was not equally competent on all areas. The “great profit” (“grosse Gewinn”) that arts and sciences would gain from a history of European developments had to be weighed against the “infinite difficulties” (“unenendlichen Schwierigkeiten”, lxxviii) the project entails. Yet, Eichhorn enthusiastically continued, there was light at the end of the tunnel: “And yet: what aims have we reached already, due to our German tenacity? And do we not have many experts in Göttingen that makes the place suitable to execute such a vast and encompassing project?”6 (lxxviii) It is Göttingen university, then, with its unique cooperation of many 5 “Die Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften, ihres Anfangs und Fortgangs und ihrer manchfaltigen Veränderungen kann nie von der Geschichte des gesellschaftlichen Zustandes abgesondert vorgetragen werden. Denn Cultur und Litteratur sind Zwillingsschwestern eines gemeinschaftlichen Vaters, die durch gegenseite Hülfleistung einander unablässig unterstützen. Unsichtbar und unbemerkt fangen sie ihr schwaches Leben mit einander an: die Cultur, als erstgebohrne Tochter, bereitet die Geburt der Litteratur, ihrer jüngern Schwester, vor; von nun an leben sie und wirken sie zusammen ungetrennt und unzertrennlich, und sterben wieder miteinander. Ohne die Geschichte der einen würde der Lebenslauf der andern mangelhaft und unverständlich seyn.” 6 “Doch was hat nicht schon oft die deutsche Beharrlichkeit vermocht? und wie vieles vereinigt sich nicht in Göttingen, was zu einer so grossen und viel umfassenden Ausführung vorzüglich geschickt macht?”

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experts on different fields, all of them employed at the university, that made the publication possible. The great challenge for Eichhorn, or so he states, lay in drawing up a plan that would convince the reader and hold true for all parts of the envisaged all-comprehending history (lxxxi–lxxxii), though without forcing an interpretation: historiographers, to Eichhorn, should make the facts speak for themselves (lxxxii) without providing a teleological superstructure.

3

Colleague and Rival: Friedrich Bouterwek

Parallel to Eichhorn’s later endeavours another Göttingen academic also spent considerable time and effort in writing a history of literature: Friedrich Bouterwek. Born in Oker in the Harz mountains where his father was the director of the Oker mine and smelter, Bouterwek came to Göttingen as a law student; but he also read philology with Christian Gottlob Heyne and philosophy with Johann Heinrich Feder. Under the influence of the literati in Göttingen he even turned author himself, writing poems and novels after the manner of the times; his Graf Donamar (1791–93), an epistolary novel set in the Seven Years’ War, was quite successful. In 1789, after having moved first to Berlin and then to Goslar where he pursued his studies in private, Bouterwek settled as a private lecturer in Göttingen; he gave lectures on general history and later on the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. In 1796 he succeeded Feder as professor of philosophy. Under the title Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit seit dem Ende des dreizehnten Jahrhunderts (History of Poetry and Rhetorics from the End of the Thirteenth Century) Bouterwek contributed to Eichhorn’s monumental Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften – where Eichhorn provided the general introduction and survey of literary history, Bouterwek took charge of the third division, the history of what Blair calls the “belles lettres” (“schöne Wissenschaften”), which in itself ran to twelve volumes. While the first volume of 1801 contains an introduction to the history of recent literature in form of a general survey, the following volumes are dedicated to specific national literatures. That of Great Britain is contained in volumes 7 and 8 (1809/1810) covering some 900 pages of text. Like Eichhorn in his histories, Bouterwek used a general introduction to outline his view of literary history. Referring to Eichhorn’s general survey of historical developments he confessed that he was tempted to continue Eichhorn’s synchronous approach, setting the various European literatures and cultures side by side, but ultimately chose a different layout which, he contended, was more natural: But surely it is more natural and not at all less instructive to tell the history of the literature of each of the nations within the scope of this work from its beginning until

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today, without any interruptions. This is also the path that aesthetic culture took in recent years, if we look at Europe: from one literature to the next. (1801, vi)7

More interesting, to Bouterwek, was the idea behind the presentation: the “progress of taste” (“die Fortschritte des Geschmacks”, viii) was what history should strive to note and to present. ‘Progress’ appears as the key structuring element, and from the beginning of his book Bouterwek clothed it in metaphorical language: “When the human mind woke to new activity in Europe – around the time from which we count modern history – only a faint trace was discernible of what the world had been like under the Greek and Roman cultures.”8 (1) His imagery is telling: The human mind appears personified, and towards the beginnings of the ‘new’ history – the end of the Middle Ages – it awakes anew from a long sleep; Bouterwek makes it sound as if the mind had hibernated during the Middle Ages, surviving hostile times through mental absence to embark on a new path to progress once these times had passed. Where Eichhorn, in his general introduction, had cautioned historians against teleology, a first look at Bouterwek’s history suggests that Bouterwek largely disregarded Eichhorn’s advice.

4

Hayden White’s Theory of Historiography

By 1810, students of philology with an interest in the history of English literature could choose between three Göttingen-produced books of literary history. Though the subject was ultimately the same, the presentation of the contents differed considerably, and with it the knowledge students could gain. Teaching the history of literature, whether as lectures or in written form, means that decisions on the selection and presentation of facts have to be taken. One of the most important theoreticians of the forms of historiography is Hayden White, whose Metahistory and subsequent essays provide a basic outline of historiographic shapes and their uses, or influence on the readers. White distinguishes between romance, comedy, tragedy and irony in historiography (Metahistory) according to the underlying narrative patterns of the presentation of historic events. At the same time he contrasts different modes of writing (formist, contextualist, organicist and mechanistic). On the level of 7 “Aber natürlicher und nicht weniger lehrreich ist es doch wohl, die Geschichte der schönen Litteratur jeder Nation, die hier in Betracht kommt, ununterbrochen bis zu Ende zu erzählen. Dahin und zum natürlichen Uebergang von einer Litteratur zur anderen führt von selbst auch der Weg, den die ästhetische Cultur im neueren Europa nahm.” 8 “Als der menschliche Geist in Europa, um die Zeit, wo die neuere Geschichte anfängt, zu neuer Selbstthätigkeit erwachte, war nur noch eine dunkle Spur von dem vorhanden, was die Welt damals gewesen war, als griechische und römische Cultur herrschten.”

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narrating, White differentiates between plot-centred and theme-centred writing (“Structure of Historical Narrative”); finally, looking at the level of information and detail about historical changes White suggests using a sliding scale between ‘chronicle-writing’, which presents only information without any attempt at structuring or explanation, and writing ‘philosophical history’ which focuses on explaining change from the overarching point of view of the broad historical context (“Problem of Change”). In any case, White contends, authors of literary history have to grapple with what L8vi-Strauss considers as the underlying epistemological problem: that of reconciling information with comprehension. This paradox states that the information conveyed in any scientific explanation must vary in inverse proportion to the degree of comprehension claimed for the explanation. The more information about a specific phenomenon, the less comprehension to be expected; the more comprehension provided, the less data the generalizations constituting the explanation can be expected directly to apply to. (White, Fiction, 156)

White’s ideas, then, allow us to consider the teleology of historiography as couched in particular narrative patterns combined with a rhetorical approach of analysing the language and imagery used to convince readers of the writer’s veracity and insight. Historians and literary critics alike have found fault with White’s approaches. His ideas can be used as a matrix setting the parameters for a brief investigation of the didactic purposes and possibilities opened up by the histories of literature, though, even if they have to be taken with a pinch of salt. The amount and scope of information that the histories of literature provide as well as the level of understanding that they presuppose the reader to have are closely related to what White states with a view to political history. His ideas of emplotment and historiographical structures can be used to describe the various approaches – whether the books tells stories or develop a theme with less regard to creating tension. This also touches on the central aspect of helping the learner come to an understanding of literary history, or the specific didactic approach the books use. How, and to what end, the developments in English literary history are rendered in the Göttingen productions will be the focus of the following analysis.

5

1799: Eichhorn’s Early Litterärgeschichte

In the preface to his 1799 Litterärgeschichte, Eichhorn explains that he chose a different periodisation from the one commonly used: For him, the Middle Ages end with the Crusades because this is the moment when the “rebirth” (“Wiedergeburth”, vi) of the sciences really begins, and the “awakening” (“Erwachung”, vi) of classical literature is actually the second phase of its “new life”

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(“ihres neuen Lebens”; vi). Literature – meaning literary development – has an “inner walk” of its own (“inneren Gang”, vi). The images that Eichhorn uses here are by no means unusual. They anthropomorphise literature, awarding it the status of a live being – perhaps also that of a conscious being – that grows and changes; one of the elements that causes this change is the more general history of culture as, or so Eichhorn states, this “gives light” to the history of literature. The reader, then, is given the impression that the following depiction of literary developments is couched in the story of something – a plant? – growing and waning according to seasonal influences.; in his idea, the history of culture serves as a “sun”. In White’s terminology this sounds much like a plot-based and contextualist/organicist approach. The first idea a reader gets of the overall layout of Eichhorn’s Litterärgeschichte and its underlying idea is by looking at the table of contents. In the case of the 1799 Litterärgeschichte, however, this is not very helpful (fig. 1). The book is divided into four parts which follow the general periodisation: from the ‘oldest’ literature (that of Egypt and Babylonia) through ‘old’ literature (Hebrew, Greek, Roman and early Christian literature) and ‘middle’ literature – until 1096 – to the ‘new’ literature which was published between 1096 and 1800. Parts one to three are subdivided by peoples and languages; the chapters in part four, by contrast, again follow periods. Eichhorn’s initial organic imagery, then, is not mirrored in his table of contents. In the Litterärgeschichte, Eichhorn sketches the changes in English literature between the times of Chaucer and the late eighteenth century as a largely upwards pointing movement: Starting from a comparatively undeveloped state in Chaucer’s time, language and literature improve in the reign of Elizabeth only to experience a slight regression because of the “enthusiasm” (“Schwärmerey”) under Cromwell; but after that, with Milton, the English language develops a greater purity so that, with Pope, Thomson and Young, “true classicists” (“ächte Klassiker”) emerge. It is only towards the end of the eighteenth century that the quality of literature diminishes, and this is largely due to the luxurious lifestyle in the south of Britain, as the table of content already indicates. Eichhorn gives a sketch of the overall development, naming the most important authors, and follows this up by looking in separate ‘paragraphs’ or sub-chapters at various sorts of texts, from fables over heroic poetry, dogmatic writing and playwriting to the novel. Each of these ‘paragraphs’ contains a brief assessment of the preeminant authors and texts followed by a select bibliography ; this is clearly meant, in handbook fashion, to guide the student to the key texts in the best editions available while the introductory chapter aims at drafting what the student has to expect. As Eichhorn covers not only English literature but the other main European literatures as well, this kind of structuring gives students the chance to compare the developments in the various national literatures without being burdened by too many facts and too much data.

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1805–1812: Eichhorn’s later Geschichte der Litteratur

Published from six years later, Eichhorn’s multi-volume Geschichte der Litteratur also contains chapters – indeed a whole volume – on English literature. Again, the table of contents tells the reader much about what to expect (fig. 2): The first foundation (“erste Gründung”) of English literature takes place under Henry VIII. During the reigns of the Tudor kings, nothing much happens at first that would improve literature; with the growing interest in expanding the empire, though, the arts that are necessary for navigation are developed. Under James I, English literature is ‘happily continued’ (“glücklicher Fortgang”, vol. III, iv), and in the reigns of Anne and her Georgian successors, English literature reaches its “flowering” period (“Blüthe”, III, iv) which continues until Eichhorn’s present. The line of development, then, starts relatively low and moves steadily upwards without any discernible dips or breaks. The reason for the continual improvement is also easily found: personal, individual freedom. Literature finds its feet first in the times of Elizabeth I when the upper middle class struggles for freedom; under James I this struggle is continued and increases, with positive effects on the literary developments. Under Queen Anne, the “age of British genius” (“Zeitalter des brittischen Genius”, III, iv) begins, helped along by the English constitution – guaranteeing individual freedom by restricting the power of the Crown –, and under the Hanoverians even scientific literature rises to preeminence, helped along by the generosity of private individuals. The underlying feature that helps or hinders literature in its growth, to return to Eichhorn’s initial image of an organism, is the struggle for freedom between individuals – for Eichhorn this mainly refers to the middle classes – and the restraining power, or downright tyrannic rule, of the governing authority – which mainly refers to the kings and queens, but also comprises Cromwell’s rule. For Scottish history, a similar pattern emerges. A first step towards excellence is made when St Andrews university decides to teach students outside of the monastery walls; the absolute rule of the church thus is broken, to the improvement of general education. The Union of the Crowns gives it its second impetus, though Eichhorn concedes that the negative effects were considerable; Scotland lost its court, the centrepiece for protecting and furthering arts and sciences, she lost much of its language and developed a feeling of inferiority towards the “South Britons” (“Südbritten”). Yet, Eichhorn hastens to add, sciences and scientific advances did not die out but grew in the background, as it were; with the Union of the Parliaments of 1707, Scotland entered into its third phase and profited largely from the altogether freer conditions that England had already developed. It comes as something of a surprise, then, that the chapters do not, at first

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glance, contain any specific information on literature, authors and texts. Under the heading “The Happy Progress of English Literature under the Stuarts” (“Glücklicher Fortgang der englischen Litteratur unter dem Hause Stuart […]”, III, 32), Eichhorn briefly mentions the ‘classical age’ of rhetorics, indicates Charles I’s high level of education who was actively engaged in improving the “purity of diction” (“Reinheit des Ausdrucks”, III, 33), but names Cowley and Denham only in an aside (“auch Cowley und Denham machten der Schule Ehre, aus der sie hervorgegangen sind, ob sich gleich ersterer nicht über die Stufe der Mittelmäßigkeit erhoben, und letzterer sich nur durch seinen Cooperhügel im Andenken erhalten hat”, III, 33–34). It takes Eichhorn a good 28 pages to finally arrive at an evaluation of specific authors, and even then this is kept very short, focusing largely on the improvement of language and diction: In the hands of these authors [Surrey, Raleigh, Hooker] Literature could not, however, hide that she had a certain inborn strength, even if she appeared rather inept. Now, James I – even more his son Charles I – used her as no Englishman had known how to use her before, in flowing, correct and beautiful prose talks. Edmund Waller, the father of melody in English verse, gave her greater euphony even in prose writing (c1640); his learned comtemporary John Wilkins endowed her with academic precision. (58) It was in the reign of the first Stuart kings that the Language of Poets first rose from her former lowborn status: in lyrical poetry it was Cowley and Waller, in satire it was Donne, in descriptive poems it was Denham that polished her (between 1600 to 1640): she was only to blame for a certain unevenness and Mannerist vulgarity. During the democratic enthusiasm [the Commonwealth] she became more varied through Milton’s religious and Butler’s comic epics; after the Restoration she became more perfect through Dryden’s writings, and she turned towards dramatic poetry. Dryden, Otway, Farquhar and Vanbrugh set the tone (between 1660 and 1700) in British playwriting; after that it was only the moral side of writing that was improved, while their style remained. (III, 59)9 9 “Nur eine gewisse ihr angebohrne Stärke verleugnete sie schon unter der Hand dieser Schriftsteller [Surrey, Raleigh, Hooker] bey aller ihrer Ungelenkheit nicht. Jetzt brauchte sie Jacob I und noch mehr sein Sohn Carl I, wie sie vor ihnen noch kein Engländer zu brauchen gewußt hatte, zu fließendem, im Ausdruck richtigen und ungesucht schönen prosaischen Vorträgen; Edmund Waller, der Vater der Melodie des englischen Verses, gab ihr (c. 1640) durch sein feines Ohr auch in der Prosa größern Wohlklang, und sein gelehrter Zeitgenosse, John Wilkins, wissenschaftliche Bestimmtheit.” – ”Unter den ersten Stuarten entwand sie [die Dichtersprache] sich zuerst ihrer frühern Niedrigkeit, im lyrischen Gesang durch Cowley und Waller, in der Satyre durch Donne, in der beschreibenden Poesie durch Denhamb (von 1600–1640): sie traf nur noch der Vorwurf der Ungleichheit und des Marinischen Prunks. Während der demokratischen Schwärmereyen ward sie durch Milton’s religiöse und durch Butler’s komische Epopöe vielseiter [sic]; nach der Restauration ward sie durch Dryden vollendet, und für die dramatische Poesie genützt. Dryden, Otway, Fraqhar [sic] und Vanbrugh gaben (zwischen 1660–1700) den Ton für das brittische Theater an, der im Ganzen nach ihnen geblieben, und nur von der sittlichen Seite, von der ihn großer Tadel traf, gebessert worden ist.”

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Titles are not mentioned, and Eichhorn largely sticks to the family names of the authors. In addition, the chapters time and again are focussed on specific literary branches. This, then, is not meant to introduce students to specific texts or authors, but to set these in a particular line of development. In other words, students will not gain much detailed information on literary history, but on the nexus between ‘outworld’ historical changes and literary improvements.

7

1805–1819: Bouterwek’s Geschichte der schönen Wissenschaften

By comparison, the table of contents of Bouterwek’s Geschichte der schönen Wissenschaften is much more elaborate than those of Eichhorn’s histories, showing the inner structure more clearly (fig. 3). Volumes 7 and 8 are divided into four books, each of which contains several chapters. Book 1 contains the period between the thirteenth until the first decades of the sixteenth century ; book 2 follows the development of literature until the second half of the seventeenth century, and books 3 and 4 bring the history up to Bouterwek’s present. Each of the books is in itself clearly structured: the first chapters contain an overview of the national characteristics and sketch the major political and linguistic developments in that period while the following chapters look more closely at specific authors, texts and genres. Here, then, Bouterwek’s thematic approach that he sketches in his preface is visible in the overall structure of the books. Where Eichhorn uses images of plants, of growing and waning, Bouterwek’s rhetoric is rather based on mechanistic images. In the preface to volume 7 that takes him to English literature, Bouterwek points out that “the path of history led” (“Der Weg der Geschichte führte mich”, [iii]) him from France to England. He sees history as something – a machine? a railway? a person? – that follows a particular track; it is clearly laid out and marked, but it is not defined by a specific destination, but rather by other paths feeding into it and crossing it – these are, to Bouterwek, Romance and Germanic literary roots. He explicitly states that without keeping the “true Germanic ethnic character” in view the history of English literature and rhetorics cannot be told “pragmatically”: It was impossible to tell the history of English poesy and rhetorics pragmatically without carefully keeping the truly Germanic, Scandinavian, Lower Saxon character of the English nation in sight – which character was not even destroyed through the Norman Invasion – and without, at the same time, carefully considering the mixture between Anglo-Saxon and French spirits in English literature.10 (VII, iv–v) 10 “Ohne den echt-germanischen, niedersächsisch-scandinavischen, auch durch die norman-

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History moves, then, on a particular track with a definite and clearly marked course, but this course is not so much defined by reaching for a particular goal, but by the competition of two obviously incompatible character traits each of which results in a different literary structure. The ‘pragmatic’ aspect that Bouterwek stresses gives this at the same time an element is one of usefulness; according to Grimms’s Dictionary ‘pragmatic’ means ‘intended for practical use, for everyone’s use’ (“auf die praxis berechnet und anwendlich, gemeinnützlich”, GW s.v. ‘pragmatisch’). The developments and characteristics of literature and culture can be explained best, or so Bouterwek states, when the historian goes taken back in time to the ur-state of the nations and the languages (“bis zum Ursprunge der Nation und ihrer Sprache”, VII, 4.) According to White’s terminology, this would indicate rather a theme-based narration. At first, Bouterwek’s sketches of the developments are firmly based on national identity born from pride and stubbornness. English as a language came into existence because “the common man” (“dem gemeinen Manne”, VII, 8) did not accept French grammar even though French words were incorporated into everyday speech: his “barbarism, and perhaps his self-esteem” prevented that (“sträubte sich seine eigene Rohheit, und vielleicht sein Selbstwertgefühl”, VII, 8). It is an innate characteristic, then, that results in the retention of the original, Germanic character. This has consequences for the mental developments, too; the influx of Romanic words and ideas broadened the outlook of the old AngloSaxon, and with it, a new flexibility in thinking and living was introduced. This, to Bouterwek, is when the “real history” (“die eigentliche Geschichte”, VII, 10) of English literature began. A second key event in the formation of English literature were the Wars of the Roses: The time of the Wars of the Red and the White Roses is the period in which the English middle class mentality was created. It was this mentality that empowered England to rise to the status of the most industrialised, richest and most powerful trading nation; and the old mentality of the former knights – cooling and nearly half destroyed – had to give way before it.11 (VII, 16; emphasis in the original)

nische Eroberung nicht ausgetilgten Stammescharakter der englischen Nation immer im Gesichte zu behalten und auf die Mischung des angelsächsischen Geistes mit dem französischen in der englischen Litteratur sorgfältig zu achten, ließ sich die Geschichte der englischen Poesie und Beredsamkeit nicht pragmatisch erzählen.” 11 “Die Zeit des Krieges der rothen und weißen Rose ist die Epoche der Entstehung des englischen Bürgergeistes. Diesem Bürgergeiste, durch den sich England in unsern Tagen zum Range des industriösesten, reichsten und mächtigsten Handelsstaats emporgeschwungen hat, mußte der erkaltende und in der Hälfte seiner Repräsentanten vernichtete Rittergeist weichen.”

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The “Bürgergeist”, the “middle class mentality”, that Bouterwek here detects on the rise is the mainspring of the development of English culture. It shapes how the English see themselves, and with it it also gives structure to the expressions of the national character, culture and literature. The rising merchant class sets England apart from continental countries where the nobility holds sway much longer; consequently, he points out that after the Restoration the closeness of English and French culture that had existed under the Angevin kings was nearly extinguished: The great change that took place after the Restoration soon had effects on all parts of literature. This change was partly due to the growing development of the English national spirit; at the same time it was also founded on Protestantism that continued to reign over everything religious. With respect to their national characteristics the English were more clearly distinguished from the French than at any previous time in history ; however, if we look at other European nations, the English nation soon took on a very special character which also reflected on English literature.12 (III, 3–4)

This ‘special’ national character is that of a firm belief in individual freedom which goes together with the development of genius. When James II flees to France, no tumult follows but an organised change of political authority because of the “truly constitutional spirit” that prevailed (“ein wahrhaft constitutioneller Geist”, 7). This key idea also runs through the literary chapters, but here Bouterwek is much more interested in presenting and evaluating each author and the key texts together with their various strengths and weaknesses to continually work the importance of his main theme into the text. The first author treated in book 3 is John Dryden who, or so Bouterwek states, was already by his contemporaries revered as “the ideal representative of the new taste” (“als den vorzüglichsten Repräsentanten des neuen Geschmacks”, 31). Bouterwek begins with sketching Dryden’s biography, mentions in passing some of his key works in their respective historical contexts, before he turns to a general evaluation of the author and then to the various sorts of texts. The reader thus gets to know not only the author in the context of his biography as intertwined with political and social events, but is, at the same time, introduced to a particular angle from which to judge Dryden’s works: the presence or absence of genius. At times Bouterwek quotes from the texts by way of illustration, but more often he only describes contents, characters and the particular characteristics. Unlike Eich12 “Die große Veränderung, die sich nach der Restauration […] ereignete, wirkte bald sichtbar auf alle Theile ihrer schönen Litteratur. Diese Veränderung war zum Theil Folge der völligen Entwickelung des englischen Nationalgeistes; von einer andern Seite hatte sie aber auch ihren Grund in der fortdauernden Herrschaft des kirchlichen Protestantismus […]. Charakteristischer, als je zuvor, unterschied sich nun der Engländer von dem Franzosen; aber auch im Verhältnisse zu den übrigen europäischen Nationen nahm die englische einen besondern Charakter an, der sich ihrer Litteratur mitteilte.”

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horn Bouterwek does not list editions in any regular fashion but notes them only occasionally (though more often towards the end of book 4 when he comes to late eighteenth-century works).

8

Comparison and Conclusion

By 1810, then, a learner of English could choose between three different books on the history of English literature. According to what, how much and how he wanted to learn from the books, the choice would be different; the books available had very different layouts and intentions. Eichhorn’s Litterärgeschichte, to use White’s terminology, occupies a position close to a chronicle in brevity. It tells a story of the almost unstoppable growth of English literature, but at the same time it helps the learner to improve his understanding through advice for self-study. Eichhorn seems to expect someone with a good grasp of literary forms, though; with the scarcety of details the book would have been rather demanding for a beginner in the subject. After all, the book was meant to supplement his lectures. Organic imagery is used to invoke an idea of growth cycles, of a sort of natural pattern that culture and literature have to follow. A similar plan underlies the narration in his later Geschichte der Litteratur. While Eichhorn does not explicitly formulate a teleology that the cultural and literary developments move towards, it is very clear that he has a firm belief in the reasons for developments: nations have an “aim” (“ihrem ersten Zwecke”, xv), he states in the preface to the 1796 Allgemeine Geschichte – nations like their literature aim at the “sittliche Veredelung” (lxxxi) of humans. His organic imagery appears the more convincing because the ‘twin sister’ of literature, culture, is linguistically derived from the Latin verb ‘colere’, to plant or to prune. With respect to literature, then, ideas of growing and wilting are perfectly in keeping with the overall linguistic templates and thus appear very persuasive. Bouterwek, on the other hand, predigests the information for the learner. His Geschichte der schönen Wissenschaften is close to White’s philosophical history in that it has a theme that is developed, the progress of mankind along particular tracks and paths. The mechanistic imagery he uses suggests a sort of predestination for humans. Bouterwek adds a wealth of informative and evaluating details and on authors and texts to his historical context and overview, telling the learner what to think of authors and texts, giving arguments but little evidence. Advice for self-study is not really an item for Bouterwek. His volume may be daunting to a beginner in its sheer size, but it is certainly useful as a guide. For his readers, the thematic approach is at first glance very tempting to follow; Bouterwek seems to have found the reason for everything that happened: the

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triumph of middle-class mentality and its belief in individual freedom. Consequently, his discourse is very convincing. White’s modes of narrating have been largely ignored in the analysis, both because they are somewhat unwieldy in their use and because they do not appear to carry much additional information in this case. Even it has hopefully become evident that Eichhorn’s and Bouterwek’s histories of English literature effectively occupy different ends of White’s stratum of historiographical works. This is the more interesting as both were products of the University of Göttingen, their authors influenced by the same academic teachers, with the help of the same university library – and published within merely ten years of each other.

Works Cited Blair, Hugh (2005), Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. Ed. Linda Ferreira-Buckley and S. M. Halloran. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Bouterwek, Friedrich. Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit seit dem Ende des dreizehnten Jahrhunderts. 12 vols. Göttingen: Röwer, 1801–1819. (= Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften seit der Wiederherstellung derselben bis an das Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, Abt. 3: Geschichte der schönen Wissenschaften). Vol. 1 (1801) [general introduction and survey of literary history]; vol. 7 (1809) [English literature, from the end of thirteenth century to the second half of seventeenth century]; vol. 8 (1810) [English literature, from the end of the seventeenth century until Bouterwek’s time]. Brown, Marshall (2003), “Rethinking the Scale of Literary History”, in: Neohelicon 30, pp. 127–136. Dusch, Johann Jacob (1779), The Student’s Miscellany : A New Select Collection of Various Pieces in Prose and Verse, for Instruction and Entertainment in General, Chiefly for the Use of Students at Colleges and Universities. 2 vols. Flensburg: Korte und Jessen. Eichhorn, Johann Gottfried. Allgemeine Geschichte der Cultur und Litteratur des neueren Europa. 2 vols. Göttingen: Rosenbusch 1796–1799 (= Geschichte der Künste und Wissenschaften seit der Wiederherstellung derselben bis an das Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, Abt. 1: Einleitung). Eichhorn, Johann Gottfried. Geschichte der Litteratur von ihrem Anfang bis auf die neuesten Zeiten. 6 vols. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1805–1812. Vol. 1 (1805) [general introduction with a sketch of literary developments], vol. 3 (1810) [English literature from 1485 to 1800]. Eichhorn, Johann Gottfried. Litterärgeschichte. 2 vols. Göttingen: Rosenbusch, 1799–1814. Heeren, Arnold Hermann Ludwig (1788), Entwurf zu seinen Vorlesungen über die Geschichte und Litteratur der schönen Wissenschaften. Göttingen: Dieterich. Kansteiner, Wulf (1993), “Hayden White’s Critique of the Writing of History”, in: History and Theory 32, pp. 273–295.

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Klippel, Friederike (1994), Englischlernen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. Die Geschichte der Lehrbücher und Unterrichtsmethoden, Münster : Nodus. Konstan, David (1981), “The Function of Narrative in Hayden White’s Metahistory”, in: Clio 11, pp. 65–78. Leerssen, Joep (2004), “Literary Historicism: Romanticism, Philologists, and the Presence of the Past”, in: Modern Language Quarterly 65, pp. 221–243. Müllenbrock, Heinz-Joachim (1988), “Aufklärung im Zeichen der Freiheit – das Vorbild Englands”, in: J. v. Stackelberg (ed.), Zur geistigen Situation der Zeit der Göttinger Universitätsgründung 1737. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, pp. 144–166. Ostrowski, Donald (1990), “A Metahistorical Analysis: Hayden White and Four Narratives of ‘Russian’ History”, in: Clio 19, pp. 215–236. Pepin, Philip (1779), Strains of the British Muses. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck. Pütter, Johann Stefan (1765), Versuch einer academischen Gelehrten-Geschichte von der Georg-Augustus-Universität zu Göttingen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck. Schulze, Johann Ludwig (1766), English Originals in Prose and Verse. Halle: Kümmel. Sewell, William H. (1997), “Geertz, Cultural Systems, and History : From Synchrony to Transformation”, in: Representations 59, pp. 35–55. Stierstorfer, Klaus (2001), Konstruktion literarischer Vergangenheit: die englische Literaturgeschichte von Warton bis Courthope und Ward. Heidelberg: Winter. Struck, Gustav (1919), Friedrich Bouterwek. Sein Leben, seine Schriften und seine philosophischen Lehren. Diss. Rostock. Rostock: Hinstorff. Tompson, John (1737), English Miscellanies. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck. Van Oort, Richard (2004), “The Critic as Ethnographer”, in: New Literary History : A Journal of Theory and Interpretation 35, pp. 621–661. Warton, Thomas (1998), History of English Poetry from the Close of the Eleventh to the Commencement of the Eighteenth Century. 4 vols. London: Routledge/Thoemmes. White, Hayden (2010a), “The Problem of Change in Literary History”, in: The Fiction of Narrative. Essays on History, Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, pp. 153–168. White, Hayden (2010b). “The Structure of Historical Narrative”, in: The Fiction of Narrative. Essays on History, Literature, and Theory, 1957–2007. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, pp. 112–125. White, Hayden (1979), Metahistory : The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins. Willenberg, Jennifer (2008), Distribution und Übersetzung englischen Schrifttums im Deutschland des 18. Jahrhunderts. München: Saur. Wolpers, Theodor (2001), “Göttingen als Vermittlungszentrum englischer Literatur im 18. Jahrhundert”, in: R. Lauer (ed.), Philologie in Göttingen: Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft an der Georgia Augusta im 18. und beginnenden 19. Jahrhundert. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, pp. 91–136.

Karolin Echarti

Late 18th Century Women Translators as Actors in the Literary Field: Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind and Therese Forster-Huber

I Just as the 18th century saw a rise in women writers, the growing literary market offered the opportunity for women to work as translators, especially in the rapidly growing genres of travel literature, guidebooks, and gothic and sentimental novels. Women working in the literary field, however, were particularly exposed to the contradictory standard in society concerning the perception of women. It promoted the ideal of the self-effacing housewife, who was denied basic political and social rights and at the same time praised for her moral superiority. The discussions and upheavals accompanying the French Revolution intensified these tensions. While there was no basic difference in this point between British and German society, English works added a variety of aspects to the contradicting views already present in Germany and influenced not only their readers, but also their translators. Two women from Göttingen, daughters of professors, became hugely important members of the network surrounding the naturalist and writer Georg Forster. He was primarily known for having accompanied James Cook on his second voyage to the Pacific Ocean, but was also one of the main producers of translations in 1780s and early 90s. His name can be found on several works of travel literature, such as Des Capitain Jacob Cook’s dritte Entdeckungsreise (1788). In order to publish this high amount of translations he needed a network of scholars, booksellers etc., who would provide him with the English originals, as well as the help of other translators, who did the preliminary work for him. His wife Therese Forster1, n8e Heyne, as well as her friend Margarethe Forkel2, n8e Wedekind, participated in his translation work and was a member of his 1 Due to her two marriages, Therese, n8e Heyne, appears as “Therese Forster” or “Therese Huber”, or “Therese Forster-Huber” when relating to her whole married life. 2 Margarethe, n8e Wedekind, can appear as “Margarethe Forkel” or “Margarethe Liebeskind”, corresponding to her respective marriage, or “Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind” when relating to her whole adult life.

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intellectual circle in revolutionary Mainz in the early 1790s. So far, a variety of aspects concerning the relation and cooperation between Georg Forster and his wife have been considered by scholars like Marita Metz-Becker, Magdalene Heuser or Carola Hilmes. Marie-Luise Spieckermann concentrated on the collaboration between Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind and Georg Forster, while Monika Siegel has studied the life of Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind from her childhood in Göttingen until her death in Eichstätt and also regarded her literary work. Klaus Harpprecht and Eckart Kleßmann have published works on the “Universitätsmamsellen” (university mamsells), a contemporary name for a group of learned daughters of professors in Göttingen, including Therese Heyne and Margarethe Wedekind. This paper adds a new aspect to previous research by relating the women and their work to the complex female image prevalent in late 18th century society. It examines the influence of contradicting ideologies the women were exposed to while being members of the intellectual circle and working in the translation business. Did the works they translated expose them to views that influenced their self-image? How did they cope with the different female images they encountered?

II The role of women was formed by double standard both in British and in German 18th century society. In her work “The proper lady and the woman writer” (1984), Mary Poovey describes the prevalent ideal of the “proper lady”, a basic quality of which was self-effacement (4). While on the one hand women were denied basic political rights, they gained social importance when workplace and home became increasingly separated in the British middle-class (Poovey 8). They were not only responsible for managing the household, but were also assigned the moral supervision over the family. The assumed moral superiority and the increased status of motherhood were re-interpreted by women themselves as a strengthening of their gender identity and a compensation for the inequities they were exposed to, as the anonymous author of “the Ladies Library” states in 1739: [I]f in this the sex lies under any Disadvantage, it is more than recompensed by having the Honour of Families in their keeping. (The ladies library 73)

German society in the 1780s also increasingly presented the woman as a moral authority and teacher. Women were expected to express the bourgeois documentation of class consciousness by inhabiting the role of a devotional wife and

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mother, who subordinated her life to the needs of her family and contributed to the preservation of moral standards (Koloch 20f). To be worthy daughters, to become happy wives and devoted mothers, this is your calling, ladies, and I would like to subordinate your reading to it. You are to adorn your mind with beautiful and useful knowledge, but also particularly educate it in a way that will enable it to make a future husband happy. And for this, undisputedly, the virtues of the heart are most important; for they alone can bring domestic happiness and raise the feminine charms.3 (Johann Georg Heinzmann in 1780)

Female education was increasingly valued, as it raised the family’s prestige. The educational programme included languages, grammar, history, arithmetic, metaphysics, natural history, ethics, as well as dancing, drawing and music (Koloch 22). Although this education practically enabled the women to earn money – e. g. as a teacher, writer or translator-, it was actually not meant to be used in any other way than raising the girl’s chances of finding a good husband (which would again raise the family’s prestige) and later become a competent teacher for her own children, as well as an attentive and mindful lady of the house. The contradictions present in society particularly intensified during the last decade of the century. While the French Revolution raised questions concerning the principle of subordination and claimed basic rights for all men, the female half of the population was excluded, until women like Olympe de Gouge or Mary Wollstonecraft extended this claim to women’s rights. Moreover, the revolution evoked a conservative backlash, especially in Britain, which exposed women to a variety of ideologies concerning their role in society (Poovey 30f). Every party also produced a multitude of texts, be it newspaper articles or pamphlets, which demonstrated the author’s opinion directly, or literary texts, which concealed their ideology in a gripping plot. A considerable part of English texts concerning these aspects made their way to Germany, usually through translation.4 They 3 “Würdige Töchter zu seyn, glückliche Gattinnen und treue Mütter zu werden, dieß ist ihre Bestimmung meine Damen, und dieser wünscht’ ich auch Ihre Lektür unterzuordnen. Sie sollen Ihren Geist mit schönen und für die Welt nützlichen Kenntnissen schmücken, aber auch vorzüglich ihm diejenige Bildung geben, wodurch er zum Glück eines künftigen Mannes wirksam seyn kann. Und hier sind unstreitig die Tugenden des Herzens von der ersten Wichtigkeit; durch sie allein kann häußliche Glückseligkeit gegründet, und die weiblichen Reize erhöhet werden.” (Johann Georg Heinzmann (1780), as cited in Koloch 20). All translations are my own. 4 Bernhard Fabian has pointed out that Britain served as a model for the development of German literature in the latter half of the 18th century : “It is well known that the presence in Germany of a large body of English literature was a powerful incentive to literary development and a major factor in precipitating that outburst of literary activity which brought forth, in the later decades of the century, the literature of Storm and Stress and of early German Classicism.” (Fabian 11)

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enlarged the variety of works accessible to German women, adding new aspects concerning their role in society and proposals how to cope with the present situation. Women were not only readers of those works, but also translators, who had to occupy themselves with the works in a particularly close way. Translations in the popular genres – travel literature, guidebooks, novels – often meant quick money, as the original French or English works were often cut, restructured or just summarized, which saved a lot of time. It was also possible for publishers to commission the translations to cheap workers – like students or women –, who were forced to work under pressure of time for relatively little money. Complains about the poor quality of those rushed translations were quite frequent. The art of translation seems to me one of the most difficult sciences. It needs a particular genius, a special talent; […] the most strenuous efforts will never make a good translator, unless nature has presented him with the predisposition for it. A detailed knowledge of languages […], clear concepts of the treated material, and the sense of the author in every point, – this is what makes the scientific part of it. It is easy to acquire, and it is enough for those works the contents of which only occupy the mind. It is much more difficult with those which concern the heart and the senses and speak their language – here, talent must work! […] The great number of failed attempts of this kind demonstrates how seldom these skills concur, and how fruitless all attempts are to amend the lack of it.5

The anonymous author of this article differentiates between the “scientific” translation, which is a craft that can be learned fairly easily, and the “literary” translation, which needs real talent. While depreciating translators of scientific texts, he or she acknowledges the difficult task of the translator of a literary work. It is to be assumed that works belonging to the new genres of Gothic and sentimental novel, which accounted for a considerable part of the high number of new translations, are not counted as a real literary work here. Although they were more frequently discussed in literary journals towards the end of the century, they were still seen as light or popular – and thus inferior – fiction, and primarily linked to female readership. 5 “Die Kunst zu übersetzen scheint mir eine der schwersten Wissenschaften. Sie erfordert ein eigenes Genie, ein besonderes Talent; […] die eifrigsten Bemühungen werden nie einen guten Übersetzer bilden, wenn die Natur ihm nicht die Anlage dazu geschenkt hat. Genaue Kenntniß der Sprachen […], deutliche Begriffe der Materie welche abgehandelt wird, und den Sinn des Autors in jeder Stelle, – dies macht den wissenschaftlichen Theil derselben aus. Man erlangt ihn leicht, und er ist hinreichend für diejenigen Schriften deren Inhalt allein den Verstand beschäftigen. Weit schwerer ist es mit denen, welche das Herz und die Sinne angehen und die Sprache derselben führen – hier muß das Talent wirken! […] Die große Anzahl misrathener Versuche dieser Art beweisen uns, wie selten diese Fähigkeiten zusammen treffen, und wie fruchtlos alle Beeiferungen der Kunst sind, den Mangel derselben zu ergänzen.” (“Vom Übersetzen”. Hannoversches Magazin, col. 637–640).

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Just as women were not supposed to play an active role in society outside their homes, the act of translating, as well as the translation itself, has often been associated with indirectness and passivity, as opposed to the original and the direct act of writing. “Woman” and “translator” have been relegated to the same position of discursive inferiority. The hierarchical authority of the original over the reproduction is linked with imagery of masculine and feminine; the original is considered the strong generative male, the translation the weaker and derivative female. (Simon 1)

A woman working as a translator in a way abided by her role in society, as she remained with an inferior, “passive” occupation, rather than being the active producer of an original text. At the same time, however, she violated the unwritten rules for a “proper lady” by working for money at all. The following examples introduce two women in late 18th century Germany who were part of the intellectual network surrounding Georg Forster, the famous naturalist, writer and translator. They were daughters of Göttingen professors and received an almost academic education, being taught by their own fathers, other professors or students. Later, they worked as translators and were involved in publishing a variety of translations under Georg Forster’s name. Being in touch with intellectuals and writers from different backgrounds and being concerned with foreign publications in a time of political and social unrest, they were exposed to a variety of ideological views concerning social order and women’s place in society.

III Margarethe Forkel, née Wedekind, started working for Georg Forster in the late 1780s, when she was still the wife of musicologist Johann Nikolaus Forkel. She had been married to the Göttingen professor at the age of 15, and soon their marriage had become increasingly unhappy. Affairs with other men and the following social exclusion caused her to leave Göttingen. She fled to Berlin, where she worked with Johann Jacob Engel, a successful translator of his time. With him, she translated her first works, such as “Geschichte der Königin Elisabeth von England”. By the end of her career she had translated more than 25 English and French books, plus several translations and essays in periodicals. The encyclopedia “Die deutschen Schriftstellerinnen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts” gives a list of works accredited to Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind (von Schindel 314ff):

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- Maria, eine Geschichte in Briefen. 2 Bde. Leipzig. 1784. […]6 - Skizze der Regierung Georg III., Königs v. England, a. d. Engl. Hannover. 1789. […] - Leben der Königin Elisabeth v. England7, a. d. Franz. v. Demois. Karaglio8. 8 Bdchen. Berl. 1789. […] - Brisson’s Reisen u. Schiffbruch, a. d. Franz. Frankf. 1790. […] - Benjowsky’s Reise durch Sibirien und Kamschatka, über Japan u. China nach Europa, nebst einem Auszuge der übrigen Lebensgeschichte, a. d. Engl. übers. m. Anmerk. von J. R. Forster. 1790. […] - Mistriß Ester Lynch Piozzi Reisen durch Frankreich, Italien u. Deutschland. 2 Bde m. Anmerk. v. G. Forster, a. d. Engl. Frankf. 1790. […] - Die Bastille, od. Carl Townley, ein Mann v. d. großen Welt, a. d. Engl. 4 Bde. Leipz. 1791. - Honorie Sommerville, a. d. Engl. 4 Bde. Leipz. 1791. […] - Aubury9 Reisen in das Innere von Nordamerika u.s.w. m. Anmerk. von G. Forster. 2 Bde. m. Kpf. Berl. 1791 […] - Robertson’s historischen Bemerkungen über Indien u.s.w. 2 Bde. m. Anmerk. v. G. Forster, m. Kpf. a. d. Engl. Berlin. 1791 […] - D. Ramsay’s Geschichte der amerikanischen Revolution, aus den Archiven des Congresses der vereinigten Staaten, a. d. Engl. übers. m. Anmerk. v. G. Forster. 4 Thle. Berlin. 1791. […] - Thomas Payne, die Rechte des Menschen, eine Antwort aus Burke’s Angriff gegen die franz. Revolution, a. d. Engl. Frankf. 1792. […] - Volney’s Ruinen, od. Betrachtungen über die Revolutionen der Reiche, m. e. Vorr. (u. Anmerk.) von G. Forster, a. d. Franz. Berlin. 1792. […] - Für junge Frauenzimmer, sich und ihre künftigen Männer glücklich zu machen, a. d. Engl. der Gräfin v. Carlisle, m. einem Vers. der Übers. über weibliche Delicatesse. Leipz. 1792. […] - Eine einfache Geschichte, a. d. Engl. der Mistriß Inchbald übers. 4 Bde. Leipz. 1792. […] - Celestine, von d. Verf. d. Emmeline, od. d. Weise des Schlosses, (Mistriß Charl. Smith,) a. d. Engl. Leipz. 1792. […] - Die nächtl. Erscheinung im Schlosse Mazzini, a. d. Engl. der Miß Radcliff. 2 Bde. Hannover. 1792. […] - Das Schloß St. Valery, eine Gespenstergeschichte aus d. Zeiten Richard Löwenherz, a. d. Engl. Hannover. 1792. […] 6 7 8 9

This is not a translation, but a novel written by Margarethe Forkel herself. The last four parts were translated by Heinrich Würzer (von Schindel 314). Correct: Keralio. Correct: Anburey.

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- Adeline, od. das Abenteuer im Walde. a. d. Engl. der Miß Radcliff. 2 Bde. Leipzig. 1793. […] - Mathilde u. Elisabeth, a. d. Engl. 4 Bde. Leipzig. 1793. […] - Euphania, a. d. Engl. der Mistriß Lennox. 4 Bde. Berlin u. Küstrin. 1791. […] - Hermione, od. die Rache des Schicksals, a. d. Engl. 2 Thle. Hannov. 1792. […] - Desmond, eine Geschichte in Briefen, a. d. Engl. der Mistriß Charl. Smith. 3 Bde. Hamburg. 1793. […] - Udolpho’s Geheimnisse, a. d. Engl. d. Miß Radcliff. 4 Bde. Riga. 1795. […] - Caleb Williams, ein philosophischer Roman von Godwin. a. d. Engl. 3 Bde. Riga. 1795. - Marchmont, a. d. Engl. d. Miß Charl. Smith. 4 Bde. Leipz 1797. - Die Italienerinnen, o. d. Beichtstuhl der schwarzen Büßenden, a. d. Engl. der Miß A. Radcliffe.3 Thle. Königsberg. 1792. […] - Denkwürdigkeiten aus S. Johnsons Leben, a. d. Engl. des Sq. Boswell, m. Johnsons Bild. 1 Theil Königsb. 1797. […] Being largely chronologically, the above list gives a good illustration of the evolution of Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind’s translation work. The first years (1789–92) are mainly concerned with historical works and especially travel literature. This is the phase of her close collaboration with Georg Forster in Mainz, who would supervise Margarethe Forkel’s work, revise it if he thought it necessary and publish it under his own name, usually after adding a preface. In his letters he names his motives for employing her and describes her situation. These lines, my dearest and most honoured friend, are brought to you by Madame Forkel […]. Her situation in Göttingen is sad and unpleasant; her domestic affairs are of such a kind that they cannot bring her happiness; […] She does not seek company any more, but her resort is work, namely, as you, dear friend, well know, writing work. She was forced to work, partly to have an occupation, partly to earn something to economically contribute to the expenses, as her circumstances are of such a kind as to make her abstain from everything that marriage usually allows for, and limit herself to keeping house. She was not used to female work; she had not learned it in her youth and married as a 17-year old girl.1011 10 Georg Forster to Jeremias David Reuß, 13. 10. 1791: “Diese Zeilen, mein Theuerster und innig verehrter Freund, bringt Ihnen Madame Forkel […]. Ihre Lage in Göttingen ist traurig und unangenehm; […] Sie sucht keinen Umgang mehr, sondern ihre Ressource ist Arbeit, und zwar, wie Sie, liebster Freund, wohl wissen, schriftstellerische Arbeit. Diese hat sie sich genöthigt gesehen zu übernehmen, theils um Beschäftigung zu haben, theils um sich etwas zu erwerben, womit sie in der Wirthschaft ihr Theil zu den Ausgaben bestreitet, da ihr Verhältnis durchaus von der Art ist, daß sie auf alles Verzicht thut, was sonst eine eheliche Verbindung zu gewähren pflegt, und sich blos auf die Führung der Wirthschaft einschränkt. Zu weiblicher Arbeit war sie nicht gewöhnt; sie hatte sie in ihrer Jugend nicht gelernt, und heurathete als ein 17jähriges Mädchen.” (Forster (Briefe 1790–1791) 357).

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Margarethe Forkel is portrayed as a helpless, though talented young woman, who needs to work as a translator in order to earn money and numb her feelings in an unhappy marriage. This follows a common topos of women forced into work, by financial need or family issues. Interest or pleasure in working for money was not compatible with the image of the “proper lady” and thus was usually denied by men and women alike. While closely supervising her work in the field of travel literature – the genre accounting for Georg Forster’s high reputation – he showed much less interest in her works outside that genre. While Georg Forster provided Margarethe Forkel with novels she could translate, he does not seem to have revised her work in any respect, nor did he write prefaces or let his name be connected to this genre in any way. However, from about 1792 onwards she nearly exclusively concentrated on gothic and sentimental novels – at least twelve translations were published between 1792 and 1797. This shift towards independent work coincided with her second pregnancy. While still married to Forkel, she had fallen in love with her later husband Johann Heinrich Liebeskind, a law student in Göttingen at that time, and become pregnant. She withdrew to Bamberg until her son’s birth in October 1792, then moved back to Mainz where she lived with the Forsters (Siegel 108). As a remarkable number of her translations were published that year, it is to be assumed that translating was Margarethe Forkel’s main occupation during those months of waiting. An incident that occurred in late 1791 might also have caused Georg Forster to change his choice of translations he suggested to Margarethe Forkel. In June 1791 he told his publisher Christian Friedrich Voß: I have received from England an admirable work by Thomas Paine the American, the famous author of the Common sense. It is called T h e R i g h t s o f M a n and is directed against Mr. Burke. Four edition are sold out already. But it is so democratic that I cannot translate it because of my circumstances. Madame Forkel translates it and I will revise it for her. […] Will you publish the translation?12

Unsurprisingly, Georg Forster was highly impressed by Paine’s work, as it corresponded with his own democratic and enlightened ideas13. However, he did 11 In fact, she was only 16 years old (Spieckermann 146). 12 Georg Forster to Christian Friedrich Voß, 4.6. 1791: “Ich habe aus England eine bewundernswürdige Schrift von Thomas Paine dem Amerikaner, dem berühmten Verfaßer des Common sense erhalten. Sie heißt T h e R i g h t s o f M a n und ist wider Herrn Burke gerichtet. Vier Editionen sind schon vergriffen. Sie ist aber so demokratisch, daß ich sie wegen meiner Verhältniße nicht übersetzen kann. Madame Forkel übersezt sie und ich will sie ihr revidiren. […] Wollen Sie die Uebersetzung in Ihren Verlag nehmen?” (Forster (Briefe 1790–1791) 298). 13 These tendencies are displayed quite openly in the preface and annotations of Forster’s translation of Cook’s last journey, Des Capitain Jacob Cook’s dritte Entdeckungsreise (1788).

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not dare to translate, i. e. publish under his own name, this extremely radical work. Instead, he conveyed the translation to Margarethe Forkel, who proved similarly impressed. Within little more than two months the work was completed and sent to Forster’s publisher. Shortly afterwards a preface followed, composed by Georg Forster in order to avoid censorship. Before official censorship could be applied, however, Voß himself rejected the translation, accusing it of being of poor quality. What followed was a letter by Georg Forster in which he carefully tried to apologise for Margarethe Forkel’s work and for his own failure in revising it, and at the same time to defend his decision to entrust her with the work. His reason, as he points out, was mainly to help this “very estimable, brave and at the same time very unhappy women”14 who had to work in order to feed herself and her son. He admits that he should not have let her do “work of this kind, which is beyond her strength”15 without strictly revising it. However, Georg Forster urges Voß, she must not be told of Voß’s criticism – and that she had “compromised” Forster –, as it might upset her so much that she might not feel fit to continue her “usual work”, namely translating novels. Again, the picture Georg Forster draws of Margarethe Forkel is that of a pitiable, helpless woman, who was treated badly by her husband and now needs help in order to cope with her life. Not only is she in financial distress, which forces her to work, but he also indicates a frailty that apparently leads to such low self-confidence, that she must not be exposed to any criticism. Nonetheless, Georg Forster seems to have told her of Voß’s reaction in the end – and her reaction was quite different from what he had expected. She herself wrote a reply to Voß: So, coming right to the point: You rejected Paine, and dear Forster confessed this to me with a sad face, as if this was my death sentence. […] But besides, your refusal did not grieve me, as I am convinced that when you see the book you cannot help but print it, even if this was high treason.16

She proves quite unimpressed by Voß’s criticism and in contrast to Georg Forster seems to have suspected – probably correctly – that Voß’s main reason for rejecting the translation was not so much its alleged poor quality, but rather the radical statements in the original work. Voß indeed published the first part of the German translation the following year, while the second part appeared in 14 “sehr schätzenwerthe, wackere und zugleich sehr unglückliche Frau” (Georg Forster to Christian Friedrich Voß, 21. 11. 1791. Forster (Briefe 1790–1791) 379). 15 “Arbeit von dieser Art, die ihre Kräfte übersteigt”, ibid. 16 “Also gleich zur Sache: Sie haben den Paine abgewiesen, und der gute Forster hat mir das mit einem Jammergesicht kund gethan, als spräche er ein Todesurtheil. […] Doch nebenher, mich hat ihre Weigerung nicht betrübt, weil ich fest überzeugt bin, wenn Sie das Buch sehen, so können Sie nicht weiter als es drucken, und wenn Hochverrath drauf stünde.” (Margarethe Forkel to Christian Friedrich Voß 21. 11. 1791 , as cited in Siegel 101).

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Copenhagen in 1793 in a new translation. The incident certainly did not intimidate Margarethe Forkel into limiting herself to novels. It might, however, have caused Georg Forster to be more cautious. The collaboration between Margarethe Forkel and Georg Forster also ended for very practical reasons. 1792 saw Georg Forster’s increasing commitment to politics. After Mainz had been occupied by the French revolutionary army, he joined the “Jakobinerklub” and even became temporary vice-president of the newly-founded republic. Having been elected a representative of Mainz national convention, he was sent to Paris in spring 1793 and stayed there until his death in early 1794. The political situation also affected Margarethe Forkel: When Prussian and Austrian troops conquered the Mainz republic in 1793 she, together with Georg Forster’s wife Therese and some other women, was arrested and held captive for three and a half months. In the following years she followed her second husband Johann Heinrich Liebeskind to different places in Eastern Europe and Bavaria, where he worked as a public servant, and also published a few translations, part of which she had already begun years earlier in Mainz (Siegel 135). The contradicting political positions and ideological views Margarethe Forkel was exposed to are mirrored in the works she translated. Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man is one of the most radical and democratic ones of his time, while Lady Carlisle’s instructions advise women how to cope with the established order. In her preface, Hester Lynch Piozzi almost apologizes for publishing her work Observations and reflections made in the course of a journey through France, Italy, and Germany : That I should make some reflections, or write down some observations, in the course of a long journey, is not strange; that I should present them before the Public is I hope not too daring. (Piozzi 8)

The numerous novels, most of which written by women, carry an ambivalence within themselves. As Mary Poovey has pointed out, novels not only were a chance for women to participate actively in the literary field and become successful authors. The sentimental novel also “ratified” the ideal of the “proper lady”, as it “called attention to women’s weaknesses”, and provided women with “compensatory gratifications” discouraging them from seeking material changes in their position (38). Ann Radcliffe, the author of The Mysteries of Udolpho – a gothic novel which Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind translated during her second marriage – presented her work as purely didactic and mentioned her “weak hand” (Poovey 40). The fact that an author like Ann Radcliffe mechanically belittled her work in such a way demonstrates to what degree even highly successful women writers had internalized the alleged natural female weakness

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and inferiority – or that they at least thought it necessary to add this kind of apology to their publications. When translating all those works, and thereby looking into their contents and statements in a particularly close way, Margarethe Forkel was confronted with their different political views and perceptions of women. Her life in a way matched these contradictions. As a young woman she violated the ideal of the “proper lady” by leaving her husband, living as a single mother for some time, having a profession of her own and being a member of the intellectual, enlightened circle surrounding the Forsters in Mainz. During this time, she was either seen and treated as a helpless, weak, and pitiable woman or as an adulteress who had to be expelled from righteous society. In her later life, however, she fulfilled the traditional role of women perfectly, living as a happy wife and mother of four sons. In 1795, shortly after having married Johann Heinrich Liebeskind, Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind said: My father wanted to give me an academic education; I had to learn languages, music and drawing and the former was easy for me. […] [B]ut soon I felt that I would not find salvation in this way. Active as my mind may be, nature has unmistakably hinted at seeking it in domestic, calm activity and even though I am sometimes tempted by pastimes of the former kind, the latter is what I am most eagerly pursuing.17

After the turbulent years in Mainz and her insecure status as a single mother, she seems to have sought the security of marriage and the role of a housewife and mother. It displays a self-assuring and apologetic strategy, which she used in order to draw a line under her past and regain a good reputation in society. However, the new role proved not easy to fulfil, and she found it difficult to relate to other women she met, most of which were mainly interested in cooking, fashion or sentimental poetry (Siegel 145). Instead, she preferred the society of intellectuals. During the Liebeskinds’ 20-years-stay (1807–1827) in Munich, Margarethe was a member of a circle of scholars and professors, most of which came from other – protestant – parts of Germany (Siegel 170). In 1812, Margarethe Liebeskind published a translation of “Lettres du Madame du Deffand” in the “Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände” (Editor : Johann Friedrich Cotta), a journal for which she would later (1820–22) work as the Munich correspondent (Siegel 176ff). In this function she reported on a variety of events, like carnival 17 “Mein Vater wollte mir eine wissenschaftliche Bildung geben (…) aber bald fühlte ich, daß ich auf diesem Wege mein Heil nicht finden würde. So lebhaft mein Geist auch ist, so hat die Natur mir doch unverkennbar einen Fingerzeig gegeben, es allein in häuslicher, stiller Wirksamkeit zu suchen, und wenn gleich hie und da eine Beschäftigung jener Art noch vielen Reiz für mich hat, so neigt sich doch nach diesem Ziel mein eifrigstes Bemühen hin (…).” (Margarethe in 1795, as cited in Staegemann 5).

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processions, theatre performances and concerts, while avoiding political statements and critical judgements (Siegel 194). Therese Forster-Huber (late Georg Forster’s wife), however, characterized Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind as a revolutionary when she complained to a friend in 1819: I seldom hear from Meta18. She showed much interest in the Estates, and the few letters she sent me during that time make me think of the year 92 – she was likewise engaged, and again in the opposition.19

Apparently Margarethe defended a modern representative constitution (Siegel 189f). Indeed, she had commented on political events in her earlier letters, for example when she reported on the effects of the Napoleonic war in 1805. She defended the Prussian administrative system, which her husband felt committed to, and early realised Napoleon’s fatal hunger for power (Siegel 187ff). While becoming more self-effacing in her later years, and despite her intention to live the quiet life of a housewife and mother, Margarethe ForkelLiebeskind kept translating foreign works, socialising with intellectuals, and being interested in political events. She had found a way to pursue her interests without violating the image of a “proper lady” too much. When Georg Forster married Therese Heyne, daughter of Christian Gottlob Heyne, a renowned classical philologist, in 1785, she gave her best to fulfil the traditional women’s role. She was determined to become the caring wife at Georg Forster’s side, accompanying him to the remote university town of Vilna. Her early letters from that time display her attitude towards her role: “It is my only ambition to provide Forster with a comfortable home and set up his household as little costly as possible. His gratitude is the highest reward for me.”20 Clearly she followed the idea of the wife being responsible for providing her husband with a comfortable and well-organized home and caring for the children. Ayear later this ideal of a happy family was made perfect by the birth of the Forsters’ first child, a girl. Therese Forster stated: “My kind Georg is pleased that his wife is healthy, even though he would have preferred to have a boy.”21 Interestingly, Georg Forster uttered a quite different view: 18 Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind’s first name was usually shortened to“Meta”. 19 “Von Meta hör ich sehr selten etwas. Sie hat an den Landständen lebhaften Antheil genommen, und die wenigen Briefe die sie mir während ihnen schrieb, erinnerten mich lebhaft an das Jahr 92 – sie war noch eben so lebendig darinn und auch wieder in der Opposition.” (Siegel 189). 20 “Mein einziges Bestreben ist Forstern Bequemlichkeit zu verschaffen und seinen Haushalt so wenig kostbar wie möglich einzurichten. Seine Dankbarkeit, ist mir die überschwänglichste Belohnung.” (Therese Forster to Georgine Heyne, 10./13. 12. 1785, Huber (1774–1803) 192). 21 “Mein gütiger Georg ist zufrieden, daß sein Weib gesund ist, obschon er lieber einen Jungen gehabt hätte.” (Therese Forster to Samuel Thomas Soemmering, 14. 08. 1786, Huber (1774–1803) 235).

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The girl is strong, well-fed and born healthy […]. Therese thinks I would have preferred a boy, but I don’t care at all, except for one period in the distant future when the girl is supposed to become a woman; for in our circumstances it is indeed more difficult to enable a girl than a boy to earn his bread. So why should I care? On the contrary, I like the fact that the first child is a girl.22

Georg Forster was apparently well aware of the fact that a girl’s future was much more uncertain than a boy’s. While a boy would be educated to earn his own money and live an independent life, a girl would always be dependent on other people. It was in her father’s responsibility to find a suitable husband, in order to pass the responsibility to him. Georg Forster’s denial of preference may seem like an act of defiance of a man who had to make the best of the fact that his first child was a girl. However, when his first son was born in 1792 he confirmed: I have never known the foolishness to prefer one sex over the other, or seen the pleasure in it. But I like the fact that now there is a boy, because it offers an opportunity for communication of a kind that is not possible with girls.23

While Georg Forster repeated that he liked daughters and sons alike, he still supposed a natural difference in the way they think and can be talked to. The view that women were intellectually inferior was prevalent in the 18th century and supported by Enlightenment philosophers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau24. Stuck in the stadium of imagination, female nature was supposed to be incapable of the process of cognition and abstract thinking (Crampe-Casnabet 349). Georg Forster, though surrounded by intelligent women, had apparently internalized that view to a considerable degree.25 However, he could hardly accomplish his daily work without the help of women. Therese Forster first helped him copy his translations, so that a neat copy could be sent to his publisher. She also proofread some of his translations 22 “Das Mädchen ist stark, wohl genährt und gesund auf die Welt gekommen […]. Therese meint, ich hätte lieber einen Jungen gehabt, doch dies ist mir sehr gleichgültig, bis auf die entfernte Periode, wo endlich aus dem Mädchen eine Frau werden soll; denn dies ist freilich in unseren Verhältnissen schwerer als einen Jungen soweit zu bringen, daß er sein Brod verdienen kann. Also was sollte mich’s kümmern? Im Gegentheil, es ist mir lieb, daß gerade das erste Kind ein Mädchen ist.” (Georg Forster to Samuel Thomas Soemmering, 14. 8. 1786, as cited in Metz-Becker 66). 23 “Die Thorheit, Kinder von einem Geschlecht denen des andern vorzuziehen, habe ich nie gekannt, oder das Angenehme davon nie empfunden. Aber es ist mir lieb, daß nun ein Junge da ist, weil es eine Aussicht eröfnet [sic] zu einer Art der Mittheilung von Ideen, welche bei Mädchen gar nicht möglich ist.” (Georg Forster to Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, 10. 5. 1792. Forster (1792–1794) 111). 24 For a discussion of Rousseau’s exclusion of women from citizenship, see LarrHre. 25 Marie-Luise Spieckermann also mentions that Georg Forster followed the contemporary assumption that there is a difference in the way men and women percept and respond to their living environment (155f).

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and Georg Forster would read out his texts to her (Forster (1784–1787) 440, 520). When he was falling behind with his translation of Cook’s last voyage, she helped out. In order not to run the ship ashore, my good Therese promised to take a stab at translating.26 My dear Therese has successfully worked through the whole 3rd volume.27

Although he was thankful for her help at first, Georg Forster later felt inclined to completely revise her work (G. Forster 07. 05. 1787, Forster (1784–1787) 684), so that her part of the final translation cannot be made out. Georg Forster’s letters prove that she also translated other works for him28, and she inquired for works she might translate with his publisher (Therese Forster to Johann K. Ph. Spener, 16. 07. 1786, as cited in Heuser 105f). When the family moved to Mainz in 1788, the Forsters’ house became a meeting place for intellectuals from all over Germany. It was not only Georg Forster himself who attracted visitors like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe or Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt (Metz-Becker 71f). Therese Forster contributed to creating an atmosphere of intellectual exchange and conversed with famous visitors without any difficulty. Wilhelm von Humboldt reports of his meeting with Therese Forster : I took much pleasure in this whole conversation. She is a wonderful woman. So much spirit, such wide knowledge which becomes visible, not visible itself, but in its results, in her opinions, her civilised, appropriate, affecting language, and so much heart, so much warm, true and not at all high strung feeling. I do not like the fact that her great, great liveliness manifests itself in too many gestures. This sometimes makes her unfeminine. She is not beautiful. […] But sometimes she knows how to put a kindness, a grace, which ravishes, into her looks.29

26 “Um das Schif [sic] nicht auf den Grund sitzen zu laßen, hat mir meine gute Therese versprochen, einen Versuch im übersetzen zu wagen.” (Georg Forster to Johann K. Ph. Spener, 21. 01. 1787. Forster (Briefe 1784–1787) 627). 27 “Meine liebe Therese hat sich glückl. durch den ganzen 3ten Band durchgearbeitet.” (Georg Forster to Johann K. Ph. Spener, 15. 03. 1787, Forster (Briefe 1784–1787) 649). 28 E. g. a part of Edward Umfreville’s “The present states of Hudson’s Bay” (London 1790) in 1791 (Georg Forster to Christian Friedrich Voß, 29. 10. 1791, Forster (Briefe 1790–1791) 362). Georg Forster, however, did not like her translation, and decided not to publish any of the work at all. 29 Ich hatte unendlich viel Freude bei diesem ganzen Gespräch. Es ist ein herrliches Weib. So unendlich viel Geist, so ausgebreitete Kenntnisse, die sich überall zeigen, nicht selbst zeigen, aber in ihren Resultaten, in den Urteilen, der gebildeten, passenden ergreifenden Sprache, und dann soviel Herz, so viel warmes, wahres, und auch nicht im geringsten überspanntes Gefühl. Zu tadeln find ich, daß sich ihre große, große Lebhaftigkeit zuviel in Gebärden äußert. Das geht manchmal ins Unweibliche. Schön ist sie nicht. […] Aber manchmal weiß

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While praising Therese’s wide knowledge, her cultured language and her judgement, Humboldt calls her gesturing “unfeminine”. Clearly he adheres to the ideal of female self-effacement: knowledge is acceptable or even appreciable in a woman, as long as it is not displayed too openly and directly. In order to make a woman agreeable, good looks or at least alleged female characteristics like gentleness, grace and feeling are essential: among Therese Forster’s greatest virtues he names her “heart” and “warm feeling”. Her “kindness” and “grace” can make her appear beautiful, even though her outer appearance is otherwise rather unattractive. Nonetheless, she was accepted and liked by the visiting scholars, and kept contact with several of them after the dispersal of the circle. A letter from Justus Erich Bollmann from 1793 proves that they discussed Georg Forster’s situation in Paris and agreed in defending Forster’s views and actions in revolutionary Mainz. After Therese Forster’s separation from her husband, she went to live with author Ludwig Ferdinand Huber, whom she married after Georg Forster’s death. In those years she gave life to several children, was a housewife and mother, assisted Ferdinand Huber with his writings and also published her own narrations under his name. After her second husband’s death in 1804, she edited Georg Forster’s letters and added a biography, in order to financially support her children (Heuser 115). This collection introduced Forster and his achievements in the field of cultural history into the cultural memory, as Magdalene Heuser has pointed out.30 Therese Huber and Margarethe Liebeskind kept their correspondence during their second marriages and also met occasionally. Despite their friendship, Therese Huber tried to enhance her own standing by depreciating Margarethe Liebeskind’s living conditions and by characterizing her as a bad housewife (Siegel 146f). Being a perfect mother and housewife seemed to be Therese Huber’s ambition; she repeatedly identified with this image calling herself a “little housewife”31 that always dressed plainly.32 She stated that she avoided taking part in academic or literary discussions, as she did not feel qualified for it33, mentioned her orthography problems in German and that she always had had much help from her husband Ferdinand Huber34. She defended her work as a translator and writer by insisting that she only worked to provide financial

30 31 32 33 34

sie auch ihren Mienen eine Güte, eine Grazie zu legen, die hinreißt. (Wilhelm von Humboldt, diary, 7. 10. 1788, as cited in Metz-Becker 72). See Magdalene Heuser : Georg und Therese Forster – Aspekte einer gescheiterten Zusammenarbeit. “Hausmütterchen”, Huber (1774–1803) 427. “ohne Puz immer angezogen”, ibid. Ibid. “er beschnitt, stellte, stylisierte”, ibid.

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support for her children35. The image she created of herself thus conforms to the ideal of the self-effacing wife. However, she worked as an editor for the journal “Morgenblatt für gebildete Stände” from 1817 onwards, and apparently tried to found a school for girls in 1809 (Siegel 169). This indicates her persisting interest in literature and learning, even though she would doubtlessly present it as a necessary means of earning money for her family. Her support of female education is also illustrated by a passage in a letter to her father in 1797: Would you please, when you have the opportunity, ask Blumenbach36 what German or French book might teach my Röse37 some physical definitions. […] She would love to learn about electricity, volcanos, the formation of colours etc., but I often lack the knowledge and always the time.38

Just as she herself had been given the opportunity to study a broad variety of subjects by her father, she encouraged her own daughter and supported her in educating herself. Even though Therese Forster was less involved in actual translation work than Margarethe Forkel, she was nevertheless an important partner for Georg Forster. She assisted him with his work and was a central figure in their intellectual circle in Mainz, where she became acquainted with diverse political and philosophical ideologies. She also exemplifies women’s acting as mediators between their husbands’ works and the reading public, by collecting, editing and publishing letters or previously unreleased texts and thus contributing to their husbands’ place in the cultural memory. Her husband personified the contradictions and double standard concerning the female image. He worked and lived with educated and intelligent women and advocated freedom and equality, but just like most of his contemporaries he could not fully acknowledge women as coequal. While claiming he liked daughters just as much as sons, he still assumed a natural difference in the way they think and act. It is hardly surprising that Therese Forster struggled with her own image just as much. While pursuing the ideal of the “proper lady” from the beginning of her first marriage onwards, she never gave up working in the field of literature, be it as a translator, writer or editor. Just as she could not limit herself to housework 35 36 37 38

Ibid. Johann Friedrich Blumenbach (1752–1840). Short for “Therese”, Therese and Georg Forster’s first daughter. “Wollten Sie wohl auch Blumenbach bey Gelegenheit fragen in was für einen deutschen oder französischen Buche meine Röse einige Begriffe von Phisik schöpfen könnte. […] Sie möchte doch so gern etwas von Elektrizitat [sic], Vulkanen, Farbentstehung u dgl. wißen, wovon mir oft der Zusammenhang u immer die Zeit fehlt.” Therese Huber to Christian Gottlob Heyne, 6. 1. 1797. SUB Göttingen, Th. Huber 8, Nr. 908.

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completely, however, she never managed to stand by her literary work. The constant use of apologetic strategies to account for her work demonstrate an inner conflict, which she might not have been fully aware of, but which was symptomatic of her time and situation.

IV Both Margarethe Forkel’s and Therese Heyne’s lives show progressive as well as conservative tendencies. Both women received an education above the ordinary, as their fathers acquainted them with a variety of academic subjects, as well as the scholarly world and its members. Georg Forster and his translation network brought them into contact with British works exposing different views of society and the role of women. The intellectual circle they were a part of, together with political unrest and social upheavals, further widened the range of ideologies. The women’s autonomy from institutions like universities or societies enabled them to work independently and engage in very diverse works; at the same time, however, the lack of connections to those institutions, that could have offered protection and security, increased the women’s exposure to social constraints. Throughout their lives Margarethe Forkel-Liebeskind and Therese ForsterHuber struggled to find their role in society, torn between their pleasure in active literary work and the image of the “proper lady” which required them to define themselves through their husbands and children. The insecurity of a life without a husband, and the corresponding low reputation made Margarethe Forkel seek her resort in her second marriage. Therese Forster-Huber sought to fulfil her role as a wife and mother in both her marriages, insisting on her dependence on her husband(s). At the same time, there are several hints that both women’s interests were not as limited to the domestic sphere as they claimed. Like many 18th century women in a similar dilemma, they neither decided to give up their own interests nor to break with the established order. Instead, they sought a compromise in continuing their work while using apologetic strategies to reassure others, and moreover, themselves. The double standard concerning the role of women in society, together with the exposure to contradicting ideals, led to their manoeuvring between different concepts of life. It demonstrates the women’s uncertainty which way to choose, but also their skill in using the unsettled circumstances to combine their own interests with those of the conservative society.

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Works Cited Primary Sources Edited Forster, Georg. Briefe 1784–1787. Werke. Ed. Horst Fiedler. Berlin: Akad.-Verlag, 1981. Briefe 1790–1791. Werke. Ed. Brigitte Leuschner et al. Berlin: Akad.-Verlag, 1980. Briefe 1792–1794 und Nachträge. Werke. Ed. Klaus-Georg Popp. Berlin: Akad.-Verlag, 1989. Huber, Therese. 1774–1803. Briefe. Ed. Magdalene Heuser. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1999. 1804- Juni 1807. Briefe. Ed. Magdalene Heuser. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2003. Piozzi, Hester Lynch. Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey through France, Italy, and Germany Vol I. 1789. Ed. Annie Richardson and Catherine Dille. Women’s Travel Writings in Italy Vol 3. London: Pickering & Chatto, 2009.

Not edited Hannoversches Magazin, 1763–1790. 15. Jg. (1777). The ladies library. [… ]. Written by a lady. Published by Sir Richard Steele. Vol 2. London, 1751. SUB Göttingen, Th. Huber 8, Nr. 908. Universitätsbibliothek München, Autogr. 99, Bollmann, Justus Erich an Therese Forster.

Secondary Sources Crampe-Casnabet, MichHle (1994), “Aus der Philosophie des 18. Jahrhunderts”, in: Arlette Farge and Natalie Zemon Davis (eds.), Frühe Neuzeit. Geschichte der Frauen. Frankfurt: Campus, pp. 333–366. Fabian, Bernhard (1994), “English Books and Their Eighteenth-Century German Readers”, in: Selecta Anglicana. Buchgeschichtliche Studien zur Aufnahme der englischen Literatur in Deutschland im achtzehnten Jahrhundert (Schriften und Zeugnisse zur Buchgeschichte, Band 6). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 11–94. Harpprecht, Klaus, and Gesa Dane (1988), Die Universitäts-Mamsellen: fünf Göttinger Damen, die teilweise schön, allesamt reizvoll, begabt und gebildet, gewiss aber so gescheit waren wie die meisten Professoren. Göttingen: Deuerlich. Heuser, Magdalene (2001), “Georg und Therese Forster – Aspekte einer gescheiterten Zusammenarbeit”, in: Bodo Plachta (ed.), Literarische Zusammenarbeit. Tübingen: Niemeyer, pp. 101–119. Hilmes, Carola. Georg Forster und Therese Huber : Eine Ehe in Briefen. In: Goethezeitportal (last visit: 24. 05. 2013). Kleßmann, Eckart (2008), Universitätsmamsellen: fünf aufgeklärte Frauen zwischen Rokoko, Revolution und Romantik. Frankfurt am Main: Eichborn.

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Koloch, Sabine (2010), “Vorüberlegungen und Nachträge zur philosophischen Bildung von Frauen im 18. Jahrhundert”, in: Sabine Koloch (ed.), Frauen, Philosophie und Bildung im Zeitalter der Aufklärung. Berlin: Trafo, pp. 9–33. LarrHre, Catherine (2011), “Jean-Jacques Rousseau on women and citizenship”, in: History of European Ideas 37, pp. 218–222. Metz-Becker, Marita (2009), “Georg Forsters ‘Häusliches Glück’. Das Leben mit Therese Heyne in Göttingen, Wilna und Mainz”, in: Georg-Forster-Studien XIV, pp. 57–84. Poovey, Mary (1984), The Proper Lady and the Women Writer. Ideology as style in the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, and Jane Austen. Chicago et al.: University of Chicago Press. Siegel, Monika (2001), Ich hatte einen Hang zur Schwärmerey… Das Leben der Schriftstellerin und Übersetzerin Meta Forkel-Liebeskind im Spiegel ihrer Zeit. Dissertation. Technische Universität Darmstadt. (last visit: 24. 05. 2013) Simon, Sherry (1996), Gender in Translation. Cultural Identity and the Politics of Transmission. London: Routlegde. Spieckermann, Marie-Luise (2008), “Dorothea Margareta Liebeskind (1765–1853). Übersetzerin zwischen wissenschaftlicher Literatur und Unterhaltungsromanen englischer Autorinnen”, in: Brunhilde Wehinger and Hilary Brown (eds.), Übersetzungskultur im 18. Jahrhundert. Übersetzerinnen in Deutschland, Frankreich und der Schweiz. Hannover : Wehrhahn, pp.141–164. Staegemann, Elisabeth (1858), Erinnerungen für edle Frauen. 2nd ed. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Von Schindel, Carl Wilhelm Otto August (1823–1825), Die deutschen Schriftstellerinnen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. Leipzig: Brockhaus.

Elizabeth Bracker

Negotiating Literary Texts – a Nexus between Different Realms of Competence? Examples of a Qualitative Case Study with Advanced EFL Learners

1

Introduction

The conference “The Institution of Literature” took place in honor of a very special occasion: In 2012, the University of Goettingen celebrated its 250th anniversary of the election of John Tompson as the first professor of English studies. His English Miscellanies – one of the first English publications in Germany – rank among the most successful English textbooks of his time. The aim of the work was to mediate English literature and culture to German students of the English language. The conference thus programmatically sheds light upon a long tradition of literary texts in the English language classroom; literary texts that are again closely connected to the question of cultural transfer in educational contexts. However, a lot has happened since the age of Tompson. English has become the universal language and the teaching of the English language is deeply rooted into the system of public education in Germany. Many States (Bundesländer) even compulsory start at the beginning of elementary schooling. This significance brings along a great number of requirements in terms of school curricula and educational goals. In view of recent national and international debates on education, heated in particular since the publication of the first PISA study results in 2001, many of these requirements can be categorized by the big buzzwords output and competence. Foreign language competences are to be described as precisely as possible and have to be implemented in tasks leading to observable and measurable results (cf. BMBF 2003: 9). All in all, this has led to a rather functional and pragmatic view of language learning (cf. Küster e. g. 2007: 20f.). It seems that, despite their long tradition in language education, literary texts with their polyvalent and artistic character (cf. Eco 1962: 11) have become the victims of this development. This is also the reason that little empirical research has been done in the field of literary learning in the EFL classroom throughout all class levels (cf. Legutke e. g. 2008: 37; Gardemann in this publication).

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This paper reports on findings of a research project, that explores smallgroup discussions between advanced English learners, negotiating a literary text, written in the English language. The aim of the study is to empirically reconstruct what actually happens when foreign language students interactively deal with literature. One of the guiding questions is whether the processes and phenomena reconstructed in the discussions can somehow be related to realms of competences as described and asked for in the official documents. If so, the findings may serve to support the rehabilitation of literature in the English language classroom despite – or rather because of – the fact that they cannot be fully accessed and assessed in functional and pragmatic ways. First, I will outline the gap between the standing of literary texts in official documents like the Common European Framework of Reference (CEFR) and the academic discourse dealing with literature in the foreign language classroom. This gap marks one crucial theoretical and empirical void in which I am locating the focus of my paper. I will then describe the setting of the case study and give reasons for the choice of the literary text that served as the basis of the students’ small-group discussions and functions as a tertium comparationis in the project. Here, I will make an argumentative excursion to the theoretical debate on canon formation, noting the fact that a choice of text in an institutionalized context is always an act of confirming or neglecting an established canon. I will then come to my main part and present some of my study’s key findings that suggest a close and complex interplay between different realms of competence.

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Literary Texts in the English Language Classroom Between Marginalization and High Hopes

Dealing with aesthetic texts involves processes and demands competences that can hardly be measured or assessed via standards, competence models or standardized tests (cf. Frederking 2008). This is one of the reasons why the teaching of literature in the foreign language classroom is often considered to be a so-called “soft subject”. However, in times when international large-scale assessments such as PISA and their “hard” statistical outputs are dominating national debates on education, this attribution unfortunately implies a rather low appreciation. Helene Decke-Cornill and Ulrich Gebhard (2007: 11) take this to be a general rule of thumb: nowadays, the ‘softer’ a subject, a research problem or a methodical approach, the lower its reputation and the more uncertain its future. Related to literary texts, this impression is reinforced when taking a closer look at the Common European Framework of Reference. The framework has been developed by the European Council. It serves as the basis

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for national standards, textbooks and other media in foreign language teaching throughout Europe and beyond and therefore also plays a crucial role in German foreign language school curricula. In the CEFR, the “aesthetic use of language” is mentioned in only eleven lines on the 260-page document: This summary treatment of what has traditionally been a major, often dominant, aspect of modern language studies in upper secondary and higher education may appear dismissive. It is not intended to be so. National and regional literatures make a major contribution to the European heritage, which the Council of Europe sees as ‘a valuable common resource to be protected and developed’. Literary studies serve many more educational purposes – intellectual, moral and emotional, linguistic and cultural – than purely aesthetic. It is much to be hoped that teachers of literature at all levels may find many sections of the Framework relevant to their concerns and useful in making theirs aims and methods more transparent. (CEFR 4.3.5)

This statement almost appears polemic. By explicitly stating that the treatment of aesthetic texts “may appear dismissive” (ibid.), the authors of the CEFR seem to be highlighting this dismissiveness all the more. And it shows that the nexus between language teaching and dealing with foreign literary texts is far from secure. This is all the more surprising in view of the fact that the CEFR prominently asks for the development of intercultural and communicative competences, competences that are deemed by a great number of relevant educational and foreign language theorists (see Bredella 2002, Helene Decke-Cornill 2010) to be closely related to the use of literary texts. They point out that aesthetic texts offer a great diversity of subjects and form. These are important criteria that potentially lead to interesting and controversial negotiations of meaning. In turn, interactive negotiations of meaning potentially initiate a mutual support of the different realms of competence. Thus, the necessity to work with these “educationally relevant objects” (Bredella 2005) in educational contexts has been highlighted. However, the empirical access to these ‘soft’ processes is rather difficult. This is one of the reasons why only a few projects have been carried out in the past. Most of those few existing studies focusing on “literary literacy”1 (Frederking et al. 2012) have been carried out in German literature classes, thus neglecting the foreign language aspect (see Hoffmann 2011; Steinbrenner et al. 2011). The aim of my case study is to empirically reconstruct the potential of these educationally relevant processes. I will now briefly present the research design as 1 Frederking et al. have coined the term “literary literacy”, which refers to the “ability of understanding literary texts” (2012: 1). Being aware of the debate on standards and measurable competences, Frederking et al. work on the questions whether “literary literacy can be assessed and modeled as a multi-dimensional construct with respect to content, form and context” and whether “literary literacy [is] distinguishable from factual reading literacy for expository texts”.

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well as the literary text the study deals with. Subsequently, I will present aspects of my key findings. These findings ultimately suggest a productive interplay between language learning, reading and communicative competence as well as literary and (inter-)cultural negotiation of meaning.

3

Bringing Together English Literature and EFL Learners: An Outline of the Empirical Design and the Literary Text as Tertium Comparationis

In my qualitative case study I take a close look at what happens when advanced English learners deal with a rather complex and open literary text. My fundamental access is determined by a response theoretical understanding of reading. According to this hermeneutic-oriented paradigm, literary meaning is created in the interaction or confrontation between text and reader (cf. Iser 1978; Fish 1980). In line with this approach, Wolfgang Iser has integrated the reader into his theoretical text model. Iser programmatically speaks of the “implied reader” that is always an integral part of any idea of text and reading (Iser 1978). Therefore “[r]eading is not the discovering of meaning […] but the creation of it” (Benton 1996: 31). By transferring this idea into educational contexts, the theoretical implied reader becomes an empirical or ‘real’ reader. The construction of meaning takes place on an individual rather than on an objective level, making each “act of reading” (Iser 1978) unique (still not arbitrary). The main goal of such an approach in educational contexts is “not to convey to the students the correct interpretation, but to enable them to develop their own interpretation.” (Bredella 1996: 5) This paradigm is the theoretical starting point of my empirical study which proceeded as follows: Before the students were organized into small groups of three or four, I asked them to individually deal with the literary text. With their individual interpretations in mind they got together in small groups to exchange their views potentially generate a controversial negotiation of meaning in their discussions. Both, during the individual reception as well as the group discussions, the students did not receive any information about the author, the cultural background or difficult vocabulary of the text. They were simply told that they could take notes and use their (digital) dictionaries in case of linguistic insecurity. The group discussions were triggered by the following sentence: ‘Discuss how each of you have understood the text and try to come to a common understanding as a group.’ By choosing this procedure, I firstly tried to make the discussions comparable with one another. Secondly, the setting was meant to create a relatively open

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access to the text to enable individual ‘acts of reading’. These potentially individual readings were then confronted with each other to facilitate controversial negotiations of meaning within the group discussions. The small group discussions of seven different EFL classes in Hamburg were audio-documented, fully transcribed and reconstructed by means of the documentary method according to Ralf Bohnsack (2008). This qualitative method aims at a close analysis of the interactive, thus discursive, construction of meaning. It is hence possible to not only reconstruct what is said by the students, but also how they discuss the literary text.2 The reconstruction of how students interactively engage with the text promises a profound insight into the genuine value of literature in the EFL classroom.

I will now say a few words about the literary text that I chose as the object of the group discussions. Several reasons have led to the choice of Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” (1978) of which I will now highlight two: On the one hand, the choice of text follows a theoretical debate and a call for a critical revision of an institutionalized canon. Laurenz Volkmann points out that the teaching of English literature is still dominated by a “secret canon”, that predominantly focuses on texts written by male, often white authors (cf. Volkmann 2007: 167ff.). Decke-Cornill (2007: 252) notes that a canon passed on through our educational institutions says a lot about the criteria of in- and exclusion, about cultural representation, about denial, about symbolic recognition and about the role within cultural memory. A conscious choice of text may then have an impact on a disclosure and a critical revision of discursive power structures. Consequently, an English literature classroom that reflects upon all this, has to programmatically be aware of those texts that are marginalized in the school curricula. Postcolonial writing or New English Literatures is one such categorized group of texts that has gained special recognition by a critical scrutiny of the former canonical agenda. Bachmann-Medick, among others, claims that the potential of such kind of literature lies in the way that those texts vehemently challenge and question the universal authority claimed by the 2 This paper does not focus on questions of methods and methodology. See Bracker (2012) for a more detailed insight into the empirical procedure.

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western canon (Bachmann-Medick 1996: 12). The act of including such texts in educational contexts can therefore be seen as an act of critical analysis and revision of processes of marginalization within literary canon formation. On the level of teaching, such texts promise to foster a recognition of power relations, social hierarchies, conflicts and injustice. These issues are dealt with in many postcolonial writings that take these issues as a subject, and are written from the perspective of those who are in unprivileged and socially marginalized positions. It is therefore an “exemplary encounter with ‘the other’” which may “help German students to raise their intercultural awareness” (Wandel et al. 2007: 209). The choice to work with Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” was made with these considerations in mind: The short piece of literature was written by a female author, born and raised in the former British colony, Antigua and Barbuda, who later emigrated to the United States, fleeing the hardships of her homeland. The text itself ironically and subversively deals with restrictive and conservative female stereotypes. On the other hand, the choice to work with “Girl” was led by the text itself because it presents itself as a rather unconventional piece of literature. The entire story, which is only about a page long, consists of just one very long sentence. There is no introduction of the characters, no action, and no description of the plot or setting. It is conceptualized as a set of imperatives in which one person does most of the talking, confronting another person with rules of behavior : Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry ; don’t walk barehead in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little cloths right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn’t have gum on it, because that way it won’t hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like a slut you are so bent on becoming; don’t sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn’t speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don’t eat fruits on the streets – flies will follow you;

The structure continues in this stream of consciousness style to the end, listing one demand after another. Altogether, the text most likely does not follow the conventional rules of a short story known to the students. The piece of literature grants a potential openness that involves an ambiguity of the artistic message and the polyvalence of the literary text (Eco 1962: 11). All in all, the text does not only confront the students with a postcolonial and female voice on the level of content, it also has a disturbing effect due to the way it is written.

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Interplay of Competences: Presentation of Key Findings by Letting the Students Speak

I am now coming to my main part and present some aspects of my key findings. First, I will summarize the findings that precisely focus on the complex interplay between the different realms of competences. These mark one of my main arguments for promoting literary texts in the English language classroom. I will then present two very different sequences of one exemplary group discussion to give an idea of the phenomenon I am dealing with. In order to provide a deeper insight, I will let the students speak for themselves. One of the sequences appears as a ‘story of success’, the other one may be described as a ‘communicative break down’. Altogether, the close qualitative reconstruction of the samples’ group discussions has shown a very tight correlation between language-based and content-based negotiation of meaning. The content-based negotiation of meaning, again, can hardly be assigned to either literary or intercultural negotiation of meaning, always keeping in mind that the entire discussion evolves from a literary text. My intention is to outline one phenomenon in the context of this paper that I was able to identify several times and in very different groups: there seems to be a very close co-existence between dealing with a foreign language problem and a productive literary and/or cultural negotiation of meaning.

To be more specific: there is a certain pattern of discourse that I was able to reconstruct through the whole sample of my case study. The students were confronted with a language problem – for example a missing word – which was mostly stated explicitly, according to the institutional habitus. A typical start is a student saying: ‘I don’t know what this means, does anyone know what this

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means?’ The text, however, contains a few words that are culturally very specific and cannot be found in the (digital) dictionaries the students have access to. One example that comes up in almost every group discussion and can therefore be called a “gap” or Leerstelle throughout my sample is the word ‘benna’.3 It would demand thorough research on the internet to the meaning of this word as it is used in the context of the literary text. In the Wikipedia article “Music of Antigua and Barbuda”, declared under the section “folk music” you learn that “benna” is referring to a certain kind of folk song popular in Antigua and Barbuda, the home of the author. The text thus calls for very specific cultural – even subcultural – background knowledge that the students do not have access to in the classroom and research context. Consequently, the linguistic insecurity remains in almost all cases. In other words: Bottom-up reading processes are not successful. The students feel the need to communicatively deal with this this lack of linguistic and/or cultural background knowledge. In this evoked intrinsic need to communicate – in the foreign language – is a great chance for a communicative foreign language classroom that strives ‘authentic’ interaction. The learners want to solve the problem and in the setting of the case study, in which they cannot obtain extrinsic background information, their essential tool for solving problems is to interactively negotiate it. The group starts – and there is an example of this discourse pattern later – to think of cultural concepts or create word plays that can be seen as attempts to fill the (linguistic) gap. By doing so, the groups come up with many different and sometimes very creative ideas. One pattern that can be reconstructed is that they leave the language level of discussion and go beyond that by negotiating and testing commonly known cultural concepts to see whether they prove to be plausible in the context of the literary text. The students leave the level of bottom-up reading strategies (getting information from the text) and turn to topdown strategies (using real world knowledge to make sense of the text) by plausibly activating their background knowledge (cf. Decke-Cornill/Küster 2010: 185). This interactive reading process takes place in a discussion led in the foreign language and based on a literary text. The pattern shows that linguistic, literary and cultural aspects are connected in a very complex way in the group discussions. One aspect, so it seems, needs the others to evolve. This becomes clear to an even greater extent when taking a look at an example in which the students fail to come up with new concepts in order to fill in on the gap of understanding, as will be demonstrated in the following. 3 Both sequences taken as examples for this paper deal with other words unknown to the students (“wharf-rat boys”: referring to loitering young men; “okra”: the name of an exotic fruit). However, “benna” appears in almost every group discussion of my sample and can be understood as a typical Leerstelle.

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So far, I have argued on a rather abstract level. I want to give you a more concrete idea of the reconstructed processes by presenting two examples of my data; even though it is fairly difficult to treat the statements isolated from their context, especially from a methodological point of view. These examples demonstrate how closely the different realms of competence as communicative competences (cf. CEFR 2011: 108ff.), interactive text reception competences (cf. CEFR 2011: 91), and (inter-)cultural competences (cf. CEFR 2011: 102) seem to intermingle and how difficult, if not impossible, it is to put a diagnostic finger on the entire process. Both sequences are taken from a group that performs on a comparably4 low level of foreign language competence. Throughout the 15-minute discussion, the students help themselves by switching back to German and they negotiate a lot of unknown vocabulary. It becomes obvious that the text is a challenge to the students. But surprisingly, their rather low level of language proficiency does not lead to a slow discussion. On the contrary, the group performs on a communicatively very productive level. All three participants, two girls and a boy, are equally involved, they are responsive to each other and altogether the discussion can be described as very ‘dense’5, even after a very close interactional analysis.

4 This comparison has been made in relation to other discussions of the sample. 5 Bohnsack (2000: 75) speaks of interactively dense (“dichte”) passages as particularly interesting ones for the documentary analysis, assuming that these passages document common or conjunctive orientations of groups.

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The story of success Having outlined the premises, I will now come to my first exemplary sequence.6 The group starts the discussion talking about the protagonists of the story. The issues they are raising are concerning the questions of who is talking to whom? Who could the girl be, who could the other person be that gives the advices? And now the male participant, whom I named Clemens, stumbles across an unfamiliar word: 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94

Clemens Amira Clemens Büsra Amira Clemens Amira Büsra Amira Clemens Amira Büsra Clemens Amira Clemens

what does this mean? what? wharf-rat? ((browsing the dictionary)) wharf means Kai Kai what is a Kai? and you know ehm how ehm a guy’s ehm speak? speak like? flirt? flirten? no! gangster? gangster! yes ((laughing)) something like that! because ehm boys speak in another ehm Ghettosprache! yes! ghetto ehm speak. ghetto? language! slang! slang! yes! ((laughing)) okay?

What happens in this short interactive sequence that lasts only about twenty seconds? Clemens starts by pointing out a language problem. He does not know the meaning of the word ‘wharf-rat’. Büsra reacts immediately by checking it in the dictionary. She does not get any further, though. Apparently, she comes across the word-to-word translation of ‘wharf ’: der Kai. Kai, however, does not sound familiar to her, causing her to ask the others: “what is a Kai” (81). This makes the sequence interesting with regard to language learning. Still, we can see that the group up to this point, was not able to solve the problem, even though consulting external resources like the dictionary. The process that begins in line 82ff. is highly interesting in view of the interplay of competences. Amira obviously has a concept in mind that she is trying to explain to the group: “you know how a guy’s speak?” (82f.). Clemens and Büsra both react, comparable to the game called Taboo, trying to ‘guess’ or to enrich the concept Amira has in mind. Büsra comes up with the word ‘gangster’ which is obviously going in the right direction. Now they only need a few more turns to highly cooperatively fill in on the gap: “slang”, Clemens says. ‘Slang’, however, is not meant to be a 6 The names of the students have all been changed into pseudonyms.

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synonym for ‘wharf-rat’. It serves more of an attribute of the ‘kind of boys that the girl is not supposed to talk to’. Still, the group was successful in getting an idea of the subject matter. And this is what matters in the interactive process of interpretation. The gap or Leerstelle is not a Leerstelle anymore, it has been filled with a concept. The students are able to generate the concept by performing a very high level of communicative competence (cf. CEFR: 5.2). In this situation of communication, they activate and negotiate real world, socio-cultural knowledge as a useful means of top-down reading and sense-making strategy (cf. CEFR: 4.5). Moreover, the sequence is interesting in view of another concept that is increasingly ascribed an important role in language acquisition: the concept of language awareness (cf. Decke-Cornill/Küster 2010: 210f.). Also the CEFR calls for the development of language awareness skills (cf. CEFR: 3.6). Amira’s concept (line 83: “a guy’s speak”), of which she is missing the adequate term, is thus not merely on the level of content. Rather does she raise the issue of the English language in its (socio-)cultural complexity and diversity. The socio-linguistic phenomenon slang can therefore be seen as a conceptual expression of a perception and evaluation of foreign language usage (cf. Decke-Cornill/Küster 2010: 211). By successfully coming up with a concept on the level of language awareness that proves valid in the context of the text, the students are not only able to overcome the Leerstelle. The students also come up with a more thorough understanding of the character’s socio-cultural circumstances in the text that they all agree upon: The girl is not supposed to interact with boys that make use of slang language because this could be a sign of belonging to a lower social class. So what we have here is the following: The group starts the sequence on a linguistic level (bottom-up). But this level does not solve the problem. They then go on to the next level, coming up with familiar concepts of reality and testing their validity in the context of the literary text (top-down). This is happening very intuitively, in very quick succession and highly cooperative. The group has successfully negotiated a common ground of interpretation that helps all of them to get a more profound understanding of the text on a global level.

The story of communicative break-down The example above is just one of many in my data, in which it becomes clear how closely and how productively the different realms of competence work and function together. However, the groups are not always successful in activating their knowledge to come up with (cultural) concepts. In other words: They do not always manage to leave the level of bottom-up reading strategies in order to start a top-down process of sense making, which has proved to be productive in

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the previous sequence. This has serious consequences, not only for the productivity of the discussion but also for the construction and negotiation of (literary) meaning. I would like to exemplify this by the analysis of the following sequence. The passage is taken from the same group and symptomatically marks the end of the discussion: 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269

Amira Clemens Büsra Clemens Büsra Amira Büsra Clemens Büsra Clemens Büsra Clemens Büsra Clemens Büsra Amira

I don’t know what she means ehm when she say ((reading)) this is how you grow okra (.) far from the house? I don’t know this; I don’t know the word; ((browsing the dictionary)) okra mean okra! okra mean okra? yes! (.) in German also Okra! ((laughing)) (.) yes but alsoI don’t know! I don’t know a German word named Okra; yes! I have to type it! And what did you type? Okra! Okra? Okra! like this! ((points out the dictionary entry)) and what is the meaning of OKRA ((very loud))? I don’t know! I just – I think that’s not so important ((laughing))

The sequence starts identically to the sequence above: The group stumbles across an unknown word. This time they are looking for the meaning of ‘okra’.7 Again, Büsra reacts immediately by looking up the word in her digital dictionary. She realizes that the English term ‘okra’ is identical to the German term die Okra. This leads her to the tautological phrase: “okra means Okra” (256). But this tautological finding does not get them far. Again, like in the previous example, the dictionary is of no help in the process of solving the language problem. But unlike in the sequence above, the students remain on the linguistic level: They do not come up with known cultural concepts that might help to break out of the vicious circle of discussing the word itself that has absolutely no meaning for them. This state of not being able to get a conceptual idea of the term has an irritating, frustrating and rather discouraging effect on the students. The frustration culminates in Clemens’ statement when he shouts out loud: “And what is the meaning of OKRA?” (267). The group fails to overcome the crisis by activating familiar concepts. This time, there is no productive interplay of competences. Consequently, they are not able to solve the problem. Instead, the negotiation of meaning, even more the entire discussion collapses. 7 Apparently, the students are dealing with the following passage in the short story : “[…] this is how you grow okra – far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; […]”.

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This example of failure, however, indicates very clearly that the interplay of competences is not merely a nice byproduct of the negotiation of literary meaning in foreign language classrooms. It seems to be conditio sine qua non.

5

Conclusion and Open Questions

So far, the reconstruction of the group discussions have shown that open and rather “weird” and “awkward”, quoting the students once more, aesthetic texts such as Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl” carry a great potential for initiating student discourse: A discourse which is carried out in the foreign language, dealing with language problems and concepts which are immediately and undividedly connected to (inter-)cultural problems and concepts, as the analyzed sequences suggest. Particularly with regard to the promotion and development of intercultural and communicative competences as official documents like the CEFR call for, it is all the more remarkable that literary texts play such a minor role in the EFL classroom. These considerations are then connected to the general question of the possibility or rather the necessity of assessing and comparing these realms of competence. Instead, shouldn’t it rather be the duty of school in general and the EFL classroom in particular to create spaces in which (controversial) negotiations of the meaning of cultural subjects and objects are possible? Literary texts themselves are cultural objects that offer a great variety of cultural subjects. I therefore see no reason why literature cannot be an unquestioned part of the English language classroom. Last but not least there is the question of the choice of text. Is it sufficient to merely select a text with regard to the postcolonial considerations as outlined above and make this text the basis of autonomous students’ group discussions? Here, it has to be emphasized once more that the procedure of the study is a research design. This design is aiming at getting an initial empirical access to the question of what is happening when students negotiate a complex and unconventional piece of literature in the foreign language. Thus, it is neither a didactic concept nor method aiming at the deconstruction of an institutionalized canon in the EFL classroom. For this purpose, the issue would have to be discussed more explicitly. Students should be provided with sufficient background information to the text. In addition, they should fundamentally be sensitized to the potential power of language and texts in general. Beyond this, there are still a great number of open questions to the general subject matter of foreign literature teaching. My case study is just one approach to realms of competence that are fragile and difficult to get empirical hands on, as has been pointed out in the beginning. So one open question could be: What

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exactly are the criteria that a literary text has to offer in order to potentially initiate controversial, ambiguous, interesting negotiation of meaning? In my study I only worked with one text, Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”. My findings give an insight into its great potential.

Works Cited Benton, Michael (1996), “The Discipline of Literary Response: Approaches to Poetry with L2 Students”, in: Bredella, Lothar/Delanoy, Werner (eds.), Challenges of Literary Texts in the Foreign Language Classroom. Tubingen: Gunter Narr, pp. 30–44. Bohnsack, Ralf (2000), Rekonstruktive Sozialforschung. Einführung in die Methodologie und Praxis qualitativer Forschung. 4th edition. Opladen: Barbara Budrich. Bohnsack, Ralf/Nentwig-Gesemann, Iris/Nohl, Arnd-Michael (eds.) (2007; 2., erweiterte und aktualisierte Auflage), Die dokumentarische Methode und ihre Forschungspraxis. Grundlagen qualitativer Sozialforschung. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. Bracker, Elisabeth (2012), “Die dokumentarische Methode als Instrument zur Analyse von literarischer Anschlusskommunikation”, in: Doff, Sabine (ed.), Fremdsprachenunterricht empirisch erforschen. Grundlagen – Methoden – Anwendung. Tubingen: Gunter Narr, pp. 308–319. Bredella, Lothar (1996), “The Anthropological and Pedagogical Significance of Aesthetic Reading in the Foreign Language Classroom”, in: Bredella, Lothar/Delanoy, Werner (eds.): Challenges of Literary Texts in the Foreign Language Classroom. Tubingen: Gunter Narr, pp. 1–29. Bredella, Lothar (2002), Literarisches und interkulturelles Verstehen. Tubingen: Gunter Narr. Bundesministerium für Bildung und Forschung (2003), Zur Entwicklung nationaler Bildungsstandards. Bonn: BMBF. Council of Europe (2011), Common European Framework of Reference for Languages: Learning, Teaching, Assessment. Council of Europe. Decke-Cornill, Helene/Gebhard, Ulrich (2007), “Ästhetik und Wissenschaft: Zum Verhältnis von literarischer und naturwissenschaftlicher Bildung”, in: Bredella, Lothar/ Hallet, Wolfgang (eds.): Literaturunterricht, Kompetenzen, Bildung. Trier : WVT Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, pp. 11–29. Decke-Cornill, Helene/Küster, Lutz (2010), Fremdsprachendidaktik. Eine Einführung. Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag. Eco, Umberto (1962), Das offene Kunstwerk [The open work of art]. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Fish, Stanely (1980), Is There a Text in This Class? Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Frederking, V., Henschel, S., Meier, C., Roick, T., Stanat, P., & Dickhäuser, O (2012), Beyond Functional Aspects of Reading Literacy : Theoretical Structure and Empirical Validity of Literary Literacy. (Special issue guest edited by Irene Pieper & Tanja Janssen). L1-Educational Studies in Language and Literature, 12, pp. 1–24.

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Hoffmann, Jeanette (2011), Literarische Gespräche im interkulturellen Kontext: eine qualitative-empirische Studie zur Rezeptino eines zeitgeschichtlichen Jugendromans von Schülerinnen und Schülern in Deutschland und Polen. Muenster : Waxmann. Iser, Wolfgang (1970), Die Appellstruktur der Texte. Unbestimmtheit als Wirkungsbedingung literarischer Prosa. Konstanz: Universitätsverlag. Iser, Wolfgang (1978), The Act of Reading. A Theory of Aesthetic Response. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Kincaid, Jamaica (1978), “Girl” (June 26). The New Yorker. Küster, Lutz (2006), “Auf dem Verordnungsweg. Zu Risiken und Nebenwirkungen der Bildungsstandards für die erste Fremdsprache”, in: Der Fremdsprachliche Unterricht Englisch 40: 81, pp. 18–21. Legutke, Michael (ed.) (2008), Kommunikative Kompetenz als fremdsprachendidaktische Vision. Tubingen: Gunter Narr. Steinbrenner, Marcus/Mayer, Johannes/Rank, Bernhard (eds.) (2011), “Seit ein Gespräch wir sind und hören voneinander”. Das Heidelberger Modell des Literarischen Unterrichtsgesprächs in Theorie und Praxis. Hohengehren: Schneider Verlag. Tompson, John (1737): English Miscellanies. Goettingen; 2. Aufl. in zwei Bänden 1747 (3. Aufl. 1755; 4. Aufl. 1766). Volkmann, Laurenz (2007), “Gender Studies and Literature Didactics: Research and Teaching – Worlds Apart?”, in: Decke-Cornill, Helene/Volkmann, Laurenz (eds.): Gender Studies and Foreign Language Teaching. Tubingen: Gunter Narr, pp.161–184. Wandel, Reinhold/Bartels, Anke/Sutter, Melanie (2007), “Women and Postcolonial Literature in the EFL Classroom”, in: Decke-Cornill, Helene/Volkmann, Laurenz (eds.): Gender Studies and Foreign Language Teaching. Tubingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, pp. 209–226.

Online sources Wikipedia: “Music of Antigua and Barbuda”, link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_ of_Antigua_and_Barbuda [last seen: 03/11/13]

Christine Gardemann

Literary Aesthetics and Classroom Realities: English Teachers’ Practices in Hamburg’s Secondary Schools

1

Introduction: Of Riddles and Jigsaws

Tackling literary texts like one would a game of Cluedo is an attitude that seems to be rather widespread among teaching degree students. It can be found not only among first term students, but even among those in the middle respectively towards the end of their studies, as Schädlich (2004) concludes. Seeing a literary text as a riddle to be solved is based on the idea of an author who artfully wraps a definite, identifiable ‘message’ in a conundrum of rhetoric devices. The reader’s task is to employ an array of tools in order to rid the hidden meaning of its rhetoric decor. Altogether, this represents a positivist understanding of literature that grandly underestimates if not ignores the individual reader. As this attitude could bring with it a corresponding classroom practice, it has to be evaluated critically from several perspectives. For a start, it may prevent those soon-to-be teachers from taking individual learners’ readings seriously. Furthermore it also implicates a certain linear chronology of the reading process culminating in a ‘finished’, ‘complete’ and ‘correct’ interpretation. However, one of the main characteristics of literary texts is their complexity and interpretative openness; something that is often brought forward when advocating their use in educational settings. In an even broader context, Bonnet argues that school lessons represent a process of inter-generational communication that needs to remain open to matters of significant relevance from both teachers and pupils (2011: 3). Seeing that reader- and thus learner-focussed approaches to teaching literature have been brought forward by representatives of the reader-responsetheory starting in the 1970s (e. g. Iser 1978 in Germany), how come many of today’s university students still seem to hold on to this conviction? There is still little empirical research in the rather specialised field of teaching literature in the foreign language classroom. It is almost stating the obvious, though, that today’s university students will have formed at least some part of their understanding of foreign language literature during their time at school (a comprehensive description of foreign language literary socialisation can be

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found in Küppers 1999). Set against this background, it does not come as a surprise that Hallet and Nünning suppose that many English school teachers still teach on the basis of a positivist understanding of literature. In the same way as their former pupils now at university, they seem to hold on to the notion that literary texts are a bit of a jigsaw; that they contain a detectable meaning that only needs to be tracked down as there is but one ‘correct solution’ (2007: 4). Typical literature lessons, then, are those during which a teacher coaxes his pupils to his own (or the textbook-given) interpretation of a certain literary text rather than accompanying them on their way to reaching their own understanding. Despite the lack of a larger data basis, smaller quantitative studies conducted by Benz (1990) and Kelchner (1994) have already hinted at such classroom practices being the norm about 20 years ago. However, more recent qualitative studies conducted e. g. by Caspari (1994) and Küppers (1999) found examples of more open and creative teaching approaches in literature-based English lessons. It might well be that today’s classroom practices are more diverse and heterogeneous than previously assumed by many representatives of literature didactics.

2

Assessing Self-Presentations and Self-Reports

In my research project “Literary Texts in the English language classroom of Secondary School 1” (in the following LITES 1), I aim at gaining an overview of teachers’ practices when using literature in their English lessons. What kinds of texts do they use? Which goals are they aiming at? Which methods do they employ in order to reach these goals? And does their use of texts, their stated goals and their employed methods allow us to deduct a more updated account of teaching practices with regards to the teaching of English literature? Due to the lack of empirical data so far, LITES 1 is an overall exploratory research project. Its goal to gain an overview, however, implicates a large number of participants or study objects. While an overview could be gained through classroom observations and/or teacher interviews, the necessary number of those would have gone beyond the scope of LITES 1. In addition, the problem of self-presentations and self-reports should not be underestimated in this context. Teacher training supervisors usually have at their disposal countless anecdotes of what I refer to as parade lessons held by teacher trainees in order to present themselves in a favourable light. Those are instances of the so-called Social Desirability Bias due to which people try to adhere to what they perceive as the expected norm in a particular context or setting.1 It is therefore imperative to keep in mind that an 1 The anthropologist Kate Fox points out that the Social Desirability Bias, while usually con-

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observed or self-reported employment of, e. g. learner-focussed methods in literature lessons would not allow us to infer a reader-focussed understanding of literature teaching on the side of the teacher. Teachers with a positivist understanding of literature can still employ an array of learner-focussed methods from the pool of content-, process-, task- and activity- orientation (handlungs- und produktionsorientierter Unterricht). However, these methods might then be seen as more of a playful bonus (cf. Caspari 2003) rather than taken as an earnest, alternative approach to teaching literature. On the other hand, teachers dominating their literature lessons, e. g. in terms of talk-time, do not necessarily disregard their pupils’ ideas and opinions and might as well help them to understand and maybe even withstand (‘Widerstehen’, cf. Delanoy 2002) the literary text in question. In addition to this, the idea of trends in teaching should not be underestimated (e. g. Caspari 2003). In such cases, teachers might perform certain methods in their lessons rather than employ them with conviction, while their fundamental views remain unchanged. The bias or standard error of self-presentations in interviews, classroom observations and questionnaires cannot entirely be prevented, but it might be reduced. As the choices of methods in LITES 1 cannot be discussed in detail at this point, I would like to just give very brief examples to slightly highlight two strategies for bias reduction. First, a cover letter sent with the questionnaire as well as short statements within the questionnaire highlighted the anonymity of participants as well as the importance of the teachers’ voice in research. I attempted to make sure teachers understood that I was interested in getting an overview as accurate as possible of classroom reality rather than check whether they teach “as they were taught to teach”2 at university. Second, whenever possible, any kind of scholarly terminology was avoided when phrasing the items of the questionnaire in order to avoid associations with university literature didactics or official curricula that might ring of the ‘correct’ or ‘expected’ way of teaching literature. Popular curriculum buzzwords such as Intercultural Learning were therefore omitted and operationalised in more concrete, handson descriptions such as “I use literary texts to make my pupils become aware of

sidered an undesired parameter “can be quite useful, though, as a consistent pattern of such ‘socially desirable’ responses can indicate an unwritten social rule or norm within a group or sub-culture” (2004: 330). Both views on the Social Desirability Bias receive equivalent treatment in LITES 1. 2 Altman’s (1983) statement that teachers teach as they were taught rather than as they were taught to teach is often brought forward to highlight the perceived inefficiency of teacher training. Often though, Altman’s careful considerations are unfairly reduced to a notion of there being ‘correct’ ways of teaching that can be taught in teacher training studies.

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stereotypes and clich8es” or “I encourage my pupils to put themselves in the position of a literary character”.3 LITES 1 is also meant to contribute to an intensified dialogue between literature didactics and literature teaching practice. To achieve such a dialogue, Delanoy points out the importance to give teachers more of a voice in research. If one keeps in mind that Benz’ study was published [23, CG] years ago, it would be highly recommendable to investigate the actual condition at schools with the help of quantitative as well as qualitative studies. As opposed to the past, however, teachers should be consulted in order to gain a better understanding of their points of view. As teachers have hardly gotten a chance to be heard so far, it is high time to emphatically shift the focus to their interests, problems, experiences and concerns. (2002: 187f., own translation)

The fact that teachers have rarely been properly involved4 in advancing literature didactics is something Delanoy brings forward as a possible reason for an altogether still relatively distanced relationship between representatives of literature didactics and teachers. As some researchers have rather dismissed teachers’ practices as antiquated in the past, teachers themselves might have been discouraged from taking an active interest to an intensified dialogue. At the same time, Delanoy claims that some teaching concepts and models developed at universities demand high standards of teachers that can hardly be put into everyday school practice (cf. 2002: 33). And while there are indeed many representatives of literature didactics who promote the value of using literary texts at all stages of foreign language learning (e. g. Hollms 2009, Volkmann 2009 for secondary school 1), slightly more critical remarks can be found among scholars as well. Küppers (1999), for instance, refers to results from developmental psychology that suggest that certain learning goals might only be applicable at later stages at school: As the stage of aptitude for empathy and Fremdverstehen is only reached after puberty according to developmental psychology, one should reflect on whether it is reasonable to want to apply learning goals so seemingly self-evident when dealing with foreign texts in secondary school 1 already, such as Intercultural Learning, Fremdverstehen and empathy. Similar to German lessons, dealing with (foreign language) literature might make sense, if anything, not until Sixth Form. (1999: 94, own translation)5

3 Interestingly, those two items that were thought to belong into the same category turned out to not ‘go together’ in teachers’ practices according to an exploratory factor analysis performed on the data. 4 It should be noted that in recent years, different forms of action research have developed significantly in numbers as well as on a conceptual level. 5 Küppers still very much advocates using literary texts at early and medium stages of foreign language learning, for example in a 2001 paper on the use of Harry Potter in secondary school

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Especially during the early and medium stages of foreign language learning, it seems that pupils’ overall foreign language competence is a good indicator for their foreign language reading competence (Grotjahn 1995). Keeping in mind that the language of literary texts often deviates considerably from everyday language use, dealing with literary texts in a foreign language can be perceived as having to tackle a ‘double otherness’ (doppelte Fremdheit, cf. Küppers 1999: 55): the language of the literary text on top of the foreign language as such. Set against this background, Nünning and Surkamp specifically point out the ‘problematic’ case of poetry (“Problemfall[s] Lyrik”, 2006: 140). Thaler as well supposes that especially with poetry, the double otherness might constitute a popular fear among English teachers: “If this [the complexity on several levels, CG] is true for poems in the mother tongue, how much more difficult must poems written in a foreign language seem to be?” (2008: 116). There are, of course, countless poems that are characterised by a fairly manageable degree of linguistic complexity. In the shape of childrens’ songs and nursery rhymes, poetry is a literary form that could also be rather familiar to secondary school 1 pupils (cf. Lypp 1998 and 1999). Thaler (2008) suggests that many poems could even be particularly suited to be dealt with in a 45- or 90minute lesson due to their brevity. Still, both Nünning and Surkamp as well as Thaler assume that narrative texts account for a larger proportion of literature used in foreign language lessons than poetic texts.6 While LITES 1 remains an exploratory research project altogether, previous findings of individual teacher case studies as well as previously conceptualised theoretical models are of course being taken into consideration as well. This also, at times, includes reflections on previously set-up hypotheses, such as Thaler’s as well as Nünning and Surkamp’s suppositions about text form shares, though no purposeful attempt at properly testing such hypotheses is being made.

3

‘English’ and ‘Literature’: Teachers as Mediators

Especially in the early years of learning English, the rather low level of foreign language proficiency might slow down and possibly complicate text understanding as well as the exchange of opinions and ideas. Delanoy refers to qualitative losses when comparing language learners’ to native speakers’ reading processes. As understanding texts is possibly hindered due to linguistic diffi1. However, the main goal to be achieved lies in the realm of reading motivation rather than Fremdverstehen. 6 As I will show later, this notion is supported by reviewing Hamburg’s current English curricula that included narrative but no poetic texts.

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culties, the danger of problematic reading strategies (e. g. skipping over unknown words and phrases) and lack of reading motivation might increase. Due to their feasible troubles in comprehending texts, learners might tend to content themselves with a rather superficial, fragmentary understanding of the text (2004: 167). In this light, Delanoy fears that it might be complicated to reconcile the scholarly conception of a holistic, aesthetic reading of literary texts and foreign language learners’ actual manners of reception (2002: 70). This, interestingly, ties in quite smoothly with many reseachers’ findings and assumptions about teachers’ supposedly stoic positivist understanding of literature. Are the classroom practices we observe really based on such a positivist, antiquated understanding of teaching literature, then, or are teachers merely attempting to balance teaching literature and teaching English to still only moderately fluent learners (cf. Paran 2010)? To content oneself with a slightly more superficial understanding of a literary text might then not appear as a underachievement, but could rather be interpreted as a necessary adjustment to account for pupils’ current levels of foreign language competence. It seems that the most important role in literature-based English lessons might really be played by teachers, who need to act as mediators between the text and the learners in an increased intensity compared to native speaker literature lessons (Delanoy 2002: 5).

4

An Insight Into the LITES 1 Mixed Methods Design

LITES 1 was designed to allow searching into English teachers’ practices and their understanding of teaching literature. The attempt to take an inventory of teachers’ uses of literature requires methods that allow data gathering on a larger scale, e. g. specifically compiled yet standardised questionnaires. To account for the limits of standardised data gathering, each item battery in the LITES 1 questionnaire was followed by a generous free space for teachers’ individual comments and additions. This way, the questionnaire acquires both quantitative as well as qualitative data. A teacher’s understanding of teaching literature seems to be the result of a complex interrelation between his biography, literary socialisation and teaching experience. Rather than taking stock, methods suitable for reconstructing an attitude or even elements of a self-concept had to be found. On the basis of case studies, we have already gained access to teachers’ professionalisation processes (e. g. Caspari 2001, Hericks 2006, Schädlich 2004 and 2008, Wieser 2008) and possible agents of socialisation. Taking these studies into consideration, generating narrative episodes on formative moments and phases emerges as a promising and constructive way of data gathering. In LITES 1, the qualitative data acquired in narrative interviews will be analysed using the Documentary Method (Bohnsack, Nentwig-Gesemann, Nohl 2007). This way,

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the Mixed Methods design of LITES 1 (Kelle 2011) allows for simultaneous as well as consecutive triangulation as represented in the following figure.

Fig. 1: Mixed Methods design of LITES 1

As outlined above, a specifically designed questionnaire was sent out to all English teachers currently teaching at Hamburg’s public grammar and comprehensive secondary 1 schools. To ensure the questionnaire’s theoretical validity and practical applicability, it underwent expert validation and was tested on a pilot sample of English teachers from Hamburg’s neighbouring federal states. The following figure lists all categories that were included in the final version.

Fig. 2: Categories in the LITES 1 questionnaire

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All items in the questionnaire were designed ad hoc for the LITES 1 project. As not all categories can be presented in detail here, I will try to give a brief insight into the modelling of only one of them. In order to compile an item battery for possible learning goals attached to the use of literary texts, several existing models of literary learning, literary competence and lists of possible learning goals in English literature lessons were inspected closely in an attempt to possibly merge them into an overall model to be used for the project. While it was possible to identify overlaps between different models, the difficulty of transferring possible learning goals into separate accurate categories became apparent rather quickly. As again, not all considered models can be discussed here, I would like to present two very different approaches to describing learning goals attached to using literary texts that can be found in Thaler (2008) and Nünning and Surkamp (2006). Thaler lists six dimensions that might serve as justifications for using literary texts in English lessons, namely language development, intercultural learning, personal enrichment, motivational value, interpretative openness, social prestige (2008: 23).

Nünning and Surkamp, on the other hand, compile the following list of rather concrete possible teaching and learning goals: - advancement of reading competence - encouragement of post-reading interpersonal communication - semantisation and functionalisation of literary modes of presentation - development of intercultural competence - development of textform- and media genre awareness, including insights into a text’s historical localisation - gain of insight into one’s understanding of the self and the world, i. e. a critical evaluation of one’s own presuppositional knowledge and one’s own situatedness - development of critical and ethical power of judgement - extension of one’s power of imagination and creativity (2006, own translation) In addition to the difficulty of creating merged yet accurate categories as outlined above, another fundamental difficulty becomes apparent from an inspection of just these two models. Rather like the overlap in a Venn diagram, some goals or dimensions are not exclusively linked to foreign language learning (e. g. personal enrichment, textform awareness, imagination) while others are not explicitly linked to teaching literature (language development, e. g. development of reading competence)7. This overlap was represented in the items used 7 It is rather stating the obvious that this overlap is inherent in the subject matter of foreign

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in the LITES 1 questionnaire, even though in accordance with the study’s goals, the items pertaining to more literature-specific learning goals outweigh the items pertaining to more foreign language-specific learning goals in a rough 2:1 ratio. As no accurate categories could be derived from existing models, the learning goals found in all inspected models were operationalised in several items that were then presented as an item battery to teachers. An exploratory factor analysis was then performed in order to let concepts emerge from the data rather then trying to fit the results into pre-set, possibly fuzzy categories. Before moving on to the presentation of results, however, it is necessary to find out about what teachers are obliged to do by official curricula and standards in order to be able to sort the frequency of literature use or their employment of methods into a larger context.

5

The Role of Literature in the Educational Standards and School Curricula

The institutional setting at public schools commits teachers to the nation-wide Educational Standards for the First Foreign Language that have come into effect in 2004 as well as their federal state’s more specific curriculum (Bildungsplan in Hamburg). Many scholars have pointed out and critically discussed the almost complete omission of literary texts from the Educational Standards that are in turn based on the Common European Framework of Reference (cf. Elisabeth Bracker’s elaboration on this in her paper in this publication). It is worth taking a closer look at how curricula in Hamburg succeed or fail to include literary texts, then. Even though the curricula for grammar schools (Gymnasien) and comprehensive schools (Stadtteilschulen, until 2010 Real-, Haupt- or Gesamtschulen) differ from one another in other details, teachers at both types of schools are being advised to mainly rely on the course books (Lehrwerke) as their main source of lesson material. Teachers at both types of schools are required to use one Lektüre (specified to be easy and possibly a comic book/graphic novel) in year 5 or 6, one Lektüre (then usually a youth novel) in year 7 or 8 and one Lektüre (usually a youth novel or novel) in years 9 and 10 respectively. In years 9 and 10 as well, discussing selected short stories or, if applicable, a play is obligatory (“Behandlung ausgewählter short stories oder ggf. ein Theaterstück”, Bildungsplan Stadtteilschule 27, Bildungsplan Gymnasium 25). It is up to the individual school to make further and/or more concrete specifications.

language literature teaching and thus does not represent a fault in the models.

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While literary texts are hardly given any space in the Common European Framework of Reference and the Educational Standards for the First Foreign Language, it becomes obvious that the English curricula in Hamburg are rather clear about their obligatory inclusion in English lessons from years 5 to 10. However, using literary texts is just one part of English lessons. Looking through the Hamburg curricula, English teachers have to constantly weigh and balance a number of subject matter topics, fictional as well as non-fictional texts, audio recordings, films, vocabulary and/or grammar building exercises, Landeskunde or Intercultural Learning, standardised tests (e. g. Lernstandserhebungen), preparation and debriefings of exams and much more. It is imperative to be aware of this bulk of requirements whenever one mentions the time spent by teachers on one of those elements, such as literature.

6

LITES 1: First Results

Almost a quarter of all English teachers currently teaching at public secondary schools in Hamburg participated in LITES 1. This is a more than satisfactory participation quota that exceeds the previously calculated necessary random sample size and thus allows me to draw conclusions to overall classroom practices in Hamburg in due consideration of ordinary critical values for standard errors and confidence intervals. The main result of LITES 1 is certainly the following: Hamburg’s teachers make more use of literature in their English lessons than the altogether packed curriculum for both grammar and comprehensive schools requires them to use. As outlined above, dealing with just four Lektüren during the entirety of secondary school 1 with an unqualified number of short stories added in years 9 and 10 would satisfy the curricula’s demands. However, about 80 % of teachers currently teaching years 5 to 8 state that they already use poems and short stories at least once per school year. More specifically, 55 % of teachers in years 5 and 6 use poems and short stories at least once per term. It is worth keeping in mind that each term roughly consists of only about 60 to 70 English lessons, during which teachers are duty-bound to cover an impressive number of different topics; none of them being poetry or short stories. Interestingly, it seems that poems, despite being at least potentially a considerable challenge to foreign language learners, are actually more popular in years 5 and 6 than in the later years of secondary school 1. This could be a statement on pupils’ abilities to deal with such complexity as regards content and linguistics. More likely though, I feel it reflects both the teachers’ abilities to choose appropriate works and the

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teachers’ apparent will or wishes to include a literary form that would strictly not have to be dealt with at all.8 In the later years, longer text forms are more popular. In fact, with regard to text form use, the largest difference between grammar schools and comprehensive schools can be found in teachers’ use of short stories in years 9 and 10. While a ‘secret canon’ of male, white authors is often believed to shape classroom realities in Sixth Form (cf. Elisabeth Bracker’s paper in this publication), this does not seem to be the case in secondary school 1 in Hamburg. Among the Lektüren listed by English teachers for years 5 to 10, there are only a handful of youth novels mentioned by more than 10 different teachers in a sample of almost 400 participants. This seemingly non-existing canon is all the more surprising as one has to keep in mind as well that Hamburg’s teachers usually have to rely on their school libraries when choosing their Lektüren as these, as a rule, are not covered by the principle of free supply of educational aids to pupils at public schools (Lernmittelfreiheit)9. The results of both the pilot study and the actual LITES 1 study in Hamburg support the decision to include both literature-specific and foreign languagespecific learning goals as outlined in chapter 4 of this paper. While about 55 % of teachers state that they often or frequently use literary texts to teach their pupils different reading strategies (e. g. scanning, scimming etc.), 90 % state that they do not attach particular importance to accurate reading. Much more important to teachers is to make their pupils feel a sense of achievement after having successfully dealt with longer and more complex texts than can usually be found in regular English course books (75 % aim for this often or frequently). There is a broad variety of text-focussed, pupil-focussed and language-focussed methods employed in literature lessons. Text-focussed methods become more important in the later years of secondary school 1; some teachers used the given free space in the questionnaire to note down the importance of preparing pupils in years 9 and 10 to what will be awaiting them in Sixth Form English lessons. While all such self-reports must be viewed with an awareness of possible bias, it seems that highlighting both the anonymity of participants as well as my wish to gain a realistic overview of classroom practices has been successful in several ways. There seems to be little to no reservation among teachers of both school forms when it comes to proclaiming their non-use of well-known 8 As song lyrics seem to be particularly popular especially in the early years of foreign language teaching, they were included in the questionnaire as a separate text form (cf. Bradley 2009). The decision of whether or not song lyrics constitute poetry would have otherwise been led up to the individual teacher, which might have severely tampered with the overall results in this category. 9 Individual schools sometimes opt to ask parents to buy Lektüren though this usually needs to be sanctioned by a parent-teacher meeting.

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methods: about a fifth of teachers never use reading logs, more than a fourth never has pupils create individual book reports. Teachers aim at a number of different goals attached to literary texts, ranging from slightly more strictly literary learning goals to broader educational goals in varying degrees, depending on the kind of school and the years they teach. While there are statistically significant differences between teachers currently teaching at grammar schools and those teaching at comprehensive schools as well as between teachers mainly teaching years 5 and 6 respectively years 9 and 10, the school type and the years taught can only account for varying, but altogether limited percentages of variance found with regard to methods used and goals aimed at. As hypothesised, other factors must come into effect here as well, potentially an individual teachers’ understanding of literature, his teaching experience and overall biography.

7

Outlook

As outline in chapter 4, LITES 1 will be extended to a number of individual teacher case studies with interview partners being chosen according to criteria discovered in the data so far. While teachers had to move within a certain set framework while filling in the questionnaires, the upcoming narrative interviews will allow them to talk about their classroom practices in greater detail and depth. The kind of Mixed Methods design used in LITES 1 allows me to combine the advantages of both quantitative and qualitative research methodology and methods. Ideally, it will result in a broad as well as profound insight into English teachers’ classroom practices. The external perspective of the questionnaires will thus be enriched with teachers’ internal perspectives, i. e. their understanding of literature, their reasons for and intentions when using literary texts. Already, several hypotheses have emerged from LITES 1. While the omission of literary texts from the Educational Standards, for example, remains an unresolved issue that could or could not lead to the further development of literary competence models, it seems that this gap in the standards does not lead to literature being omitted from the actual classroom. Whether this has maybe just not happened yet cannot be answered with safety. One would assume, however, that nine years after the implementation of the standards, such effects would be observable by now. Seeing as teachers overall even exceed the curricula’s humble targets, the LITES 1 results so far might be taken as an expression of teachers’ commitment to using literary texts in the English language classroom.

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Works cited Altman, H. B. (1983), “Training foreign language teachers for learner-centered instruction. Deep structures, surface structures and transformations”, in: Alatis, J.; Stern, H.H.; Strevens, S. (eds.): GURT ’83. Applied linguistics and the preparation of second language teachers. Towards a rational. Washington D.C.: Georgetown University Press, pp. 19–26. Benz, Norbert (1990), Der Schüler als Leser im fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht. Tübingen: Narr. Bohnsack, Ralf; Nentwig-Gesemann, Iris; Nohl, Arnd-Michael (eds.) (2007; 2. erweiterte und aktualisierte Auflage), Die dokumentarische Methode und ihre Forschungspraxis. Grundlagen qualitativer Sozialforschung. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. Bonnet, Andreas (2011), “Erfahrung, Interaktion, Bildung – Wissenssoziologie und Dokumentarische Methode als Grundlage empirischer Unterrichtsforschung”, in: Proske, Matthias; Meseth, Wolfgang; Radtke, Frank-Olaf (eds.); Unterrichtstheorien in Forschung und Lehre. Bad Heilbrunn: Klinkhardt, pp. 189–208. Bradley, Adam (2009), Book of Rhymes. The poetics of Hip Hop. New York: BasicCivitas. Caspari, Daniela (1994), Kreativität im Umgang mit literarischen Texten im Fremdsprachenunterricht: theoretische Studien und unterrichtspraktische Erfahrungen. Frankfurt/M.: Lang. Caspari, Daniela (2001), “Berufliches Selbstverständnis und nicht-traditionelle Unterrichtsmethoden – ein Fallbeispiel”, in: Bonnet, Andreas; Kahl, Peter W. (eds.): Innovation und Tradition im Englischunterricht. Stuttgart: Klett, pp 58–77. Caspari, Daniela (2003), Fremdsprachenlehrerinnen und -lehrer. Studien zu ihrem beruflichen Selbstverständnis. Tübingen: Narr. Council of Europe (2011), Common European Framework of Reference for Languages: Learning, Teaching, Assessment. Council of Europe. Freie und Hansestadt Hamburg, Behörde für Schule und Berufsbildung (2011): Bildungsplan Gymnasium Sekundarstufe I. Englisch. Available online: http://www.ham burg.de/contentblob/2376236/data/englisch-gym-seki.pdf (last accessed 15th March 2013). Freie und Hansestadt Hamburg, Behörde für Schule und Berufsbildung (2011), Bildungsplan Stadtteilschule (Jahrgangsstufen 5 bis 11). Englisch. Available online: http:// www.hamburg.de/contentblob/2372626/data/englisch-sts.pdf (last accessed 15th March 2013). Delanoy, Werner (2002), Fremdsprachlicher Literaturunterricht. Theorie und Praxis als Dialog. Tübingen: Narr. Delanoy, Werner (2004), “Rezeptionsästhetik und Task-Based-Learning am Beispiel von Meera Syals Roman ‘Anita and Me’”, in: Bredella, Lothar ; Delanoy, Werner ; Surkamp, Carola (eds.): Literaturdidaktik im Dialog. Tübingen: Narr, pp. 147–180. Fox, Kate (2004), Watching the English. The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour. London: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. Grotjahn, Rüdiger (1995), “Zweitsprachliches Leseverstehen: Grundlagen und Probleme der Evaluation”, in: Die neueren Sprachen 94, pp. 533–555.

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Hallet, Wolfgang; Nünning, Ansgar (eds.) (2007), Neue Ansätze und Konzepte der Literatur- und Kulturdidaktik. WVT-Handbücher zur Literatur- und Kulturdidaktik Band 1. Trier : WVT Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier. Hericks, Uwe (2006), Professionalisierung als Entwicklungsaufgabe. Rekonstruktionen zur Berufseingangsphase von Lehrerinnen und Lehrern. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. Hollm, Jan (2009), “Literatur im Englischunterricht”, in: Hollm, Jan (ed.): Literaturdidaktik und Literaturvermittlung im Englischunterricht der Sekundarstufe I. Trier : WVT Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, pp. 1–5. Iser, Wolfgang (1978), The Act of Reading. A Theory of Aesthetic Response. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Kelchner, Heinz Rudolf (1994): Lyrik und Hermeneutik im fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht. Frankfurt, Main: Peter Lang. Kelle, Udo (2011), Die Integration qualitativer und quantitativer Methoden in den Sozialwissenschaften. Theoretische Grundlage und methodologische Konzepte. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag. KMK – Sekretariat der ständigen Konferenz der Kultusminister der Länder der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (2004), Bildungsstandards für die erste Fremdsprache (Englisch/ Französisch) für den mittleren Schulabschluss. Beschluss vom 15. 10. 2004. München: Luchterhand. Küppers, Almut (1999), Schulische Lesesozialisation im Fremdsprachenunterricht. Eine explorative Studie zum Lesen im Englischunterricht der Oberstufe. Tübingen: Narr. Küppers, Almut (2001), “Von Harry Potter lernen heißt: Lesen lernen. Von den Erkenntnissen der Lesesozialisationforschung und deren Bedeutung für den Fremdsprachenunterricht”, in: Fremdsprachenunterricht 5/2001, pp. 324–331. Lypp, Maria (1998), “Der Struktur auf der Spur : die Kinderliteratur im Spannungsfeld zwischen Leseförderung und literarischer Bildung”, in: JuLit Informationen 24/1, pp. 17–24. Lypp, Maria (1999), “Kinderliteratur als verbale Kunst betrachtet”, in: Duderstadt, Matthias; Forytta, Claus (eds.): Literarisches Lernen. Frankfurt a. M.: Grundschulverband – Arbeitskreis Grundschule e. V. Beiträge zur Reform der Grundschule Bd. 107, pp. 37–49. Nünning, Ansgar ; Surkamp, Carola (2006), Englische Literatur unterrichten. Grundlagen und Methoden. Seelze: Kallmeyer-Verlag in Verbindung mit Klett. Paran, Amos (2010), “Between Scylla and Charybdis: The Dilemmas of Testing Language and Literature”, in: Paran, Amos; Sercu, Lies (eds.): Testing the Untestable in Language Education. Bristol, Buffalo, Toronto: Multilingual Matters, pp. 143–164. Schädlich, Birgit (2004), “‘Im Moment lese ich gerade ganz wenig Französisch’ – Zur Verbindung von Spracherwerb und Literaturarbeit in fachwissenschaftlichen Anteilen des romanistischen Lehramtsstudiums”, in: Decke-Cornill, Helene; Hu, Adelheid; Meyer, Meinert A. (eds.): Sprachen lernen und lehren. Die Perspektive der Bildungsgangforschung. Band 17. Opladen& Farmington Hills: Barbara Budrich, pp. 153–171. Schädlich, Birgit (2008), “Reliterarisierung des schulischen Französischunterrichts – was kann die Lehrerausbildung beitragen?”, in: Fremdsprachen lehren und lernen 37. Themenschwerpunkt Lehren und Lernen mit literarischen Texten, pp. 298–311. Thaler, Engelbert (2008), Teaching English Literature. Paderborn: Schöningh.

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Volkmann, Laurenz (2009), “Literatur auch und gerade in der Sekundarstufe I”, in: Hollm, Jan (ed.): Literaturdidaktik und Literaturvermittlung im Englischunterricht der Sekundarstufe I. Trier : WVT, pp. 23–30. Wieser, Dorothee (2008), Literaturunterricht aus Sicht der Lehrenden. Eine qualitative Interviewstudie. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag.

Laurenz Volkmann

Functions of Literary Texts in the Tradition of German EFL Teaching

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Functions of Literature – Functions of Literature in Foreign Language Teaching

It seems appropriate to begin this short reflection on the function of literary texts in German EFL teaching and learning with a succinct definition by the late Lothar Bredella. One of Germany’s most influential advocates of a prominent role of literature in foreign language education, Bredella continued to defend literature in the context of a somewhat blinkered perspective on language learning propagated by the Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEF, 2001). Doubtlessly, as observed by Bredella (2008: 13), the CEF’s notion of foreign language teaching has been formative and central to today’s standardization and competence “craze”, perpetuated in official political documents, such as KMK-standards and curricula. Bredella has the following definition of the function of literature in the classroom: “Literary texts present relevant content in such a way that reading, speaking and writing about them is pleasurable and educationally significant.” (Bredella 2008: 12). One feels invited to attempt to engage in a “close reading” of the words from an outspoken proponent of reader-oriented approaches to literature. Crucially, this nutshell definition serves as a bridge between two seemingly contradictory didactic-methodological sides. On the one hand, recent, increasingly skill- and competence-oriented stances towards teaching/learning EFL are hinted at by his reference to three basic language skills – one may add listening when taking audio-books, dramas, etc. into account as well. Here, literature is “instrumentalized” as an intrinsically useful medium. Furthermore, it can provide a bedrock of useful native-speaker discourse types. Moreover, it can function as a trigger to motivate learners and initiate competence development in crucial language skills – the focus here is on what student do with literature. On the other hand, Bredella’s definition carries more traditional sentiments in arguing for a prominent place of literature in EFL. The very terms used here are, of course,

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laden with historical meaning. Time-honored arguments for literature are included in three key phrases: First, literature is defined as “pleasurable” or enjoyable. While, for its opponents, it appears like a useless, superfluous, partly elitist and inherently dangerous or treacherous pastime, its advocates cherish literature as a medium which is essential for the human existence. Reading and dealing with narratives appear as the prerequisites for a sound psyche, since literature caters to the human propensity for narration, for experimenting with thought-adventures and engaging in fiction making. Second, this aesthetic value is underscored and given a nuanced definition through the term “relevant content”. Here, the propensity of today’s competence and standard models to belittle cultural content, to ignore or trivialize the core of communication, is obliquely criticized in foregrounding the significance of culturally valuable content. For Bredella, as his publications indicate (see, for example, also Bredella, Delanoy 1996), this culturally significant content consisted of great works of art, not necessarily by authors of the established literary canon. He valorized works of art that had some sort of intrinsic literary merit through their ambivalent, dense or complex language and multi-layered approaches to culturally relevant topics. In the context of the EFL classroom, relevance means that the texts deal with an interculturally interesting or complex topic, or offer foreign language readers the opportunity to compare their value systems with that or those presented in the text. Third and lastly, this hermeneutical interaction between text and reader comprises another important contribution of literature to EFL in that it aims to go beyond the mere acquisition of language or communication skills by potentially fostering “competences” in the fields of understanding foreign cultures (Fremdverstehen). Literature offers an invitation to compare different viewpoints, to develop tolerance and empathy, and finally, to broaden one’s horizon, thus supporting personal growth. Here, “intercultural competence” is not just perceived as a set of skills or routines to be used in intercultural scenarios, but as an integral part of the student’s personality, one which is needed in today’s globalized, multicultural societies (see also Bredella, Delanoy 1996: vii). Of course, there is a long historical debate on the functions of literature in general and in the context of learning a foreign language or finding access to a different culture. As literary critic Hubert Zapf (1991: 22) points out, any discussion of the uses of literature must be seen as reflecting the tradition of Plato. Famously, the Greek philosopher argued in favour of literature’s moral and didactic perspective by stressing the universal values and truths inherent in great works of art, which can teach and improve moral behaviour – thus providing guidance for the (morally) good life (ibid.). If all philosophy, as one commentator quipped, must be seen as a footnote on Plato and Aristotle, all discussions on the uses of literature can be seen as ramifications and elaborations on the

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issue of the uses of literature as defined by these antique philosophers. With a negative spin on it, opponents underlined its detrimental effects. Literature accordingly is denigrated as causing damage and steering its readers from this good life (as the Puritans argued). Or it is deemed a useless, time-consuming and idle occupation with content of dubious value for the real life out there (the utilitarian vantage point). With a positive spin on it, the argument went in favour of using literature as the privileged medium of education and, in our case, foreign language instruction. In Germany, the Platonic tradition of literature as the medium containing a sort of eternal, universal Truth resonated powerfully through its history of Literaturwissenschaft and teaching German and foreign languages and literature (for a historical overview on the functions of literature in general, in Germany and in German didactics, see Schrey 1982, Zapf 1991, Brusch 1996, Gymnich, Nünning 2005, Klippel 2005, Kolb 2013: 85–201, with a special emphasis on literature and culture in EFL). The Platonic concept that great works of art enable their readers to catch fleeting glances of the “ideas” behind the mere shadowy reflections of the phenomena of everyday life translated into a reverential admiration of classical texts. At least since the 18th and 19th centuries, a longstanding and persevering tradition evolved which entailed a number of unchallenged assumptions about the role of literature: Great works of art – literature with a capital L, in German Höhenkammliteratur – were unquestioningly revered as the pinnacle of cultural achievement, also of the target culture of language learning. They were not just viewed as aesthetic or linguistic models to be admired and emulated in their perfection; moreover, they were enthusiastically lauded as moral touchstones, as providers of meaning, of carriers of hidden philosophical messages (for a useful overview, see Schrey 1982). In the school and university classrooms, canonical texts were thus passed on to the next generation, with their literary merits remaining unquestioned. Texts that had allegedly proved to be “the best that is known and thought in the world” (Matthew Arnold, quoted in Zapf 1990: 124) or were deemed to be written by the “most approved authors” (John Tompson, quoted in Finkenstaedt 1992: 66) provided the content of learning environments. Teaching methodologies reflected this stance of adoration: Close philological readings, accompanied in EFL teaching with grammar-translation methods, seemed to be the adequate approach to texts of the highest literary quality. In Germany, Göttingen scholar John Tompson proved to be extremely influential with his literary reader English Miscellanies (first edition 1737). Text selection was informed by the basic idea that “an encounter with the best authors was considered to be the best way to foreign language proficiency” (“daß die Begegnung mit den besten Autoren der beste Weg zur Sprachbeherrschung ist”, Finkenstaedt 1992: 66). The initiated teacher, “sage on the stage”, passed on cultural knowledge and initiated the next

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generation into practices of textual exegesis. Traditionally, these practices were shaped by the idea that the author’s meaning had to be discovered somehow. The traditional question of “What was the author’s intention?” – much maligned in New Criticism circles – has to this day remained a part of interpretation practices in German EFL school classes. The long-standing tradition of putting literature on the high pedestal of admiration, of honoring it as a privileged medium in its own right with the accompanying methods of literary instruction continued to shape German EFL teaching after 1945, as will be explained in more detail below. It was not just the more pragmatic and communication-oriented attitudes towards foreign language learning commencing in the 1970s that fundamentally started to questioned this outstanding role of literature. It was also the simultaneous unfolding of new theories of literature, such as in the areas of semiotics, poststructuralism, race, class & gender studies, intertextuality, intermediality and various contextoriented approaches which have drastically altered perceptions of literature’s role, also of literature’s role as representative of target cultures in foreign language learning. A recent definition of the function of literature thus goes as follows: In Texten beobachten sich Kulturen selbst, ob im Sinne einer Differenzierung (oder Durchkreuzung) von popular culture und Hochkultur oder unter Gesichtspunkten einer nach verschiedenen Gattungen und Diskursen bestimmten Ordnung im jeweiligen Literatursystem als Teil des gesellschaftlichen Gesamtsystems. Literarische Formen sind spezifische Formen des individuellen und kollektiven Wahrnehmens von Welt und Reflexion dieser Wahrnehmung. (Quoted in Gymnich, Nünning 2005: 17)1

No longer is literature seen as a medium removed from reality, an aesthetic object to be studied according to approaches focusing on its generic form. Rather, various aspects relevant for the inclusion of literature in foreign language teaching/learning are hinted at here: First, that literature, like any other “text” (that is, cultural medium) is a medium of cultural and intercultural communication; in a complex reciprocal process it reflects reality as represented in various other texts, partly shaping culture, partly being shaped. In the course of this process literature becomes an integral and significant carrier of the “cultural memory” of a culture. Moreover, literature partakes in what has often been called a process of meaning negotiation in an ongoing exchange of culturally shaped 1 “In texts, cultures observe themselves, whether this happens with respect to differentiation (or interchanging) of popular culture and high culture or regarding a certain order within a given system of literature, defined by its respective genres and discourses and seen as part of an allencompassing social system, that is society at large. Literary forms are specific forms of individual and collective ways of perceiving the world and they are also a reflection of this perception.” (Transl. LV)

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meanings. Contrary to former beliefs, literature is not defined through its mimetic qualities, that is how well it represents reality or another culture, but the focus now shifts to the creative qualities of literature-specific modes of “world making”, of creating one of many versions of reality. Literature thus, for example, offers insights into the various ways of creating meaning in a target culture, as formed and viewed through the prism of fiction, which allows for multifaceted but also typified forms of representation (see Nünning, Surkamp 2006: 12ff.). By offering one, often typified version of reality, presented for instance in the form of how protagonists act in a certain cultural environment, literature crucially offers opportunities to engage cognitively and emotionally with the fictionalized target (sub-)culture. Thus a unique offer for intercultural learning and educational enrichment is presented. Up to this point, the functions of literature and specifically of literature in foreign language learning have been discussed on a more theoretical level. It has been established that there are two opposing views of the functions of literature. The traditional one conceives of literature as an aesthetically and morally but also socially privileged medium. Literature is revered as a lofty object of art; individual texts and the literary canon appear as carriers of exquisite significance and the art of understanding the great works of literature needs to be passed on to the next generation. The printed word and its most prominent representation in great literature were the paradigm of the age of the Gutenberg galaxy. In the age of visual culture, however, in the age of the Internet and the interplay of various text types in a seemingly endless loop of inter-referencing, literature attains a different role. Literature tends to be seen in connection with other media, with fluctuating meanings being created in the interstices of textual and medial interplay. Here literature takes part in meaning creation; and it are particularly genre-specific ways of creating meaning that appear of interest. Moreover, the focus is shifted from the single text to how the chosen text interacts with other representations of reality and how the reader reacts towards the text’s strategies of meaning creation. Before discussing newer approaches to literature in EFL in more detail, a short historical survey seems to be in place here. It serves to further elaborate on the lasting influence of text-oriented analytical approaches, but also to explore parallel, if less dominant strands of alternative traditions.

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Literature up to ca. 1900: Educational Value vs. Practical Usefulness – An Unbridgeable Gap?

So far, I have delineated a dichotomy of revering literature in its own right versus a more instrumental approach to literature. Literature here is embedded in a matrix of meaning creation. A brief historical survey may shed some light on the strong and partly still persisting tradition in German foreign language education to view literature as a preferred medium for achieving educational goals. This part of the contribution at hand offers a brief outline of historical developments, which are also important concerning the issue of canon formation (see the contribution by Carola Surkamp in this volume, for a historical survey see the two monographs by Klippel 1994 and Doff 2002; see also Brusch 1996: 139ff., Hellwig 2000: 23ff.; Surkamp 2012). Up to the 19th century, the established foreign languages in German schools of higher education were Greek and Latin. Modern languages were considered of practical value and traditionally a domain of children, often girls, of the upper echelon in Germany, who were taught French or English by governesses or private mother-tongue tutors from early childhood on. Early instructions in communicative skills (sometimes pejoratively termed as effeminate Parlierkünste) were supported with the reading of contemporary poems or novels, and later complemented by travelling or living in the target culture countries. Sabine Doff (2002), in her study on foreign language teaching for girls in the 19th century, stresses the pioneering concepts of furthering communicative competence in these methods of instruction, which were often treated disparagingly by male educators, who in their Gymnasium classes relied on the traditional grammar-translation method, in imitation of teaching Latin or Greek. It was only through the adaptation of the grammar-translation method that modern language teaching could gain recognition as serving the preferred goal of educational instruction (Brusch 1996: 140). Instruction in modern foreign languages via literature had a tradition going back to the Renaissance. Karlheinz Hellwig (2000: 23f.) points out that right from the onset of foreign language learning “simple” literary forms were used, often as a support for memorizing vocabulary or language chunks. In the 17th century, Comenius, for instance, recommended learning with the help of sayings and fixed idioms or expressions; and reading books entitled “chapbooks” including nursery rhymes and other genres of poetry as well as very short narrations were popular in Great Britain in the 17th to 19th centuries. Texts were often supported by short sketches and other visualizations. Here is an excerpt from a text from 1840, obviously used to memorize the alphabet:

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A was an apple-pie B bit it C cut it, D dealt it, E Eat it, F fought for it, G got it, H had it, I inspected it, J jumped for it, K kept it, […] (Hellwig 2000: 23)

Genres of literature used in foreign language learning covered a wide range of popular genres, from poems, short dramas, fables, anecdotes, songs, to contemporary prose narratives. As Friederike Klippel (1994: 352ff.) explains, authentic literary texts, especially poems, were treasured as models for language use. There was little literary teaching let alone interpretation or analysis. With the growing importance of English literature (Classicism and Romanticism, 18th to 19th centuries) the interest in British authors increased. The teaching of English literature at school was connected with three goals (Hellwig 2000: 26; see also Klippel 1994: 354f.): First, to offer students real textual examples of grammar in practical use; second, to offer interesting access to a variety of topics; and, third, to practice one’s English: literary texts were supposed to elicit “text production”, both by providing topics for conversation and for the students’ own response in writing. Throughout the 19th century there was also a tendency to focus on “serious” literature and restrict its place almost exclusively to classes for advanced learners. In the 19th century, schools of higher education for girls (Höhere Mädchenschulen) favoured novels (by Scott, Bulwer, Eliot, Dickens), but also excerpts from Shakespeare’s dramas, Milton’s Paradise Lost and other classics, not always in the English original version. Shakespeare’s dramas were often not only deemed linguistically too challenging, but were also viewed with suspicion with regard to “bawdy” passages which raised moral concern (Doff 2002: 450). There was no official canon in any of the German Länder, though a lively discussion went on at the time as to criteria of text selection, which were often defined ex negativo. One educator explained in 1898: Was soll nicht gelesen werden? Erstens, was ästhetisch und ethisch keinen oder geringen Wert hat, was literarisch veraltet ist, was kein lebendiges Interesse mehr bietet durch Beziehungen zwischen Vergangenheit und Gegenwart. Zweitens, was nicht aus dem Geiste des betroffenen Volkes heraus geboren ist, was nicht […] streng national ist, nicht dem Stoffe, sondern der Gesinnung nach. Also keine Übersetzung oder Bearbeitung aus anderen Litteraturen […]. Drittens: Nichts Fachwissenschaftliches und Politisches, so passend und bildend es für Knabenschulen sein mag. Viertens und

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letztens: Nichts Langweiliges! Jedes Genre sei erlaubt, ausser dem genre ennuyeux! Was unsere Mädchen nicht interessirt [sic] und fesselt, das kann keinen bildenden Einfluss auf sie ausüben, das wird keinen tiefen Eindruck auf sie machen. (Quoted in Doff 2002: 449)2

Under the pen name of Quosque Tandem, educator Wilhelm Vi[tor published his ground-breaking essay Der Sprachunterricht muß umkehren in 1882. Like other reformers of the age, notably Gustav Wendt, he was influenced by the more communication-oriented practices at girl schools when propagating a sea change for modern language learning (Doff 2002: 478ff.). For him, the fossilized habits of grammar-translation classes, stemming from the instruction of the languages of antiquity, had to be changed to what we would today call an oral or communicative approach. He advocated the reading of rhymes and stories, riddles and songs (Vi[tor 1979: 29) as ideal language learning texts, and considered them much more enjoyable than artificial foreign language teaching texts. According to Vi[tor, they were a perfect introduction to the wealth of great English literary texts (“the great treasure trove […] of English literature”, ibid.). However, literary instruction was not what Vi[tor had in mind. Rather, he favoured the appreciation of great literature, and first and foremost, literature for language learning, where “complete texts” with age-adequate content were to be used. It is interesting to observe how Vi[tor expressed rather detailed methodological concepts. His step by step approach to dealing with literature resembles, as Hellwig calls it, a “simple form of teaching reading and writing” (Hellwig 2000: 27). This methodology may appear rigid and rather schematic, with very little authentic communication taking place. Yet it was especially after 1945 that this kind of patterned approach to working with literature became popular and has occasionally remained a practice in EFL classrooms (ibid.). The step by step guide to teaching literature works as follows: - “liest der Lehrer ein kurzes Lesestück so oft als nötig langsam und deutlich vor, wobei die Bücher der Schüler geschlossen sind” und vermittelt dabei den unbekannten Wortschatz; - Bei geöffneten Büchern: Der Lehrer liest noch einmal vor und läßt einen der

2 “What should not be read? First, what is of no or little aesthetic or ethical value, obsolete texts, literature that does not offer a vivid interest through a connection between the past and the present. Second, what has not been born out of the spirit of a people, the target culture, what is not strictly national, not as far as subject matter is concerned, but rather regarding its soul (or attitude). Therefore, no translation or anything that is transposed from other literatures. Third, no academic literature and nothing of political nature, even if it appears most suitable and educative for boys’ schools. Fourth, and finally : nothing boring. Every genre is possible, apart from the tedious genre. What does not interest our girls and mesmerizes them can have no lasting influence on them, will leave no deep impression on them.” (Transl. LV)

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besseren Schüler lesen; andere … folgen mit dem Lesen, dann auch Übersetzen nach. - Nachdem sich der Lehrer darüber vergewissert hat, daß sich die Schüler über die einzelnen Worte klar sind, stellt er […] bei offenen Büchern Fragen über den Inhalt, deren Beantwortung in der fremden Sprache in ganzen Sätzen zu geben ist. - Die Bücher werden geschlossen, und Zuversichtliche, später Zaghaftere, erzählen das Stück in der fremden Sprache wieder. - Nun darf geschrieben werden: Zuerst an der Wandtafel, dann ins Heft, beides in Form von Antworten auf die vom Lehrer gestellten Fragen. (Vietor 1979: 29f.; see Hellwig 2000: 27)3 This pioneering, if from today’s viewpoint, still very teacher- and text-centred oral approach to language learning via literature did not find general practical implementation. Almost three generations later, in 1960, Werner Hüllen referred back to Vi[tor’s approach of language learning through literature by conceding that Vi[tor saw an unbridgeable gulf between two demands of foreign language teaching: Reading great literature in the foreign language classroom and training English for practical purposes seemed incompatible (Brusch 1996: 140). The two guiding principles “des Bildungswertes und des Gebrauchtwertes” remained unconnected (“the principle of educational value versus the principle of practical usefulness”, Hüllen 1970: 367). Thus, in the 1960s a discussion continued which had its origin in 19th century principles of foreign language education. For many decades, the emphasis on analyzing great works of literature while neglecting the training of everyday communicative competences had lead to what critics disowned as Schulenglisch, a kind of English that seemed of little practical relevance in the real world. On the other hand, those who considered the reading of Shakespeare’s plays in upper classes of the Gymnasium the only valuable aim of English language instruction, which would occasionally be done in German to facilitate “in depth” analysis, would utter scathing remarks about speakers with a practical command of English, calling it “head waiter’s English” (“OberkellnerEnglisch”, Brusch 1996: 187). Pupils were to be taught skills of reflection rather 3 “The teacher reads out a short piece of literature as often as necessary in a loud and distinct manner. The students’ editions remain closed. Thereby the unknown vocabulary is taught. / With open books: The teacher reads again and has a better student read; others follow reading, then also with translating. / After the teacher has made sure that students understand all the unknown words, he, with books open, asks questions concerning content. The answers are to be given in full sentences in the foreign language. / The books are closed and confident students, later also hesitant students retell the piece of literature in the foreign language. / Now students may write. First on the black board, then into the students’ book, in both cases in the form of answers to the questions asked by the teacher.” (Transl. LV)

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than the command of the foreign language. Since for some educators, an adequate discussion of literary texts seemed only possible in the mother tongue, the 1960s saw a movement, albeit an unsuccessful one, to separate language instruction and area studies from teaching the “geistige[…] Sinnbild” (“spiritual meaning”, q. in Brusch 1996: 139) of great works of art. The reform, aimed at school and university levels, “would have meant a separation of language and literature in foreign language teaching. Luckily, this reform was never implemented.” (Brusch 1996: 139)

3

Literature up to the 1980s: The Philological Paradigm – Academic Instruction at the School Level

Language instruction in English, literature education in German – this twofold concept may well have influenced the practices of teaching English at German schools in the 20th century up to the Communicative Turn of the 1970s (as the author of this article witnessed himself in the late 1970s in a Leistungskurs of a German Gymnasium). Yet this was merely a radical expression of a dilemma which still persists today. Literary texts, specifically canonized literature of earlier centuries, appear linguistically and contextually so demanding that an indepth dealing with them seems an extremely difficult and exacting feat. Today, text selections and excerpts of texts or various methods of including media representations such as films offer new solutions to this dilemma. Under the philological paradigm such approaches seemed unthinkable for the literary purist. Looking at English teaching before the Communicative Turn, it seems advisable to take into consideration that literature, defined as Literature with a capital L then, was almost exclusively taught to advanced students of the Gymnasium (Oberstufe) (Walter 1981: 16). This was, as Friederike Klippel (2005: 429) reminds us, “of course, a type of school that was then catering for about ten per cent of the age group”. In this context, she quotes a remark by Rudolf Haas, who in 1963 wrote (ibid.): “Das Schulfach Englisch bedarf keiner von außen herangetragenen Pädagogisierung, sondern lebt von innen aus den Impulsen, die von der Anglistik selbst ihrem großen und bildungsgeladenen Stoff abgewinnt.”4 It goes without saying that such educationally valuable and relevant matter consisted in the “great tradition” (sensu F.R. Leavis) of British and American literature, and school teaching aimed at emulating practices which were prevalent at university seminars then. The image that would best encap4 “English as a school subject is not in need of any sort of pedagogization imposed on it from outside. It breathes from within enlivened by the impulses it receives from English Studies and what they gain from their great and educationally most valuable content.” (Transl. LV)

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sulate literature teaching at the time would be that of a university seminar transposed to the school room, with students bent over their edition of a Shakespearean play, instructed by their teacher in the art of text analysis and interpretation. The philological paradigm continued to reign in the German EFL classroom after 1945. After World War II, for many teachers an ideology-free focus on art as an object of close scrutiny seemed a welcome change or means of escapism, depending how one wishes to interpret the turn to textual analysis historically. Similarly, in the United States philological approaches were the dominant school of thought during the first two thirds of the twentieth century. Thus, in Germany this school of New Criticism became easily integrated into a long-standing tradition of textual exegesis and text hermeneutics. It may be indicative of this approach that while the term “literary science” does not exist in English, “Literaturwissenschaft” or “literaturwissenschaftliche Propädeutik” at schools gestures towards a “scientific”, objective manner of dealing with texts in the humanities. In Germany, the concept emerged that text-intrinsic methods seemed to provide the reader with a formula for arriving at correct readings of a text using only the text itself. Seminal books of the post-war period for any student of philology were studies like Roman Ingarden’s Das literarische Kunstwerk (The Literary Work of Art, German translation from the Polish original 1931) or Emil Staiger’s Die Kunst der Interpretation (The Art of Interpretation, 1955). The experienced reader, in class the teacher, had at their disposal a seemingly objective set of tools to uncover a text’s hitherto concealed meaning. Looking for literary devices in a text appeared as based on an easily repeatable set of principles. Interpretation and analysis could be taught, it seemed, like the use of mathematical formulae. In fact, the teacher’s role was strengthened and with it teacher-centered lecturing: the university-trained teacher functioned as the wise instructor when it came to explaining the functions of literary techniques. It was the teacher, too, who would initiate processes of developing an aesthetic sense as part of the symbolic capital fostered at the gymnasiale Oberstufe. The prevailing method of dealing with literary texts was close reading, featuring the sophisticated techniques of “inspecting, comparing, and evaluating the various features and qualities we might find in a piece of writing” (Johnson 1992: 1). As an interpretative model, close reading is based on a distinct pattern of methodology. Readers, guided by an instructor, start with a close analysis of a text’s individual words, its denotative and connotative meanings. Then they move on to find possible allusions within the text. The critical reader then aims to detect patterns developed through individual words, phrases, sentences and paragraphs. In doing so, figures of speech and allusions are analysed and interpreted in order to “understand” what a literary text “means”. Crucially, the

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text’s overall meaning is perceived as independent of its author’s original intention, but also of the reader’s subjective sentiments, for it itself contains all the necessary information to unearth its meaning. Characteristically, definitions of “close reading” center on the fact that the readers are to pay […] especially close attention to what is printed on the page; both an understanding of what a particular word, passage imagery is ‘about’ and what goes to make up its literary and aesthetic quality. Close reading involves both the smallest linguistic items and the much larger issues of literary understanding and judgement. (Johnson 1992: 6)

Readers learn to appreciate the subtle connotations and relate them to the larger picture of the whole text – as representative of a genre or a literary epoch. As educators and representatives of Literaturwissenschaft and EFL didactics (theories and methodologies of EFL) pointed out unanimously, this text-based approach was considered the alpha and omega of teaching English literature: English at Oberstufe should have the “same content as academic literary criticism: literary texts in the English language” (Walter 1981: 14). Bei aller Verschiedenheit haben der Literaturunterricht in der Schule und die wissenschaftliche Erforschung von Literatur auf der Universität eines gemeinsam: das Bemühen um ein philologisch einwandfreies Verständnis des Textes. (Erzgräber 1979: 83)5

What were the differences between a university seminar on English Literature (which, incidentally, up to millennium was usually conducted in German) and a Leistungskurs focusing on canonized literature? Educators were well aware of the fact that younger learners needed special consideration. Questions of age adequacy and especially of developmental psychology (a budding discipline at German universities then) had to be taken into account: “entwicklungspsychologische Angemessenheit, Aspekte der Motivation und inhaltliche Eignung” (Walter 1981: 15). Furthermore, the linguistic complexity of foreign language texts were not to be ignored. The “sprachliche Schwierigkeitsgrad” (linguistic difficulty) needed to be taken into consideration as well as a more emotional, less cerebral approach to literature; Walter writes of a “weitgehend […] individuelle, vorwiegend emotionale Betrachtungsweise” of Kollegiaten (ibid.). Moreover, the explicit aim of EFL teaching had to consist of stimulating pupils to continue reading after they left school (“Schüler zu Lesern herauszubilden, die sich auch nach ihrer Schulzeit noch mit literarischen Werken beschäftigen”, ibid.). In the early 1980s, Walter, for instance, also turns against an all too academic approach to literature (“einseitige Verwissen5 “As different as they may be, literature at school and academic research on literature at the university have a common denominator : they both grapple to come to a philologically sound and clear understanding of texts.” (Transl. LV)

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schaftlichung”) and highlights the ability of literature classes to further aesthetic experiences and creative skills (advocating key concepts for personal growth such as “Kunstdidaktik”, “ästhetische Erfahrung”, “creative[…] Kräfte”, ibid.). The essence of such philological approaches can be found in Peter Freese’s 1979 seminal article “Zur Methodik der Analyse von Short Stories im Englischunterricht der Sekundarstufe II” (“On the methodology of interpreting short stories in English classes for advanced learners”, 1979; repr. 1999). This list of almost 30 items to be considered when analyzing a short story, or any work of literature for that matter, is less a methodological guide but rather a set of questions students could utilize when asked to interpret and analyze literary texts in an academic (wissenschaftliche) manner. Its impetus was quite clearly and successfully to make interpretation in the advanced classroom a task which should be taken seriously and which could be evaluated and assessed against the background of this or similar lists of interpretative items. While some items were clearly permeated by the terminology and shaped by recent research interest of German scholars in the field of literature (e. g., the questions concerning point of view or reader-manipulation, Sympathielenkung), the overall list is informed by international research standards of the time. The following is an overview of the items for literary interpretation and analysis. - Questions on point of view, such as reliable or unreliable narration - Questions on characterization and constellation of characters - Questions on plot development and forms of linear or non-linear narration - Questions on time, such as objective vs. subjective time - Questions on space, setting an atmosphere, specifically the semantics of space - Question of genre specifics (aspects of poetry or genres of poetry, drama, etc.) - Finally, aspects of reader-response in the tradition of Wolfgang Iser were important: gaps and indeterminacies of a text and possible expectations created by the text As Peter Freese himself observed later (1999), the enormous popularity of this “laundry list” or recipe for interpretation (see also Johnson 1992: 8f.) was partly that it was used item by item. This happened against Freese’s own intention, which was merely to offer a more academic and sophisticated approach to teaching literature. This he clearly succeeded in doing, since it became proverbial in Northrine Westphalia to “freese up” (“soap up”) lessons and tests on literature for advanced students in the Abitur by demanding the use of sophisticated technical terms. Freese’s list, to some degree, appears still extremely useful if additional aspects of interpretation are added, such as taking author, context, intertextual and intermedial connections and semiotic as well as culture-critical aspects into consideration. If text interpretation is one goal of lit-

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erature classes, this list of interpretative approaches can still serve well for informed analyses of texts (Volkmann 2010: 231f.; additionally on the history of Freese’s list see Volkmann 2015). Of course, such an analytical approach unfortunately tends to foster rather schematic phases of text work, with comprehension questions first, analysis second and questions on the readers’ opinions following (as any look into textbooks up to the millennium will reveal). “Rather concrete teaching goals” were expounded by Helmut Schrey (1982: 231f.), with special reference to the “Leistungskurse in der Sekundarstufe II”. In sum, they entail the following five fields: - Tackling the issue of literary and aesthetic value of specific literary texts. Schrey stresses that this should be a category well worth being debated in an open manner. - The historicity (“Geschichtlichkeit”) of literature needs to be under discussion, meaning how certain texts can be linked to epochs, the history of literature (what could be called “canon competence” or “intertextual competence” in today’s parlance) - Making students aware of problems of translation, thus creating language and aesthetic awareness. - Special attention should be paid to teaching “national literature” and culturespecific methods of categorizing and approaching literary texts. - Student should gain insights into literary criticism and Literaturwissenschaft as an academic discipline. Of course, such an ambitious agenda for advanced student carries all the hallmarks of an M.A. in English Literature programme. Quite rightly, one can find – especially in post 1970s and 1980s responses – remarks galore that students studying for their A-levels are not necessarily determined to become philologists in their later career. However, the predominantly philological direction of English literature teaching for advanced students was aligned with another perspective in the 1970s and 1980s. While literary texts remained the focus of teaching concepts, teaching goals shifted towards concepts of “discursive competence” (as propounded, for example, by Jürgen Habermas and critical discourse theory). Here, the emphasis was partly on revealing the importance of aesthetically valuable literature in conjunction with other discourse types such as newspaper articles. The aim was to assist learners in identifying and understanding how language operates concerning different communicative functions. It became a crucial teaching goal to sensitize learners to the use of formulaic language and schemata which are abundant in media discourse. One typical model of what could be called teaching “critical competence” via literature is suggested by Rüdiger Ahrens, whose 1973 article on teaching literature in EFL is influenced by Emil Mihm’s Die Krise der neusprachlichen Didaktik (“The crisis

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of neophilological didactics”, 1972). Such critical competence was propagated as it had the power to transcend the then “too rigid link of literature didactics with academic literary criticism” (Ahrens 1972/2004: 515). In other words, both Ahrens’s and Mihm’s publications can be seen as a first step towards turning away from the paradigm of philology, which I have described as highly influential up to the 1970s and beyond. Ahrens suggested his model as an adage to rather than a critique of established modes of text-bound approaches. To Ahrens, the following four “components of critical thinking” were worth being included in teaching literature in EFL: a) Angesichts der heutigen Leistungsgesellschaft mit ihrem “Konsumterror” ist das vornehmliche Interesse der Jugend an “verwertbaren Informationen” nicht zu übersehen. Daraus ergibt sich für die Textbeschreibung die Frage nach der Funktionalität von literarischen Werken in ihrem jeweiligen historischen Kontext. b) Da der Einfluß der Massenmedien, insbesondere des Fernsehens mit seiner aktuellen und häufig nur aktualisierenden Programmgestaltung, in immer stärkerem Maße spürbar wird, bevorzugen zahlreiche Didaktiker die “zeitgenössische Literatur” […]. c) Nachdem sich die bildungstheoretische Grundlage der traditionellen Literaturdidaktik nicht weiter perpetuieren konnte, werden nunmehr die Texte als “Material für den Aufbau kritischer Positionen” und somit als “Orientierungshilfen” in der Auseinandersetzung mit fremden weltanschaulichen Positionen angesehen. d) Aus der Abwehrstellung gegenüber einer von Manipulation erfüllten und Ideologisierungen beherrschten Lebenssphäre ergibt sich das Postulat einer Versachlichung und Objektivierung des Literaturunterrichts. Wertneutralität, Faktizität, Nachprüfbarkeit und Transparenz der Entscheidungsgrundlagen stellen sich auch dem Lehrer als Kriterium für seine Unterrichtsarbeit dar. (Ahrens 1972/2004: 515f.)6 6 “Considering today’s performance-oriented society and its blatant consumerism (“consumerist terror”) one cannot ignore the prevailing interest of today’s youth in “useable information”. Therefore, for text interpretation the issue of how literary works function comes up, with regard to their respective historical context. / The influence of the mass media, especially of TVand its topical and often only topicalized choice of formats is becoming more and more a discernible influence. As a result, many scholars in the field of didactics favour “contemporary literature”. / Since the educational foundation of literature didactics could not continue to have influence, texts are now used to create critical positions and offer guidance with regard to dealing with foreign world views. / There is an oppositional stance against a life sphere that is permeated by the forces of manipulation and ideological thinking. This results in demanding a sober and objective direction in teaching literature. Neutrality of position, factual understanding, reliability, and transparency of the bases of decisions are also criteria for teachers

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What is the gist of Ahrens’s programme, which in many ways is typical of the discussion of the 1970s and 1980s both in its terminology and its political drift? Evidently, literature is to retain its privileged status. As it was losing ground in the area of what we would call “cultural capital” through the abundance of other media, then namely television, it was given a new role. Literature was seen as a counter-discourse to the world of information overload, the manipulative operations of consumerism and the mass media. It offered an antidote to the constant bombardment with the ephemeral and mindless “zero content” of the entertainment industry. Thus, the argument of literature as a privileged discourse used by cultural conservatives was co-opted by those influenced by the 1968 student revolt and the critical Frankfurt School (Adorno, Horkheimer, Habermas). Furthermore, a closer look shows clearly that the protocols of “close reading” of literary texts were adapted for a closer “critical reading”, since they were deemed to be more objective, transparent etc. than the non-academic, randomly evolving parameters and ways of approaching media texts disseminated on television and in the press. In addition, “critical readings” as precursors of what would be called “deconstructive”, discourse-oriented approaches to literary texts were meant to foster the students’ ability to infer hidden meaning, concealed “dominant discourse”, by interacting with the text. Here a link is established to theories of reader-response, when teachers together with their students are in search of the meaning structures that are deliberately left out or unclear in literary texts. From a historical perspective, and in hindsight, it would be unfair to surmise that literature didactics in the 1970s and 1980s was completely dominated by just one monolithic model, that of the “philological paradigm”. Counter-voices existed and different facets of text-bound approaches evolved, particularly with the advent of reader-response criticism. The influence of Reception Theory, albeit rather conservative in Germany by still positing an “implied reader” as part of the text’s architecture, on literature in EFL cannot be underestimated. It not only drastically undermined notions of stable canons, texts as perfectly constructed artifices and the concept of objective interpretation, but also increasingly shifted the role of meaning creation to the reader. In the classroom, this translated to a shift from the teacher as the all-knowing expert of the text’s only possible interpretation to the students as creators of meaning in their interaction with the text. This in turn, gave rise to a paradigm shift in methodological approaches, from analytical text-based interpretation to a myriad of student-centered, productive, creative, task-based etc. activities, which, in some cases, use literary and their classroom activities.” (Transl. LV; translator’s comment: Many terms have become untranslatable since they are deeply steeped in the politically charged terminology of the 1970s and 80s).

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texts as a mere stepping stone for doing something completely different, where literature provides the topic for an activity or the linguistic trigger (see the survey and critique in Volkmann 2010: 223ff.). It appears as a facile task to point out the drawbacks and blind spots of the philological paradigm. Yet its drawbacks were and are partly also its strengths, for to discard analytical approaches in toto would be proverbially throwing the baby out with the bath water. Textual analysis remains a skill worth developing, not only for those interested in literature, but for all students who need skills of analyzing texts and how they create interest, empathy, counter-reactions and so on. It is a transferable skill, which can be applied in other contexts of media use as the basis of what is today called multiliteracies. Notwithstanding these arguments in favour of literary skills, the following list of criticism against analytic approaches is still valid. First, there is a tendency even among today’s supporters of literature in EFL to belittle the issue of linguistic complexity or language learning as an essential part of EFL. Gertrud Walter in 1981 had the following words of criticism and of caution concerning the neglect of language learning in literature-centered models and practices: Jeder Kurs muß auch Sprachunterricht sein, d. h. der Erweiterung des Sprachkönnens dienen. […] Sinnvoll[…] ist es, auch anspruchsvolle Texte gedanklich und sprachlich so prägnant zu erschließen, daß sie für Kollegiaten auf englisch [sic] interpretierbar sind. Das Englische kann hier ein Korrektiv gegen pseudowissenschaftliche Verworrenheit sein. (Walter 1981: 46)7

Closely connected with this reproach are other counter-arguments: turning the EFL classroom into a seminar for textual scrutiny does not appear as the right approach to fostering autonomous learning, let alone an appreciation of literature that would go beyond the classroom and entice young learners to pick up the lifelong habit of reading literary classics. In fact, tedious text-analysis in minute detail could spoil students’ enjoyment of literature. Over-interpreting and complete reliance on the teacher’s experienced wisdom takes the fun out of interpretation. Conversely, if learners are left to their own devices, groping their way towards a model interpretation without help to clarify what might otherwise be inaccessible for them, they will abandon literature in frustration unless they are given some sort of scaffolding and guidance regarding lexis, intertextual references and obscure passages. 7 “Every course should also consist of language teaching, that is it should enlarge language skills. Therefore it makes sense to interpret demanding literary texts, with regard to language and ideas, as poignantly as possible, in a manner that they remain interpretable for A-level students. The English language can serve as a corrective instrument against pseudo-academic obfuscation.” (Transl. LV)

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Not only did the dominance of philological approaches result in the veneration of Literature with a capital L, as described above, but it also led to a blinkered, restricted perspective on literature, whose only adequate place seemed to be the Oberstufe (upper level). Prioritizing literary merit, other forms of literature were neglected and came out of sight. Helmut Schrey was one of the few scholars or teachers who criticized this most regretful narrowing of the focus on literature in the Oberstufe. For him, the “Grundsensibilisierung für Literarisches” (Schrey 1982: 223) – literary socialization and aesthetic competence – should begin much earlier, following a more comprehensive, holistic attitude towards what defines literary texts. They should be included in regular EFL classes from early learning on: Hier ist etwa an den Einfluß von Kinderliedern, Abzählversen, aber gewiß auch Versen der Fernsehwerbung und an Märchen zu denken. Der Fremdsprachendidaktiker wird dafür zu sorgen haben, daß diese Basis nicht ganz vergessen, vor allem aber daß sie teils verstärkt, teils sogar nach-gelegt wird, dann allerdings in der Regel in der Zweit- oder Drittsprache. (Schrey 1982: 224)8

While “simple forms” such as counting rhymes, tales, songs, limericks and mini dramas have become part and parcel of teaching foreign languages at elementary schools (early English was not introduced on a wider scale until the early 2000s, it is to be remembered), Schrey’s contemporaries of the 1970s and 80s obviously displayed little enthusiasm for such literary forms since literary criticism often thought little of them or just did not take them seriously and worth teaching (“häufig gering geschätzt oder zumindest doch weniger ernst [genommen]”, Schrey 1982: 224). And even another defender of simple literary forms was still so much influenced by the prevailing paradigms that he recommended them with the argument that they should be used to support a sort of preliminary or early instruction in aesthetics or literature (Literaturpropädeutik, Hellwig 2000). On the whole, one of the main points of criticism to be leveled against supporters of literary teaching in EFL up to the 1980s and 1990s is surely that an integrative model was never established under the philological paradigm. It was only when literature came to be seen as one of many voices or media in an interplay of texts (see Hallet 2002) that such integrative models became the norm, with varying degrees of importance ascribed to the element of literature. There is a long history of discussion about the need for such an integrative model, going back at least to the late 1970s (see Hellwig 1990). The three elements under discussion were (and, in a sense, still are): (1) Communicative com8 “One could think of the influence of songs for children, counting rhymes, but surely also verses from TV commercials and fairy tales. The EFL teacher/scholar will need to make sure that this foundation isn’t forgotten, and most of all that it is partly enhanced, partly rebuilt – however, in the latter case in the second or third language.” (Transl. LV)

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petence, language skills or simply language acquisition, (2) Landeskunde, then conceptualized as area studies or “life and institutions”, increasingly with a terminological change to “cultural learning”, “intercultural learning” or Cultural Studies; (3) literary studies from philology to a more open understanding of “texts”, including visual, multimodal and multimedia texts. Under the direct or indirect predominance of Literature, the problem of parallel, unconnected categories of EFL became increasingly obvious and was seen as a pressing deficiency. The mid-1970s and early 1980s saw numerous publications and sections at both English Literature and EFL conferences on the problem of integrating the above-named three components (see Schrey 1982: 79). To single out an influential publication, Rudolf Nissen’s Kritische Methodik des Englischunterrichts from 1974 attempts a bridge-building between text-centred perspectives and the practical needs of foreign language teaching at schools by suggesting that great works of art can be both models of language and further the learners’ motivation to engage in meaningful and lively discussions about them. The teacher becomes a sort of “skilled ‘talkmaster’” (Brusch 1996: 142) initiating and guiding the conversation about the literary text. “He has to make sure that the results of the discussion and the new vocabulary are recorded by the class.” (ibid.) Interestingly, Nissen also included in his choice of texts non-canonical novels and dramas which, though always supported by an argument referring to their aesthetical value, were chosen according to the experience and interest of young learners, not just for their established canonical value. To give instances of the debate in didactics, the 1982 annual conference of the Society for Modern Foreign Languages (Fachverband Moderne Fremdsprachen (FMF)) had as the meeting’s topic the issue of “Landeskunde im Fremdsprachenunterricht”; the annual conference of Professors of English Literature in Germany (Anglistentag 1980) featured a section on “Kontext and Landeskunde” with a discussion on how literature can be integrated in Area Studies teaching and vice versa (Section IV: “Literatur und Kontext”); and a workshop in Eichstätt in 1981 (II. Eichstätter Kolloquium) focused on the issue of “Literaturwissenschaft – Literaturdidaktik – Literaturunterricht (Englisch)”. In this context it seems worth mentioning that around 1980 the term “cultural competence” appears to have become common usage in EFL circles, clearly indicating both a move from the purist philological perspective and an effort to accrue greater academic status for context-oriented cultural studies. What appears to be a truism today had to be underscored in EFL and literary studies circles then, as the following statement by Peter Freese makes clear : Jeder literarische oder landeskundliche Text ist als englischer Text zugleich immer auch Anlaß für Sprachunterricht. Jeder literarische Text besitzt als Hervorbringung seines Kulturraums zugleich immer landeskundliche Aussagekraft. Und jeder als

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Anlaß für Sprachunterricht verwandte Text ist zugleich immer Träger irgendeines, möglicherweise landeskundlichen oder literarischen Inhalts. (Freese 1980: 29)9

As stated above, the real break-through to an integrative model could only be initiated and forcefully supported by the gradual transformation of literary studies through various new theories which afforded weight to non-literary factors such as race, class, gender, context, or, most importantly for literature in the classroom, to the reader and his or her interaction with the text or rather : the textual universe out there. In this textual interplay, literature increasingly appeared as merely one, if historically elevated, position among many other competing text sources. The “closed” text became an open text; and the notion disappeared that personal or subjective reactions to a text were the mark of “poor readers” who were prone to the “affective fallacy” of letting their personal feelings interfere with the text’s hidden true meaning. In the late 1980s and 1990s, finally, the focus of attention was shifted to the question of what cognitive and emotional responses were bound to be triggered by a text or certain passages, even words. Ultimately, meaning shifted from the text to the interaction of text and reader. Attention was directed towards what happens during the reading process, how the individual reader makes sense of printed material. In an introduction to teaching foreign language literature this shift of emphasis, which became forcefully felt in German EFL classrooms only in the late 1980s, is described succinctly in the following manner : Literary texts have a different relationship to external reality. They, too, depend upon it for their raw material and for their interpretability, but after selecting elements from it, aim to combine these elements into a new portion of reality which exists only within the text. The reader is asked to recreate this reality in his mind, using evidence from the language of the text and from his own knowledge of the world. […] The reader’s creative (or rather, ‘co–creative’) role, and the imaginative involvement engendered by this role, encourage a dynamic interaction between reader, text and external world, in the course of which the reader is constantly seeking to form and retain a coherent picture of the world of the text. The possibly static and unquestionable reality of the informational text is replaced by a fluid, dynamic reality, in which there is no final arbiter between truth and falsehood. The possibility exists for a meaningful dialogue with the text or, at group level, about the text. (Littlewood 1976; quoted by Brumfit, Carter 1986: 14f.)

Despite extreme positions, which accord equal importance to all interpretations and deem any response to a literary text as valid (as reflected in some creative 9 “Each literary or area studies text is as an English text always also an impulse for foreign language learning. Every literary text, because it is embedded in its cultural context, always has significance for area studies. And every text that is used in language learning is also always the carrier of some sort of content, possibly in the field of area studies or literary studies.” (Transl. LV)

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tasks propagated in EFL), there is a broad consensus, that while a wide range of legitimate responses to a text must be allowed for, especially when dealing with foreign language texts, student should be referred back to the text when it comes to obvious misunderstandings due to language problems. Most importantly, according to reader-response theories, readers can bring to the text their worldview and background, their knowledge of the world. In comparing their worldview with those reflected in the text a hermeneutical process is brought about, which raises questions about the cultural and personal norms and prejudices that shape our reading of the text. Two aspects of Wolfgang Iser’s influential theories of reader-response have been highly influential in the teaching of literature. First, the notion of “gaps” in a text (indeterminacies, a concept dating back to formalism, in fact) which trigger in readers a need to formulate expectations as to what will or may happen next or, in more general terms, how what is on the printed page can be “concretized” in the reader’s mind (Iser 1978). Second, in the tradition of Gadamer’s hermeneutics, it is the interaction between text and reader which asks for a comparison of the “horizon of expectation” (Erwartungshorizont) of the reader with the world encountered in the text. This can cause irritation, frustration, but ultimately, if the reader allows him- or herself to engage with the text, furthers his or her broadening of horizon. The reader reformulates his or her previous horizon of expectation. Lothar Bredella and Werner Delanoy refer to Gadamer when they define “reading as a dialogue in which partners transcend their individual positions and reach a new one, a third position” (Bredella, Delanoy 1996: xiif.). As suggested above, with the “success story” of reader-reception theory literature didactics in Germany received a vital and formative extension from the one-dimensional focus on the text proper. This provided the stimulus for various integrative models in the late 1970s and 1980s for a more holistic approach to combining the teaching and learning of literature, Landeskunde and language skills (cf., for example, Freese 1980, Schrey 1982, Hellwig 1990). In a survey of positions of the 1970s and 1980s, Hellwig surmises: [S]trukturelle Mehrdeutigkeit literarischer Texte und ihr offenes Sinnstiftungspotential sollen, gebunden an individuell verschiedene Lesevorprägungen und -perspektiven im Unterricht – auch elementarer Stufen schon – Gesprächs-, Deutungs- und/oder Gestaltungsspielraum schaffen [here Hellwig refers to positions by Bredella, Legutke, et al.]. […] Texte der fremdsprachlichen Literatur [drängen] durch Fiktionalität, Sprachgestaltung und Lebensweltbezug eigentlich aus sich auf integrative Fremdsprachendidaktik […]. (Hellwig 1990: 28f.)10 10 “Structural ambivalences of literary texts and their openness to different ways of making sense are meant to create space for discussions, interpretations and activities, in connection with differing individual backgrounds, experiences and perspectives regarding reading. Texts from foreign language literature through their fictional nature, language creation and

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Similarly, Helmut Schrey pointed out interconnections between reading literature and the process of language acquisition (Schrey 1982: 223f.), since language learning like learning about literature boils down to acquiring “means of communication” (“Kommunikationsmittel”, Schrey 1982: 274). Furthermore, Schrey stressed the pivotal role of reading in EFL for the motivation of learners and for what he called “Lebensmotivation” (Schrey 1982: 224) – similar voices about the role of literature as adding zest to life, opening up new vistas and providing access to fictionalized worlds, cultures and subcultures have been a staple argument in favour of literature at least since the 1970s. Crucially, Schrey argued for literature as a “vehicle” for “cultural competence” which for him entailed competences in the fields of “landeskundlicher Inhalte, Zusammenhänge und Verhaltensweisen” (“cultural content, interconnectedness of cultures and different codes of behavior”, Schrey 1982: 225). However, much of the discussion moving in the direction of making literature useable for various types of competence building remained on the theoretical or conceptual plane. Very little was written about methodological issues, the “Vermittlungspraxis” (Schrey 1982: 222) up to the 1980s, as any glance even into classroom-oriented EFL journals of the period such as Der fremdsprachliche Unterricht will reveal. Writing about literature didactics as the methodology of teaching literature seemed un-academic, less prestigious or simply anathema to most scholars publishing in the field. A representative quote is the following by Hans Hunfeld: Eine kurze Antwort wenigstens auf die unvermeidliche Frage: und wie soll die konkrete Praxis des Englischunterrichts mit lyrischen Texten aus der Dritten Welt aussehen? Hier war nicht schon das eigentliche Unterrichtsgespräch mit den Schülern, sondern nur ein Vorgespräch mit dem Lehrer gemeint – im Lehrerzimmer sozusagen. In sein Klassenzimmer, das ich nicht kenne, will ich nicht auch noch hineindrängeln. (Hunfeld 1990: 177)11

real life connection demand per se an integrative form of foreign language didactics.” (Transl. LV) 11 “Just a short answer to the inevitable question: How do you intend to use these literary texts of third world countries in the EFL classroom? What I have been discussing so far must be understood as advice of how to use these texts in the classroom. My suggestions must be taken rather as a preliminary conversation with the teacher in the staffroom. I have no intention to interfere in the actual classroom, which I don’t know anyway.” (My transl., LV)

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The Last Decades: Recent Positions of Literaturdidaktik – On the Defense or Competence-compatible?

In hindsight, three interrelated problem areas marked literature didactics’ position in EFL discourses until it had do grapple with the all-encompassing critique brought about by the gradual acceptance of the Communicative Turn, the paradigm of intercultural learning and the language competence focus as endorsed by the CEF. First, the problem of formulating a widely accepted integrative model for literature learning, cultural and language learning has never been solved. Applicable suggestions are still in demand and indispensable in today’s competence- and standard-driven debate. Second, the issues of language learning via literary texts or language skills needed in understanding a text were (and partly are still) belittled and hushed over. When reading the literature on teaching foreign language texts, one is left with the impression that many contributions simply do not take the fact into consideration that foreign language texts first and foremost cause linguistic problems or provide challenges to surmount these problems. The issue of understanding is crucial for non-native speakers. Thus a basic question needs to be addressed: How much of a text do learners need to understand linguistically before simple comprehension can be followed by competence-oriented responses? Third, as illustrated by Hunfeld’s quote, teaching methodology was never a serious issue and thus, one may assume, teacher-centered approaches abounded. With the above-mentioned boom of competence orientation and pragmatic outlooks on EFL, the simultaneous “rise of Englischdidaktik” (Klippel 2005: 430) caused a trend towards non-literary paradigms, from bilingual teaching to classroom research, from early English to issues of competence evaluation and assessment. In today’s competence-oriented EFL climate, the role of literature has been questioned radically. Why, as some ask, should literary texts be read in the classroom at all? To the practically oriented mind, literature is rendered irrelevant since it does not offer a linguistic survival kit for tourists nor functional knowledge for the specialists. Literature didactics has responded to this radical all-out attack by partly taking on a defensive position, partly by advocating whole-heartedly the advantages of literary and aesthetic education models. Carola Surkamp explains new directions since ca. 2000 as follows: As a consequence, efforts are made in literature didactics which react to this development in two different ways. On the one hand, it is once again discussed in which ways dealing with literary texts can contribute to the learners’ general education and personality development […]. On the other hand, efforts aim to show the use of literary texts can be reconciled with the currently postulated competences and the principle of output orientation. (Surkamp 2012: 490)

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The first position of highlighting literature’s role in the context of education and Bildung is expressed by Eva Burwitz-Melzer, for instance: Die im Literaturunterricht erworbenen Fähigkeiten, sich emotional auf Andere einzustellen, einen Wechsel der Perspektive zu vollziehen, ist nicht nur für den Umgang mit anderen Kulturen ein unabdingbares Lernziel. Dass dieses Lernziel nicht leicht in einen standardorientierten Katalog einzuordnen ist, sehr wohl aber seine Berechtigung hat, wenn es um Persönlichkeitsbildung von jungen Menschen geht und um ihre Vorbereitung auf eine Eingliederung in die heutigen gesellschaftlichen Verhältnisse, erscheint nicht bestreitbar. (Burwitz-Melzer 2008: 60)12

As Surkamp points out (see also Burwitz-Melzer 2008; Byram 1997, Kramsch 2011), literature in the EFL classroom also can foster a wide range of competences that are easier to define than those in the broad field of education and personality development. To name just a few, these can cover communicative competences, reading comprehension, aesthetic and media competences, narrative competence, affective and imaginative competences, cultural competences, intercultural understanding and what Claire Kramsch (2011) calls “symbolic competence”. This competence focuses on the ability to understand the ambivalences and multilayered, culturally encoded meanings which are typical both of literary texts and intercultural scenarios. In addition, literature didactics has undergone all-pervasive changes in the last two decades, which allow for integrative concepts. Here are just the most important changes (see Volkmann 2009): No longer is literature restricted to Literature with a capital L; our concept of literature has been broadened and, as some would say, evolved to the point that the focus is more on texts or media sources in general. Similarly, the shift from extricating a text’s implied meaning to using the text to find out more about its background or to use it as a trigger for emotional responses has continued. Just as there has been a shift from Literature to media representations, there has also been a shift from an exclusive focus on literary literacy to various other forms of reading competences (skimming, scanning, reading for gist) and multiliteracies (understanding and working with various media texts and their interrelatedness). We have moved from “close reading” as the skill of “being sensitive to all the nuances and connotations of language as it is used by skilled writers” (Johnson 1992: 6) to understanding the nuances of how various texts contribute to intertextual and intermedial collages. The focus on theoretical models of text analysis has been substituted by a focus 12 “The competences attained in the literature classroom – to engage emotionally with the other, to go through a change of perspectives – are not just a necessary learning goal with regard to dealing with other cultures. It is, however, without a question that such a learning goal, which cannot be shoe-horned into a standard-oriented catalogue, is worthwhile regarding personal growth of young adults and for preparing them for the tasks of co-existence in today’s social environment.” (Transl. LV)

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on methodology, where university students already learn about the plethora of methodologies in the pre-, “while”- and post-reading phases that are at their disposal for creating student-centered, task-oriented and competence-oriented teaching-learning scenarios in their future teaching career. Text analytic tasks and production-oriented, creative tasks can co-exist and be mutually supportive; they do not exclude each other, as proponents of the interpretative fallacy theory once purported. Finally, it is becoming clear even to the most hardened pragmatist that cultural and intercultural competences must be part and parcel of foreign language learning. Foreign languages cannot be learned without duly considering the foreign culture element. As Friederike Klippel argues against a position which reduces English to the function of a mere linguistic tool in the age of globalization and lingua franca English: That would mean, of course, that in teaching English one need not bother with cultural content and intensive text analysis, maybe not even with the effort of meeting standards in pronunciation, lexical variation or grammatical correctness, as long as the intended meanings [are] communicated successfully. (Klippel 2005: 443)

Crucially, literature can “bring so many voices of the foreign culture into the classroom” (Bredella 2008: 24f.) and “[e]ncourage us to put ourselves into the shoes of others and see the world through their eyes” (Bredella 2008: 25). After all, as Lothar Bredella argued, learning is not just about acquiring knowledge and skills but also about the emotional responses that are part of the learning process – the change in attitudes regarding other cultures, for instance. The emphasis on education again calls for a new kind of integration, in this case interdisciplinary explorations of what foreign literature does in the classroom; here this perspective “relates literature in education to neighboring disciplines such as learning theories, developmental psychology or cognitive psychology” (Bredella, Delanoy 1990: xxvi). The new research perspective thus appears as a continuation of the project of reader-response theories of the 1970s and 1980s. Literary texts link us to other cultures: They encourage us to understand their self-descriptions and to learn something from them for our own self-descriptions in the complex process of affirmative and critical readings and comparisons of different interpretations. This process cannot be standardized, but it can be assessed if we succeed in giving a detailed description of literary competence which allows us to evaluate what students achieve in reading literary texts and in speaking and writing about their reading experiences and their interpretations […]. (Bredella 2008: 25)

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Works Cited Ahrens, Rüdiger (2004), “Literaturwissenschaft in den lehrerbildenden Curricula” [1973], in: Matthias Merkl, Laurenz Volkmann (eds.), Anglophone Kulturwissenschaft und Englische Fachdidaktik. Gesammelte Aufsätze von Rüdiger Ahrens. Heidelberg: Winter, pp. 507–520. Bredella, Lothar (2008), “What Makes Reading Literary Texts Pleasurable and Educationally Significant?”, in: Fremdsprachen Lehren und Lernen 37, pp. 12–26. Bredella, Lothar, Werner Delanoy (1996), “Challenges of Literary Texts in the Foreign Language Classroom”, in: Lothar Bredella, Werner Delanoy (eds.), Challenges of Literary Texts in the Foreign Language Classroom. Tübingen: Narr, pp. vii–xxviii. Brumfit, Christopher, Ronald Carter (1986), “Introduction: English Literature and English Language”, in: Christopher Brumfit, Ronald Carter (eds.), Literature and Language Teaching. Oxford: OUP, pp. 2–21. Burwitz-Melzer, Eva (2007), “Ein Lesekompetenzmodell für den fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht”, in: Lothar Bredella, Wolfgang Hallet (eds.), Literaturunterricht, Kompetenzen und Bildung. Trier : Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, pp. 127–158. Burwitz-Melzer, Eva (2008), “Emotionen im fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht”, in: Fremdsprachen Lehren und Lernen 37, pp. 27–62. Brusch, Wilfried (1996), “Contextualizing Literary Texts: The Reception Process in English Language Teaching”, in: Rüdiger Ahrens, Laurenz Volkmann (eds.), Why Literature Matters: Theories and Functions of Literature. Heidelberg: Winter, pp. 135–145. Byram, Michael (1997), Teaching and Assessing Intercultural Communicative Competence.Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Doff, Sabine (2002), Englischlernen zwischen Tradition und Innovation. Fremdsprachenunterricht für Mädchen im 19. Jahrhundert. München: Langenscheidt-Longman. Erzgräber, Willi (1979), “Englische Literatur auf der Universität und in der Schule”, in: Herbert Mainusch (ed.), Literatur im Unterricht. München: Fink, pp. 81–94. Finkenstaedt, Thomas (1992), “Auf der Suche nach dem Göttinger Ordinarius des Englischen, John Tompson (1697–1768)”, in: Konrad Schröder (ed.), Fremdsprachenunterricht 1500–1800. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, pp. 57–74. Freese, Peter (1999), “Zur Methodik der Analyse von Short Stories im Englischunterricht der Sekundarstufe II” [1979], in: Die amerikanische Kurzgeschichte / The American Short Story. Gesammelte Aufsätze / Collected Essays. München: Langenscheidt-Longman, pp. 89–123. Freese, Peter (1980), “Zur Erstellung von Textsequenzen für den Englischunterricht der reformierten Sekundarstufe II”, in: Praxis des neusprachlichen Unterrichts 27, pp. 22–34. Gymnich, Marion, Ansgar Nünning (2005), “Funktionsgeschichtliche Ansätze: Terminologische Grundlagen und Funktionsbestimmungen von Literatur”, in: Marion Gymnich, Ansgar Nünning (eds.), Funktionen von Literatur. Theoretische Grundlagen und Modellinterpretationen. Trier : Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, pp. 3–27. Hallet, Wolfgang (2002), Fremdsprachenunterricht als Spiel der Texte und Kulturen: Intertextualität als Paradigma einer kulturwissenschaftlichen Didaktik. Trier : WVT.

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Hellwig, Karlheinz (ed.) (1990), Textdidaktik für den Fremdsprachenunterricht – isoliert oder integrativ? Tübingen: Narr. Hellwig, Karlheinz (2000), Anfänge englischen Literaturunterrichts. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Hüllen, Werne (1970), “Sprachunterricht – Sachunterricht – Literaturunterricht. Ein Beitrag zur Diskussion um die englische Lektüre in der Oberstufe”, in: K.H. Flechsig (ed.), Neusprachlicher Unterricht II. Weinheim/Bergstr.: Julius Beltz, pp. 367–379. Hunfeld, Hans (1990), Literatur als Sprachlehre. Ansätze eines hermeneutisch orientierten Fremdsprachenunterrichts. München: Langenscheidt. Iser, Wolfgang (1978), The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Johnson, Roy (1992), Studying Fiction: A Guide and Study Programme. Manchester, New York: Manchester University Press. Klippel, Friederike (1994), Englischlernen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. Die Geschichte der Lehrbücher und Unterrichtsmethoden. München: Nodus. Klippel, Friederike (2005), “The Cinderella of ‘Anglistik’: Teacher Education”, in: Stephan Kohl (ed.), Anglistik: Research Paradigms and Institutional Politics 1930–2000. Trier : WVT, pp. 423–444. Kolb, Elisabeth (2013), Kultur im Englischunterricht: Deutschland, Frankreich und Schweden im Vergleich (1975–2011). Heidelberg: Winter. Kramsch, Claire (2011), “Symbolische Kompetenz durch literarische Texte”, in: Fremdsprache Deutsch 44, pp. 35–40. Mihm, Emil (1972), Die Krise der neusprachlichen Didaktik. Frankfurt am Main: Hirschgraben. Nissen, Rudolf (1974), Kritische Methodik des Englischunterrichts. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer. Nünning, Ansgar, Carola Surkamp (2006), Englische Literatur unterrichten. Grundlagen und Methoden. Seelze-Velber : Klett-Kallmeyer. Schrey, Helmut (1982), Anglistisches Kaleidoskop. Zur Geschichte der Anglistik und des Englischunterrichts in Deutschland. Sankt Augustin: Richarz. Surkamp, Carola (2012), “Teaching Literature”, in: Martin Middeke, Timo Müller, Christina Wald, Hubert Zapf (eds.), English and American Studies: Theory and Practice. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler, pp. 488–495. Vi[tor, Werner (1979), “Der Sprachunterricht muß umkehren. Ein Beitrag zur Überbürdungsfrage” [1882], in: Werner Hüllen (ed.), Didaktik des Englischunterrichts. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, pp. 9–31. Volkmann, Laurenz (2009), “Trotz Bildungsstandards und Output-Orientierung: Literatur auch und gerade in der Sekundarstufe I!”, in: Jan Hollm (ed.), Englisch-Lektüre in der Sekundarstufe I. Trier : WVT, pp. 23–40. Volkmann, Laurenz (2010), Fachdidaktik Englisch: Kultur und Sprache. Tübingen: Narr. Volkmann, Laurenz (2015), “Making Sense of Richard Brautigan’s Short Story of (Anti-) Initiation ‘A Short History of Oregon.’ Or : A Short History of the Uses of Short Stories in the German EFL-Classroom” in: Peter Freese (ed.), The Journey of Life in American Life and Literature. Heidelberg: Winter, pp. 239–257. Walter, Gertrud (1981), Kompendium Didaktik Englisch. München: Ehrenwirth.

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Zapf, Hubert (1991), Kurze Geschichte der anglo-amerikanischen Literaturtheorie. München: W. Fink.

Daniel Xerri

Teachers’ Beliefs and Literature Teaching: The Case of Poetry

1

Introduction

Literature teaching is the subject of a lot of current research and the debate includes a focus on issues of value and methodology, as shown by other papers in this volume. For example, Elisabeth Bracker analyses the interplay between language learning and engagement with literature in class while Christine Gardemann assesses the actual use of literary texts in English language classrooms. This paper adds to the debate by evaluating the beliefs of poetry teachers working in a post-16 institution in Malta. In light of the idea that “Poetry doesn’t matter to most people” (Parini: ix), it is important to investigate how teachers seek to help students engage with poetry in contemporary classrooms. Some consider education as being partly to blame for the loss in cachet that poetry is supposedly experiencing (Edmundson) while others “denounce literature’s privileged role in education as an irrelevant or elitist relic” (Paulson: 2). However, probably more than any other literary genre, poetry still has a substantial amount of cachet and this is partly due to teachers’ perceptions of it as something difficult but at the same time laden with the potential to enrich and transform the reader. These beliefs influence the way teachers approach poetry in class and thus determine the mediation between students and poetry. Given the importance of having poetry teachers who are themselves readers, this paper analyses teachers’ reading of poetry and then explores their beliefs in relation to its status as a school subject. Due to the fact that students’ experience of poetry is largely dependent on how they study it in class, this paper also examines teachers’ beliefs about the approach they consider most suitable for teaching poetry.

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Teachers and Poetry

Teachers’ relationship with poetry has an effect on how students engage with it. The next few sections review the literature on the effects of teachers positioning themselves as poetry readers, teachers ascribing poetry with too much cachet, and teachers adopting the stance of gatekeepers to meaning.

2.1

Teachers as Poetry Readers

A number of studies indicate that one of the best ways of encouraging students to engage in extensive reading is through teachers positioning themselves as readers. For Day and Bamford “Keeping in mind that they are role models may change teachers’ perceptions of the classroom and their role as teachers” (Extensive Reading: 136). When teachers position themselves as readers they engage in classroom practices that enable them to “guide students and participate with them as members of a reading community” (Day and Bamford, Extensive Reading: 47). Such practices boost students’ motivation to engage in extensive reading and allow students to consider reading as a pleasurable activity because of their perception of teachers as role models. According to Day and Bamford “Effective extensive reading teachers are themselves readers, teaching by example the attitudes and behaviors of a reader” (“Top Ten Principles”: 140). They are willing to “talk with students about their reading lives” (Commeyras, Bisplinghoff, and Olson: 164) and consider it important to inspire a love of reading by acting as readers who teach. The problem of unenthusiastic readers is of concern to most teachers, but what they sometimes fail to acknowledge is that they themselves play a crucial part in helping to solve this problem. For Hedgcock and Ferris “An obvious but often neglected way to do this is to model the behaviors of an enthusiastic reader” (227). The problem is compounded by the fact that in some cases teachers themselves are not enthusiastic readers, especially of poetry. AUK study by Cremin et al. found that 73.2 % of teachers had read for pleasure during the last month (204). However, 40 % of these teachers prefer popular fiction and less than 2 % opt for poetry (Cremin et al.: 204–205). The same study found that 58 % of teachers could name only one or two poets, with 22 % being unable to name any poets at all (Cremin et al.: 207). There was also a scant knowledge of women poets and multicultural poetry and Cremin et al. conclude that when teachers do engage with poetry in the classroom they “tend to select poetry for its capacity to teach particular language features rather than enjoying it for its own sake” (208). The results of this study are confirmed by the views of the poet

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John Rice (as cited in Xerri, “Poetry on the Subway”), who is disappointed with teachers’ knowledge and reading of poetry whenever he visits schools: I don’t think they do read it as much as we suppose they do because sometimes if I mention a poet’s name to a teacher they don’t know who that person is and if I mention certain poems or certain anthologies it’s a very restricted canon of work that teachers have read and it’s usually poetry from very deep in the past. (114)

The importance of teachers’ reading of poetry as a means of addressing the problem of unenthusiastic young readers is underscored by the results of a study that aimed to develop 43 teachers’ stance as readers who teach (Cremin). The results show that “teachers’ increased knowledge, pleasure and use of poetry widened the children’s repertoires and experience of poetry, positively influencing their understanding and attitudes” (Cremin: 223). This seems to suggest that the way teachers position themselves in the poetry lesson is fundamental, especially in so far as enabling students to adopt a positive attitude towards poetry and to read it for pleasure and not just for academic purposes.

2.2

Poetry’s Cachet

A number of distinguished poets and literary critics conceive of poetry (and literature) as having a transformative and illuminating potential. The kind of discourse employed to talk about poetry invariably ends up amplifying poetry’s cachet. For Mallarm8 poetry’s task is to “endow / with a sense more pure the words of the tribe” (89). Stevens argues that poetry seems “to have something to do with our self-preservation” and it “helps us to live our lives” (36). Thompson concurs with this and says that poetry “provides the reader with a means of discovering truths about himself and about human experience” (198). Heaney views “poetry as divination, poetry as revelation of the self to the self, as restoration of the culture to itself; poems as elements of continuity” (41). According to him “Poetry of any power is always deeper than its declared meaning. The secret between the words, the binding element, is often a psychic force that is elusive, archaic and only half-apprehended by maker and audience” (Heaney : 186). In an essay on Keats’s conception of poetry, Hughes shows that he shares the same ideas: “true poetry […] is a healing substance – the vital energy of it is a healing energy, as if it were produced, in a natural and spontaneous way, by the psychological component of the auto-immune system, the body’s self-repair system” (249). These claims for poetry’s potential imbue it with a substantial amount of cachet and help to elevate it onto a pedestal that is seemingly removed from young people’s ordinary everyday experiences. Literature and poetry in particular are considered capable of not only

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transforming the individual reader but also of reforming society. Eco claims that literature possesses a “true educational function” (13) that influences the kind of person one turns out to be. He states that most of the “wretches” who sometimes commit heinous crimes end up this way because “they are excluded from the universe of literature and from those places where, through education and discussion, they might be reached by a glimmer from the world of values that stems from and sends us back again to books” (Eco 4). In tune with William Carlos Williams’s ideas, Edmundson affirms that reading literature can change a person’s life: “there may be no medium that can help us learn to live our lives as well as poetry, and literature overall, can” (1). He argues that “Poetry – literature in general – is the major cultural source of vital options for those who find that their lives fall short of their highest hopes”; it acts as “our best goad toward new beginnings, our best chance for what we might call secular rebirth” (Edmundson: 2–3). He is convinced of “the fact […] that in literature there abide major hopes for human renovation” (Edmundson: 3). As teachers of literature “what we need is for people to be open to changing into their own highest mode of being” (Edmundson: 86). In a similar vein Manguel posits the question, “is it possible for stories to change us and the world we live in?” (3). He feels that literature can sometimes “heal us, illuminate us, and show us the way” (Manguel: 9). In his opinion “The language of poetry and stories […] groups us under a common and fluid humanity while granting us, at the same time, self-revelatory identities” (Manguel: 26). For Parini “Poetry matters because it serves up the substance of our lives, and becomes more than a mere articulation of experience” (181). These ideas betray the seemingly common belief that poetry has a transformative function that serves both the reader and society. However, not everyone agrees that reading poetry can have such a transformative effect on the individual and society. Kermode, for example, rejects the idea that teachers of literature can make people good. He feels that “reading, as we ought to teach it, can make not a good person, but a subtle, questioning one, always with the possibility of corruption yet richer and more enriching” (Kermode: 57). Whilst agreeing that literature may allow us “to strengthen the self, and to learn its authentic interests” (22), Bloom disagrees with the idea that literature possesses a broader transformative potential. In his opinion we read “not because we can “improve anyone else’s life by reading better or more deeply” (Bloom: 22). He considers “The pleasures of reading” to be “selfish rather than social” and “remain[s] sceptical of the traditional social hope that care for others may be stimulated by the growth of the individual imagination” (Bloom: 22). He is clearly “wary of any arguments whatsoever that connect the pleasures of solitary reading to the public good” (Bloom: 22). This scepticism does not detract from poetry’s ability to provide the reader with cognitive and emotive pleasure. It merely acknowledges that to overburden poetry with the

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kind of expectations traditionally associated with religious arcana is potentially alienating for some readers. Teachers play a crucial role in inspiring young people to enjoy poetry and the way they approach poems in class can help either stimulate a lifelong passion for the genre or an equally vehement rejection of it. Some of the challenges that teachers face when teaching poetry are to some extent related to the fact that poetry seems to possess an inordinate amount of cachet, ascribed to it in part by the notion of its difficulty. Certain definitions of poetry’s nature underscore its “superiority over other forms of expression and [have] perhaps done the genre no favours by placing it on so high a pedestal” (Dymoke, Teaching English: 76). The idea that poetry is a difficult medium can “lead potential readers […] to reject its advances” (Dymoke, Teaching English: 78). In fact, the older students get, the more likely they are to see poetry as an elite form of art (Booktrust). According to Motion (as cited in Gibbons) in order to “demystify poetry” in students’ eyes, teachers need to be encouraged “to get over the mental block that poetry was difficult to teach.” Demystifying poetry is crucial if students are to see poetry as something accessible and enjoyable, something they can read on their own without the teacher acting as a gatekeeper to meaning.

2.3

Teachers as Gatekeepers

The stance adopted by teachers during poetry lessons can help perpetuate the myth that a poem is an enigmatic text that can only be made accessible by means of the teacher’s elucidation of its meaning. By adopting “the position of supreme arbiter” (Stratta, Dixon, and Wilkinson 41), a teacher will not help students develop their own personal response to a text but will merely compel them to accept the opinion of an expert reader. This only serves to make students “passive” and leads them to perceive reading as if it were “a kind of detective work, a cracking of codes and solving of mysteries, having little or no relevance to life as they live it beyond school” (Stratta, Dixon, and Wilkinson: 42). In turn, a mechanical analysis of poetry becomes the only appropriate way of reading a poem, something that should ideally be counterbalanced with activities that “guide students into the study of poems without forcing them to accept the teacher’s interpretations” (Elkins: 190). Such activities would hopefully tap students’ creativity and transform them from passive into active readers of poetry. One example of such an activity is to encourage students to interpret poems in a multimodal manner (Xerri, “Poetry Teaching and Multimodality”). The way poetry is approached in the classroom also affects students’ reading of a poem:

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If classroom teaching has encouraged a view of poetry as something with a meaning stubbornly hidden in the text and revealed only to the fortunate few, many readers are likely to do no more than engage in making probing guesses, hoping that somehow the poem’s meaning will occur to them. (Dias and Hayhoe 35)

Some teachers attempt to give students the impression that the analytical approach used to unearth a poem’s meaning is objective. Even when students come to realise that this is not so they still feel “inhibited about trusting their own response” and embark on the unseen component “in fear and trembling” (Scott: 33). Such an approach obviously “implies that poetry is something locked away like the best china, and that a special key needs to be fetched before you can get at it” (Strauss vii). Consequently the misconception arises that since the teacher is the one holding the key students should rely on their teacher to be given access to a poem’s mysteries. Benton reports that “far from facilitating pupils’ learning and engagement with poetry some teachers felt constrained to adopt strategies which they felt actively hindered it” (521). These strategies are mainly those associated with a highly analytical approach to the teaching of poetry that assigns teachers the privileged role of explaining to their students the hidden meaning of a poem. Dymoke criticises “The notion of poetry as a puzzle” which she finds to be “a common perception among students (and their teachers) who engage in a hunt for the missing clue which will help them solve the poem” (Drafting and Assessing: 3). Burdan agrees with this and claims that “For many students, literary analysis is primarily a means by which their teachers demarcate the gap between the students’ naive or inept readings of literature and their own, more sophisticated ones” (23). Rather than confidently exploring the poem students seek to guess what the teacher already knows is hidden in the text. The belief that reading poetry involves an interaction with the poem during which the reader discovers meaning is responsible for such a lack of confidence on the students’ part. According to Burdan “This misunderstanding of reading is further complicated by a view of the literature classroom as a territory too perilous for uninitiated and inexpert readers to explore” (23). Hence students adopt the guise of observers rather than participants and read in order to find out what the poet is saying or what they think their teacher understands the poet is saying (Burdan). This seems to have a long lasting effect. Pasquin describes the surprise of a group of student teachers when she asked them to avoid analysing a poem. She explains that this reaction was due to the fact that “they had struggled with the meaning of poetry all through their high school years and now a poem presented itself as a problem to be solved, in a fashion that must please the teacher and the examiner” (Pasquin: 256). By adopting the stance of gatekeepers to poetry some teachers help to consolidate students’ belief that a poem will

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remain inscrutable as long as a teacher is not present to help them unravel its meaning by means of a highly analytical approach.

3

Why Teach Poetry?

Two of the most influential approaches to literature teaching are those focusing on the linguistic benefits that are accrued by students and the personal growth that ensues when they engage with literature. The language-based and personal growth models seem to shape teachers’ pedagogy and provide them with a rationale for the teaching of poetry.

3.1

Language-based Model

A language-based model operates on the methodological principle that literary studies combine language and literature elements by encouraging students to focus on the language of a literary text. A close analysis of the language of the literary text allows students to “make meaningful interpretations or informed evaluations of it” as well as “increase their general awareness and understanding of English” (Lazar : 23). The students’ knowledge of the language will allow them to “make aesthetic judgements of the text” (Lazar : 23). Besides its literary merit, the text to be studied in class is selected for the stylistic characteristics of the language used. The main advantage of the language-based model is that students use the literary text in order to improve their English proficiency. The students are armed with the necessary analytic tools to help them come up with their own interpretations and they “develop a response to literature through examining the linguistic evidence in the text” (Lazar 25). Literary texts are valued because they are rich in styles, registers and topics and they stimulate classroom discussion by being open to a variety of interpretations. The act of combining literature and language learning provides students with a range of texts to choose from and exposure to a wide assortment of English varieties. Literature provides students with “language in action, a living context and focal point for them in their own efforts to communicate” (Hill: 108). In dealing with the text the students will find the stimulus to engage in language production. According to Brumfit the value of combining literature and language teaching is that of providing students with a varied and fertile source of reading material, however, “A true literature syllabus will not be simply the use of literary texts for advanced language purposes, but an attempt to develop or extend literary competence” (106). According to Culler without literary competence students would be unable to make sense of a literary text given that their

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linguistic knowledge would only enable them to understand the meaning of the phrases and sentences but not to “convert [these] linguistic sequences into literary structures and meanings” (114). Some proponents of the language-based model are geared towards enabling their students to make use of the tools they need to evaluate texts critically. Hence students are trained in the use of those techniques that allow them to study a literary text in a more direct fashion. According to Lazar, stylistic analysis “involves the close study of the linguistic features of a text in order to arrive at an understanding of how the meanings of the text are transmitted” (27). Traditional practical criticism has failed to present students with a set of strategies by means of which they can form critical judgements but has on the contrary relied on the students’ intuition. This “seems to imply that understanding or appreciating literature is the result of a kind of mystic revelation, which is not available to everyone” (Lazar : 31). Obviously this has had the effect of making students feel “bored, mystified or demotivated” (Lazar : 31). Stylistics seeks to foster an aesthetic appreciation of the text by bridging its linguistic features and the intuitions that students form about its meaning. It investigates the way meanings are communicated by a text by means of a method that “uses the apparatus of linguistic description” (Leech and Short: 74). Linguistic concepts allow students to be more precise in their analysis of a text and in explaining how certain effects and language features function in the text. Stylistic analysis is important because it helps in “making sense of foregrounded aspects of language” (Leech: 225). Given that the signs and clues of literature are linguistic in nature, Widdowson is of the opinion that “the sensitivity must initially be a sensitivity to language” (74). The gains derived by means of the literary studies propounded by Leavis “can only be realised if the student develops an awareness of the way language is used in literary discourse for the conveying of unique messages” (Widdowson 76). The prime advantage of this approach lies in the fact that students will be able to acquaint themselves with the way the language shaping literary messages is different from that shaping other instances of communication. This is especially significant for foreign and second language learners of English because thanks to this approach “a student can become more aware of, and take steps to solve, his or her problems as a non-native reader” (Parkinson and Reid Thomas: 33). An analysis of the language allows students to understand the literary text in a more comprehensive manner. Alderson and Short point out that stylistics allows the reader to arrive at an interpretation “by describing the linguistic devices an author has used, and the effects produced by such devices” (72). Carter affirms that stylistic analysis is marked by the “intersection of the language of a text with the elements which constitute the literariness of that text” (162). Short contends that stylistics provides students with a “descriptive analytical vocabulary” that

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allows them to understand a text more insightfully and elucidate their “intuitive responses” to it in a way that is no longer solely “general and impressionistic” (1). Verdonk reports that by using stylistics his students “had learnt to look at poetry with different eyes: they had learnt to ask questions about the language of a poem that they might otherwise have ignored” (263). Linguistic analysis is particularly suited to poetry because in a poem “aesthetic effect cannot be separated from the creative manipulation of the linguistic code” (Leech and Short: 2). Stylistics seems to heighten students’ understanding of the creative use of language in poetry. Despite its merits, the risks posed by a too stringent application of the principles of the language-based model are that all opportunities for personal interpretation are stifled and the whole exercise becomes “very mechanical and demotivating” (Lazar 25). In fact, Carter and Long warn against the misuse of the language-based model and advise teachers that it should first and foremost “service literary goals” or else “the essential pleasure in reading literature can easily be lost in the more instrumental manipulation of a text” (8). If the “special enjoyment and fulfilment” bestowed by literature is disregarded “then much of the real purpose in teaching and reading literature is lost too” (Carter and Long: 8). These warnings are particularly significant given the risk that the analysis of literary texts might lead to teacher-centred lessons.

3.2

Personal Growth Model

One of the chief reasons for poetry’s cachet seems to be the notion that it possesses some kind of transformative power that allows the individual to achieve personal growth. The personal growth model of literature teaching was the one most often alluded to by the teachers and students forming part of this study and some of its principles seem to influence their attitude towards poetry. The personal growth model is constructed on the premise that the reading of literature can serve as an avenue for personal enrichment. In Hourd’s opinion, for example, the primary aim of a literature lesson is “to provide a means towards a fuller development of personality – a means, again, of growth” (13). A bulletin published by the Scottish Education Department echoes this idea and states that “the value of literature for mental growth cannot be ignored” (7–8). In a report on the 1966 Dartmouth Seminar, Dixon shows how teachers and students adopting the personal growth model can “work together to keep language alive and in so doing […] enrich and diversify personal growth” (13). By using what they encounter in literature, students use language to accommodate the world as they experience it and thus achieve personal growth. During a literature lesson students find themselves “taking on new roles, facing new situations – coming to

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terms in different ways with new elements of oneself and new levels of human experience” (Dixon: 31). It is for some of these reasons that this pedagogical model is considered to be highly student-centred. The personal growth model is characterised by activities that capitalise on students’ contributions to the lesson. Hence choosing poems that are relevant to the students’ lives and interests is highly important as is the act of encouraging students to find points of intersection between the text’s content and their ideas and experiences. In order to claim ownership of the poem students need to be able to free-associate around the central themes explored in it and link these to their own thoughts. Students might also benefit from empathising with the persona in a poem by imaginatively stepping into the text and adopting the persona’s voice. This would be especially enriching if the poem engages students with multicultural experiences (Xerri, “Multicultural Poetry”). Responding to a poem by engaging in creative writing is of course a means by which students are empowered to use the text as a platform for personal expression. For students who are not very familiar with creative writing, shared writing of a published poem might be the best way of taking on a writer’s guise (Xerri, “Shared Writing”). Those teachers who justify the teaching of literature by means of the individual development it generates feel that their adoption of the personal growth model “involve[s] students as active learners” and helps them “achieve a sense of self-identity” as well as “clarify their values” (Rodrigues and Badaczewski: 3). Brumfit considers it a “tragedy” that “literature remains inaccessible to so many people” and this is because “there is no more easily available source for personal growth than serious literature” (124). He argues that the “only honest justification for any kind of [literature] teaching” is that as teachers we wish to communicate our own personal need to partake of the experience of reading an “imaginative literature for the light it sheds on [us] and [our] position as human beings” (Brumfit: 122). Cutajar and Briffa take these ideas further and state that literature as a subject “illuminates different areas of human life so that the learner might deepen his/her views on the quality of living. It contributes to the business of living and may alter a person’s outlook of the world” (20). By studying literature “The learner is educated in modes of thought that equip him/ her with a cognitive disposition that may be transferred to other areas of human behaviour and may eventually transform his/her view of life in general” (Cutajar and Briffa 20). These arguments emphasise the singular significance of literature as a valuable source of personal enrichment for students. However, the rhetoric used by those describing this kind of literature-based enrichment might also run the risk of distancing students from literary texts due to the perceived profundity attached to something so overwhelmingly laden with cachet. Supposedly, the main advantages of the personal growth model are that it

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“demystifies literature” and that students are involved holistically ; hence the whole process is “potentially highly motivating” (Lazar : 25). Nonetheless, the downside to it is that if the transformative and illuminating potential of literature is heavily underscored the cachet of literary texts is overinflated and this might lead students to feel alienated from something that is perhaps a bit too abstruse for it to form part of their everyday lives. In fact, Gribble maintains that literary studies should not set “the general emotional development and psychic health of the individual [as] a primary objective” but they should be “concerned to develop the adequacy and appropriateness of students’ emotional responses to literary works [and] this necessarily entails the development of the adequacy and appropriateness of their perceptions of literary works” (108). By overly accentuating the transformative potential of literature, teachers might unwittingly lead students to view literature with too much awe and this might cause any plans for literature-based personal growth to rebound adversely.

4

The Study

A total of eight poetry teachers took part in this study. They all held Masters degrees or PhDs in English and only one of them had less than five years’ teaching experience. The study took place at the largest post-16 college in Malta where students enrol on a two-year A Level English course leading to a nine-hour examination. The latter includes two poetry components: a question on a set text (e. g. Wilfred Owen’s war poems) and an unseen poem. Preparation for the first component is provided by means of lectures while training for the unseen poem component is held during literary criticism seminars. Every teacher was observed conducting one 60-minute literary criticism poetry seminar and the data was collected by means of an events checklist and note taking. The checklist incorporated a time sampling approach and it was used in order to record a list of pre-determined lesson events in every oneminute interval. Event frequencies were subsequently calculated in terms of percentages of the total lesson time. After each in–class observation session the teacher in question took part in a semi-structured interview that was conducted in a one-to-one manner. All the interviewees were asked to explain what they thought of poetry as part of the A Level course. They were also asked to read a copy of Billy Collins’s (1988) “Introduction to Poetry”1 and to think about whether it describes their experience during a poetry lesson. This poem was chosen because of its potential as stimulus material. 1 A copy of this poem can be found at: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176056.

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Definitions of Poetry

The majority of teachers were somewhat taken aback when asked what they understand by the term “poetry” and this could be because for them “you cannot really define it a priori because once you do that you take away that which is singular in poetry and therefore that which goes beyond categorisation […] that which goes beyond the conceptual” (Teacher D, henceforth TD). However, all the teachers seemed to agree that poetry is a special use of language that is characterised by conciseness and is a form of artistic expression. For some teachers “poetry doesn’t have to be a form of defamiliarisation though it often is” (TD). One teacher explained that “nothing is more ridiculous and banal and everyday than a pumpkin but poetry is the kind of fairy godmother that transforms it into the golden carriage” (TA). As a “distillation of language”, poetry is able to “express something that […] touches you so deeply and it’s almost impossible to put into words” (TG). Poetry is “an outburst of feeling” that requires “inspiration” (TF) and by means of it readers “achieve deep insights both cognitive and emotional” (TC). This implies that as “a special use of words” poetry is “a means of contacting the deepest layers of our minds and hearts and this is why it still has its magic” (TC). For one particular teacher, poetry “allows you to be part creator” (TH). In a way “poetry more than any other form of literature gives you this freedom of being creative yourself because you are rewriting” a poem when “analysing” (TH) it. Just as poetry is special so is the poet, one teacher saying that poets are “more clever […] more perspicacious” (TH) while another teacher confessing that she “believe[s] that some poets are a bit crazy” (TF). A few teachers defined poetry in more prosaic terms. For the only published poet in the group of interviewees, “a poem is a unit of time”; in his opinion before exploring content it helps students to think of poetry “in terms of time and adjusting that time to the space of words and rhythms and syllables and feet” (TE). Despite acknowledging the singularity of poetry in terms of its use of language, these teachers seem to value poetry primarily because of its ineffable qualities. Their view of poetry is imbued with reverence and it is clear that for them poetry possesses a substantial amount of cachet.

4.2

Experiencing Poetry

Despite putting it on a pedestal, only three teachers mentioned that they enjoy reading “some poetry just for pleasure” (TB); the others indicated that they usually opt for prose. One teacher claimed that he does not read a lot of poetry for pleasure “because things here can get so intense that you don’t want to sort of

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imprison yourself in this academic world” (TA). A colleague of his seemed to concur with this idea, saying that he prefers prose “probably because poetry requires a more intense and a more engaged reading” (TD). In fact, most of the teachers indicated that if they had to choose between reading and listening to poetry they would prefer the former because when they read it they can do so at their “own pace” (TB) and “concentrate more” (TC). According to one teacher “poetry does demand repeated raids on the inarticulate and I think reading for that is necessary” (TC). These teachers seem to consider the act of reading poetry as requiring a special kind of intellectual engagement that hampers them from enjoying it solely for pleasure. According to those teachers who mostly read poetry for work purposes, teaching gives them the opportunity to read a lot of poetry. As one teacher put it, “professionally I can’t avoid it” (TA). The latter also mentioned that he enjoys “reading it aloud especially to an audience […] we’re very fortunate here that we have been granted a captive audience […] these poor devils can’t do anything about it” (TA). Despite the fact that the teachers mostly read poetry because of their job they still enjoy it. However, some teachers did indicate that their awareness of examination realities does sometimes mar the experience. They end up “look[ing] at the poem in more pedagogical terms” (TE) and “when you become over technical about something and you have to reduce it to a certain level […] it’s like you lose the joy of it” (TG). This kind of analytical approach to poetry seems to undermine some teachers’ motivation to read it for pleasure: “the problem is that since I’ve been teaching and doing poetry mostly for crit I’ve become too analytical I find and whenever I read a poem I don’t just read it for pleasure” (TF). For these teachers poetry seems to be a genre associated with their academic career and which does not easily lend itself to recreational reading. The teachers mentioned a total of 21 favourite poets. However, the list is inflated by the nine poets mentioned by one particular teacher (TE). If the list of mostly contemporary poets mentioned by TE is not taken into account then it is clear that the majority of teachers prefer strictly canonical poets. Philip Larkin was mentioned by half the teachers and this is probably due to the fact that up to a few years ago The Whitsun Weddings was on the A Level English syllabus. The only other two poets who were mentioned more than once were Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney.

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Table 1: Teachers’ Favourite Poets All teachers (excluding TE) Philip Larkin Ted Hughes Seamus Heaney T.S. Eliot William Shakespeare Robert Browning Alfred Tennyson Paul Celan William Wordsworth Khalil Gibran Emily Bronte Emily Dickinson Jorge Luis Borges

TE Paul Muldoon Ted Hughes Seamus Heaney Don Patterson Elizabeth Bishop Sylvia Plath Langston Hughes George Szirtes Derek Walcott

Despite the fact that all the teachers prefer reading poetry, some of them do consider listening to and writing poems to be important. Half the teachers mentioned that they enjoy listening to poetry, with one teacher saying that it has a “spellbinding effect” (TC). Another teacher claimed that, as a creative writer, listening to poetry plays a crucial role for him because it “is both a creative exercise and a receptive exercise” (TE). Five teachers claimed that they have experience of writing poetry, however, only one of them described himself as a creative writer (TE). The others indicated that they either did it in the past or else they only do it occasionally. One of these teachers said that writing poetry “gives you a tremendous thrill while you’re doing it […] it’s a need […] it’s the overflowing of the cup” (TA). The fact that these teachers give primacy to the act of reading poems rather than writing or listening to them seems to confirm the idea that in their eyes poetry is an academic genre that requires the kind of analytic approach they espouse in their lessons.

4.3

Poetry as a Course Component

The poetry components seem to be two of the most favourite for teachers. All the teachers mentioned that they prefer teaching literature and nearly all of them indicated that poetry is one of their most favourite subjects. According to one teacher, poets “give you more amplitude” because “you put them within a context so that the students can understand” (TA). Three teachers are of the idea that they enjoy teaching poetry “because it is more demanding” (TC) on them and their students; doing poetry “challenges the mind” (TF). These teachers acknowledged that sometimes students find poetry difficult but in their opinion knowing how to analyse poetry is “a skill that they need for life” (TF). They

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associated poetry lessons with a discovery process: “it’s more interesting to communicate what you have discovered and trying to urge the students to discover more in the poem” (TB). One teacher claimed that even though she enjoys teaching poetry “I wouldn’t just like to do poetry […] I need a break from poetry sometimes” (TH). It seems as if poetry’s prestige plays an important role in these teachers’ enjoyment of poetry lessons. This prestige is partly connected to their perception of poetry as a challenging genre that demands a set of analytical skills in order for meaning to be extracted. In their privileged role as expert readers of poetry these teachers act as gatekeepers to meaning for students.

4.4

Reasons for Teaching Poetry

All the teachers indicated that poetry plays an important part in the A Level English course and most of them are of the opinion that “it’s enriching” (TA) in some way or other. Despite the fact that from a utilitarian perspective it can be termed “not essential” (TB) or “useless” (TC), poetry is still a necessary part of the syllabus because “it develops a certain refinement in our appreciation of life” (TB). According to one teacher, poetry “does make you wonder at being alive and I think our students need a kind of reconnection to the sheer unpredictability of being alive” (TC). Another teacher explained that there are also more tangible benefits to studying poetry : “if I had to justify poetry’s place in the A Level I would say that in order for a language to be engaged with at a certain level it has to be understood also when it is being used creatively” (TD). A colleague of his agreed with this and said, “we teach poetry to make students aware of the beauty of the language and also to make students aware of how language can be utilised” (TG). Moreover, poetry seems to develop one’s understanding in terms of “allow[ing] the individual to see the world differently, to see the world from the point of view of others, to explore aspects of imagination which otherwise wouldn’t be explored” (TD). Poetry allows people to “connect with certain parts in ourselves which might not come to the fore otherwise” (TG). For these teachers poetry needs to be studied not only because it is an exceptionally creative use of language but also because it possesses a transformative and illuminating potential. All the teachers concurred that students should continue studying poetry in this day and age because “it’s a form of enrichment” (TH). If the educational system had to prevent them from studying poetry “it would be robbing our students of a very important experience whether or not they follow it up in the future” (TE). All the teachers agreed with the idea that students get a lot out of studying poetry, “both in terms of language and also in terms of discovering new

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things about themselves and the world around them” (TD). Poetry “aids in critical thinking and analysing what people write, what people say” (TB). For one teacher “in an age of prose, with all that involves, keeping poetry alive or allowing poetry to keep us alive is a necessity” (TC). A colleague of his agreed with this and said that “if you don’t have poetry it’s like living in a house without mirrors […] poetry is essentially aimed at knowing yourself” (TA). For this teacher poetry is “a civilising process […] and if we stop teaching poetry we are saying that we have stopped civilisation” (TA). These transformative and illuminating attributes of poetry inflate it with cachet and help cultivate the perception that poetry is a difficult genre that can only be engaged with in an analytic manner.

4.5

Poetry Lessons

When teaching poetry almost all the interviewed teachers claimed to focus on a poem’s use of language and its potential for personal enrichment. Most of the teachers seem to believe that content and language are equally important and one teacher explained that “what we do at A Level when it comes to poetry is mostly based on the New Critics, the idea that […] form is content and content is form. So we never just focus on what the poem is about or how it is written but we try to bring them together” (TD). A poem’s use of language is considered to be highly significant, with nearly all of the teachers echoing the idea that “poetry is a special use of words, it’s a unique use of words” (TC). One teacher explained that “poetry is playful and careful attention to its language could give them so much […] without this attention to language we would be short-changing students in a way” (TA). Most of these teachers mentioned that they “start by making them aware of the power of words” because “if they do not develop an affinity to words it is useless” (TG). In fact, during the observed lessons the language-based model of teaching seemed to be one of the most popular, with most of the teachers adopting an almost stylistic approach to the analysis of the text. One teacher informed his class, “Poetry is language. I never considered myself a teacher of poetry but a teacher of language” (TA). Despite giving the language of poetry a lot of importance in their lessons, the observed teachers mostly relied on explaining a poem’s use of language rather than encouraging students’ initiations. The idea that poetry teaching has to target the “personal” was mentioned by most of the teachers. One teacher affirmed that his aim for each poetry lesson is to ensure “that they walk out of my lecture room feeling that they have been enriched”; in order for this to happen “I always try to look at poems in a way that is strictly personal” (TA). Another teacher pointed out that “poetry is com-

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munication between persons and I feel that we often ignore this personal element” (TC). For him and his colleagues “poetry is not the conveying of objective knowledge; it is subjective, it starts as subjective knowledge” (TC). Given that “poetry is an intimate thing” the teachers seek to cultivate “the connections between the poem and [students’] own life and the life around them” (TG). The emphasis on “poetry’s relevance to their own life” is considered important because “if you don’t identify with something and if you don’t find any relevance to it then […] it’s useless I’m trying to tell you this is a beautiful thing, this is something you should be looking at” (TG). Nonetheless, in the observed lessons only a few of the teachers encouraged students to forge connections between a poem and their own lives and experiences. For the majority of these teachers “a poem needs an emotional kind of attachment on the part of the reader” and if students are not willing “to read with their feelings” then “it’s difficult to understand it […] unless they feel it they won’t get it” (TH). These teachers believe that “poetry is in the experience and not necessarily in the meaning” (TD) and that it acts as “a two way commitment […] a personal kind of conversation” (TC) that “requires an emotional response” (TA). One teacher explained that “the poem has a body and a soul, it has a spirit, something that you cannot remove” and in order for students to understand it “the first thing to do is to see the poem as a whole from a distance and try to ask themselves what it’s about and then see how this spirit is created” (TB). Given that “poetry is elusive and forces you to go beneath the surface […] students need to use their intuition to fully experience it otherwise it would just be damn difficult” (TA). Students are thus told, “don’t think but feel […] first allow it to work on your heart and then use your head” (TA). Despite the fact that most of the interviewed teachers emphasised the importance of the personal growth model in the teaching of poetry, aspects of this approach were noted in only half the observed lessons. One teacher told the class that “Poetry is not only about meaning but also about the experience, feelings” (TD) while a colleague of his mentioned an idea which he later repeated in the interview: “Don’t think but feel; if you think you’re lost” (TA). It seems clear that there exists a mismatch between teachers’ discourse about the teaching of poetry and the way they actually approach it in class.

4.6

Analysing Poetry

The teachers seem to believe that the enrichment provided by poetry is only possible by means of an analytic approach. As one teacher put it, “in poetry you get to the meanings or to the ambiguities, the richness or meanings through words and this is the primary objective in appreciating poetry” (TC). Some of the

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teachers believe that “poetry requires a more intense kind of reading because it’s not just what the poet is trying to say but how it’s being said” (TD) and this leads them to cultivate students” “ability to dissect, to dig deeper” (TE). For one teacher “one very effective way […] of teaching poetry is to actually consider the poem as a layered medium”, especially since “the raison d’Þtre of poetry is connotation” (TE). According to a colleague of his, “poetry requires analysis, you need to break it down and analyse what the words mean” (TF). She explained that this “takes time, years actually. This is difficult for students to develop. Their essays are sometimes very simple; they find it hard to engage in analysis” (TF). It seems as if students are perceived as apprentices learning the craft of analysing poetry from an expert reader who holds the keys to their understanding of a poem. During the observed lessons all the teachers apart from one engaged in a lineby-line analysis of the poem, with the analytical process being mentioned on a number of occasions. For example, one teacher launched his explanation of the poem by saying, “Let’s take it to bits” (TA). A colleague of his informed the class that “For poetry you need analytical skills. That’s what you’re meant to take from crit” (TF). Another teacher used the metaphor of digging when talking about the analytical process and told students, “Go deeper as I always tell you to. Remember what I said about the onion” (TE). Some teachers selected poems typical of examination papers and one teacher informed students that “It’s important for you to be able to analyse this kind of poem” (TH). Students were often reminded that these analytical skills were needed in order to pass their examination: “Remember that you’ll be doing this on your own in the exam; I won’t be there to help you” (TF). However, despite these references to learner autonomy, teacher talk predominated over all other lesson events, with teachers’ explanations occurring 78 % of the time. In contrast, students’ initiations occurred for only about 20 % of the time. The latter figure is very close to the frequency of teachers’ references to the examination (17 %). In some of the observed lessons it was implied that analytical skills take time to develop and that poetry is a difficult genre: “Don’t expect to understand a poem immediately. You have to read and read” (TC). While explaining to the class a particular image from the poem, one teacher said, “This is why poetry is so damn difficult” (TA). This data seems to underscore the idea that despite advocating the value of personal enrichment, teachers still approach poetry in a very transmissive manner that is almost entirely based on repeatedly modelling how to analyse a poem for hidden meaning.

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225

The Enigma of Poetry

More than half the teachers complained that students “are preconditioned to look at poetry as having a buried meaning and that during crit we are meant to bring that out” (TG). One teacher clarified this by saying that “a lot of students […] believe that the key to a good critical appreciation is discovering what lies beneath the words. So they look at the poem as if they have to decipher a hidden code which will tell them what the poem is about” (TD). These teachers affirmed that they “discourage” (TG) students from adopting such a stance, insisting that “all they have to do is read it carefully” (TF). They tell students that “meaning can’t exist without the poem’s handling of language” (TA); that “the language of the poem cannot be forgotten in trying to find some kind of hidden treasure” (TD). Three of these teachers try to make students aware of the “notion of poetry resisting meaning” but “sometimes they fail to see that; they think it’s all a mystery” (TA). Nevertheless, in the observed lessons half the teachers did give a lot of importance to the poem’s content and they did ask students to think about the poem’s meaning. For example, at the beginning of the lesson one teacher asked her class, “What do you think is it about? What’s the meaning?” (TH). A colleague of hers told the students, “I’d like you to do it, to find things in the poem” (TB). These teachers’ actions might have perhaps been motivated by the fact that “whatever we might think of poetry we are ultimately preparing them for an important exam” (TB). It this reality that probably made many of the interviewed teachers identify with the situation presented in Billy Collins’s “An Introduction to Poetry.”

4.8

Torturing Poetry

Just over half the teachers conceded that Collins’s poem describes their experience during a poetry lesson, especially in the way it “brings in the distinction of the pleasure of poetry as compared to the torture” (TF). Three of them declared that despite their efforts to “make them appreciate poetry […] you find students who try to do it mechanically” (TB). One teacher claimed that “you want them to get curious and they just want to get the answer […] their failure is in curiosity” (TA). Students end up “torturing me to tell them. They want the answer ; they think I have all the answers” (TA). However, it is possible that students are conditioned to act in this way because in class they are not sufficiently encouraged to initiate a response to the text. Some of the teachers admitted that what is partly responsible for students’ attitude towards poetry is “the way they are taught” (TD). According to one

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interviewee some teachers “have this kind of fetish of showing or inculcating into their students the idea that a poem contains a message or a moral” (TC). Students torture poetry “because basically that’s what we are driving our students to do, to find the meaning for a poem” (TG). This happens because “the way the exam is at the moment is not allowing for an appreciation of the use of language” (TG). Since students “want to pass an exam […] they think that there is a certain way of doing things” (TH). One interviewee implied that teachers might also be to blame for this by saying that “unfortunately we’re too exam oriented” (TF). She explained that “the dissection of a poem in class” could lead students to “think that I’m dissecting it too much”, despite any efforts “to make it not look like I’m analysing it too much, that I am enjoying it” (TF). She went on to say that “I’d love them to think of me as a person who is making them enjoy poetry. Even though I don’t read poetry I love it” (TF). For another teacher it has to do with the fact that “our students are not being given the chance to express themselves” (TA). A colleague of his agreed with this idea and pointed out that “most of them are afraid of making a mistake because education has drummed into them that when you speak out in class you have to be right and the teacher has to applaud you” (TG). These admissions seem to indicate that some of the teachers are aware of their responsibility for the way students approach poetry. They hold themselves accountable for perpetuating the practice of analysing poetry in such a stringent manner that it is almost comparable to “torture.”

5

Conclusion

This paper shows that teachers seem to have deep-seated beliefs about the value of studying poetry as a linguistic and cultural artefact. They feel that it needs to continue being studied if students are to benefit from its potential to help enhance their understanding of language and to enrich and transform them on a personal level. Poetry is ascribed a substantial amount of cachet because it is considered a unique kind of genre in terms of its complex layers. Teachers thus feel obliged to act as gatekeepers who coach their apprentices in the art of unravelling meaning. Ironically, they adopt this stance despite not reading a lot of poetry and perhaps without fully acknowledging that the act of inflating poetry’s cachet and associating it solely with academic study might be leading students to feel alienated from it. The implications of these beliefs and practices are that students might come to perceive poetry as inherently enigmatic and that they are expected to mimic the way their teachers approach it in class without realising that it is meant to be something that they should enjoy reading.

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Gibbons, Fiachra (2000) “Laureate Pleads for Poetry in Schools.” The Guardian 9 March 2000. 20 December 2012. Gribble, James (1983), Literary Education: A Revaluation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heaney, Seamus (1980), Preoccupations. London: Faber and Faber. Hedgcock, John S., and Dana R. Ferris (2009), Teaching Readers of English: Students, Texts, and Contexts. New York, NY: Routledge. Hill, Jennifer (1986), Teaching Literature in the Language Classroom. London: Modern English Publications. Hourd, Marjorie J. (1949), The Education of the Poetic Spirit: A Study in Children’s Expression in the English Lesson. London: Heinemann. Hughes, Ted (1994), Winter Pollen: Occasional Prose. Ed. William Scammell. London: Faber and Faber. Kermode, Frank (1989), An Appetite for Poetry : Essays in Literary Interpretation. London: Collins. Lazar, Gilian (1993), Literature and Language Teaching: A Guide for Teachers and Trainers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Leech, Geoffrey (1969), A Linguistic Guide to English Poetry. London: Longman. Leech, Geoffrey N., and Michael H. Short (1981), Style in Fiction: A Linguistic Introduction to English Fictional Prose. London: Longman. Mallarm8, St8phane (1957), Poems. Trans. C.F. MacIntyre. Berkeley : University of California Press. Manguel, Alberto (2008), The City of Words. London: Continuum. Parini, Jay (2008), Why Poetry Matters. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Parkinson, Brian, and Helen Reid Thomas (2000), Teaching Literature in a Second Language. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Pasquin, Lesley (2010), “Poetry as Breath: Teaching Student Teachers to Breathe-out Poetry”, in: LEARNing Landscapes 4.1, pp. 255–263. Paulson, William (2001), Literary Culture in a World Transformed: A Future for the Humanities. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rodrigues, Raymond J., and Dennis Badaczewski (1978), A Guidebook for Teaching Literature. Harlow: Allyn & Bacon. Scott, Patrick (1989), Reconstructing ‘A’ Level English. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Scottish Education Department (1968), The Teaching of Literature. Edinburgh: HMSO. Short, Michael M. (1988), Introduction. Reading, Analysing and Teaching Literature. By Short. London: Longman, pp. 1–9. Stevens, Wallace (1960), The Necessary Angel. London: Faber and Faber. Stratta, Leslie, John Dixon, and Andrew M. Wilkinson (1973), Patterns of Language: Explorations of the Teaching of English. London: Heinemann Educational Books. Strauss, Peter (1993), Talking Poetry. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press. Thompson, Denys (1978), The Uses of Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Verdonk, Peter (1988), “The Language of Poetry : The Application of Literary Stylistic Theory in University Teaching”, in: Ed. Michael M. Short. Reading, Analysing and Teaching Literature. London: Longman, pp. 241–266.

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Widdowson, Henry G. (1975), Stylistics and the Teaching of Literature. Harlow: Longman. Xerri, Daniel (2011), “Shared Writing via Contemporary Poetry”, in: English in Education 45.2, pp. 175–188. Xerri, Daniel (2012), “Multicultural Poetry in ELT: Benefits, Challenges and Strategies.” Eds. Mar&a P. D&ez, Rebecca Place, and Olga Fern#ndez Vicente. Plurilingualism: Promoting Co-operation Between Communities, People and Nations. Bilbao: University of Deusto, pp. 65–79. Xerri, Daniel (2012), “Poetry on the Subway : An Interview with Children’s Poet John Rice”, in: New Review of Children’s Literature and Librarianship 18.2, pp. 105–115. Xerri, Daniel (2012), “Poetry Teaching and Multimodality : Theory into Practice”, in: Creative Education 3.4, pp. 507–512.

Janice Bland

Radical Children’s Literature in English Education: Escaping Disney with Dialogic Fairy Tales

1

Introduction

In the EFL primary and secondary-school classroom there will be found a huge diversity of readers and reading practices. Although most young students on entering secondary school will already have a sense of story, and functional literacy in their mother-tongue, they will also bring with them preferences for certain types of narrative such as adventure, school stories, fantasy, non-fiction and comics or graphic novels. Many children, however, develop an entrenched loss of interest in reading at about the age of 12. In Germany this is known as the Leseknick, and is sometimes called the Reading Blip in the English-speaking world. As the classroom is increasingly characterised by social and cultural diversity, it has become evident that a truly universal reading experience does not exist. In order to combat the Leseknick, therefore, the wide potential value of non-canonical literature should be demonstrated and explored in teacher education and exploited in the EFL classroom, including the rich opportunities for language and literary learning through graphic narratives and children’s literature. This chapter discusses the potential of dialogic fairy tales for the lower secondary EFL classroom, as an alternative to the Disneyfication of the fairy-tale experience; moreover as representing the potential of postmodern children’s texts for understanding literature creatively and responding to social reality. Themes of recent radical multimodal fairy tales often have more in common with the wonder folk tale (the oral predecessor of the literary fairy tale), which “generally focuses on miraculous transformations that enable disadvantaged protagonists to gain advantages and succeed in life” (Zipes 2006: 45). I have chosen to focus on multimodal tales to illustrate aspects of learner empowerment encouraged by this literature, including engaged reading and ‘escaping Disney’. Contemporary children’s literature mostly attempts to avoid any kind of didacticism. The message or ethical theme is shown, not told, very often unfolding as an internal journey while the protagonist navigates the challenges and

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problems created by the plot. The theme is revealed for example in characterisation, in conflict among characters, in action and dialogue. There is, in fact, so little didactic telling or explication that a great deal of children’s literature manages with minimal verbal text. Thus the reception can be dialogic in several senses, beginning with the necessity to co–create the story from the multimodal text. It has been maintained that a critical dialogue with “all the normative voices of society – the state, the church, the court and other regulating institutions (whether just or corrupt)” (Falconer 2010: 165) is dialogic. Literature that rather concurs and matches the ‘official discourse’ is essentially monologic (cf. Bakhtin 1981). The most frequently subverted and parodied genre is the fairy tale, for the canonised fairy tale has some fairly fixed conventions that can be mocked, and that are well known in different cultures (cf. Lewis 2001: 97). For EFL learners at the transitional stage from primary to secondary school, postmodern retellings of fairy tales offer a challenging unsettling of expectations. As the beginning of The Frog Prince Continued (Scieszka and Johnson) shows, the Princess may marry the Prince and yet they do NOT live happily ever after : The Princess kissed the frog, He turned into a prince. And they lived happily ever after… Well, let’s just say they lived sort of happily for a long time. Okay, so they weren’t so happy. In fact, they were miserable. (Scieszka and Johnson 1991)

Thus the metanarrative of the fairy tale ‘they lived happily ever after’ is gently interrogated. The picturebook The Paper Bag Princess (Munsch and Martchenko), which centres on a brave and resourceful princess and her rescue of a superficial and ungrateful prince, ends: ‘Ronald,’ said Elizabeth, ‘your clothes are really pretty and your hair is very neat. You look like a real prince, but you are a bum.’ They didn’t get married after all. (Munsch and Martchenko 1980)

This creates an interesting discussion in the classroom – is this a happy ending? The schema for a happy ending in fairy tales is generally a wedding and ‘they all lived happily ever after’. Does this picturebook change, for some children, the concept of what constitutes a happy ending? Although the final picture of the princess dancing alone into the sunset suggests a happy ending, students (even student teachers) are quite resistant to accepting it as such. This ‘jolt’ is known as schema refreshing, and is an important attribute of literary discourse: “Discourse which is acclaimed as ‘literary’ is often of this ‘schema refreshing’ type, and it is this that accounts for the high value placed upon it” (Cook 1994: 11). However, when Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm first published their fairy tales, the

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culminating wedding between a commoner and a prince (as in Rapunzel and Rumpelstilzchen) was still at least radical and wish-fulfilling, if not schema refreshing. What counts as boundary breaking or schema disrupting changes over time, as the sociocultural boundaries change. Cook (1994: 194) describes how schema-refreshing form and content can become conventional and schemareinforcing, for the canon is defined by a privileged group at a specific time in history : “Literary discourses which were once schema-refreshing become schema-reinforcing. […] Educational institutions, however, have a tendency to be a step behind. They canonize what was once (and exclude what is currently) schema-refreshing”. Although this does not diminish the literary value of the conventional canon – Cook mentions Jane Austen as having become schema preserving or reinforcing over the centuries – a too strict adherence to the canon, also in teacher education, diminishes the value of reading for learner empowerment, and the development of co-authoring agency on the part of the reader. This is a strong argument for widening the canon of literature at school and in teacher education, but not for entirely abolishing it. The theory of cultural capital demonstrates how our exceptionally valorised cultural artefacts are raised up by institutions such as galleries and museums, universities and schools, the media and libraries rather than by any intrinsic superiority (Bourdieu 1984). Clearly social-class differences are involved in such value judgements, and the Ideological State Apparatuses (Althusser 2001), to which the institution of education belongs, help maintain the existing order and its inequalities of power and opportunity. Therefore it is important for our young EFL-literature students to also know the canonised versions of fairy tales, as well as, at a later stage, adult canonical literature. Zipes maintains that this has nothing to do with an innate superiority of the canon, but however underlines the importance of cultural codes for the navigating of institutions and contemporary culture, and to be able to use them to one’s pleasure or advantage. In part, to become the story teller of one’s life means that a young person must learn how to use, manipulate, and exploit social and cultural codes, especially linguistic and semantic ones, so that she or he will be able to contend with the constant bombardment of signs, often commercial and propagandistic, that occur every day. (Zipes 2004: 115)

Remediations of fairy tales communicate with other fairy-tale versions (in this chapter, for example, Martin and Shannon’s The Rough-Face Girl and Pullman’s I was a Rat! are both versions of Cinderella), and encourage intertextual dialogue in the classroom, children retelling to each other the versions they know. A third example of a retelling in this chapter is Browne’s Me and You, a reworking of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Retellings can foreground both the formulaic

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structure of fairy tales, and how narrative is constructed out of other stories. Thus, remediated, postmodern or fractured fairy tales “can indicate possible interpretative positions for readers; and they can enable the representation of a plurality of voices, discourses, and meanings” (McCallum 2008: 181). As fairy tales exist in numerous retellings, they demonstrate admirably how stories may mean different things to different people in different cultures at different times. “Comprising a structure that is both permanent and flexible, fairy tales allow for different adaptations while remaining recognisably self-identical” (Neemann 2005: 157). There are certain recurrent patterns, which aid recall for the teller and listeners, and a wish-fulfilment ending – a highly satisfying outcome for the younger reader. Due to the unspecified nature of time in fairy tales (‘Once upon a time…’) and place (‘In a deep, dark wood…’), there is much opportunity for the reader to participate in the storyworld, for “stories centring on wish fulfilment are likely to have an even higher amount of indeterminacy than stories aiming at an interpretation of reality” (Tabbert/Wardetzky 1995: 5). Jack Zipes (2007: 4) describes the significance of the ‘no place’ of fairy tales (the original meaning of utopia) and the true meaning of ‘once upon a time’ as futuristic: “We form and keep the utopian kernel of the tale safe in our imaginations with hope”. The gaps and discrepencies between the numerous versions of fairy tales are as rich in significance as the tales themselves. Therefore we impoverish the EFL-literature classroom if we omit fairy tales altogether, and allow the popular Disney versions to eclipse all others, a phenomenon known as Disneyfication “with its predominantly white, middle-class American values and celebration of a rather artificial and sentimental status quo” (Rudd 2010: 168) and the “saccharine, sexist, and illusionary stereotypes of the Disney-culture industry” (Zipes 2007: 25). Beyond the animated film versions, there are canonised versions such as those of the Brothers Grimm, feminist versions, ironic postmodern versions and the wonder tales of pre-literate folk cultures. A comparison of different versions in the EFL-literature classroom offers abundant ‘gap’ potential and illustrates there are no absolute meanings in texts. John Stephens refers to recent developments in literary and cultural studies as the rise of critical interest in ethics in literature, including ecocriticism, the study of narrative as central to the understanding of human psychology, and a shift away from ‘grand theories’. Stephens (2010a: 211) connects these interests to children’s literature scholarship: The focus of children’s texts on social issues, its concern with values, its representation of minds weighing up the way things are and considering alternatives, and finally the modelling of behaviours these processes entail, allows the literature (and its criticism) to sit comfortably within such a critical practice.

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A children’s literature apprenticeship in the EFL classroom can entail learning to read the world purposefully, constructively and critically, with the pedagogical promise of being able to influence outcomes at least to some extent and therefore have choices in life. According to Kimberley Reynolds (2010: 2) children represent potential, and their fictions “emphasise this view of childhood because they tend to be narratives in which the future is still an unknown and the self is in formation”. And Roderick McGillis (1998: 204) claims “the crucial thing is gaining authority on the part of the reader. Reading critically is a liberating activity. It is also fun”. In a dialogic classroom, the invitation to the reader is to a creative participation, to co–create the indeterminate text rather than an entirely uncritical identification with the text. This may have the appearance of complexity beyond the usual limits of literature for children. However, well-crafted texts for children signify in complex ways and thus are not simple, as Peter Hunt (1992: 41) emphasises, “the reverse is true; children – developing readers – live in a world which is far more conscious of and ambivalent about the relationship between fiction and reality than the world of the skilled reader, and children’s writers have responded to this”. An example of this in the present chapter is Almond and McKean’s The Savage. Due to their more developed analytic skills and experience of life, slightly older EFL students can gain confidence in being perceptive and confident readers of indeterminate children’s texts despite their limited English. As Roderick McGillis writes: Children’s literature is not hermetically sealed from either other literature or from the field of cultural production generally. The possibilities for interpretation of this literature are as varied as they are for any literature. This is an important lesson because many books for the young are disarming in their ostensible simplicity. Theory has taught us that what appears simple does so because we have not looked closely enough at that simple thing. (McGillis 2010: 14)

The nature of children’s texts is frequently multilayered, and the range of implied readers is often wide: “All in all, these new books encourage a critical, active stance that celebrates a diversity of response rather than univocal interpretation” (Sipe/Pantaleo 2008: 5). It is of great consequence for the EFL-literature classroom, though scarcely known in the EFL teaching context worldwide, that postmodern fairy tales and picturebooks “engage with polymorphous cultural forms and […] address an older audience” (Stephens 2008: 89). Jill May (1995: 55) has made the same point, referring to children’s literature more generally, “children’s books are read by adults and children, so the books do not have one audience. As texts with dual (or multiple) audiences, children’s stories hold more than one meaning”. And these meanings can be unlocked through booktalk in the EFL classroom, for a co-operative act of discussion discovers far

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more about a literary text than a single reader could alone, so that “by pooling our thoughts we extend our individual ability to think” (Chambers 2011: 110).

2

The Savage (David Almond, illus. Dave McKean): A Complex and Powerful Microform

David Almond and Dave McKean’s The Savage (2008) is difficult to define. It is similar to a picturebook; however unlike picturebooks it is paginated – it has 80 pages – and a smaller format. It is equally problematic to identify as a graphic novel, for although the content of the illustrations and layout of the panels carry meaning, in addition to the typographic experimentation, there are next to no speech balloons, and there are moreover many pages of purely verbal text without any illustration. Neither is it precisely a fairy tale, but a microform that includes both the magic and nightmarish violence of fairy tales, particularly in McKean’s illustrations of the imagined embedded story. As the violence is more unreal than real, and the forest setting is simultaneously ancient and present, The Savage creates a sense of wonder in the reader. The book deals with the boy protagonist’s release of pain and resentment at his father’s death in a way that is furious and untamed. Even though the illustrations interact constantly with the verbal text, the Savage himself becomes a figure of menace foremostly in the illustrations, while Almond’s language sensitively contains the violence. Although “(t)he formal complexity of The Savage disrupts assumptions about graphic fictions being easier to read than traditional prose fiction” (Hately 2012: 177), I suggest this book will go a long way towards encouraging boys as well as girls to read in the lower to mid-secondary school. The book is about the healing power of story telling, narrated by a boy called Blue after the death of his father. Blue creates the story of the prehistoric savage, who lives in a cave in the local woods and exists almost without any of the trappings of human culture. The Savage is a magic realist text that interrogates culture/nature and reason/emotion dualisms, and, through an embedded story, re-embeds Blue in a more organic understanding of his own wild self. The Savage is, both in Almond’s verbal text and McKean’s illustrations, a study of pain, loss, and the wretchedness of bullying. The ferocious wildness of the images combined with a dark, poetic text creates a powerful narrative. Blue begins creating the story of the Savage in words and pictures after the death of his father : Once I started writing the story, it was like I couldn’t stop, which was strange for me. I’d never been one for stories. I couldn’t stand all the stuff about wizards and fairies and ‘once upon a time’ and ‘they all lived happily ever after’. That’s not what life’s like. Me, I wanted blood and guts and adventures, so that’s what I wrote. (Almond 2008: 13)

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In order to read and enjoy contemporary postmodern fiction, students in the secondary EFL classroom should understand certain literary conventions, and a preparation for the literary studies of upper school years can certainly begin already in the lower secondary school with children’s literature. A postmodern trope frequent in magic realism, and one that is central to The Savage, is narrative metalepsis, which the teacher can explain as ‘jumping between story levels’. Metalepsis is “a breaking of the boundaries that separate distinct ‘levels’ of a narrative, usually between an embedded tale and its frame story” (Baldick 2001: 153). While the embedded story created by Blue the narrator moves forward, and the Savage acts out what Blue desires but is afraid of (living a wild life in Burgess Woods and furiously attacking the bully Hopper), the embedded and frame story levels begin to intertwine and interact. Blue writes of the Savage: He wore a dog skin round his waist and chicken feathers on his head. When I drew him and wrote about him, I could see him, I could hear him, I could smell him. Sometimes, it was nearly like I was him and he was me. (Almond 2008: 31)

The above passage clearly illustrates the patterned and multisensory nature of the language, and The Savage is an excellent model for students’ own creative writing. In other ways too The Savage encourages creativity, the illustrations are fierce and menacing, and suggest a horror that is gently alleviated by Almond’s text (see Figure 1). The story within the story has a different font, one that resembles juvenile handwriting. Blue’s nonstandard orthography intensifies the childlike nature of the embedded story, while illustrating that spelling is a gradual process – like language acquisition – for native speakers as well as for EFL learners: “But of cors the savage had no words, just jabbers and grunts and gasps, and he new nothing abowt words. How cud he? But he was starting to lurn” (Almond 2008: 39). This is an entirely normal developmental stage of the literacy of native speakers, a discovery that heartens EFL students, who might be encouraged to try to edit Blue’s story for him in groups, with the aid of a dictionary. The language of the embedding story contains no nonstandard orthography. It is beautifully written, lexically dense and moving: I stared into the moon. I felt sad, small, frightened, furious, bitter, lost, lonely … But like I said, there’s no words that can say how I really felt. I stared into the moon and I stared into the moon. Then I switched the light on again, and I got my notebook and my pen and I started writing fast and hard. (Almond 2008: 50)

Blue’s wild and gripping story and the wildness of the woods and the Savage hidden there in a cave, appear to bridge the culture/nature divide when the distinct narrative levels begin to dissolve. Blue’s Savage is arguably his answer to the ‘paradox of masculinity’: the expectation that the male “seem savage and yet

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domesticated at one and the same time” (Nodelman 2002: 7). The ending of The Savage can be equally read as a magic realist text of mystery and healing, or as the story of a young boy coming to terms with the savage within himself: He led me further into the cave, further towards the fire, and by the low light of it I saw him face-to-face like a reflection, and he was just like me, only weirder and wilder and closer to some magic and darkness and some dreams. (Almond 2008: 73)

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The savage seems to connect Blue’s present life to a prehistoric past, and to ancient forms of story telling, when he reveals cave paintings of Blue and his family : “It was me, there on the cave wall. I was drawn in charcoal and coloured with the dye from leaves and earth and berries” (Almond 2008: 74). As a magic realist text the meaning is left open, offering the potential for the negotiation of interpretation in an EFL classroom, and the culture/nature theme could offer a consideration of gender and ecocritical issues. Much of schooling is

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a pursuit of closure. Teachers seek answers to questions and students seek to predict and satisfy the teachers’ expectations. However, postmodern texts do not necessarily satisfy expectations at the close, nor do they allow all questions to be answered. But they often stimulate a dynamic approach to literary discussion and a joint attempt at meaning making, as readers attempt to complete the patterns they perceive. Coles and Hall (2001: 114) describe postmodernism as an often-disputed area of literary and cultural study : One feature likely to be undisputed though is its rejection of unity, homogeneity, totality, and closure. But it is often these concepts which underpin the school teaching of texts […]. To step back from this position involves rejecting the pursuit of ‘true’ meanings. It requires the teacher to cede to pupils a degree of authority over the text. The postmodern perspective is a questioning one.

3

Teaching the Significance of Focalisation and Agency with Me and You (Anthony Browne)

A happy ending is the norm in children’s literature (there are exceptions), but the experiences, trials and disasters along the way in many texts are far beyond anything the young reader could seriously wish to be confronted with. Nonetheless, discussing fundamentally serious issues with the aid of children’s literature is rewarding and satisfying for pre-adult readers. Important though urgency, insight and truth in realist fiction are, “(w)ise authors know from fairy tales that a happy ending is not necessarily something to be dismissed as superficial – at least not for children, who deserve to be encouraged in their hopes of coming to terms with the challenges before them” (Tabbert/Wardetzky 1995: 5). In much engaged children’s literature a certain metanarrative that is, according to Stephens, ‘socially and emotionally satisfying’ for children, is still largely accepted: “the notion that truth and justice will – or morally should – prevail” (Stephens 2010b: 209). This metanarrative no longer exists for a great deal of serious contemporary adult literature; consequently adult literature is less encouraging for pre-adult readers. Reynolds refers to the radical freshness of children’s fictions: “Many children’s books offer quirky or critical or alternative visions of the world designed to promote that ultimate response of childhood, ‘Why?’ ‘Why are things as they are?’ ‘Why can’t they be different?’” (Reynolds 2010: 3). Engaged reading with EFL students still in the primary school can be approached with Browne’s Me and You (2011, Kate Greenaway Medal short-listed), a postmodern version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The verbal text is brief and deliberately in stereotypical middle-class Janet and John style, narrated by

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the little bear, beginning: ‘This is our house. There’s Daddy Bear, Mummy Bear and me’. The Janet and John series was an unimaginative, plotless series of readers about Janet and John and their mother and father, used for learning to read in nearly all UK primary schools, as well as in North America and New Zealand, from the 1950s to the early 1970s, which “all carried the same message: this is the only right way to live” (Else 2008: 231). The pictures of the nicely dressed bear family and their very pleasant detached house are on the right-hand pages (recto). This is the privileged position; by publishing convention the first page of a book is always a recto page. There is a note of irony that appears in the verbal text when the bear family goes out for a walk while their porridge cools down: Daddy talked about his work and Mummy talked about her work. I just messed about. On the way back, Daddy talked about the car and Mummy talked about the house. I just messed about. When we got home, the front door was open. Daddy said that Mummy must have left it open, and Mummy said it must have been Daddy. I didn’t say anything. (Browne 2011, unpaginated, emphasis in the original)

Three pictures of the affluent bear family, all with their noses in the air, accompany the lines above. The left-hand pages (verso) are devoted to Goldilocks, who is very far from the clich8d fairy-tale princess. Her story is narrated in pictures only, with no verbal text. Whereas the bears have full-page images in colour to show the neatness and comfort of their well-ordered home and family life, Goldilocks’ story is told in much smaller pictures – four or six images crowd each page – with very little colour. Her clothes are nondescript, neither smart nor colourful, but her long, unkempt hair has a warm copper glow. However, the colour of her hair also distances her from a golden-haired princess, as red-haired children are still in the twenty-first century targets of bullying at school. We can read from the pictures that tell Goldilocks’ story that she is standing beside her mother, who appears to be gazing hopelessly at the meat on display at the local butcher’s shop, when a balloon floats past. Goldilocks chases the balloon without success, through many colourless streets, which appear forbidding with their high walls, railings and broken windows. Goldilocks cannot find her way back to her mother, but discovers the very respectable house of the bears, with the door left open (see Figure 2). What happens next follows the traditional fairy-tale pattern (involving three bowls of porridge, three chairs and three beds) until the angry bears chase Goldilocks out of their comfortable home. We see her long journey back through the grey streets, through heavy rain, wind, graffiti shaped like a tornado and even snow, and still with no sign of her mother. However, there is an almost fairy-tale ending. Goldilocks spies her mother at last and runs to meet

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her. The final page shows a full-colour close-up of the embrace of mother and daughter, the warm red-gold of their hair ending the melancholy story on a bright note.

There are 60 pictures in this 32-page picturebook. The pictures can be described by EFL students at all levels, including elementary, for example: ‘First Goldilocks tries the big bowl of porridge, then she tries the medium-sized bowl of porridge, next she tries the little bowl of porridge, and eats it all up’. Somewhat beyond the beginner level, however, narrative devices can be brought into the booktalk:

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how, for example, the colour and size as well as the content of the images add layers of meaning to the story, suggesting poverty versus wealth. What does this add to the traditional story? Focalisation can be discussed as this varies from Goldilocks (verso pages) to the little bear (recto pages). The genres of realism and fantasy can be investigated. Goldilocks’ story is portrayed realistically, mostly in grey and sepia tones with a dark emphasis on inner-city shabbiness. The bears, who clearly live in the same city, nonetheless inhabit a bright fairytale world of middle-class comfort, which seems like an island of fantasy in the drab neighbourhood. They meet briefly when Goldilocks is discovered in little bear’s bed, but are unable to communicate. Little bear narrates: ‘The girl leaped out of bed, ran downstairs and out of the door. I wonder what happened to her?’ (Browne 2011). The little bear is a quiet member of his family, nonetheless as narrator he appears literate and able to tell a story ; Goldilocks, in contrast, is voiceless, she never speaks. What meaning does this convey to the reader? Is this connected to the contrast in their social standing and education? To what extent is poverty ‘voiceless’? It would be interesting to discuss the significance of the title Me and You. As the little bear is the narrator, he is ‘me’ and Goldilocks is ‘you’. Is Goldilocks as a child of poverty Othered by the narrative, and the middle-class bear narrator represented as the norm? This picturebook teaches the importance of focalisation as a narrative practice. Goldilocks too is a focaliser, her story is portrayed in vivid detail in the images, her fearful but courageous bearing shown in her body language and facial expressions. Consequently, though downtrodden in appearance, she is not represented as Other, but as the protagonist of her own story, and wins the reader’s sympathy and respect. A shabby silent distressed girl as a character with at least as much agency as the middle-class male may well be empowering for many readers of this picturebook who are themselves vulnerable, for “critics have argued that never seeing someone like themselves in a leading role may affect readers’ expectations about life. The effect on young readers, in particular, may be considerable” (Mikkelsen/Pinsent 2001: 77).

4

The Rough-Face Girl (Rafe Martin, illus. David Shannon): An Empowered Cinderella

Martin and Shannon’s The Rough-Face Girl (1992), is an Algonquin Indian Cinderella. The many fairy-tale Cinderellas have, naturally, influenced and enriched each other across the centuries as well as across the continents. A comparison of different fairy-tale versions in the EFL-literature classroom offers abundant interaction potential. It should also be pointed out that there are no

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definitive versions of fairy tales, as “each teller brings to a tale something of his/ her own cultural orientation” (Yolen 1982: 298), and that there are no absolute meanings in literary texts – an important lesson in literary literacy. Yet from a pedagogic and literary perspective there are, of course, differences. The RoughFace Girl is closer to older European versions of Cinderella, for the important ingredient of action on the part of the heroine is central to the tale: “But in the fairy tales wishes have a habit of happening – wishes accompanied by the proper action, bad wishes as well as good. That is the beauty of the old stories and their wisdom as well” (Yolen 1982: 303, emphasis in the original). The picturebook is vivaciously narrated; the author Rafe Martin is a professional storyteller and is able to tell a lively tale of the downtrodden girl who is victimised by her sisters and protected neither by her father nor her community. The girl’s chores include tending the fire: The two older daughters were cruel and hard-hearted, and they made their youngest sister sit by the fire and feed the flames. When the burning branches popped, the sparks fell on her. In time, her hands became burnt and scarred. Her arms too became rough and scarred. Even her face was marked by the fire, and her beautiful long black hair hung ragged and charred. (Martin/Shannon 1992)

The patterns in Martin’s text help students notice the language. There is close parallelism: ‘became burnt and scarred’ and ‘became rough and scarred’, as well as the rhyme scarred/charred. Typical of authentic literature, The Rough-Face Girl is also rich in lexical chains; in the quotation above there is a ‘fire’ chain: sit by the fire, feed the flames, burning branches, popped, sparks, burnt, scarred and charred. This patterning of language creates rhetorical energy, and helps build a rich mental lexicon (cf. Bland 2013: 156–187). The Rough-Face Girl’s sisters receive elegant clothing from their father, and seek to marry the wealthiest man of the village, the Invisible Being (see Figure 3). However, the sister of the Invisible Being tests whether the finely dressed girls can see him. They fail the test, as they are only able to see their own grandeur, and not the grandeur of the natural world around them. The abused but indomitable Rough-Face Girl, on the other hand, is able to see a life force in the humble natural things surrounding her. Despite sneers and laughter, she fashions coarse clothing in order to leave home and seek her fortune: Then she found dried reeds and, taking the little broken shells, she strung a necklace. She stripped birch bark from the dead trees and made a cap, a dress, and leggings. Then, with a sharp piece of bone, she carved in the bark pictures of the sun, moon, stars, plants, trees, and animals. (Martin/Shannon 1992)

Dressed in this way, she ignores the taunts of the villagers who come out of their wigwams, ‘They pointed and stared. “Look at that ugly girl!” they laughed.

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“Look at her strange clothes! Hey! Hey! Hey! Go home you ugly girl! You’ll never marry the Invisible Being!”’ However, the heroine has faith in herself, is active and resourceful. The illustrator Shannon demonstrates in the double-page spreads, that as she walks beyond the village the courageous girl can divine the true nature of things. She sees in the ‘great beauty of the earth and skies spreading before her […] the sweet yet awesome face of the Invisible Being’, thus she is able to describe the Invisible Being to his sister. Brother and sister, in turn, can see what the villagers blindly missed, the Rough-Face Girl’s inner beauty. They accept and cherish her already before her fairy-tale transformation scene,

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which takes place when she bathes in the lake, when her scars vanish and her beautiful hair becomes as ‘long and glossy as a raven’s wing’. With the Algonquin Indian Cinderella, the EFL students may learn about intertextuality, about the oracy of fairy tales, and the value of different versions. These are literary and intercultural competences. The language of The RoughFace Girl displays the lexical richness and idiom principle that characterises well-written authentic literature (cf. Bland 2013: 8), there is stylistic cohesion such as marked lexical repetition, lexical chains and the phonological patterns of rhythm and alliteration. In addition, the illustrations support communicative competence, as there is so much in the visual text that is not explicitly stated in the verbal text, and demands verbalisation in the EFL classroom. An ecocritical competence might be supported by the appreciation of the environment as a presence in the picturebook. Although the “Ecological Indian is clearly a stereotype of European origin” (Garrard 2012: 135), it is evident from The RoughFace Girl that dwelling with a deep sense of attachment to the land is considered praiseworthy and even heroic. ‘Dwelling’ in the ecocritical sense means living and working responsibly, in harmony with nature. The central theme of The Rough-Face Girl therefore contrasts dramatically with recent European versions of Cinderella, where the heroine’s heroic status derives from her sweet compliance and splendid magical outfit at the ball. Jane Yolan (1982: 299) criticises the Disneyfied heroine in the strongest terms: To make Cinderella less than she is, then, is a heresy of the worst kind. It cheapens our most cherished dreams, and it makes a mockery of the true magic inside us all – the ability to change our own lives, the ability to control our own destinies.

For our stories influence us, whether we hear them, watch them, play them, read them in EFL textbooks or in children’s literature. Lisa Cron (2012: 8) characterises stories as a dress rehearsal for the future, for “our brain casts us as ‘the protagonist’ and then edits our experience with cinema-like precision, creating logical interrelations, mapping connections between memories, ideas, and events for future reference”. And fairy tales are among the most influential of texts, and therefore should be chosen with care for engaged booktalk in the EFL classroom. For the best fairy tales, according to Zipes (2007: 31), create worlds “like magic spells of enchantment”, that will not petrify our minds, but rather “arouse our imagination and compel us to realise how we can fight terror and cunningly insert ourselves into our daily struggles, turning the course of the world’s events in our favour”. In picturebooks there are often traceable intertexts, identifiable even for young readers. They may refer to pretexts of children’s literature, children’s myths, rituals and the formulaic language of oral culture. As such they are a part of the broader culture of childhood and can become a major component of

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intercultural learning for EFL students. The fixed structures or building blocks of conventional fairy tales afford the pleasure of familiarity to the young reader, who is able to participate: “The fairy tale is a mental game, the rules of which are easily grasped and increasingly mastered by the child, and it is this mastery that he or she thoroughly enjoys” (Tabbert/Wardetzky 1995: 9). The meaning is enhanced for the younger child when he or she is immersed in traditional associations, and for the older child when traditional associations are upset. In The Pleasures of Children’s Literature, Nodelman and Reimer (2003) list 22 of the delights of literature for young people. Two of the listed pleasures are particularly relevant for the discussion of postmodern fairy tales leading to participatory reading: - The pleasure of formula – of repeating the comfortably familiar experience of kinds of stories one has enjoyed before. […] - The pleasure of newness – of experiencing startlingly different kinds of stories and poems. (2003: 26) They differentiate between the pleasure of the comfortable and familiar, and the bliss of the unexpected and new, and summarise: “If the experience of literature is genuinely transactional, it always represents a meeting point of what texts invite from readers and what readers do in response to the invitation” (Nodelman/Reimer 2003: 24). First apprentice readers must be familiar with the patterns, for example of fairy tales, in order to make discoveries for themselves. Then the bliss of the unexpected – the sudden disrupting of a schema – results in the thrill of deep reading. The resulting rush of insight is empowering.

5

Playing Havoc with Metanarratives: I was a Rat! (Philip Pullman)

Fairy tales are frequently parodied as a way of questioning contemporary value systems, for example celebrity-driven culture and its consumption: Parody is inherently metafictive as it involves a refusal to accept as natural and given that which is culturally determined and conventional. As a literary device it is usually associated with satire and ridicule and may thus seem an unlikely trait to find in children’s picturebooks, but in fact picturebook makers often lean towards this particular mode. (Lewis 2001: 97)

As some of the fixed conventions and themes of the fairy-tale genre are universally known already to children, it is possible for children’s writers to imaginatively subvert and parody them. This starts gently for a very young audience, as in, for example, Cinderella’s Rat (Meddaugh 1997). This picture-

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book tells of a rat that was transformed into a ‘coachboy’, to accompany Cinderella to the ball. His adventures and mishaps take a new twist when a wizard tries to transform his rat sister into a girl, having been wrongly informed that she really is a girl bewitched into a rat by a powerful spell. As the lively and vivid pictures tell the whole story, the verbal text, narrated by the rat/coachboy, could be shortened for the primary EFL-literature classroom. The same theme is taken up for confident readers in Pullman’s I Was A Rat (2000), which could be read in the mid-secondary-school EFL-literature classroom, both as a gripping and amusing tale, and as an introduction to aspects of literary literacy including postmodernism, intertextuality, parody, setting, point of view and an authorial narrative situation. Pullman’s story also takes Cinderella as its source text, but this time with an omniscient narrator. The narrative is so thoroughly interwoven with parody and satire that this provides the recurring pattern that lends the short novel coherence, as well as humour deriving from the absurdity of numerous opinionated ‘authoritative’ voices. The narrator takes us to diverse settings and diverse characters with a strong point of view, expressed both in the ample dialogue and in the narration – the narrator knows their thoughts – a rich exemplification of a polyphonic or many-voiced narrative (Bakhtin 1981). A child in a pageboy uniform arrives unexpectedly on the doorstep of an old and childless couple, Bob and Joan. Bob is a cobbler and Joan a washerwoman, the traditional trades of fairy tales. The parody, however, is directed against contemporary Britain. The fact that the ‘newly created’ boy cannot understand layers of meaning repeatedly reveals just how layered meaning is, and how it can be manipulated by bureaucrats, scientists and particularly journalists. The naive couple Joan and Bob are the focalisers for most of the narrative, and they gradually learn about the slipperiness of language, and the absurdity of trying to live by conventionalised rules when faced with an unexpected and inexplicable situation (a rat bewitched into a boy). Many metanarratives are overturned, beginning with the concept that people in authority know best – anti-authoritarianism is a widespread and empowering motif of radical children’s and young adult literature. The old couple take their ‘found’ boy to the City Hall, but are informed: “There’s nothing we can do about found children. We deal with lost ones” (Pullman 2000: 22). No institution is able to provide any useful help, and the problems are compounded when a newspaper campaign erupts. The boy is kidnapped by unscrupulous fairground exhibitors, then helped to escape by the leader of a gang of boy thieves, who want the now underfed and starving ‘Rat-Boy’ to wriggle through the windows of rich houses, recalling Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger. The main target of parody in I Was A Rat is British tabloid journalism. Whole pages are ‘reprinted’ from a newspaper entitled The Daily Scourge. The brief illustrated novel includes altogether thirteen pages of scandalous newspaper

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reporting (this is slightly reduced in a later edition), but the connection between The Daily Scourge pages and the unfolding story only becomes transparent towards the end. The first inserted newspaper cover story recounts a royal love story ‘LOVE AT THE BALL by our Court Correspondent’ (Pullman 2000: 5) as a part of the peritext, a postmodern contextualising strategy. The peritext (Genette 1997) includes all the matter of a book that is exterior to the story itself, so for example the end-papers of a picturebook often comment on the book’s theme. Pullman’s fictional newspaper cover story anticipates the Cinderella theme, recalls the Charles and Diana drama, and suggests a ‘non-fictional’ context to the narrative. The following articles are interspersed in the story : ‘PALACE MAKE-OVER’ on the royal wedding (Pullman 2000: 32), then ‘SIX OF THE BEST’ and ‘THE SCOURGE SAYS: KEEP ON WACKING!’ (Pullman 2000: 45) – the tabloid is in favour of continuing caning in schools. This is highly topical, as the cane was legal in secondary schools in England and Wales until 1987 and in private schools until 1999, the date of the first edition of Pullman’s tale. The next headline is ‘THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR!’ (Pullman 2000: 70), followed by ‘CRIME UP AGAIN’ and ‘A MORAL VACUUM’ (Pullman 2000: 110–111) – when the gang of child thieves has been apprehended. The parody on these two pages becomes particularly many-voiced, as the Home Secretary is quoted: ‘I blame the teachers’, a teachers’ leader is quoted ‘I blame the parents’, a parent is quoted ‘I blame the church’, the Archbishop is quoted ‘I blame the government’ and The Scourge adds its voice: ‘BLAME THE KIDS!!!’ (See Figure 4). At this point in the main narrative, the existence of the ‘Rat-Boy’, who looks like a vulnerable but otherwise normal nine-year-old boy with an extremely unusual appetite, is discovered by the press. The Scourge takes up the case with ‘MONSTER FOUND IN SEWERS’ (Pullman 2000: 119) followed by a Special Supplement on the Monster, further furious headlines including ‘EVIL BEYOND BELIEF’ (Pullman 2000: 132) and finally ‘MONSTER CONDEMNED’ (Pullman 2000: 151). The tale ends happily on one level, but without closure on another, when at last one person with authority is prepared to listen to Bob and Joan, who have desperately been trying to save the little boy from ‘extermination’. This is no other than the fairy-tale princess herself, who, in a clear allusion to Diana, Princess of Wales, wishes that both she and the boy could return to their former quiet lives, before their transformation. This they cannot achieve. However, the princess is able to save the little boy, as reported by The Scourge: ‘MIRACLE OF PRINCESS AND “MONSTER” ’ (Pullman 2000: 170). Much contemporary children’s literature is dialogic (Rudd 1994: 93), so also I Was A Rat is dialogic in its ongoing critical dialogue with contemporary British culture and with its pretext, the fairy tale Cinderella. I Was A Rat is furthermore dialogic in the way it interrogates and caricatures figures of authority both in

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how they are represented, and also by the way the boy who was a rat continuously misinterprets them. The Daily Scourge prints: ‘The traditional family is under threat. Family values have crumbled away. Changing work patterns, taxation, and violent entertainment are playing havoc with all the old certainties’ (Pullman 2000: 110). Pullman’s child-friendly postmodern parody plays havoc with many ‘old certainties’, and with good reason. Humour is one of the most inviting ingredients in children’s literature (cf. Tabbert/Wardetzky 1995: 3).

6

Conclusion

Fairy tales are particularly useful in the EFL-literature classroom because “the basic quality of fairy tales is that they are capable of taking on so many different meanings” (Nodelman/Reimer 2003: 318), and thus fairy tales and their retellings can demonstrate the polysemous nature of literature. A cultural studies approach adopted towards children’s and adult literature can provide a pedagogical safeguard, also for language teaching, both to expose latent manipulations and to spotlight progressive messages, “a cultural studies approach will more often than not look for ways in which cultural products set out to hail or manipulate youngsters or to identify subversive or progressive messages” (McGillis 2011: 347). Postmodern picturebooks are ideal for group reading, as they demand active participation in order to unravel the enigmatic, pluri-significational texts. However, there is a hurdle that should be overcome by the future generation of students and teachers in the EFL-literature classroom: Schools have tended to imbue written texts with ultimate authority and to promise academic success to those learners who can ‘unlock’ their meaning with dictionaries, grammars, and other reference books. Students do not generally view themselves as ‘constructing’ meaning as they read: they believe they ‘find’ the meaning enclosed in the text. (Kramsch 1993: 200)

In order to overcome this hurdle, I maintain that a literary study of radical children’s literature in teacher education must equip student teachers with a thorough understanding of the area. Future teachers of English must be furnished with the confidence to support their students’ insightful construction of meaning as well as the know-how to select suitable texts. The literary study of children’s literature is quite as imperative as the pedagogical study, which aims to disclose the potential of children’s literature for empowering classroom interaction, including, for example, intercultural learning, creative writing and discourse on global issues. Literacy, in the sense of understanding texts, is one of the central competences of English language learning. It is now largely recog-

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nised that English language teaching should be multidisciplinary, with approaches such as Intercultural Learning, Task-Based Language Learning as well as Content and Language Integrated Learning, whereby the English language is the medium in content-based classrooms. In this chapter I have argued for including literary English teaching in the content-based lower-secondary classroom. Moreover I have argued for the choice of children’s texts to include fairy tales in the primary to mid-secondary-school classroom that – through the imaginative potential of literature – engage dialogically with ethical concerns such as class, gender and the environment.

Works Cited Almond, David, illus. McKean, Dave (2008), The Savage. London: Walker Books. Althusser, Louis (2001), “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses”, in: Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review Press, pp. 121–173. Baldick, Chris (2001), Oxford Concise Dictionary of Literary Terms (2nd edn). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail (1930/1981), The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: University of Texas Press. Bland, Janice (2013), Children’s Literature and Learner Empowerment. Children and Teenagers in English Language Education. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Bourdieu, Pierre (1984), Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, trans. Richard Nice. London: Routledge. Browne, Anthony (2011), Me and You. London: Corgi Books. Chambers, Aidan (2011), Tell Me. The Reading Environment. Woodchester : Thimble Press. Coles, Martin and Hall, Christine (2001), ‘Breaking the line: New literacies, postmodernism and the teaching of printed texts’. Reading Literacy and Language. 01/11, pp. 111–114. Cook, Guy (1994), Discourse and Literature: The Interplay of Form and Mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cron, Lisa (2012), Wired for Story. Berkeley : Ten Speed Press. Else, Anne (2008), “Up the garden path: Janet and John revisited”, in: Penny Griffith, Peter Hughes and Alan Loney (eds.), A Book in the Hand: Essays on the History of the Book in New Zealand. Auckland University Press. Accessed at www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/teiGriHand-t1-g1-t15.html (01.06.13) Falconer, Rachel (2010), “Dialogism”, in: David Rudd (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Children’s Literature. Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 165–166. Garrard, Greg (2012), Ecocriticism (2nd edn). London: Routledge. Genette, G8rard (1997), Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, trans. Jane Lewin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Hately, Erica (2012), “‘In the hands of the Receivers’: The politics of literacy in The Savage by David Almond and Dave McKean”, in: Children’s Literature in Education. 43, pp. 170–180. Hunt, Peter (ed.) (1992), Literature for Children. Contemporary Criticism. London: Routledge. Kramsch, Claire (1993), Context and Culture in Language Teaching. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lewis, David (2001), Reading Contemporary Picturebooks, Picturing Text. Oxford: Routledge. McCallum, Robyn (2008), “Would I lie to you? Metalepsis and modal disruption in some ‘true’ fairy tales”, in: Lawrence Sipe and Sylvia Pantaleo (eds.), Postmodern Picturebooks. Play, Parody, and Self-Referentiality. New York: Routledge, pp. 180–192. Martin, Rafe, illus. Shannon, David (1992), The Rough-Face Girl. New York: Penguin. McGillis, Roderick (1998), “The delights of impossibility : no children, no books, only theory”, in: Children’s Literature Association Quarterly. 23/4, pp. 202–208. McGillis, Roderick (2010), “‘Criticism is the Theory of Literature’: Theory is the Criticism of Literature”, in: David Rudd (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Children’s Literature. London: Routledge, pp. 14–25. McGillis, Roderick (2011), “Literary studies, cultural studies, children’s literature, and the case of Jeff Smith”, in: Karen Coats, Patricia Enciso, Christine Jenkins and Shelby Wolf (eds.), Handbook of Research on Children’s and Adult Literature. New York: Routledge, pp. 345–355. May, Jill (1995), Children’s Literature and Critical Theory. New York: Oxford University Press. Meddaugh, Susan (1997), Cinderella’s Rat. New York: Walter Lorraine Books. Mikkelsen, Nina and Pinsent, Pat (2001), “Bias”, in: Victor Watson (ed.), The Cambridge Guide to Children’s Books in English. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 75–78. Munsch, Robert, illus. Martchenko, Michael (1980), The Paper Bag Princess. Toronto: Annick Press. Neemann, Harold (2005), “Fairy Tale”, in: David Herman, Manfred Jahn and Marie-Laure Ryan (eds.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory. Oxford: Routledge, pp. 157–158. Nodelman, Perry (2002), “Making Boys Appear : The Masculinity of Children’s Fiction”, in: John Stephens (ed.), Ways of Being Male: Representing Masculinities in Children’s Literature and Film. London: Routledge, pp. 1–15. Nodelman, Perry and Reimer, Mavis (2003), The Pleasures of Children’s Literature (3rd edn). Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Pullman, Philip, illus. Peter Bailey (2000), I was a Rat! London: Corgi Yearling Books. Reynolds, Kimberley (2010), Radical Children’s Literature. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Rudd, David (1994), “Shirley, the bathwater, and definitions of children’s literature”, in: Papers: Explorations into Children’s Literature. 5/2–3, pp. 88–103. Rudd, David (2010), “Disneyfication”, in: David Rudd (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Children’s Literature. Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 167–168. Scieszka, Jon, illus. Johnson, Steve (1991), The Frog Prince Continued. New York: Penguin.

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Sipe, Lawrence and Pantaleo, Sylvia (2008), Postmodern Picturebooks. Play, Parody, and Self-Referentiality. New York: Routledge. Stephens, John (1992), Language and Ideology in Children’s Fiction. Harlow: Longman. Stephens, John (2010a), “Impartiality and Attachment: Ethics and Ecopoeisis in Children’s Narrative Texts”, in: International Research in Children’s Literature. 3/2, pp. 205–216. Stephens, John (2010b), “Metanarrative”, in: David Rudd (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Children’s Literature. Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 209–210. Yolen, Jane (1982), “America’s Cinderella”, in Alan Dundes (ed.), Cinderella. A Casebook. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, pp. 294–304. Yolen, Jane (1982), “America’s Cinderella”, in: Alan Dundes (ed.), Cinderella. A Casebook. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, pp. 294–304. Zipes, Jack (2004), Speaking Out. Storytelling and Creative Drama for Children. New York: Routledge. Zipes, Jack (2006), “Fairy tales and folk tales”, in: Jack Zipes (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Children’s Literature, Volume 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 45–54. Zipes, Jack (2007), When Dreams Came True. Classical Fairy Tales and Their Tradition (2nd edn). New York: Routledge.

Carola Surkamp

On the History of the Canons of English Literature at German Schools

1

Introduction

The master of languages and later Professor John Tompson was convinced that learning a foreign language can best be achieved through encounters with literary texts. In his two-volume anthology English Miscellanies, published in 1737, which was explicitly intended as an anthology for teaching, he selected texts by authors he considered representative of English literature and culture but that were also fitting to the linguistic skill level of his students. Not only German universities, but also German secondary schools have used literary texts in teaching and learning English as a foreign language since the institutionalisation of modern language classes in the 19th century. By selecting set texts, foreign language teaching at school has always contributed to the formation of literary canons. However, forming a canon of literature at school is subject to different objectives and influences than that of literary studies at universities. The latter mainly aims at criteria such as representativeness, originality and tradition. In contrast, literary texts at school are primarily chosen in close connection with the general aims of foreign language teaching. These constantly develop depending on historical, political and institutional conditions as well as on influences from related disciplines (including psychology and pedagogy, linguistics, literary and cultural studies). The changing importance that is generally attributed to literary texts for the teaching and learning of English as a foreign language has also had an influence on the canon issue. Other factors which play a role include psychological insights into brain development and learning, institutional aspects (curricula, assessment, time allotment) and pragmatic reasons (cost of reading material, availability of teaching aids) (see Kaulen 2007: 338). Despite the obvious and important contribution of secondary institutions to questions of canon formation, the history of English literature in German schools remains to be written. There are indeed historically oriented studies

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within foreign language research that deal with the history of foreign language teaching in Germany and in some cases also with the history of the scientific study of the teaching and learning of foreign languages itself (see e. g. Klippel 1994; Doff 2002, 2008). However, in the field of teaching foreign language literature, there have been no comprehensive studies on the history of texts used in English classes – even though, according to Albert Reiner Glaap (2003: 135), no other aspect of teaching literature has caused as much controversy in the past as the selection of texts and debates on the pros and cons of a literary canon. Especially for the understanding of the discipline itself and as an aid for current decisions regarding the choice of literary texts for English classes, the historical perspective on the canon issue is essential. Making statements about the actual literary canon in English classes at German schools proves to be difficult. There are few empirical studies on what has actually been read in English classes or on what is being read. In addition, the validity of these studies is not regarded as very high (see e. g. Ross 2006), for they usually deal with specific regions of Germany and because the quota of returned questionnaires has been low. What is accessible, though, are reading recommendations of different eras in guidelines and curricula, didactic concepts about teaching literature by scholars working in teacher education, teachers’ publications on models of practice as well as the programmes of educational publishers. Therefore, the following considerations will focus on the history of the importance placed on literature in TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) and on the discussion of the question of a literary canon.1

2

From the Beginning of Institutionalised Language Teaching to Modern Language Reforms

Institutionalised, school-centred language teaching had its breakthrough in Germany in the beginning of the 1830s, when modern languages acquired the status of regular school subjects in Gymnasien, Realschulen and höheren Mädchenschulen. Until the turn of the century, foreign language teaching was mainly characterised by two opposing attitudes or developments (cf. Hüllen 1981: 23) which impacted on the notion of the learning of a foreign language as well as on the role of literary texts in foreign language teaching. Influenced by Humboldt’s ideas, languages were on the one hand seen as an expression and medium of 1 This paper is mainly based on an article by Carola Surkamp in German language that was published in Rippl, Gabriele/Winko, Simone (eds.), Handbuch Kanon und Wertung, Stuttgart/ Weimar : Metzler, 2013. For different functions of literature in English classes from a historical perspective, see Laurenz Volkmann in this edition.

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national cultures. This was why they should be subject matter of general education. On the other hand, the economic and technical developments of the industrialisation of Europe led to a changing world of work, a transformation of foreign languages into an important means of communication due to an increasing exchange of commodities and people, and they therefore required language classes at school to prepare students for these new working conditions (cf. ibid). Literary texts entered the discussion at precisely this time of tension between the general educational and the utilitarian orientation of teaching languages. The competitive situation that characterised the relationship between classic and modern languages in the early 19th century led to the claim that modern literature could be used for the same educational purposes as classical texts. The works of Shakespeare in particular should be read in humanist Gymnasien as well as in Realgymnasien in order to impart the same sort of education that neohumanism had intended for the classical languages (cf. Küpper 1982: 81). As Küpper (ibid.: 86) notes, Shakespeare was one of the most widely read writers in English classes of all institutions of higher education in Prussia at the end of the 19th century. The aims as well as the methods of modern literature classes were modelled after the tuition of Latin and Greek in order to prove their educational value. They largely consisted of translations of significant works from English literary history and were thus based on extracurricular canons. The main aims were educational rather than language-based, which resulted in the texts being read in the foreign language but translated and discussed in German. The linguistic focus was placed on formal features, which was meant to lead to a knowledge of words and grammatical rules of the target language and thus to general language knowledge. In the mid-1870s the modern language reform movement finally led to modern language teaching shedding the paradigms of the classics. Formal education and the grammar-translation method, which were criticised for their remoteness from real life, especially with regard to the increasing number of Realschulen, were replaced by a focus on practical mastery of the spoken language and the direct method, which employed the principles of monolingualism and inductive learning. This also had an impact on the use of literary texts in teaching English, because literature now mainly served as material for exercises in teaching speaking and writing (cf. Freese 1981: 50). Textbooks therefore also contained literary texts, albeit mostly short forms such as poems, fables, anecdotes or songs (cf. Klippel 1994: 122; Hellwig 2000: 25). As these found their way in subsequent editions, textbooks played a role in the formation of the canon of English literature at German schools, too. In addition to the purely linguistic goals of the reform movement, however,

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literary reading remained an important part of foreign language teaching (cf. Doff 2002: 445ff. for höhere Mädchenschulen at the end of the 19th century). Its potential was enhanced by the fact that it not only imparted grammatical knowledge but also insights into the cultural achievements of the country of the target language: Niemals darf der Schriftsteller erniedrigt werden zu einer blossen Fundgrube grammatischer Regeln, derselbe ist vielmehr dem Schüler als litterarisches Kunstwerk zur Anschauung zu bringen, seines Inhaltes muss der Schüler bewusst werden.2 (Tendering 1890: 172, quoted in Weller 1994: 76)

An understanding of the most important literary works as well as knowledge of the main eras of the literary and cultural history of the country of the target language are named as general learning objectives for the use of literary texts by curricula of the time (see Weller 1994: 69 and 2001: 155). The curricula recommended working with the textbook first. Advanced learners should use a chrestomathy and then read longer texts in the foreign language, i. e. works by Shakespeare, Oliver Goldsmith, Washington Irving, Walter Scott and Thomas Babington (cf. Klippel 1994: 300ff.). When publishers swamped the market with new school editions of English literary texts in the late 19th century, which in itself was a reaction to increasing student numbers in secondary schools and a growing importance of modern foreign languages, and the overproduction of texts was lamented, the first questions about what should be read in English classes were posed (see Weller 1994: 76, 84). Franz Rudolf Weller therefore considers the problems of choosing texts and the related canon formation in the context of the reform movement as important instances in the consolidation of modern languages as subjects at school (ibid.: 66). The first major discussion of the canon issue for teaching English was fuelled by various activities of the Allgemeiner deutscher Neuphilologen-Verband (General German Association of Modern Philologies), which Herbert Christ (1994: 520) describes as a canonisation from the foundations. One of the key measures was the establishment of the so-called Canon-Committee, whose duties included the examination of existing school editions with the proviso of sorting out texts which were not useful and to establish principles for the selection of texts which could also be taken up by publishers. Discussions took place on a number of Neuphilologentagen (neophilological conferences) between 1894 and 1904 as well as by post: teachers reported on their experiences with certain texts and assessed their suitability for foreign language classes. The 2 Translation: “The writer should never be reduced to a mere repository of grammatical rules, the very same should rather be presented to the students as a literary work of art [sic!], whose content should be made aware to the student.”

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results were recorded in the volumes 1898ff. of the journal Die Neueren Sprachen. The list of recommendations that Curt Reichel concludingly compiled for the teaching of English only contained texts that had received predominantly positive reviews. The long term goal was to produce a general canon and various special canons for the different types of schools, determining texts that could build on each other in content and language throughout the course of students’ schooling. The principles the Canon-Committee established for selecting texts for teaching English were referred to as historical documents of modern language canon formation (Weller 1994: 85). They included technical aspects as well as content and language related aspects: paper, printing, format, etc. had to meet the strict requirements of school hygiene; the content had to be intellectually instructional and had to offer educational insight into the history and culture of the public and private life of the author’s nation; the content also had to introduce the students to the understanding of the finest minds of this nation; finally the texts were not to present anything less than linguistically exemplary (quoted in ibid.: 85f.). These principles reflect a major problem of canon formation which is not only restricted to the time around 1900, but has been repeatedly discussed until present day in the context of selecting suitable texts for teaching English (ibid.: 77). On the one hand, literary texts are meant to present the contemporary life and culture of the country of the target nation in order to give students the opportunity to compare it to their own lives. This leads to selecting texts written by contemporary authors, dealing with current issues and written in a language that has a character suitable for imitation by learners. On the other hand, foreign language learning is also concerned with the traditional educational contents which still have an impact on the present culture, and as a result foreign language learners should also deal with texts written in previous centuries.3 3 Hüllen (1970: 367) describes the dilemma that text selection processes were therefore much more difficult for modern language classes than for the teaching of Greek or Latin: “Der Unterricht in den neueren Sprachen hat nicht die Sicherheit in der Lektüreauswahl, die das Lateinische und Griechische als Schulfächer besitzen. Der deutlichste Grund dafür ist, daß diese alten Sprachen die Stützen ihrer eigenen langen Tradition genießen und ihre Literaturen in weiter, überschaubarer Zeitdistanz vor sich sehen. Abwägung und kritischer Überblick können hier viel eher zu einer Entscheidung führen als in den lebenden Fremdsprachen, deren unabgeschlossene Literaturen den Lehrer vor immer neue Entwicklungen und damit in immer neue ästhetische Entscheidung stellen.” (Translation: Foreign language teaching cannot resort to the certainty in literature selection that the subjects of Latin and Greek can. The most obvious reason for this is the fact that these ancient languages profit from the pillars of their own, long tradition and regard their literatures from a wide, manageable time distance. Consideration and a critical overview can much more easily lead to a decision here than in foreign languages, whose ongoing literature constantly challenges the teacher through new developments and thereby continually new aesthetic decisions.)

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The lists established by the Canon-Committee therefore contained works by Shakespeare, Milton, Scott, Sheridan, Byron and Goldsmith, but likewise included contemporary authors such as Lytton, Dickens, Ewing, Mackarness, Henty and Kipling. For the höhere Mädchenschule they particularly recommended children’s stories – often compiled to topics in chrestomathies – as well as texts written in the vernacular and dialects in order to present the English language in all its diversity and to give a glimpse of the particular British humour, which reveals a relatively modern approach to the canon issue (see Doff 2002: 450). However, the Canon-Committee did not formulate the binding canon for teaching English in secondary schools that had been called for due to the inconsistency of texts used in English classes. Reichel compiled a list of recommendations in alphabetical order. With the end of the modern language reform movement, which Weller (1994: 93) dates to the Neuphilologentag in Cologne 1904, the interest in the Canon-Committee waned; the selection of suitable reading material for the teaching of English was left to the individual teachers.

3

From Culturally Oriented Foreign Language Teaching to the First Years After the Second World War

The canon debate not being resumed in the early 20th century was mainly due to the cultural orientation of foreign language teaching in the 1920s and 30s, which partly emerged from the experience of defeat in the First World War. In contrast to the Realienkunde of the reform movement, the cultural orientation (referred to as Kulturkunde) no longer dealt with transmitting encyclopedic knowledge of history, politics, geography and economy of the target language country. According to the Prussian curriculum of 1925 the main objective of foreign language learning was determining the essential characteristic features of the foreign nation with the intent to use these findings as a contrast for a better understanding and greater appreciation of one’s own culture (cf. Freese 1981: 50; Christ 1994: 520). This also led to a shift in emphasis in foreign language literature classes. Literary texts were still being proposed for the teaching of English, because they were seen as a cultural product revealing the most important traits of a foreign culture. However, according to Tobias Rückler (1969: 60) the question of a reading canon was no longer asked. Firstly, the focus on the foreign culture provided a unitary goal of foreign language teaching that rendered the canon superfluous as a unifying measure. Secondly, the cultural approach often favoured reading less important literary works because they were considered more typical of the foreign nation and more accessible than literary

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masterworks. Freese (1981: 50) also points out that the reading canon for teaching English was abandoned as an idea within the context of the Kulturkunde movement, because the type of reading was more important than the ultimately replaceable text. The suggestions for texts in the Prussian guidelines therefore presented no canon, but rather a list of texts of different genres and quality (see the list in Rülcker 1969: 60). During the time of National Socialism, the cultural approaches described supported the racist ideology of the regime, for they reduced the character of a people to a few traits and had a stereotyping effect. Although the curricula of 1938 did not provide an obligatory literary canon for teaching English, they set general criteria for the reading selection. Thus, texts were selected which were characteristic of the national character, the ‘Artverwandtschaft’ or the otherness of the English people; which revealed the great historical and cultural achievements of foreign leader personalities (hence the rejection of the so-called ‘purely aesthetic literary writings’); or which showed the current attitude of the foreign nation to the German people (see Lehberger 1986: 94). The curricula therefore mainly recommended texts from the 19th and 20th century, including speeches of English and American statesmen and biographical prose. Since foreign language teaching held no great importance in the educational paradigms of National Socialism compared to physical training and character training (ibid.: 63), neophilologists suggested texts that transcended the framework of the curricula and tried to integrate English language teaching into the educational mandate of the National Socialists and thereby legitimate their subject (ibid.: 107). Much more detailed than the curricula was the list of suggestions for modern language specific texts and contents of the NSLB, the National Socialist Teachers’ Association, that gained influence over the content of English classes (ibid.: 112). The Rassenfrage – the issue of race – was meant to be dealt with through texts by Stoddard, Freeman and Grant as well as Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice; Volkskunde – study of national character – should be taught on the basis of Galsworthy’s Forsyte Family and Scott’s Ivanhoe; ‘leadership’, ‘valour’ and ‘character’ should be taught through Drinkwater’s Oliver Cromwell, Kingsley’s Westward Ho!, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, and Sherriff ’s Journey’s End; and ‘community spirit’ and ‘social thinking’ should be promoted with Galsworthy’s Strife. Shaw, Wells and Kipling were rejected for political-ideological reasons for their hostility towards German culture. The official Nazi ‘black lists’ and scientific indices for the ‘cleansing’ of libraries in schools and universities also had an impact on the choice of reading in English classes (ibid.: 116ff.): individual titles by Dreiser (due to pro-Semitic tendencies), Hemingway (pacifist tendencies), Lawrence (pornography) and O’Flaherty (pro-Soviet tendencies) as well as Jewish writers such as Disraeli, Spender, Sassoon, Stein, Gold, Maltz and Odets were banned amongst others.

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After 1945 foreign language teaching saw a shift from the Kulturkunde movement and a distancing from its ideological implications. The culturally legitimised selection of reading was likewise rejected. Under the additional influence of the text-centred New Criticism that was interested in objective literary studies, literary texts were taught separately from their historical and cultural context in English classes up to the 1960s. The focus was on work-immanent interpretation methods such as close reading, with an emphasis on the formal elements of literary texts. Non-aesthetic criteria were considered as irrelevant regarding the text selection (cf. Freese 1981: 48). Instead of the minor authors often recommended within the previous Kulturkunde paradigm, claims were made for dealing with aesthetically pleasing high literature (cf. Küpper 1982: 144). However, the selection of suitable texts was difficult in the first decade after the war. Many school issues were no longer palpable, and a seemingly unmanageable variety of new releases from the UK and the USA flooded the market. Hence a new canon debate took place in the late 1950s, which was triggered by an essay by August Schröder (1959) published in the journal Die Neueren Sprachen and which was responded to by scholars working in the field of TEFL (all texts are printed in Flechsig 1970). The debate was sparked by the selection criteria: Schröder criticised the colloquial style of many contemporary texts and placed more emphasis on the humanist value of texts. Helmut Schrey dismissed ethical values that caused texts by e. g. Poe, Twain, James, and Faulkner to be rejected. Instead he stipulated literary selection criteria such as unity, convincibility, and truth of texts (in Flechsig 1970: 352). A special situation for the teaching of English emerged in schools in the GDR (see Enter/Lutz 1996; Hellwig 2000: 67ff.). Literary works from Britain and the USA were unobtainable, apart from classics by Shakespeare or Dickens. Authors such as Huxley and Orwell could not be read for ideological reasons. Hellwig (ibid.: 75) states that literature in the foreign language was neglected in the socialistically regulated system of the GDR due to the destabilising and potentially subversive effects of its thematic and perspectival indeterminacy and its emphasis on subjectivity and individuality. Additionally, Russian was the first foreign language, which had an impact on the use of literary texts in English classes because literary reading was hardly possible in Russian and thus not allowed in the second foreign language either (Enter/Lutz 1996: 362). Literary work other than interpreting poems was not anchored in the curriculum (ibid.: 359).

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Literary Texts in Communicative and Intercultural Language Teaching

In the 1960s and 70s, the canon issue moved into the background once more. A major reason was the curricular movement, which rather stressed the learning goals to be achieved in foreign language teaching than matters of content. Through the influence of the audio-lingual method from the U.S. those goals were primarily linguistic, so that the debate about authors and texts only took place indirectly : the literary text itself had no value, it was only relevant in terms of achieving a particular learning objective (see Christ 1994). In addition, written language and reading skills were relegated through the emphasis on the spoken language, particularly regarding the teaching of English in Haupt- and Realschulen (lower secondary schools) (see Doff 2008: 295). A prevalent attitude was also that the study of literary texts and their very special registers impede the acquisition of a foreign language (Glaap 2001: 37), so that contemporary texts were primarily read. In the communicative language teaching of the 1970s and 1980s, which focused on the pragmatic use of the foreign language in specific conversational situations, the study of literary texts was largely supplanted into upper secondary school. Language learning in lower secondary was dominated by the use of textbooks, which hardly contained any literary texts other than a few songs, poems or cartoons (see Hellwig 2000: 66f.). Literary texts only regained importance when research on reading, the emerging Reader Response Criticism, and a new concept of understanding improved their status in English teaching from the 1980s onwards. After Hans Robert Jauss and Wolfgang Iser, reading was no longer considered a passive act of extracting information, but a creative act of making meaning. Based on the cognitive and emotional meaning making processes of readers, literature classes were conceptualised as a place for subjective, individual encounters with texts (cf. Bredella 1980). This also had an impact on the choice of texts, since not the text but the reader was placed in focus. Therefore literary texts were selected that addressed readers in their wholeness as perceptive, emotional, imaginative, and ethical beings, that motivated them to ingest the strange, that encouraged them to integrate different aspects of their personalities and that inspired their imagination and power of judgment (ibid.: 216f.). Some scholars, however, warned against an exclusive focus on the learner in choosing literary texts, as this runs the risk of total randomness (Freese 1981: 54). Nor should the text selection be purely based on timeless value criteria, as this would at best conserve out-dated canons. Instead, Freese (ibid.), amongst others, suggested an orientation towards instrumental values whilst always

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taking the genesis and history of the reception of a text into account. In the early 1980s, he developed a heuristic grid in the form of a questionnaire compiling all aspects to be considered when selecting texts for teaching English (ibid.: 66ff.). In the 1990s, the field of teaching literature was dominated by the new key objective of intercultural learning. Since foreign literature offers students the opportunity to learn about the otherness of foreign models of reality, to engage in foreign perspectives and, consequently, to also reflect on the limitation of one’s own world view, it gained special importance in the context of the hermeneutically oriented teaching of Fremdverstehen (see Bredella et al. 2000). The main concern of didactic discussions regarding intercultural literature classes was the methodological approach rather than the selection of texts, since the main aim of dealing with literary texts was to stimulate students to change perspectives. The guidelines and curricula of the 1990s gave recommendations for literary reading in English classes. Reading British and American literature in upper secondary was called for in all federal states, the only mandatory reading, however, was Shakespeare in advanced English classes. All other text choices were left to teachers – as long as they were within the perimeters of the set topics for each semester. Although this practice allowed great freedom in the selection of texts, it was viewed as problematic. For one, there were no explanations of the recommended texts so that they were seen as prescriptive and often used in the classroom in an unreflected way (Fernengel 2003: 409). Secondly, the existence of a so-called secret canon was criticised. It manifested itself in both the repertoire of textbook publishers as well as in the choice of literary works such as Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, Golding’s Lord of the Flies, Orwell’s Animal Farm, Huxley’s Brave New World, Miller’s Death of a Salesman or Russell’s Educating Rita, which have been and still are constant subject matters of English classes as various studies have shown (see Schreyer 1978; Beck, 1995; Heinen/ Nünning 1999). According to Freese (1981: 68) a significant factor in the establishment of this secret canon was the philological training of English teachers and the canon of English literature at German universities, which led to the hits of the university becoming the bestsellers of schools with an appropriate delay (cf. ibid.). Since the early 1990s a greater range of variation in the choice of texts for English classes has been advocated (see e. g. Nünning 1989; Glaap 1990) – not least because students’ often lamented lack of motivation for literary reading (and the resulting lack of reading skills in the foreign language) has often been associated with the chosen texts. Following approaches in literary and cultural studies – especially British Cultural Studies that criticised the mechanisms of exclusion and thus the one-sidedness of some literary histories among other things – it was demanded that the diachronic, geographic and cultural diversity

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of English-speaking countries was considered in revising the canon of foreign language teaching (cf. Nünning/Surkamp 2006). Subcultural and postcolonial literatures as well as texts by ethnic minorities and by female writers should henceforth be increasingly used in English classes. This development shows that various social processes and initiatives that had taken place in contexts outside of school since the late 1960s also affected the teaching of English in German schools, such as the Civil Rights Movement in the United States, which triggered fierce discussions about the functions and contents of the ‘classic’ canon, or the attempts of politically left-wing West German English departments that, influenced by the Birmingham Centre for Cultural Studies, tried to revise the established canon ‘from below’ (see Enter/Lutz 1996: 363).

5

The Canon Issue in Times of Competence Orientation

Since the early 2000s the development towards an extension of the school canon has been slowed again by the introduction of the Zentralabitur (the centralised A-levels), the shortening of upper secondary education from thirteen to twelve years, and the orientation of English classes to standards of learning. By determining a binding canon of texts for the preparation and completion of the final exams, amongst those Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Auster’s Moon Palace and Boyle’s The Tortilla Curtain, neither the teachers and students nor scholars suggest what is to be read, but the federal Ministries of Culture. It is problematic that the selection committees usually remain anonymous and that the reasons for the text selection are not made transparent. Another form of re-canonisation is currently arising from the experience of competence orientation in today’s foreign language teaching. Since the establishment of the Common European Framework of Reference for Languages and national education standards, literary texts again run the risk of being marginalised in foreign language teaching. Competence orientation in the name of educational standards is geared towards a verifiability and measurability of students’ school performance. The difference between reading to obtain information from a text, as it mostly prevails in reading non-fiction, and literary reading, which includes affective, motivational and attitudinal components that are difficult to measure, is, however, not being considered. In addition, the educational standards reduce the concept of communicative competence to the demands of everyday communicative situations, which leaves little space for literary reading (cf. Surkamp 2012). One response to this situation is a revived interest in the traditional educational mandate of the Gymnasium and consequently a new turn towards a literary canon. Complaints include the Ent-

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ästhetisierung, Deliteralisierung and Entphilologisierung (cf. Fehrmanns 2001: 26) – the de-aestheticisation, de-literalisation and de-philologisation – of foreign language literature classes. A solution is seen in the orientation towards criteria taken from literary studies: Warum nicht statt Schülerbezogenheit, Aktualität und Alltagsrelevanz (von hier aus ist der Weg zur Beliebigkeit, zur Banalität und zur Infantilität leider nicht weit) gerade Außergewöhnlichkeit, originality und strangeness (nicht nur, aber auch im interkulturellen Sinn der Richtlinien und Lehrpläne) im Sinne Blooms zur inhaltlichen Richtschnur für die Selektion von Texten zur unterrichtlichen Behandlung machen?4 (ibd.: 27)

Fehrmann argues that only reading the classics leads to the formation of central cultural techniques and that the willingness to work hard in tackling difficult texts in the foreign language is important for the training of reading skills and the independent appropriation of texts (cf. ibid.). Concerning the changing status of the canon issue within the history of foreign language teaching he also points out that only the corrective of tradition could counteract the risk of politicisation and instrumentalisation of text selections (cf. ibid.: 21). However, another take on the canon issue is equally relevant for today’s competence orientation. As early as in the 1980s Freese voiced the claim that the question of why a literary text should be read should itself be made a subject of English classes. The students were meant to practice the method of assessing a text and experience the problems it entailed with specific examples (cf. Freese 1981: 55). The historical and socio-cultural relativity and changeability of value judgments can be illustrated with the example of a well-known text for English classes: Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye (1951) was classified as unsuitable for youths in the United States because of its language and themes, and at the end of the 1950s it was banned in both Australia and South Africa. In English classes at German schools, however, it became one of the most widely used texts (cf. Freese 1981: 53f.). Only when the mechanisms of literary canonisation are reflected upon and a questioning attitude towards the canon becomes a matter of course in literature classes can a competency be formed that should be an integral part of foreign language classes but has so far been left unconsidered, i. e. that competence being Wertungskompetenz – the competence to evaluate and judge a literary text (see ibid.: 75).

4 Translation: “Why should we not make originality and strangeness (not only, but also in the intercultural sense of the guidelines and curricula) in the sense of Bloom the content criteria for the selection of literary texts instead of student-centredness, actuality and relevance (from where it is unfortunately only a small step to randomness, banality and infantility)?”

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269

Final Considerations

The historical overview of discussions on a canon of English literary texts for German schools illustrates amongst other things the close interrelation of the two institutions, school and university. The texts teacher students read at university often become subjects of English classes. Conversely, what students read at school constitutes to a large extent the image they have of English-speaking countries and cultures. This is what students then contribute to literary and cultural studies courses at university. Therefore it is not only reasonable to ask university students about their pre-knowledge but also to explicitly address it and to reveal the processes of canon formation as well as their influences and historical development in meta-discussions about the canon. This is an essential prerequisite to enable future English teachers to competently, i. e. reflectedly, choose and use literary texts in teaching English.

Works Cited Beck, Rudolf (1995), “Macbeth, Animal Farm und kein Ende! Was haben Studienanfänger in der Anglistik gelesen?” Neusprachliche Mitteilungen 48, pp. 31–38. Bredella, Lothar (1980), Das Verstehen literarischer Texte. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Bredella, Lothar et al. (eds.) (2000), Wie ist Fremdverstehen lehr- und lernbar? Tübingen: Narr. Christ, Herbert (1994), “Literatur im Fremdsprachenunterricht – oder : Wie fremd darf Literatur für den Fremdsprachenlerner sein?”, in: Krauss, Henning (ed.), Offene Gefüge: Literatursystem und Lebenswirklichkeit. Tübingen: Narr, pp. 517–529. Doff, Sabine (2002), Englischlernen zwischen Tradition und Innovation: Fremdsprachenunterricht für Mädchen im 19. Jahrhundert. München: Langenscheidt-Longman. Doff, Sabine (2008), Englischdidaktik in der BRD 1949–1989. München: Langenscheidt. Enter, Hans/Lutz, Hartmut (1996), “Nordamerikanische Literatur im Englischunterricht an deutschen Schulen”, in: Fremdsprachenunterricht 40/49, pp. 359–371. Fehrmann, Georg/Klein, Erwin (eds.) (2001), Literarischer Kanon und Fremdsprachenunterricht. Bonn: Romanistischer Verlag. Fehrmann, Georg (2001), “‘Verschiedene Varianten des Wolfmotivs’: Kanondiskussion und Textauswahl in der Sekundarstufe II – ein Problemaufriss”, in: Fehrmann/Klein 2001, pp. 13–34. Fernengel, Astrid (2003), “Lektüreauswahl und ihre Kriterien”, in: Fremdsprachenunterricht 6, pp. 409–413. Flechsig, Karl-Heinz (ed.) (1970), Neusprachlicher Unterricht II. Weinheim: Beltz. Freese, Peter (1981), “‘Kanonbildung’ und ‘Wertungskompetenz’: Zu den Problemen der Textauswahl für den fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht”, in: Freese, Peter/Hermes,

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Liesel (eds.), Der Roman im Englischunterricht der Sekundarstufe II. Paderborn: Schöningh, pp. 47–84. Glaap, Albert-Reiner (1990), “Perspektiven der Neuorientierung und Kanonbildung für den Englischunterricht.” In: Glaap, Albert-Reiner (ed.), Anglistik heute: Perspektiven für die Lehrerfortbildung. Frankfurt a.M.: Scriptor, pp. 7–20. Glaap, Albert-Reiner (2001). “Literatur im Fremdsprachenunterricht: Eine alte Frage neu gestellt.” In: Fehrmann/Klein 2001, pp. 35–47. Glaap, Albert-Reiner (42003), “Literarisches Curriculum”, in: Bausch, Karl-Richard/ Christ, Herbert/Krumm, Hans-Jürgen (eds.), Handbuch Fremdsprachenunterricht. Tübingen/Basel: Francke, pp. 133–138. Heinen, Sandra/Nünning, Ansgar (1999), “The Same Procedure as Last Year? – The Same Procedure as Every Year! Fakten, Hitlisten und Überlegungen zu einer Umfrage zur englischsprachigen Schullektüre”, in: Fremdsprachenunterricht 52/6, pp. 459–463. Hellwig, Karlheinz (2000), Anfänge englischen Literaturunterrichts. Entwicklung, Grundlagen, Praxis. Frankfurt a.M. et al.: Lang. Hüllen, Werner (1970), “Sprachunterricht – Sachunterricht – Literaturunterricht. Ein Beitrag zur Diskussion um die englische Lektüre in der Oberstufe”, in: Flechsig 1970, pp. 367–379. Hüllen, Werner (1981), “Dauer und Wechsel in 100 Jahren Fremdsprachenunterricht”, in: Zapp, Franz Josef et al. (eds.), Kommunikation in Europa: Probleme der Fremdsprachendidaktik in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Frankfurt a.M. et al.: Diesterweg, pp. 20–32. Kaulen, Heinrich (2007), “Literaturunterricht an Schulen und Hochschulen,” in: Anz, Thomas (ed.), Handbuch Literaturwissenschaft. Bd. 1: Gegenstände und Grundbegriffe. Stuttgart/Weimar : Metzler, pp. 337–344. Klippel, Friederike (1994), Englischlernen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert: Die Geschichte der Lehrbücher und Unterrichtsmethoden. Münster : Nodus. Küpper, Reiner (1982), Shakespeare im Unterricht: Geschichte, Konzeptionen, Tendenzen. Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann. Lehberger, Reiner (1986), Englischunterricht im Nationalsozialismus. Tübingen: Stauffenburg. Nünning, Ansgar (1989), “Schülerzentrierter Fremdsprachenunterricht und das Problem der Textauswahl: Überlegungen und Vorschläge zu einer Erweiterung des Lektürekanons im Englischunterricht der Oberstufe”, in: Die Neueren Sprachen 88/6, pp. 606–619. Nünning, Ansgar/Surkamp, Carola (2006), “Kanonfrage und Textauswahl im fremdsprachlichen Literaturunterricht”, in: Jung, Udo (ed.), Praktische Handreichung für Fremdsprachenlehrer. 4th edition. Frankfurt: Lang, pp. 457–463. Ross, Ingrid (2006), “Äpfel und Birnen oder über die Kunst des Abfragens von Literatur: Eine Reaktion auf den Beitrag von Christoph M. Peters und Friedrich-K. Unterweg: ‘Nichts Neues zu vermelden’? …”, in: Neusprachliche Mitteilungen 59/1, pp. 49–52. Rülcker, Tobias (1969), Der Neusprachenunterricht an höheren Schulen: Zur Geschichte und Kritik seiner Didaktik und Methodik. Frankfurt a.M.: Diesterweg. Schreyer, Rüdiger (1978), “Englische Oberstufenlektüre in Nordrhein-Westfalen”, in: Neusprachliche Mitteilungen aus Wissenschaft und Praxis 31/2, pp. 82–90.

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Surkamp, Carola (2012), “Literarische Texte im kompetenzorientierten Fremdsprachenunterricht”, in: Hallet, Wolfgang/Krämer, Ulrich (eds.), Kompetenzaufgaben im Englischunterricht: Grundlagen und Unterrichtsbeispiele. Seelze-Velber : KallmeyerKlett, pp. 77–90. Weller, Franz Rudolf (1994), “Die ‘Kanonfrage’: Ein Dauerthema im ersten Jahrzehnt (1893–1903) der Neueren Sprachen”, in: Die Neueren Sprachen 93/1, pp. 66–102. Weller, Franz Rudolf (2001). “Wozu ‘Schulausgaben’ im Fremdsprachenunterricht? Überlegungen aus textdidaktischer Sicht.” In: Fehrmann/Klein 2001, pp. 155–176.

Thomas Kullmann

Canon Formation in English Literature Studies: A Comparison of Britain and Germany

1

Books Studied and Books Read: Two Lists

One of the main features of the “Institution of Literature” as an academic discipline is certainly the establishment of a canon of literary texts studied and taught. To scholars and students it was certainly convenient to agree on a list of texts which could be shared with other academic readers, and become a basis for scholarship and debate.1 In establishing canons of literary texts scholars of English Literature obviously followed the lead of Classical Philologists who had long made use of canons of Greek and Latin texts read at schools and universities. The texts which are part of university syllabuses may or may not correspond to canons which consist of works considered to be particularly valuable in a certain cultural environment at a given historical point of time.2 It is particularly important to establish this distinction as the motives for selecting texts to be studied at academic institutions can be various, and do not usually coincide, for example. with the considerations which motivate teachers or school authorities to prescribe literary texts to be read at school. It is in in the context of the latter institution (rather than academia) that a canon of works of literature, as Renate v. Heydebrand and Simone Winko contend (316f.), can be expected to meet the requirements of the cultural elite. Referring to the U.S. in the 1990s John Guillory contends that “on the primary levels of the educational system […] the content of the university curriculum is simply irrelevant” (19). When speaking of “canons” in the present article, I am referring to commonalities of university syllabuses rather than to other cultural sites which ‘institutionalize’ literature. In academic contexts the motives for selecting texts 1 It is obvious that the present article examines canons as a “historical phenomenon” from a “diachronic point of view”; cf. on the systematics of canon debate and canon research Herrmann, esp. 25, 27. 2 On the distinctions between canon and syllabus cf. Guillory 30–31.

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seem to oscillate between the criteria of ‘value’ and ‘representation’.3 While sometimes texts were selected because of the literary and/or moral values ascribed to them,4 other selections were obviously made with the aim of providing a representative survey of the literary output of a nation or language community in a certain historical period. Scholars interested in literary or cultural history have usually emphasized the representative quality of texts studied; in the wake of the “cultural turn” this point of view has certainly gained even more prominence. The aim of the present article is twofold: First, I propose to trace some of the cultural processes which led to the formation of a canon of English literary texts, when, in the first decades of the twentieth century, English Literature emerged as a serious academic subject in Britain, and how this canon developed in the course of the twentieth century. Second, I should like to take a look at Germany (with a side-glance at France), and compare the canons of English literary texts used at German universities with those found in British academia. In doing so I should like to critically examine these canons as to the claims of both “representativity” and “literary value”. To allow for a detailed investigation, I concentrate on British prose published between 1800 and 1918. As a starting-point of my enquiry I should like to refer to the list of books found in a students’ guide published in 1995, by Christa Jansohn, Dieter Mehl and Hans Bungert: Was sollen Anglisten und Amerikanisten lesen?. As the authors point out in their introduction, their lists are based on a comparison of more than thirty reading lists of English departments (Jansohn, Mehl, and Bungert 10).5 Some of the books listed are awarded a star, as “empfehlenswert” (‘recommendable’), others are given two stars, as “besonders empfehlenswert” (‘particularly recommendable’) (Jansohn, Mehl, and Bungert 11). The following prose works of the period from 1800 to 1918 are awarded two stars by Jansohn and Mehl, the two authors responsible for the section on British literature (Jansohn, Mehl, and Bungert 62–85): Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813), Mansfield Park (1814), Emma (1816) Charlotte Bront[, Jane Eyre (1847) Emily Bront[, Wuthering Heights (1847) 3 With regard to German literature studies, Simone Winko (1996) obviously privileges the criterion of “value”. On the issue of ‘representation in the canon’ in the context of current American debates cf. Guillory 3–10; concerning present-day Britain cf. the proposal of “a canon that can find room for oppositional voices, generate difference, debate and even conflict” made by Aijaz Ahmed and discussed by Alison Donnell 191–192. 4 On the various ways of evaluating literature and on the criteria used in evalutation processes cf. von Heydebrand/ Winko, e. g. 131, Pütz 20–31. 5 These were obviously English departments at German Universities; the books listed, however, closely correspond to those read at British universities, as outlined below.

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W. M. Thackeray, Vanity Fair (1848) Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853), Hard Times (1854) Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South (1855) George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860), Middlemarch (1872) Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Ambassadors (1903) Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), Jude the Obscure (1896) Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900) D. H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers (1913) James Joyce, Dubliners (1914)

Even though these books are considered to be those ‘which every well-educated English or American person has read’ (Jansohn, Mehl, and Bungert 10), they were clearly not those which attracted the largest readership in the decades following their publication. Book-lovers who rummage the shelves and piles of old books in British second-hand bookshops might actually search for the books listed in vain. They would be far more likely to come across copies of the following books:6 Sir Walter Scott, e. g. Ivanhoe (1819) R. W. Barham, The Ingoldsby Legends (1840) Alexander William Kinglake. Eothen (1844) Douglas Jerrold, Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures (1846) George Borrow, Lavengro (1851), The Romany Rye (1857) Charlotte Yonge, e. g. The Heir of Redclyffe (1853) Marie Louisa Charlesworth, Ministering Children (1854) Charles Kingsley, Westward Ho! (1855) Dinah Maria Craik, John Halifax, Gentleman (1856) Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth (1861) Mrs. Henry Wood, East Lynne (1861) R. M. Ballantyne, e. g. The Dog Crusoe (1861) Hesba Stretton, Jessica’s First Prayer (1867) R. D. Blackmore, Lorna Doone (1869) L. T. Meade, e. g. The Palace Beautiful (1886) Marie Corelli, e. g. Thelma (1887) Rudyard Kipling, e. g. The Light that Failed (1890) Mary Webb, e. g. Gone to Earth (1917)

Many copies of the books on this list (which, of course, is not exhaustive) had obviously been preserved in private households for several generations, so it seems safe to assume that they were nineteenth-century and early twentiethcentury favourites. While there may be many reasons to account for the presence 6 The list is based on the present author’s recollections about forays through second-hand bookshops in Britain, made chiefly in the years 1995 to 2002.

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of these books in second-hand bookshops, I would like to suggest that these bookshops provide some kind of archaeological evidence as to what was actually read in the years in which they were published and printed. My subjective impression of the frequency of these books in second-hand bookshops can actually be substantiated by referring to the number of copies currently offered on the online market: Consulting the website www.bookfinder.com, which provides access to the offers of numerous online booksellers, I tried to make a count of the number of pre-1930 copies currently available of each of the books listed. The limit of 1930 was chosen because it can be assumed that by that date the establishment of English Literature courses at university level and the formation of a canon had begun to make their impact felt on the book market.7 Evidently, it is not always possible to determine the number of copies available accurately, as online listings do not always carry a publication date, so that in some cases a post-1930 book may have been counted as pre-1930 and vice versa. Some double or multiple listings of the same copy may also have gone undetected. The advantage of this approach, however, lies in the fact that the popularity of books can be measured by exact data which make comparisons possible. The results (established in February, 2013) are as follows: Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe (1819) R. W. Barham, The Ingoldsby Legends (1840) Alexander William Kinglake. Eothen (1844) Douglas Jerrold, Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures (1846) George Borrow, Lavengro (1851), The Romany Rye (1857) Charlotte Yonge, The Heir of Redclyffe (1853) Marie Louisa Charlesworth, Ministering Children (1854) Charles Kingsley, Westward Ho! (1855) Dinah Maria Craik, John Halifax, Gentleman (1856) Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth (1861) Mrs. Henry Wood, East Lynne (1861) R. M. Ballantyne, The Dog Crusoe (1861) Hesba Stretton, Jessica’s First Prayer (1867) R. D. Blackmore, Lorna Doone (1869) L. T. Meade, The Palace Beautiful (1886) Marie Corelli, Thelma (1887) Rudyard Kipling, The Light that Failed (1890) Mary Webb, Gone to Earth (1917)

80 copies 233 98 140 193 153 111 135 246 227 131 113 138 87 95 81 115 208 398

7 While pre-1930 copies of e. g. Wuthering Heights and Lord Jim are scarce, they proliferate from 1930 onwards. From 1930 to 1933 at least three new editions of Wuthering Heights were published; around 15 copies of these editions are currently available on the online market, as opposed to the 5 copies with publication dates from 1847 to 1929. An examination of the copies available of Lord Jim and Jane Austen’s novels yields similar results. 8 There is a large number of further copies of Gone to Earth, printed in 1932, 1933 and 1935. The

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The numbers quoted may be compared to the numbers of available pre-1930 copies of the books on the Jansohn/Mehl list: Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813), Mansfield Park (1814), Emma (1816) Charlotte Bront[, Jane Eyre (1847) Emily Bront[, Wuthering Heights (1847) W. M. Thackeray, Vanity Fair (1848) Charles Dickens, Bleak House (1853), Hard Times (1854) Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South (1855) George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (1860), Middlemarch (1872) Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Ambassadors (1903) Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), Jude the Obscure (1896) Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900) D. H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers (1913) James Joyce, Dubliners (1914)

16 8 14 15 5 67 98 70 1 66 31 42 11 14 39 17 34 20 17 13

The numbers of copies available of best-sellers like Lavengro and John Halifax, Gentleman might even be larger, as the low prices these books may fetch hardly make listing them on the internet worthwhile to booksellers. Conversely, we can assume that all (or nearly all) of the old copies of the ‘canon’ books available are actually listed, as many book lovers are prepared to pay high prices for them; indeed, a first edition of any Jane Austen novel is worth a fortune. Many of the copies available of Vanity Fair, Bleak House and Hard Times are part of sets of Thackeray’s and Dickens’s complete works, testifying to a ‘canonisation’ of the two authors which already took place in the nineteenth century. The Mill on the Floss obviously owes its relative popularity to its being a set text on the Continent, issued for readers who were not native speakers of English; many of the copies available are of the Tauchnitz edition of the novel (as with Vanity Fair); others were school texts offered to learners of English. The comparison of numbers of second-hand copies available on the online market corroborates my impression that the books which belong to the canon were obviously not those which were read most. To some extent, Charles Dickens may be considered an exception to this rule, but the figures appear to indicate that he was by no means the most popular author of his age, as some literary scholars obviously assume. The conclusion seems to be inevitable that the number of early copies available more than doubles that of Sons and Lovers, a book which, unlike Gone to Earth, became part of the canon.

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Jansohn/Mehl list, the items of which have often been described as ‘the mainstream’ of English literature, only constitutes a tiny fragment of nineteenthcentury literary life, and by no means a representative one. Neither does this list clearly fit the criterion of ‘value’. It would be too easy to qualify the Jansohn/Mehl list as ‘highbrow’ and the second list as ‘trash’. The books by Jerrold, Borrow, Kingsley, Yonge and Stretton have been considered intensely fascinating by the few scholars who read them; however, they do not correspond to what we have been taught to believe nineteenth-century British literature was like; most of them simply do not fit into established categories, such as “novel of manners”, “realism”, “naturalism” and “modernism”. John Halifax, Gentleman and East Lynne could certainly be called ‘realistic’. They do not meet, however, the expectations we have been taught to have with regard realistic novels as their ‘messages’ do not amount to social criticism in the sense of Dickens or George Eliot. Charlotte Yonge’s novels are examples of a psychological realism of amazing complexity, which however, have not been taken seriously by literary scholars, perhaps because of their religious undercurrents (as outlined below). Lorna Doone defies scholars’ attempts at classification, as large parts of it are a realistic portrayal of country life, set, however, in the seventeenth century and containing romantic encounters with a gang of robbers ensconced in a Devonshire valley. The mock-medievalism of The Ingoldsby Legends is probably too complex to be digested and enjoyed by scholars and students who have not had the historic socialisation common to nineteenthcentury middle-class readers. Kinglake’s Eothen can be considered a masterpiece of a genre which has all but been obliterated from literary consciousness: travel accounts. To scholars trained to analyse narrative techniques and points of view, Douglas Jerrold’s comic masterpiece, Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures, is probably too bewildering, being the speeches of the late wife of a gentleman, imagined by him while trying to fall asleep. George Borrow’s subtle mixture of fact and fiction in his novelistic accounts of gipsy life exercised an enormous imaginative appeal to nineteenth-century readers but cannot be placed into any of the generic categories literary scholars have since established. Kingsley’s Westward Ho! combines the form of historical novel with that of a boyish story of adventure in South America, and a sort of English patriotism unpalatable after 1918. As Ministering Children and Jessica’s First Prayer9 evidently preach Christianity they are usually not even glanced at by literary scholars – who thus miss out on the literary subtleties of the two books as well as the revolutionary reinterpretations of Christian morals offered by the two authors. Mary Webb’s novels, apart from providing detailed pictures of traditional Welsh or Shropshire 9 As Gillian Avery notes, one and a half million copies of Jessica’s First Prayer were sold, so it may have been the best-selling narrative of the nineteenth century ; Avery 115.

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country life, convey profound analyses of human instincts, sexual and otherwise, which can only be compared to those found in D. H. Lawrence’s books. The only two authors on the list who, I think, can legitimately be classified as ‘trashy’ are L. T. Meade and Marie Corelli,10 but if so, the trash they produced is enormously interesting, liable to disturb quite a few received assumptions about the course of cultural history. L. T. Meade who from 1877 to her death in 1913 produced more than 200 novels, can probably be said to have written the first girls’ school story (AWorld of Girls, 1886) and the first university novel told from a woman student’s point of view (A Sweet Girl Graduate, 1891). The messages conveyed by Marie Corelli’s novels may be priggish and opinionated, but their plots boldly take the reader through different countries, cultures and ages, sometimes mixing fantasy with realism, and often containing allusions and references to the author Corelli idolised: William Shakespeare.

2

The Establishment of the English Literature canon in Britain

It is obvious that the Jansohn/Mehl canon of texts cannot just have been based on the categories of ‘literary merit’ and, even less, ‘cultural significance’. But what were the cultural reasons which led its establishment? While the authors and books studied at British universities today do not differ much from those studied in Germany, I propose to investigate the processes of canon formation in Britain and Germany separately, as different cultural forces may have been at work. It was in the middle of the nineteenth century that English Literature became an academic subject at British Universities. The universities of London, Manchester, Glasgow and Edinburgh appointed professors of English and instituted B.A. and M.A. courses in the 1850s and 1860s (Palmer 171–78).11 Oxford and Cambridge followed suit some decades later. At Oxford there was a debate on whether English studies should focus on ‘philology’, i. e. historical linguistics, or modern English literature divested from philology. The proponents of the latter option focused on establishing continuities from ancient thought and modes of expression to modern English literature (cf. Palmer 66–103). The professor selected by Oxford University to fill the position of Professor of English Language and Literature in 1886 belonged to the philological school: Arthur Sampson Napier, then Professor Extraordinary at the University of Göttingen (Palmer 10 Marie Corelli, together with other authors of “popular fiction”, is chastised by Q. D. Leavis in Fiction and the Reading Public for “bad writing, false sentiment, sheer silliness and a preposterous narrative”, but admired for her “emotional drive and luxuriant vitality”, Q. D. Leavis, Fiction and the Reading Public 62–63. 11 On courses of rhetoric which included English Literature, taught at Scottish universities in the 18th century, see Palmer 171–74.

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79–80). Napier, however, was generous enough to help establish another chair devoted to English Literature in 1904, whose first incumbent was Walter Raleigh (Palmer, e. g. 128). While a “school of English” was established in 1894, it was not before the end of World War I that the subject of English attracted considerable student interest (Palmer 136–150), as at Cambridge, where, under the auspices of I. A. Richards and E. M. W. Tillyard, a concentration on English Literature as a one-subject course of studies was first attempted (Palmer 151–54). The method of what was called “practical criticism” established at Cambridge privileged close and intensive reading, which appeared to be particularly rewarding when applied to texts such as Metaphysical Poetry, rediscovered by Herbert Grierson and T. S. Eliot, and the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, discovered in manuscript form in 1918 (cf. Palmer 154–55). Concerning the texts studied the Universities obviously did not establish canons from scratch but modified canons which had been established in the second half of the nineteenth century, partly for the purposes of adult education, i. e. of attempts at improving the minds of those who did not have the chance to obtain a university training (see Baldick, esp. 18–69); as D. J. Palmer puts it, “the study of English literature had developed in England as the poor man’s Classics” (Palmer 78, cf. Baldick 62–64). Within this conception the novel initially did not count for much. The texts recommended, e. g. in William Spalding’s History of English Literature of 1853 and Thomas Arnold’s Manual of English Literature of 1862, were the plays by Shakespeare as well as epic and lyric poetry. As far as prose was mentioned, the focus lay on non-fictional texts, carefully divided by Thomas Arnold into oratory (i. e. public and parliamentary speeches and pamphlets), history, theology and philosophy (Arnold 340). The novels mentioned by Spalding and Arnold, however, already bear evidence to the processes of canon formation: The prime (post-1800) novelist discussed in the History and the Manual is Sir Walter Scott (Spalding 383–84; Arnold 220–23, 343–45),12 In connection with Scott Spalding briefly mentions William Godwin, Jane Austen, Jane Porter and Maria Edgeworth (383). In the chapter on post-1830 literature Bulwer-Lytton is accorded a separate paragraph (399) and Douglas Jerrold is praised for exhibiting “amidst […] fantastic and cynical humour, so much seriousness of thought and purpose, as to deserve being singled from the crowd” (400), but the two novelists which are considered “the founders of a new school of novel writing” are W. M. Thackeray and Charles Dickens (400). In the Manual, Jane Austen and Maria Edgeworth also receive 12 In John Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies, he is one of the two authors (61–62) who are discussed as providing models for women’s role in society, the other one being Shakespeare: “So that, in all cases, with Scott as with Shakespeare, it is the woman who watches over, teaches, and guides the youth; it is never, by any chance, the youth who watches over, or educates, his mistress” (62).

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honourable mention (235, 346). Other novelists referred to include Frederick Marryat, Bulwer-Lytton, Dickens and Thackeray (342–46). The chapters on nineteenth-century literature were entirely rewritten for the 5th edition of the Manual (1885), with the help of Arnold’s daughters, Julia Huxley and Ethel Arnold. The following novelists are accorded 10 lines or more (Arnold, 7th ed. 449–51, 478–99): Sir Walter Scott Jane Austen Maria Edgeworth Susan Ferrier John Galt Benjamin Disraeli Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton William Carleton Harrison Ainsworth Charles Dickens Harriet Martineau Charlotte Bront[ Elizabeth Gaskell W. M. Thackeray Charles Kingsley Julia Kavanagh Charles Reade Anthony Trollope George Macdonald George Eliot Wilkie Collins

Other authors mentioned include Douglas Jerrold, Charlotte Yonge, George Borrow, Richard Blackmore and Robert Louis Stevenson. This canon was basically followed by George Saintsbury in his Short History of English Literature of 1898, who gives extensive coverage to the following authors (677–690, 740–757): **Sir Walter Scott (4 pp.) *Jane Austen (2 pp.) Maria Edgeworth Susan Ferrier John Galt Benjamin Disraeli Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton Thomas Love Peacock **Charles Dickens (3 pp.) **W. M. Thackeray (4 pp.) *Charlotte Bront[ (2 pp.)

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Elizabeth Gaskell Charles Reade *George Eliot (2 pp.) Charles Kingsley Robert Louis Stevenson

The discussion of non-fictional prose (which includes Alexander Kinglake and George Borrow, whose Lavengro and Romany Rye are considered “very imaginative autobiographies”, 762–63, 791–92) got restricted to about 50 % of the pages, as opposed to about 80 % in Spalding and Arnold (1st edition). The English novel as a subject of academic study received a boost with the courses instituted at Cambridge University after World War I. It was then that the literary history of English prose was narrowed down to fiction; non-fictional texts being no longer of interest. Two Cambridge Fellows, F. R. Leavis and his wife Q. D. Leavis, exercised considerable influence towards establishing a canon of truly great writers. This list is (and was meant to be) remarkable for its shortness. Chapter one of F. R. Leavis’s The Great Tradition (1948) famously begins with the statement: “The great English novelists are Jane Austen, George Eliot, Henry James, and Joseph Conrad” (F. R. Leavis, The Great Tradition 9), proceeding to surprise the reader by declaring that D. H. Lawrence should be added to this list (35–39). In a note Leavis acknowledges that Emily Bront[ is also a “genius”, whose influence on the further course of English literature, however, was rather limited, and who thus obviously cannot claim to be part of ‘the great tradition’ (39). F. R. and Q. D. Leavis later added Dickens to this list: “Our purpose is to enforce as unanswerably as possible the conviction that Dickens was one of the greatest of creative writers” (F. R. Leavis and Q. D. Leavis, Dickens the Novelist 9); “he may be seen surely as the Shakespeare of the novel” (12). Elizabeth Gaskell is not included but mentioned with great respect by Q. D. Leavis, e. g. in Fiction and the Reading Public (63, 130). So I should like to refer to the following novelists as constituting ‘the Leavis canon’: Jane Austen Emily Bront[ (Elizabeth Gaskell) Charles Dickens George Eliot Henry James Joseph Conrad D. H. Lawrence

This list, short as it is, comes very close to the Jansohn and Mehl list cited initially, covering 14 of the 19 novels (or 21 works of fiction) awarded two stars. On the other hand, it testifies to a movement away from the best-selling and best-

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preserved books as recorded on the secondhand-bookshop list. While Arnold and Saintsbury still give pride of place to Sir Walter Scott and include some of the other authors of that list, these ‘best-sellers’ have by now disappeared from the canon of ‘great’ works. This survey of the history of canon formation in English literary studies should give us some material towards establishing some hypotheses on the principles of canon formation: First, there may have been, in the nineteenth century a bias in favour of male writers, as there certainly was in connection with Romantic poetry : In Spalding’s History Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott and Byron are mentioned as having gained “greater fame than any others” (367); additionally, Campbell, Southey, John Wilson, Shelley, Keats, Moore and Crabbe, are discussed extensively (367–381). Arnold basically selects the same poets, omitting Wilson and Crabbe (Arnold, 1st ed. 215–234); while female poets, such as the enormously popular Felicia Hemans and Letitia Elizabeth Landon, were excluded by both Spalding and Arnold.13 As far as the novel is concerned, the percentage of male writers discussed is certainly higher than that of the whole nineteenth-century output of novels, but not significantly so, as Austen and Edgeworth are included (as are Jane Porter and, in the Spalding History, Mary Shelley and Harriet Martineau [385, 399]; the Arnold Manual also mentions Catherine Gore [342, 345]). If there was this bias it was certainly remedied by the time of the Leavises. Another bias is less obvious but may have been of more influence: The Spalding, Arnold, Saintsbury and Leavis lists appear to exclude writers who profess to convey a religious message. Religious writing was tolerated by Arnold and Saintsbury if it was part of theological controversies, as in the case of John Henry Newman, whose chief interest to the two literary historians, however, lay in the artistry of his prose rather than his religious ideas (Arnold, 7th ed. 504–505, Saintsbury 790–91). The objective of educating the masses, however, seems to have forbidden to give undue attention to works which encourage their readers to pray to God rather than exercise their rational faculties. This point, even more the gender bias, may have accounted for the exclusion of Charlotte Yonge, a prolific and best-selling author of amazing complexity, whose work evinces a strong partisanship with Anglo-Catholic Christianity. Incidentally, we may note that this anti-religious bias, or rather lack of interest in 13 In the light of the present enquiry it becomes obvious that Virginia Woolf ’s famous statement that “women […] have not had a dog’s chance of writing poetry” (A Room of One’s Own, 103) should be revised. Many nineteenth-century women did have a room of their own, and many of them did write great poetry. The fact that they were little known when Woolf wrote her essay in 1929 was rather due to the ‘anti-female bias’ at work in the ongoing process of canon formation. Woolf, like many others, evidently became its dupe.

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things religious, also extended to non-Christian religions, such as Buddhism, and helped eliminate works such as Edwin Arnold’s poem Light of Asia (1878), and Kipling’s novel Kim (1901), from the canon. Connected to this anti-religious bias is a bias in favour of novels which convey a progressive political message, or as Thomas Arnold said, “moral lesson” (342). While religious writers are dismissed, William Godwin was mentioned. According to F. R. Leavis’ The Great Tradition (1948) it is qualities such as “moral preoccupations” (16), “intellectual weight and moral earnestness” (19) and “ethical sensibility” (20) which distinguish writers of genius. One of Q. D. Leavis’s arguments against the bestsellers of her time was the feeling that they encourage their readers to be content with the world and society as it is (Fiction and the Reading Public 79–80). “Great” or “major” novelists, however, “promote […] an awareness of the possibilities of life” (10) as F. R. Leavis put it. It was certainly in line with this aim that F. R. and Q. D. Leavis so vigorously promoted D. H. Lawrence, at the expense of John Galsworthy, whom many of their contemporaries considered the leading novelist of their time (cf. Q. D. Leavis, Fiction and the Reading Public 36, 71, 76). The Leavises, to be sure, were hard to please. Reading Fiction and the Reading Public we become aware of at least two more biases which influenced their canon. One of them was directed against fantasy as, according to Q. D. Leavis, “a habit of fantasying will lead to maladjustment in actual life” (54); a sentiment which certainly does not correspond to the Victorian attitude with regard to the imaginative faculty.14 This indictment does not only exclude fantastic literature or ‘romances’ in the sense of Thomas Arnold (341–42), but also extends to historical fiction, including the work of Scott (see Q. D. Leavis 1932: 139), Bulwer-Lytton (163–64), Charles Reade, which had hitherto enjoyed great respect. A final bias becomes obvious when Leavis praises what she considers to be the eighteenth-century “absence of romantic idealism, and in consequence the presence of a rational code of feeling” (129), setting it against the “shameful selfabandonment to undisciplined emotion” (130) found, e. g., in Charlotte Bront[’s Jane Eyre. We see that novelists should not just create awareness of any possibilities of life but those which may be in line with the ideal of a “well-regulated 14 See, e. g., Charles Dickens’s remarks on the “light of Fancy” and the “sympathies and graces of imagination” in his “Preliminary Word” to Household Words (1850); and cf. Goetsch 17. See also John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies, esp. 69. Speaking of the education of girls Ruskin evinces an attitude which, albeit couched in ‘sexist’ language, appears to be much more liberal and charitable than that of Q. D. Leavis: “Let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in a field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you; and the good ones too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought would have been so”; Sesame and Lilies 72.

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mind” (129–30) or enlightened rationalism. While Leavis’s obviously personal preference was not influential enough to eliminate Charlotte Bront[ and Thomas Hardy from the canon it may have contributed to common prejudices with regard to the work of Charlotte Yonge, Wilkie Collins, Mrs. Henry Wood and Marie Corelli. We are left with two paradoxical conclusions. On the one hand the Leavis list was composed with the view of separating the oats from the chaff; the few good novels which should be read and taught and the mass of minor work which shouldn’t. This was in line with the awoved aim of F. R. and Q. D. Leavis of establishing literature studies as a stronghold of culture in a “civilisation” increasingly threatened by materialism and commercialism (see F. R. Leavis 1930, cf. Baldick 1987: 162–95, and Guillory 1994: 17). The quality of good novels, we are told, manifests itself in things such as structure, clarity and artistry of language, or the superb handling of irony. It was cultural attitudes, ethical sensibilities, rather than structure and language, however, which initally informed the choice of texts. Maybe a correct ethical sensibility is supposed to go hand in hand with a mastery of structure and language, but this is not explicitly elaborated. The second paradox is that while the Leavis list reveals a bias in favour of (politically) progressive writers, most notably Gaskell, Dickens, George Eliot and Lawrence, the interpretations of their work offered by the Leavises are not really concerned with the political ideas found in these novels and their place in cultural history but concentrate on structure and language (cf. Guillory 134–135). The messages conveyed by a novelist’s artistry are rendered as (and reduced to the status of) ethical attitudes rather than political proposals. Progressive texts, we could say, are given conservative interpretations.15 From the hindsight of New Historicism we could perhaps argue that some strategy of containment may be at work here.16 Lawrence, for example, might have become less dangerous to the ruling classes when accorded academic treatment by Cambridge-trained scholars. It seems safer to assume, however, that the canon of texts as well as their interpretations served the purpose of providing a justification for reading novels and studying them academically, of establishing the analysis of novels as a serious academic endeavour, and to obviate criticism like that of Alexander Bain, Professor of Logic at Aberdeen, who in 1869 affirmed that he “could not vote to tax the nation for coaching Hamlet and Macbeth” (Palmer 176), and E. A. Freeman, the Oxford Professor of History, who in 1887 expressed his concern that an academic study of English literature could be limited to “mere chatter about Shelley” (Palmer 96).17 15 On the ambivalences of the political attitude of “the Leavises” cf. Baldick 162–95. 16 On containment see, e. g., Greenblatt 39, 40, 65. 17 Cf. the following story, current at the University of Heidelberg: When, in the 1950s (?),

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The Establishment of the English Literature canon in Germany

An outstanding German study of English literary history is Eduard Engel’s Geschichte der englischen Literatur, first published in 1883, with the enlarged, fourth edition appearing in 1897. Engel’s approach to the subject can be described as that of journalist interested in cultural history. He thus takes an interest in the issue of a book’s popularity, so that most of the books from my secondhand-bookshop list are mentioned and discussed. While Engel gives voice to strong personal opinions he is always prepared to acknowledge the literary and cultural impact of authors he evidently dislikes, such as Ann Radcliffe, whose seminal position in the history of the English novel he was perhaps the first to recognize (441), and Oscar Wilde, whose “unsagbare Verirrungen” (‘unspeakable aberrations’) did not prevent Engel – in 1897! – from according more than one page to his work (500–501). Engel also acknowledges the importance of English children’s literature (490)18 and, when discussing Olive Schreiner, prophesies the advent of the new literatures in English, to be written in Canada, Australia and India (477). Going by the number of lines and pages accorded to novelists, we could extract the following 19th century canon: Maria Edgeworth *Jane Austen (1 p.) **Sir Walter Scott (4 pp.) Charles Kingsley **Charles Dickens (4 pp.) **W. M. Thackeray (pp S.) **George Eliot (pp. S.) *Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1 p.) *Benjamin Disraeli (2 pp.) George du Maurier Robert Louis Stevenson Mrs. Humphry Ward Olive Schreiner *Rudyard Kipling (1 p.) Israel Zangwill

Professor Hermann Flasdieck, a stauch ‘philologist’, was petitioned by his students to offer courses on the 18th and 19th-century English novel, he answered: “If you want to read this, why don’t you go to the coffee-house?” 18 Thomas Arnold (together with his daughters), from the fifth edition of his Manual onwards, also expressly acknowledges masterpieces of children’s literature, written by Julia Kavanagh, George Macdonald, and Robert Louis Stevenson (7th ed. 495–501).

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The criteria of selection can be gathered by Engel’s comments on two streams of the English novel. One of them is informed by realism by providing a “ein treues Spiegelbild der Wirklichkeit” (‘a true mirror image of real life’), connected to a purity of morals which make the books suitable family reading. These two tendencies, Engel contends, distinguish the English novels favourably from their German and French counterparts (440). The second stream identified by Engel is “Abenteuerroman”, the ‘tale of adventure’, characterised by sensationalism, which Engel dislikes but acknowledges (440). Engel to some extent shares a bias prevalent in the English histories in favour of ‘realistic’ writing, while he certainly goes further than these these histories in preferring fiction to non-fiction. If we look at the extent of treatment the novelists receive we may also find traces of a gender bias in favour of male authors, although Engel explicitly acknowledges the significance of female novelists (440). Apart from that a new interest emerges which may also account for elements of canon formation: English novels stand for English manners and English culture, whose influence is cherished by the German critic because it might be able to counter a French influence which he considers unwelcome. This purpose becomes even more obvious in a small but influential treatise by Arnold Schröer : Grundzüge und Haupttypen der Englischen Literaturgeschichte, published in 1906 in two small volumes. While Engel addressed educated general readers Schröer’s treatise was mainly intended to be studied by university students of English. According to Schröer the main purpose of studying English literature is learning about and understanding the English national character (vol. 1 [2nd ed.]: 8, 14); it is this context that the he ventures on theories about the mixture of races in Britain and emphasises the volkstümliche, popular or folkloristic, element in English literature: This explains why Robert Burns is treated particularly extensively (vol. 2 [1st ed.]: 90–104). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Schröer contends, the English national culture was mainly characterized by Puritanism (vol. 2: 61, 67–68, 117–18). Dividing English novels into the groups of “Tendenzromane” (‘novels with a moral or political message’) and “Abenteuerromane” (‘tales of adventure’) (vol. 2: 66, 124, 127), he leaves no doubt where his sympathies lie: Tendenzromane are able to ‘proclaim the highest moral, religious, social and political ideas’, as do the novels of Dickens, George Eliot, Charlotte Bront[, Jane Austen, Mrs. Humphry Ward (67); later he adds Charles Kingsley, Thackeray, Douglas Jerrold, Maria Edgeworth, Harriet Martineau, Elizabeth Gaskell (124). As Abenteuerromane he classifies the novels of Bulwer-Lytton, Kipling, Stevenson, Morley Roberts, Ouida, Marie Corelli (67). According to Schröer the victorious power of Puritanism can be seen in the fact that even the contemporary adventure novel, as in Kipling’s case, has turned puritanical. For all their excitement and humour, Schröer argues, Kipling’s stories can (with a few

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exceptions) safely be given to any young girl (67–68). The political tendencies Schröer finds expressed in nineteenth-century novelists are named as ‘humanity’ as well as ‘liberty, equality, fraternity’, and, most notably, the emancipation of women (122, 124–26). Like Engel (440), Schröer expressly acknowledges, and sympathizes with, the central role of female writers in the nineteenthcentury English novel, which certainly did not correspond to the role of women in German or French letters. Thus, we see that the progressive bias prevalent in the English canon was even more explicit in Germany ; and in spite of Schröer’s assertion to the contrary I think we can also speak of an anti-religious bias. The realist bias, however, did not manifest itself as completely as in England; both Engel and Schröer acknowledged a tradition of adventure novels and evinced a profound appreciation of Kipling (Engel 477–78; Schröer, vol. 2: 67–68, 129). The train of enquiry was cultural rather than literary ; and while Schröer’s interest in the English national character may now appear to us to be based on primitive prejudices, we should be aware that Schröer in isolating Puritanism obviously started a critical tendency which had its repercussions until well after World War II. To look at academic practice at German Universities I should like to draw upon a table provided by Thomas Finkenstaedt in his Kleine Geschichte der Anglistik in Deutschland (253), listing the 25 English authors to whom lectures and seminars were most often devoted from 1881 to 1945. The author most popular among German lecturers was of course Shakespeare, followed by Byron. The next authors were Milton, Tennyson, Browning, Burns and Shelley. 19th- and early 20th-century novelists also played an important role: In the years up to 1900 20 courses were devoted to Dickens, 19 to Scott and and twelve to Thackeray. From 1900 to 1920 the statistics are 21 courses on Dickens, 17 on Scott, 10 on Thackeray, 9 on Stevenson, 8 on Kipling, 7 on Meredith, 6 on Galsworthy and 2 on Hardy. In the years 1920 to 1945 Dickens ceded his leading role to Galsworthy, to whom 52 courses were devoted, 29 to Hardy, 25 to Dickens, 17 to Meredith, 14 to Stevenson, 13 to Kipling, 11 to Thackeray and 8 to Scott. We realise that there definitely was a gender bias, as there is not a single female author among the 8 novelists (and, indeed, the 25 authors) taught most often; Engel and Schröer, we gather, by no means stated the obvious when they emphasised the position of women among English novelists; they could justly be proud of telling a revolutionary truth. Conversely, the Finkenstaedt list shows that the realist bias was of less effect, as it includes Stevenson and Kipling. An examination of the leading scholarly journals from 1900 to 1930 shows a similar picture. Most of the articles in the Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, the Anglia and the Germanisch-Romanische Monatsschrift are concerned either with medieval language and literature or Shakespeare and his contemporaries, but among the novelists discussed Dickens

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is most prominent, followed by H. G. Wells, George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, Arnold Bennett, Robert Hichens, Mrs. Humphry Ward, George Eliot and Charles Kingsley.19 I should like to conclude my presentation with a brief look at two further literary histories, Emile Legouis’ Short History of English Literature, originally in French; an English translation appeared in 1934, and Walter F. Schirmer’s Geschichte der englischen und amerikanischen Literatur (1937). Both authors try to do justice to a vast amount of material and to some extent manage to provide a viable survey. In accordance with the English tradition of Arnold and Saintsbury non-fictional prose is included, to the extent of 40 % in Legouis, 30 % in Schirmer. The canons of the two writers are rather similar (authors just given up to five lines in Legouis, ten lines in Schirmer, are omitted): Legouis (297–303, 322–337, 365–381) Jane Austen Mary Russell Mitford Maria Edgeworth **Sir Walter Scott (3 pp.) Charles Robert Maturin Frederick Marryat Edward Bulwer-Lytton Benjamin Disraeli **Charles Dickens (3 pp.) **W. M. Thackeray (3 pp.) Charlotte Bront[ Emily Bront[ Elizabeth Gaskell Charles Kingsley Charles Reade Wilkie Collins Anthony Trollope George Borrow **George Eliot (2 pp.) *George Meredith (2 pp.) Samuel Butler *Thomas Hardy (1 p.) *George Gissing (1 p.) **R. L. Stevenson (2 pp.) **Rudyard Kipling (2 pp.) **H. G. Wells (2 pp.) **John Galsworthy (2 pp.) Arnold Bennett

Schirmer (458–474, 528, 566–590) * Jane Austen *Maria Edgeworth **Sir Walter Scott (5 pp.) Charles Robert Maturin John Gibson Lockhart Frederick Marryat Edward Bulwer-Lytton Thomas Love Peacock *Benjamin Disraeli **Charles Dickens (3 pp.) *W. M. Thackeray (Charlotte Bront[)20 (Emily Bront[) Elizabeth Gaskell Charles Kingsley Charles Reade Wilkie Collins Anthony Trollope George Borrow *George Eliot *George Meredith Samuel Butler *Thomas Hardy George Gissing R. L. Stevenson *Rudyard Kipling Henry James *H. G. Wells *John Galsworthy Arnold Bennett

19 I thank Anja Höing for her help in examining the periodicals mentioned. 20 Schirmer treats the Bront[ Sisters rather perfunctorily (574–75).

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G. K. Chesterton Mrs. Humphry Ward Lafcadio Hearn *Joseph Conrad (1 p.) George Moore

G. K. Chesterton *Joseph Conrad George Moore *D. H. Lawrence

There is still a certain gender bias, as well as the anti-religious bias common to the British and German canons. Scott, Dickens and Thackeray are still treated most prominently. Novelists of adventure (Marryat, Stevenson and Kipling) are included and discussed at some length. Both authors briefly mention Barham and Kinglake (Legouis 296, 333; Schirmer 501, 580) and devote some space to George Borrow (Legouis 332, Schirmer 580), while Douglas Jerrold is omitted. Legouis also gives extensive treatment to Galsworthy (374–75) and provides a hint why Galsworthy was so popular in academic study outside England. Together with Wells and Shaw he features as a “determined critic of English society as it was, and hostile to its traditional ideals” (371). In addition to the progressive bias mentioned we could speculate on an anti-British bias – non-British readers may have enjoyed seeing English social values and the English class system torn to pieces by critical geniuses like Dickens and Galsworthy who dared speak up against the restrictions of British society. This critical tradition has certainly left some impact in German academia. We often come across the idea that great writers like Dickens show their greatness by attacking social pressures and liberating their readers from the mental restrictions of the society they lived in.21 Following this logic authors in accord with the value system of their country and time could not be great, although Legouis claims that this applies to Rudyard Kipling (371).

4

Conclusions

In post-World War II years the canon of German Anglistik obviously drifted toward the English canon, informed by scholars and critics like F. R. and Q. D. Leavis. The Jansohn/Mehl list quoted initially strongly resembles the list of authors given prominence in Andrew Sanders’ Short Oxford History of English Literature (1994). In this History the movement away from the list of ‘books read’ is carried on to an unprecedented degree. The only authors from the secondhand-bookshop list whose novels are given any discussion at all in Sanders’ 678page volume are Scott, Kingsley and Kipling (368–377. 404–424, 437–443, 454f., 459–475, 485–490, 518–523). 21 See, e. g. Otten 134–35.

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By way of conclusion we can state the present canon of Eng. Lit., in Britain as well as in Germany, was reached by a series of cultural processes, which changed the list of books which were read into one consisting of books which, according to self-appointed (or university-appointed) authorities, should be read. In Britain, the process started in the middle of the nineteenth century, with the earliest literary histories, written in the context not of academia but adult education. Best-selling works were still included but in some cases subjected to (negative) value judgments. Modifications of the canon took it further away from the ‘list of books read’, to (roughly) reach its present state by the 1930s. While ‘quality’ was often the ostensible criterion for determining upon a canon, the cultural processes mentioned should rather be understood as ‘biases’ which determined the selection of books. In Britain the following biases can be detected: (anti-female bias) anti-religious bias progressive bias fiction bias (anti-nonfiction bias) anti-fantasy bias rationalist bias

Of these cultural forces, the anti-female bias was strongest at the beginning (2nd half of the nineteenth century) and subsequently lost force. The fiction bias and anti-fantasy bias, however, only gained ground in the first decades of the twentieth century – with F. R. and Q. D. Leavis being a major influence. In Germany it was towards the end of the nineteenth century that an academic canon of English novels took shape. It seems to have been informed by the following biases: anti-female bias anti-religious bias progressive bias fiction bias (anti-fantasy bias) pro-British bias (=anti-French bias) anti-British bias

British and German academics and literature experts obviously shared their distrust of books with a religious message and their preference for novels featuring a progressive political attitude. In Germany the anti-female bias was of greater force than in Britain (even though the German scholars – used to the

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dominance of men in German letters – were not aware of it),22 while the antifantasy bias was less pronounced. As one of the scholarly aims of English Literature studies was learning about the English ‘national character’, certain elements of it found favour with the Germans while others did not. Some literary historians praised English and Scottish puritanism as well as the (supposed) rootedness of English literature in folklore and oral traditions. The subtext in pre-Word War I times was obviously an anti-French attitude, as France was often connected to the abuses brought about by civilisation. However, an anti-British bias also makes itself felt, particularly in the years after World War I and well into post-World War II times: Authors like Dickens and Galsworthy were praised for criticising the class system and capitalist ideology prevalent in Britain. While the different cultural backgrounds in the first half of the twentieth century led to slightly different canons the movement away from ‘books read’ to ‘books which should be read’ was similar, as was the gradual privileging of fiction at the expense of non-fictional literature. In the decades following World War II the German canon obviously verged towards the English one, as exemplified in the Jansohn/Mehl list.23 By the end of the twentieth century the international community of English Literature scholars had agreed on a canon of literary works which is a far cry from what people in Britain actually read. This is all the more remarkable as literary histories usually – explicitly or implicitly – make the claim of representing English literature, rather than that of educating their readers. What counted (and still counts?)24 as literary history appears as an institutional construct based on ideological and systemic pressures.25 22 When Walter F. Schirmer, in later editions of his literary history, devoted a chapter to “Der psychologische Frauenroman” (Schirmer, Geschichte, 5th edition 636–638), he was probably not aware that he was marginalising women authors, but may have imagined that he was paying tribute to the importance of women among the English novelists. Cf. the chapter on “female novelists” in Middeke et al. 70–71, published in 2012. 23 Post-World War II critical work also testifies to the stability and convergence of the canon: In 1953, Dorothy van Ghent (in The English Novel: Form and Function), provides interpretations of 18 novels, 12 of which are from the period in question. These 12 novels cover 7 of the 8 authors of the Leavis list and 10 of the 14 authors of the Jansohn/Mehl list, the exceptions being Elizabeth Gaskell (both lists), Charlotte Bront[, R. L. Stevenson and Lewis Carroll. The two authors discussed by van Ghent who are not on either list are Scott and Meredith. 7 of the novels chosen by van Ghent are identical with those awarded two stars by Jansohn and Mehl. A German collection of essays devoted to 19th century English novels, published in 1973 (Goetsch, Kosok and Otten, eds.), also features 7 of the 8 Leavis authors and 10 of the 12 nineteenth-century authors of the Jansohn/Mehl list, the exceptions being, again, Gaskell and Carroll; 6 of the novels chosen were identical with the two-star-novels of that list. Additional chapters were devoted to novels by Scott, Maturin, Collins, Trollope, Meredith, Wilde and Kipling. Scott and Meredith obviously took some time to be chucked out of the canon (in accordance with the Leavises’ wishes), while Lewis Carroll has only recently been (re-)admitted. 24 This article is not concerned with the present-day state of the canon in English studies. Still, I

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Works Cited Main Sources Arnold, Thomas. A Manual of English Literature, Historical and Critical. London: Longman, Roberts, and Green, 1862. Arnold, Thomas. A Manual of English Literature, Historical and Critical. 10th impression (7th ed.). London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1901. Dickens, Charles. “A Preliminary Word”, Household Words, 1 (30 March 1850) (Dickens Journals Online) Jansohn, Christa; Mehl, Dieter ; Bungert, Hans. Was sollen Anglisten und Amerikanisten lesen? Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1995. Legouis, Emile. A Short History of English Literature, transl. V. F. Boyson, J. Coulson. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934. Middeke, Martin; Müller, Timo; Wald, Christina; Zapf, Hubert, eds. English and American Studies: Theory and Practice. Stuttgart: Metzler, 2012. Ruskin, John. Sesame and Lilies. Rockville, Md.: Arc Manor, 2008. Saintsbury, George. A Short History of English Literature. London: Macmillan, 1898. Sanders, Andrew. The Short Oxford History of English Literature. Oxford: Clarendon, 1994. Schirmer, Walter F. Geschichte der englischen Literatur von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Halle/Saale: Niemeyer, 1937. Schirmer, Walter F. Geschichte der englischen Literatur von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Halle (Saale): Niemeyer, 1937. Schirmer, Walter F. Geschichte der englischen und amerikanischen Literatur von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. 5th edition. Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1968. Spalding, Willliam. The History of English Literature, with an Outline of the Origin and Growth of the English Language. 9th edition. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1865 (11853). Schröer, Arnold. Grundzüge und Haupttypen der Englischen Litteraturgeschichte, 2 vols. Leipzig: Göschen, 1906. Schröer, Arnold. Grundzüge und Haupttypen der Englischen Litteraturgeschichte, 2 vols. 2. Auflage. Leipzig: Göschen, 1911. should like to draw attention to a list entitled “Key Texts: The Victorian Novel”, published in 2012 in Middeke et. al. (67), which seems to testify to the permanence of the canon: 7 of the 10 novels listed are also found on the Jansohn/Mehl list. Gaskell and Hardy are represented by other novels, while Walter Pater, Marius the Epicurean, is the only ‘new’ text. 25 I do not wish to imply that the academic teaching of English Literature in the last decades of the twentieth century was all wrong. Canons are useful because they provide a common ground for social and academic communication; and the books on the Leavis and Jansohn/ Mehl lists (which more or less constituted my own undergraduate reading) certainly provide the opportunity to study subtleties of narrative technique, of psychological analysis and of social criticism. We should only be aware that these books do not constitute ‘English Literature’ proper, and that there are many forces shaping literary canons other than literary merit, which itself is a subjective and rather elusive criterion. Following what has been called the ‘cultural turn’ we should pay particular attention to texts which were popular at the time of their publication, the more so if it was their strangeness, their lack of conformity with later standards, which led to their removal from the lists of texts recommended for reading.

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Critical Literature Avery, Gillian. Childhood’s Pattern. A Study of the Heroes and Heroines of Children’s Fiction. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1975. Baldick, Chris. The Social Mission of English Criticism, 1848–1932. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983. Donnell, Alison. “Afterword; In Praise of a Black British Canon and the Possibilities of Representing the Nation ‘Otherwise’”, in Gail Low, Marion Wynne-Davies, eds. A Black British Canon? Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006: 189–204. Engel, Eduard. Geschichte der englischen Litteratur von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Mit einem Anhang: Die nordamerikanische Litteratur. 5. Auflage (mit Zusätzen). Leipzig: Baedeker, 1901 (41897). Finkenstaedt, Thomas. Kleine Geschichte der Anglistik in Deutschland. Eine Einführung. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1983. Goetsch, Paul. Dickens: Eine Einführung. München: Artemis, 1986. Goetsch, Paul; Kosok, Heinz; Otten, Kurt, eds. Der englische Roman im 19. Jahrhundert: Interpretationen. Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1973. Greenblatt, Stephen. Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988. Guillory, John. Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon Formation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994. Herrmann, Leonhard. “Kanon als System: Kanondebatte und Kanonmodelle in der Literaturwissenchaft”, in Lothar Ehrlich, Judith Schild, Benjamin Specht, eds. Die Bildung des Kanons: Textuelle Faktoren – Kulturelle Funktionen – Ethische Praxis. Köln: Böhlau, 2007: 21–41. Leavis, F. R. Mass Civilisation and Minority Culture, Cambridge: The Minority Press, 1930. Leavis, F. R. The Great Tradition. George Eliot, Henry James, Joseph Conrad. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1993 (11948). Leavis, F. R.; Leavis, Q. D. Dickens the Novelist. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972 (11970). Leavis, Q. D. Fiction and the Reading Public. London: Chatto & Windus, 1965 (11932). Otten, Kurt. Der englische Roman vom 16. zum 19. Jahrhundert. Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 1971. Palmer, D. J. The Rise of English Studies. London: Oxford University Press, 1963. Pütz, Bert. Literarische Kanonbildung: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Schriften Adornos. Baltmannsweiler : Schneider Verlag Hohengehren, 2009. Van Ghent, Dorothy. The English Novel: Form and Function. New York: Harper, 1961 (11953). von Heydebrand, Renate; Sabine Winko. Einführung in die Wertung von Literatur : Systematik, Geschichte, Legitimation. Paderborn: Schöningh, 1996. Winko, Simone. “Literarische Wertung und Kanonbildung”, in Heinz Ludwig Arnold, Heinrich Detering, eds. Grundzüge der Literaturwissenschaft. München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1996. 585–600. Woolf, Virginia, A Room of One’s Own, London: Grafton, 1977.

Georgia Christinidis

Genre, Canon-Formation, and Bildung: Transformations of a Critical Category “One must resign oneself to admitting that there is a history of reason which does not have reason as its (sole) principle.” (Bourdieu 198)

1

Introduction

The literary field is a battlefield where conflict is violent and allegiances may change as its boundaries are drawn and redrawn: Pierre Bourdieu suggests that struggles over the legitimacy of texts, authors, and genres, which are, at the same time, struggles over the legitimacy of the critic’s own authority, over his or her right to the power of consecration, are at the heart of any critical engagement with literature.1 He rejects the notion of an institution of literature, which, to him, suggests somewhat more orderly proceedings (382–3, n. 22). Whether one shares Bourdieu’s terminological preference or not, it is certainly important to bear in mind the central role played by conflict in defining and redefining the literary field. Thus, conflicts are not aberrations, they are, on the contrary, symptomatic of the overall structure of the field. They “inevitably take the form of conflicts over definition, in the proper sense of the term” (223), which, in turn, primarily concern the boundaries between genres, subgenres, disciplines and so forth (225). One such conflict has long raged over the definition of the Bildungsroman. The extent of dissent on this issue has led some critics to advocate that the term be abandoned altogether. Fredrick Amrine, in introducing a 1987 special issue of Michigan Germanic Studies on the Bildungsroman, argues that much of the 1 Cf. “One of the central stakes in literary (etc.) rivalries is the monopoly of literary legitimacy, that is, among other things, the monopoly of the power to say with authority who is authorized to call himself writer (etc.) or even to say who is a writer and who has the authority to say who is a writer ; or, if you prefer, the monopoly of the power of consecration of producers and products,” (224) and “[i]t is a very general property of fields that the competition for what is at stake conceals the collusion regarding the very principles of the game. The struggle for the monopoly of legitimacy helps to reinforce the legitimacy in the name of which it is waged.” (166–7)

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literature on the genre “does not hold up under scrutiny” (117), while James Hardin, in the introduction to the most comprehensive collection of essays on the Bildungsroman available in English, complains that there is “no consensus on the meaning of the term Bildungsroman” (x), and Wulf Koepke considers the “concept of the Bildungsroman […] beset with problems” (129). Michael Minden resolves the problem of defining the genre by studying “the German Bildungsroman as a series of variations on Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” (1), while Helmut Ammerlahn argues that “uncertainty abounds” even with regard to the legitimacy of reading Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, the genre’s paradigmatic example, as a Bildungsroman (98). Thomas P. Saine, too, asks “Was Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre Really Supposed to Be a Bildungsroman?” and warns the reader that “[t]he label may be marginally useful for describing certain products and paradigms of fiction but should be applied with extreme caution.” (119) A lack of consensus concerning the meaning of Bildung and its importance in defining the genre is a central source of conflict. Disagreement concerning the generic membership of individual texts often emerges directly from the fundamental difficulty of defining Bildung and from divergent assumptions concerning the extent to which Bildung must be realised in a text for it to be considered a Bildungsroman2. Broadly speaking, there are two positions concerning Bildung in the Bildungsroman: some critics regard the German origins of the term Bildung and the difficulty of translating it into other languages as evidence of the inherent Germanness of the genre as well as of the concept.3 Other critics understand Bildung as roughly coterminous with self-cultivation or self-formation; they tend to extend the term Bildungsroman far beyond the boundaries of German literature4 and use it as a heuristic device that allows them to examine aesthetic mediations of self-realisation as well as of the variable social conditions that enable and constrain it. The positions are symptomatic of two different stages of the development of the literary field: the understanding of the Bildungsroman as a characteristically German genre gradually gains ascendancy during the time of the emergence of German Literature as a field of academic study and the formation of its canon during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. On the other hand, the extension of this concept to texts pertaining to other literatures becomes more prevalent during the second half of the twentieth century ; during this period, the literary field is shaped by the influx of students and critics from social groups that had been traditionally 2 Thus, Kurt May vainly tries to discover Bildung in Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre and asks whether it can really be considered a Bildungsroman. 3 Cf. for instance Berger; Jacobs; Mann; Witte, among others. 4 Cf. for instance Butcher ; Fraiman; Labovitz; Morgan; Stein, among others.

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excluded and by challenges to the canon that accompanied this institutional transformation.5 Thus, while the difficulties that beset any attempt to define the Bildungsroman have sometimes been blamed on the peculiarity of the genre itself, which is said to repel those not “to the manner born” (Witte 87; presumably, he refers to those not born and raised to read German literature), or on temperamental differences between German and Anglo-American critics,6 they can more productively be interpreted as symptoms of a substantial transformation undergone by the literary field as a whole.

2

Interiority and the German Sonderweg

During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the idea of a German national literature emerged as an integral part of a romantic nationalism that called for the constitution of a German national state. The study of literature was inextricably intertwined with this process. For instance, Napoleon’s victories against Prussia in 1806 and Austria in 1809 contributed to the German middle classes’ disillusionment with the French Enlightenment and an increase in German nationalism, which, in turn, provided a decisive impetus for the academic study of German literature (Hermand 28).7 The new discipline’s primary concern was to claim texts pertaining to older literary forms, including the Nibelungenlied and Parzival, but also the folk tales collected, most famously, by the brothers Grimm, as early instances of an authentically German literary production. At the 5 Of course, the differences are not absolute; Luk#cs and Bakhtin, among others, treat the Bildungsroman as the representative genre of the modern European novel in texts composed during the early twentieth century while, among some Germanists, the conviction that the Bildungsroman is uniquely German persists into the present. Dominant paradigms, rather than absolute differences, are traced in this article. 6 Cf. “If we were to consult a German literary handbook today under Bildungsroman, we would probably read little or nothing about Wilhelm Dilthey, but instead find that the Bildungsroman is dominated [sic] as a variant of the Entwicklungsroman, which has yet another variant, the Erziehungsroman. Any one of these forms, we would be told, might coexist with the Künstlerroman. Allowing for the fact that Germans have a heartier appetite for these things than we do, we must nevertheless be clear about what has happened to produce such an abundance of forms and terms.” (Tennyson 137). Different mentalities, however, cannot account for the fact that even within the German tradition of Bildungsroman-criticism, disagreement concerning the definition of the genre prevails, cf. Amrine. 7 Cf. also “Sprache, Literatur und Kunst dienen als Berechtigungstitel für die erhoffte nationale Erneuerung. Als “Kultur” zusammengefaßt, erlangen sie in Deutschland gerade infolge der nicht vorhandenen staatlichen Einigung eine hohe kompensatorische Bedeutung. Der Literatur kommt hierbei eine besondere Rolle zu.” (Bollenbeck 21) [Language, literature and art are considered as proofs of entitlement to the national renewal that is hoped for. Subsumed under the term “culture”, their compensatory significance is high precisely because there is no unified German state. The role of literature is central in this context. G.C.]

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same time, critics were anxious to identify that which could be considered specifically German in the literature of their time (28–9): “Worum es diesen frühen Germanisten ging, war also weniger das Literarische als das Vaterländische im weitesten Sinn.”8 (32) The process of canon formation and the ascriptions of literary value that underlie this process are, therefore, predicated upon the identification of particular texts and genres as authentically German. The novel, as a literary form which is comparatively widely read, plays an important role in the constitution of the self-understanding of modern nations (Anderson; Parrinder 3). In 1774, Friedrich von Blanckenburg’s Versuch über den Roman constituted the first German valorisation of the novel; this treatise was subsequently invoked by Karl Morgenstern, a professor of rhetoric, classical philology, and aesthetics at the newly established University of Dorpat, in a lecture, held in 1810, “Über den Geist und Zusammenhang einer Reihe philosophischer Romane”, during which Morgenstern coined the term Bildungsroman.9 Morgenstern seems to regard Blanckenburg’s definition of the novel as roughly coterminous with his own understanding of the Bildungsroman. Later, however, Morgenstern no longer equates the Bildungsroman with the novel as defined by Blanckenburg; rather, in “Ueber das Wesen des Bildungsromans”,10 and “Zur Geschichte des Bildungsromans”,11 he defines it as a distinctive subgenre of the novel. As a subgenre, he delimits it against other novelistic forms, among them the historical novel and the heroic novel, both of which he determinedly rejects in favour of the Bildungsroman (60; 63). In the last of the lectures on the Bildungsroman, Morgenstern even argues that all good novels are really Bildungsromane (75), thus making explicit the genre’s claim to literary value and canonical status. The Bildungsroman is confirmed in its status as the novel par excellence, something which was already implicit in Blanckenburg’s earlier work.12 In this third lecture, then, the distinction between the Bildungs-

8 [The main focus of these early Germanists was, therefore, less of a literary than of a patriotic nature. G.C.] 9 [On the spirit of and the relationships among a series of philosophical novels, G.C.] Part of this lecture was subsequently published in the journal Dörptische Beyträge für Freunde der Philosophie, Litteratur und Kunst in 1817. 10 [On the Nature of the Bildungsroman, G.C.] Held in 1819 and published in the journal Inländisches Museum in 1820. 11 [On the History of the Bildungsroman, G.C.] Held in 1820 and published in 1824 in the journal Neues Museum der teutschen Provinzen Rußlands. 12 Cf. “Wenn demzufolge für Blanckenburg als der “festgesetzte Zweck” jedes Romans “die Ausbildung, die Formung des Charakters” eines Helden gelten soll, so wird allerdings der Bildungsgedanke zum Kernstück einer darzustellenden “inneren Geschichte” und damit eine Art Bildungsroman zur Norm der Romanpoetik erhoben.” (Selbmann 4) [If, therefore, Blanckenburg regards the formation of the character of the protagonist as the fixed purpose of any novel, the idea of Bildung becomes the centre piece of an interior autobiography that is

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roman and other types of novels seems to correspond to the high-low dichotomy in the literary field – i.e. to the distinction between Literature and popular fiction. Morgenstern, furthermore, explicitly links the value of the Bildungsroman to its expression of national specificity : Bey Musterung der vorzüglichern neuern Romane werden wir außer der Individualität der Dichter nirgends das Nazionalgepräge vermissen. … Wie an den Madonnen und an den Heiligen der Maler gewöhnlich die Nazionalphysiognomie unverkennbar ist, so an den Helden der Romane. (80)13

Nevertheless, the genre is not conceptualised, yet, as inherently German: Morgenstern acknowledges that British and Spanish novels, in particular, evince the qualities he praises in the Bildungsroman; in fact, by comparison with British and Spanish authors, German authors have neglected the representation of German protagonists in a German environment – “auch hier ihren eignen Reichthum in Ueberschätzung des Auslands verkennend”14 (86). While Morgenstern’s valorisation of the Bildungsroman as both an expression of national character and as the novel par excellence is characteristic of an emerging nineteenth-century consensus that prepared the ground for latenineteenth and early-twentieth century constructions of the genre as inherently German, Morgenstern himself does not make this claim. Rather, his emphasis on the representation of national characteristics in the Bildungsroman is symptomatic of the role played by nationalism in the formation of a national literature and its canon, a process by no means exclusive to Germany.15 The idea that the Bildungsroman is an essentially German genre took off in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. While Morgenstern, like many to be represented; therefore, the Bildungsroman is posited as the norm of a poetics of the novel, G.C.] 13 [An examination of the better recent novels will always reveal their national characteristics as well as the individuality of the author. As Madonnas and saints are endowed by the painter with a distinctively national physiognomy, so the protagonists of novels. G.C.] 14 [Underestimating, once again, their own riches in overestimating that which is foreign, G.C.] 15 Cf. “Nationale Eigenheiten können so während des 19. Jahrhunderts noch unter dem neutralen Vorzeichen der Andersartigkeit angesprochen und reflektiert werden, auch wenn der jeweilige Vergleich, etwa mit Frankreich oder England, Unterlegenheits- oder Überlegenheitsgefühle beinhalten mag. Das ändert sich erst, als in der späteren Bismarckzeit und Wilhelminischen Zeit ein Sonderwegbewußtsein entsteht, das mit Blick auf westeuropäische Verhältnisse den deutschen Weg zu einem modernen Nationalstaat als fundamentalen und überlegenen Richtungsunterschied herausstellt.” (Bollenbeck 22) [During the nineteenth century, national characteristics may still be referred to neutrally as simple differences, though the comparison with France or England may express feelings of inferiority or superiority. The situation changes when, during the Bismarckian and Wilhelminian periods, a consciousness of German history as a Sonderweg, a special path, emerges, which represents the German development to a modern national state as fundamentally different from and superior to Western European developments. G.C.]

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subsequent critics of the genre, defines the Bildungsroman primarily with reference to its content, “weil er des Helden Bildung in ihrem Anfang und Fortgang bis zu einer gewissen Stufe der Vollendung darstellt”16 (though he also argues that this representation of Bildung advances the process of Bildung in the reader; 64), he defines Bildung as a term that implies both ‘teaching’ and ‘improvement.’ A concept that is defined in such broad terms can hardly be considered exclusive to any single culture, and, indeed, Morgenstern considers Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison a Bildungsroman. By contrast, Dilthey, who significantly contributed to the popularisation of the term Bildungsroman, regards Bildung as an expression of interiority that is inherently German. In Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung (1906), Dilthey defines the Bildungsroman as a product of the focus on interiority he regards as peculiarly German, albeit it emerged under the influence of the writings of Rousseau.17 The German valorisation of interiority was, according to Dilthey, a consequence of the political situation in Germany.18 The conception of the Bildungsroman as an inherently German genre is, therefore, closely linked to an understanding of German history as a ‘special path’, a Sonderweg, as well as to a self-interpretation of the Germans as a people of ‘poets and thinkers’ (‘Dichter und Denker’).19 In 1918, this link between Bildung as an 16 [Because it represents the process of self-formation of the protagonist from its beginnings until it reaches a certain level of perfection, G.C.] 17 Cf. “Der Hyperion gehört zu den Bildungsromanen, die unter dem Einfluß Rousseaus in Deutschland aus der Richtung unseres damaligen Geistes auf innere Kultur hervorgegangen sind.” (252). [Hyperion is one of the Bildungsromane that emerged in Germany under the influence of Rousseau upon the German focus on interiority. G.C.] 18 Cf. “So sprechen diese Bildungsromane den Individualismus einer Kultur aus, die auf die Interessensphäre des Privatlebens eingeschränkt ist. Das Machtwirken des Staates in Beamtentum und Militärwesen stand in den deutschen Mittel- und Kleinstaaten dem jungen Geschlecht der Schriftsteller als eine fremde Gewalt gegenüber. Man entzückte und berauschte sich an den Entdeckungen der Dichter in der Welt des Individuums und seiner Selbstbildung.” (253)[Thus, these Bildungsromane express the individualism of a culture that is restricted to the private sphere. The generation of younger writers was faced with the exercise of political power through the civil service and the military as with a foreign power. The discoveries of the poets in the world of the individual and of its self-formation became a source of ecstatic delight. G.C.] 19 For a magisterial analysis of Bildung and Kultur as matrices of interpretation that contribute significantly to the construction of German history as a Sonderweg, see Bollenbeck. Two years before the publication of Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung, Friedrich Wilhelm Schroeder had published a study of Wieland’s Agathon. The literatures of other countries, he argues, are irrelevant to scholars of the Bildungsroman, as only German spirit and German universality are capable of tackling the big questions that lie at the heart of the genre (“nur deutscher Geist und deutsche Universalität vermochten, derart hohe und inhaltreiche Fragen zu behandeln,” 25). He goes on to reject the Greek and Spanish novel, the pseudoclassical hybrid works of French Literature, popular adventures, heroic and romance novels; all of these are too representative of the historical state and the conventions of a particular epoch. The English novel is found deficient in breadth, depth, and the representation of ideal striving (“idealen Strebens,” 25). In 1906, Hermann Anders Krüger argued in an essay on “Der neuere

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inherently German concept, the Bildungsroman as an inherently German genre, and the German Sonderweg found particularly pointed expression in Thomas Mann’s writings, for instance in “Der Entwicklungsroman,” and Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen. It is notable, however, that even where the Bildungsroman is exalted as an expression of characteristically German Bildung, the exact meaning of Bildung remains vague.20 Thomas Mann, of course, went on to distance himself from the nationalism of the Betrachtungen; however, the idea of a German Sonderweg persisted, though it was usually, after WWII, viewed critically, both in Mann’s writings and in German historiography. Yet even where the Sonderweg is used to critique the German ‘democratic deficit’, it tends to perpetuate the belief in a national character marked by interiority and other qualities previously exalted by the believers in a Sonderweg in the positive sense. The reinterpretation of the Sonderweg does not itself, therefore, challenge the interpretation of the Bildungsroman as a national genre, which, according to Lothar Köhn, remained a locus communis in 1969.21 When Jürgen Jacobs, three years later, published the survey of the genre that, according to Köhn, had been an urgent desideratum, he did not challenge the locus communis: he argued that while the nationalist idealisation of the Bildungsroman must be rejected, it constituted merely a distorted apprehension of the fact – now, according to Jacobs, generally agreed upon22 – that the genre was peculiar to German literature and, as such, not present in other literatures in a comparable form or to a comparable extent (“eine Eigenart der deutschen Literaturentwicklung […] die sich anderwärts in dieser Form und in dieser Breite23 nicht findet”, p. 12.). Meanwhile, the field of Bildungsromanstudies was undergoing a far-reaching transformation that Jacobs failed to acknowledge. Jacobs adduces the fact that even foreign critics regard the Bildungsroman as

20 21

22 23

deutsche Bildungsroman” that the Bildungsroman was a definitely national genre, and described it as the novel of poets and thinkers (270). Dilthey, therefore, did not introduce the thesis of the inherent Germanness of the Bildungsroman singlehandedly ; in fact, he is unusual in that he sees it as emerging from historical circumstances rather than the German ‘spirit’. Susan Cocalis points out that Dilthey’s influential definition of Bildung “is so vague that it could apply to epic works of any literary period.” (399). Bollenbeck argues that Bildung could become a hegemonic matrix of interpretation precisely because of its vagueness. Cf. “die von Dilthey implizierte Einsicht, es gehe da um eine typisch deutsche Romanform, ist zu einer Art von Topos geworden.” (1) Bollenbeck and Vosskamp, bei contrast, regard not the genre itself but the discourse concerning Bildung and the significance ascribed to the genre as peculiarly German. Note that Köhn regards this as a topos rather than as a fact. Jacobs’s insistence on the extent of the genre’s presence in German literature is interesting, given that he comes to the conclusion that none of the novels he analyses is really a Bildungsroman and that the genre remains unfulfilled.

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characteristically German as evidence of the truth of his claim, referencing two specific texts, Roy Pascal’s The German Novel, published in 1956, and A. Pellegrini’s Wieland e la classicit# tedesca, published in 1968. These two texts are not, however, representative of contemporary developments in Bildungsromancriticism outside Germany. In 1930, Susanne Howe had published the first booklength study of the Bildungsroman in English, Wilhelm Meister and his English Kinsmen: Apprentices to Life. In 1951, Hans Wagner published a further booklength study of the English Bildungsroman, in 1968, G. B. Tennyson’s “The Bildungsroman in Nineteenth-Century English Literature” came out, and in 1969, Francois Jost’s comparative study of the English, French, and German Bildungsroman appeared in the prestigious journal Comparative Literature. These studies bear witness to the fact that an increasing number of critics was beginning to apply the term Bildungsroman to novels pertaining to other literatures. Finally, in 1972, the year in which Jacobs’s study was first published, Ellen Morgan’s essay “Humanbecoming: Form and Focus in the Neo-Feminist Novel” claimed the female Bildungsroman as “the most salient form for literature influenced by neo-feminism;” the genre is admirably suited to express the emergence of women from cultural conditioning into struggle with institutional forces, their progress toward the goal of full personhood, and the effort to restructure their lives and society according to their own vision of meaning and right living. (185)

This was to be only the first of many feminist and postcolonial studies that appropriated and extended the term. Between 1972 and 1983, the year in which Jacobs’s study was re-issued, still containing the claim that the national specificity of the Bildungsroman as a universally accepted fact, an increasing number of critics had engaged with the Bildungsroman as a genre of world literature. 1974 saw the publication of the first survey study of the English Bildungsroman, Jerome Buckley’s Season of Youth, and in 1983, Margaret K. Butcher, as a matter of course, referred to the “European Bildungsroman” (255). By 1983, it can, therefore, hardly be said that the Germanness of the Bildungsroman is universally accepted.24 Jacobs’s appeal to the Germanness of the Bildungsroman as a locus communis is less an accurate assessment of the field of Bildungsroman-criticism in 1983 than an attempt to reclaim definitional authority for the discipline of Germanistics25, for while the genre itself may not be 24 In fact, Marianne Hirsch argued as early as 1979 that “[i]f the Bildungsroman has been considered a primarily German genre, it has been for reasons that are extraliterary in nature.” (293). 25 It should be noted that while I focus on feminist challenges to conventional definitions of the Bildungsroman (insofar as any general understanding of the genre existed), Todd Kontje comments on the fact that the genre “came under sharp scrutiny” in Germany from the 1960s

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inherently German, the preoccupation with Bildung and the Bildungsroman was of great historical significance, as studies by Vosskamp (1988) and Bollenbeck (1996) demonstrate.

3

Feminist Challenges to the Canon: Appropriating Bildung

The term Bildungsroman was first used in English in the Encyclopedia Britannica of 1910. While its usage remained sporadic until the 1950s, it gradually gained currency during the second half of the twentieth century. Overall, however, references remain relatively sparse until the 1970s and 1980s, when the term was adopted by feminist and, later, postcolonial critics. Why does critical interest in the term suddenly soar? The sudden internationalisation of the Bildungsroman, like the construction and valorisation of the genre, it is symptomatic of the changes undergone by the literary field at the time. Thus, while the term was originally introduced and consolidated during a period of great interest in national literatures and the canon-formation and -consolidation associated with this, it was adopted by Anglo-American criticism during a period of academic expansion. In the second half of the twentieth century, both the number of higher education institutions and student numbers increased rapidly26 in Britain and the US, and the composition of the student body as well as, in the slightly longer term, of the teaching faculty changed to include more women as well as members of ethnic minorities. This led, to an increasing extent, to challenges to the literary canon that culminated in the socalled canon wars; they were particularly vehement in the United States during the 1980s and 1990s.27 The ‘opening up’ of the canon that resulted from the canon wars involved both the reclaiming of forgotten or neglected authors and subjects of study and the critical revaluation of canonical texts and genres from feminist and postcolonial perspectives. During this period, feminist interest in the Bildungsroman was intense: critics used the Bildungsroman as a lens to examine the representation of women’s roles as well as differences between male and female socialisation processes. After onwards. Nevertheless, a reassertion of a traditional understanding of the genre during the 1980s followed and Wulf Koepke notes in 1990 that prevailing definitions of the genre remain yet to be challenged, referring in particular to “assumptions about Bildung, acculturation, and ‘maturity.’” (143, n. 16) 26 According to Evan Schofer and John W. Meyer, around 1900 only 1 % of college-age people world wide attended university. By 2000, this figure had increased to about 20 %, with most of the increase taking place after 1960. 27 Proponents of a traditional humanist canon were, at length, defeated by those who challenged the predominance of ‘dead white males’ on the syllabuses. Cf., for instance, John Guillory ; Lillian S. Robinson.

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Ellen Morgan had claimed the female Bildungsroman as a central genre of feminist writing in 1972, Elaine Hoffman Baruch, in her 1981 article “The Feminine Bildungsroman: Education through Marriage”, argued that the feminine Bildungsroman can be distinguished from the masculine by the centrality of marriage to the development of the female protagonist. This necessarily led to either an extension of the term Bildung, at least by implication, precisely because Bildung in the traditional sense would have been neither a conceivable outcome nor even, depending on its exact definition, a desirable goal to the protagonists of the newly discovered or recently authored female Bildungsromane. In fact, this problematisation of Bildung provided part of the impetus of feminist Bildungsroman-criticism: in 1986, Esther Kleinbord-Labovitz, with a self-confidence that is new and telling, argues that the male Bildungsroman is dead and the female Bildungsroman has displaced it: With the male Bildungsroman thought to be disappearing in contemporary society, and no longer a viable genre for a pluralistic and fragmented society, where the concept of Bildung is being undermined and cannot be upheld in its former cultural context, the belated arrival of the female Bildungsroman invites comparison and contrast. (8)

She concludes: “The Bildungsroman was believed to be disappearing, even oldfashioned. By breaking into the old genre, the female heroine has brought new meaning to Bildung and the Bildungsroman.” (257–8) In another article published in the same year, “The Novel of Self-Discovery”, Rita Felski comes to the same conclusion: As a narrative assuming the possibility of meaningful self-development within society, the Bildungsroman has been perceived by critics as a form inadequate to the modern consciousness, which can continue to exist only in a parodied form. Yet the novels written by women writers in recent years suggest that the Bildungsroman may well be acquiring a new function as an articulation of women’s new sense of identity and increasing movement into public life. (137)

Thus, during the early stages of feminist Bildungsroman-criticism, critics had arguably used the term in an attempt to borrow the legitimacy associated with an established and prestigious genre, as the expansion of the canon had left criteria of literary value largely intact. By the mid-1980s, the self-confidence of feminist critics had increased to a point where it allowed them to challenge and supersede existing definitions of the genre,28 which they not only extended beyond its traditionally masculine focus but also beyond the boundaries of German liter28 Susan Fraiman’s study Unbecoming Women: British Women Writers and the Novel of Development actually takes an ideological analysis of the term Bildungsroman as its point of departure before conducting a comprehensive study of the ways in which the difficulties of growing up female are represented in a range of novels by Burney, Austen, Bront[ and Eliot.

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ature. In the process, they challenged the limitations of the traditional conception of Bildung. While the term Bildungsroman was most enthusiastically adopted, in the Anglo-American literary field, by feminist critics, the Marxist scholar Franco Moretti endeavoured to re-define the Bildungsroman as a European genre during the same period. He draws upon Georg Luk#cs’s work in The Theory of the Novel, originally published in 1920, but first translated into English in 1971. Luk#cs’s and Bakhtin’s texts on the Bildungsroman, in fact, form important precedents for contemporary reinterpretations of the genre as pertaining to world literature, as both were written during the first half of the twentieth century by critics well versed in the German tradition, yet neither views the genre as inherently German. Usage of the term Bildungsroman to refer to novels not written in German thus gained legitimacy over the course of the 1970s and 1980s and has increased steadily since. At the time of writing, searching the MLA Bibliography for texts on the Bildungsroman published between 2012 and 2014 produces 131 entries. Of those, only eight concern German texts.29 Assuming that the meaning of a word is its usage, the Bildungsroman, even if it had indeed been an essentially German genre in the past, is certainly a genre of world literature now. Accordingly, a recent introduction to the genre published in Germany, by Ortrud Gutjahr, acknowledges that the inherent Germanness of the genre is an idea that has increasingly become untenable (24). In summary, the term Bildungsroman, which has long been closely linked to the formation of the German literary canon, has changed in accordance with the transformation since undergone by the literary field. Important factors that have precipitated this development have been the expansion of academia to include students and teachers pertaining to social sectors previously excluded and the internationalisation of the literary field, with the resulting increase in comparative studies and calls for ‘world literature’ as an object of study to supplant the national literatures. However, in spite of the international success of the Bildungsroman, it is still a topos, even among those critics who extend the term, to point towards its difficulty and link this to the problem of defining Bildung. 29 Even among those studies that engage with German texts, relatively few use the term in its traditional sense; the others extend the term to films, female travel narratives and other nontraditional Bildungsromane in a way that is compatible with the term’s usage outside Germanistics. By comparison, the BDSL, a database specific to the discipline of Germanistics, lists twelve scholarly texts on the Bildungsroman published between 2012 and 2014. While all of those make reference to German texts, which is only to be expected, given the nature of the database, four of them take a comparative perspective and include texts from at least one other literary tradition. Therefore, the term’s extension appears to be changing even within the field of Germanistics.

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Mark Stein, for instance, after a brief review of previous attempts to define the genre, not only asks, rhetorically, “Why bother with a genre that may not exist?”, he continues to list, over half a page, the questions inevitably raised by the delimitation of the Bildungsroman-genre and concludes that “[s]ince all of the above questions have engaged scores of scholars over the last two centuries, I can only suggest a suitable understanding of the black British novel of transformation.” (23–4). Immediately afterwards, Stein cites Witte’s dictum that “[a]ny generalisation about the ‘Bildungsroman’ as a genre is apt to be bedevilled by the variant meanings of the word ‘Bildung’ in German”. It is telling that even a study that goes on to use the ‘novel of transformation’, as Stein dubs the black British Bildungsroman, very successfully as a heuristic category, balks at the difficulty of the term Bildung. The putative link between the difficulty of this term and the difficulty of defining the Bildungsroman is, to a certain extent, based on a mystification of Bildung as a concept, which continues to be bedevilled not only by variant meanings, but by conservative, even nationalist, overtones.

4

Rethinking Bildung

The fact that Bildung has long served as a matrix of interpretation central to a German self-perception tinged with nationalism might well suggest that it is advisable to abandon the term altogether. While Bollenbeck argues that the term has lost its significance in the post-war period – and seems to view its disappearance in a positive light – Heinrich August Winkler suggests that it has regained some of its unsavoury implications in the context of “pseudophilosophischer Deutschtümelei”30 that has arisen in the aftermath of the reunification. Either way, why would one want to claw back this term? Bildung may be untranslatable, but so is tragedy – nevertheless, both denote fundamental human experiences. Like Bildungsroman, tragedy has been adopted untranslated by other vernaculars, including both English and German. The German ‘Trauerspiel’ is, arguably, not an exact equivalent of tragedy ; neither can it capture the intertwinement of Greek tragedy with the worship of Dionysus, which is hinted at by the literal meaning of the Greek term, ‘goat song’. As Terry Eagleton points out, “[i]n everyday language, the word ‘tragedy’ means something like ‘very sad’.” (1) Nevertheless, he argues, indictments of the trivialisation of the term are misguided – as well as, usually, indicative of an attempt to deny a large proportion of humanity the dignity perceived as a 30 The expression can be translated roughly as ‘pseudophilosophical German-nationalist nostalgia’.

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prerequisite of tragedy (7 and passim). ‘Very sad’ may in fact be the most appropriate definition of tragedy we can achieve (1). By analogy, perhaps the reconciliation of self-realisation and socialisation is a good-enough definition of Bildung? In spite of the nationalist usage of Bildung in the past, the attempt to proclaim the death of the Bildungsroman and confine it, as a historical phenomenon, to the Weimar Germany of Goethe and Schiller, is generally symptomatic of a Kulturkritik disillusioned with democracy (cf. Mann “Entwicklungsroman” 176). The continued possibility of Bildung as well as the continued possibility of tragedy is denied by those who would deny that the ‘masses’ have the capability of experiencing either. It is the gap between the ideal of Bildung and the possibility of achieving – the latter is, at present, minuscule for the majority of the world’s population – that potentially allows the Bildungsroman to function as a vehicle of social critique. Jacobs’s failure to find putative Bildungsromane of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that actually realise the ideal of Bildung is symptomatic of this disjunction between the genre’s utopian implications and the possibility of realistically representing their realisation, even in the traditional Bildungsroman. Feminist and postcolonial authors and critics have employed the genre to reveal the structural obstacles that make it more difficult for some protagonists than for others to achieve self-realisation and reconcile it with socialisation. This approach could and should be extended to the study of other identity markers in the Bildungsroman, as class, religion, age, and sexual orientation all affect an individual’s ability to achieve self-realisation and socialisation. Using the generic term as a heuristic device in this way presupposes its extension beyond the boundaries of Germanistics. A democratised idea of Bildung, not as a luxury for the wealthy, but as a basic human necessity, challenges the logic of the market; this seems to be particularly necessary at a time when higher education policies are dominated by the rhetoric of employability and when, in those parts of the world that a few decades ago had committed themselves to welfare and the expansion of free education for all, the idea of Bildung seems to be further away from being realised than at any other time since 1945. Because Bildung is a dialectical process, the Bildungsroman also challenges the assumption that there is no such thing as society, infamously proposed by Margaret Thatcher and an implicit assumption of much of the neoliberal discourse that has since become hegemonic in large parts of the world. The individual can only realise him- or herself by also finding a place in the world. The role of society, in this context, is by no means merely constraining, it is, at least potentially, also enabling. A continued usage of the term Bildungsroman, which at the same time extends the term beyond its traditional boundaries in the ways I have indicated, is ultimately necessary to at least discursively wrest away Bildung from those who are privileged because they

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possess cultural or other forms of capital, but also from those who consider it the birthright of German ‘poets and thinkers’, and to establish it as an ideal with a critical edge.

Works Cited Ammerlahn, Helmut. “Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre: an Apprenticeship toward the Mastery of Exactly What?” Colloquia Germanica 30.2 (1997): 99–119. Amrine, Frederick. “Rethinking the Bildungsroman.” Michigan Germanic Studies 13.2 (1987): 119–139. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. London: Verso, 1996. Bakhtin, Mikhail Mikhailovitch. Speech Genres and Other Late Essays. Trans. Vern W. McGee. Ed. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: U of Texas Press, 1986. Baruch, Elaine Hoffman. “The Feminine Bildungsroman: Education Through Marriage.” The Massachusetts Review 1981: 335–357. Berger, Berta. Der moderne deutsche Bildungsroman. Bern: Paul Haupt, 1942. Bollenbeck, Georg. Bildung und Kultur: Glanz und Elend eines deutschen Deutungsmusters. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1996. Bourdieu, Pierre. The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field. Trans. Susan Emanuel. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1995. Buckley, Jerome S. 1974. Season of Youth: The Bildungsroman from Dickens to Golding. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1974. Butcher, Margaret K. “From Maurice Guest to Martha Quest: The Female Bildungsroman in Commonwealth Literature.” World Literature Written in English 21.2 (1982): 254–262. Cocalis, Susan. “The Transformation of Bildung from an Image to an Ideal.” Monatshefte 70.4 (1978): 399–414. Dilthey, Wilhelm. Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung: Lessing, Goethe, Novalis, Hölderlin. 1906. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. Eagleton, Terry. Sweet Violence: The Idea of the Tragic. Oxford: Blackwell, 2003. Felski, Rita. “The Novel of Self-Discovery : A Necessary Fiction?” Southern Review 19.2 (1986): 131–148. Fraiman, Susan. Unbecoming Women: British Women Writers and the Novel of Development. New York: Columbia UP, 1993. Guillory, John. Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon Formation. Chicago: U of Chicago Press, 1993. Gutjahr, Ortrud. Einführung in den Bildungsroman. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2007. Hardin, James. “Introduction.” Hardin, Reflection and Action ix–xxvii. — , ed. Reflection and Action: Essays on the Bildungsroman. Columbia: U of South Carolina Press, 1991. Hermand, Jost. Geschichte der Germanistik. Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1994. Hirsch, Marianne. “The Novel of Formation as Genre: Between Great Expectations and Lost Illusions.” Genre 12.3 (1979): 293–311.

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Jacobs, Jürgen. Wilhelm Meister und seine Brüder : Untersuchungen zum deutschen Bildungsroman. 1972. München: Fink, 1983. Jost, Francois. “La Tradition du Bildungsroman.” Comparative Literature 21.2 (1969): 97–115. Köhn, Lothar. Entwichlungs- und Bildungsroman: Ein Forschungsbericht. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1969. Koepke, Wulf. “Quest, Illusion, Creativity, Maturity, and Resignation: The Questionable Journey of the Protagonist of the Bildungsroman.” Helios 17.1 (1990): 129–143. Kontje, Todd. The German Bildungsroman: History of a National Genre. Columbia: Camden House, 1993. Krüger, Hermann Anders. “Der neuere deutsche Bildungsroman.” Westermanns Monatshefte 601 (1906): 257–272. Labovitz, Esther Kleinbord. The Myth of the Heroine: The Female Bildungsroman in the Twentieth Century. New York: Peter Lang, 1986. Luk#cs, Georg. The Theory of the Novel. A Historico-philosophical Essay on the Forms of Great Epic Literature. Trans. Anna Bostock. London: Merlin, 1971. Trans. of Die Theorie des Romans: Ein geschichtsphilosophischer Versuch über die Formen der großen Epik. Berlin: Paul Cassirer, 1920. Mann, Thomas. “Der Entwicklungsroman.” Große kommentierte Frankfurter Ausgabe. Vol. 15:1. Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer, 2002. 173–176. —. “Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen.” Gesammelte Werke in dreizehn Bänden. Vol. 12. Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer, 1990. 7–589. May, Kurt. “Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, ein Bildungsroman?” DVjs 31 (1957): 1–37. Minden, Michael. The German Bildungsroman: Incest and Inheritance. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997. Moretti, Franco. The Way of the World: The Bildungsroman in European Culture. 1987. London: Verso, 2000. Morgan, Ellen. “Humanbecoming: Form & Focus in the Neo-Feminist Novel.” Images of Women in Fiction: Feminist Perspectives. Ed. Susan Koppelmann Cornillon. Bowling Green: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1972. 183–205. Morgenstern, Karl. “Über den Geist und Zusammenhang einer Reihe philosophischer Romane.” Selbmann, Zur Geschichte des deutschen Bildungsromans 45–54. —. “Ueber das Wesen des Bildungsromans.” Selbmann, Zur Geschichte des deutschen Bildungsromans 55–72. —. “Zur Geschichte des Bildungsromans.” Selbmann, Zur Geschichte des deutschen Bildungsromans 73–99. Parrinder, Patrick. Nation and Novel: The English Novel from Its Origins to the Present Day. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2006. Pascal, Roy. The German Novel: Studies. Manchester : Manchester UP, 1956. Pellegrini, Allessandro. Wieland e la classicita tedesca. Firenze: Olschki, 1968. Robinson, Lillian S. “Treason Our Text: Feminist Challenges to the Literary Canon.” Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature 2.1 (1983): 83–98. Saine, Thomas P. “Was Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre Really Supposed to be a Bildungsroman?” Hardin, Reflection and Action 118–141. Sammons, Jeffrey L. “The Mystery of the Missing Bildungsroman, or : What Happened to Wilhelm Meisters Legacy?” Genre 14 (1981): 229–240.

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Schofer, Evan, and John W. Meyer. “The Worldwide Expansion of Higher Education in the Twentieth Century.” American Sociological Review 70 (2005): 898–920. Schroeder, Friedrich Wilhelm. Wielands “Agathon” und die Anfänge des modernen Bildungsromans. Königsberg: Hartungsche Buchdruckerei, 1904. Selbmann, Rolf. “Einleitung.” Selbmann, Zur Geschichte des deutschen Bildungsromans 1–45. — , ed. Zur Geschichte des deutschen Bildungsromans. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988. Stein, Mark. Black British Literature: Novels of Transformation. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 2004. Tennyson, G. B. “The Bildungsroman in Nineteenth-Century English Literature.” Medieval Epic to the “Epic Theater” of Brecht: Essays in Comparative Literature. Ed. Rosario P. Armato and John M. Spalek. Los Angeles: U of Southern California Press, 1968. 135–146. Vosskamp, Wilhelm. 1988. “Der Bildungsroman als literarisch-soziale Institution. Begriffs- und funktionsgeschichtliche Überlegungen zum deutschen Bildungsroman am Ende des 18. und Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts.” Zur Terminologie der Literaturwissenschaft: Akten des IX. Germanistischen Symposions der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft Würzburg 1986. Ed. Christian Wagenknecht. Stuttgart: Metzler, 1988. 337–352. Wagner, Hans. Der englische Bildungsroman bis in die Zeit des ersten Weltkrieges. Bern: Francke, 1951. Winkler, Heinrich August. “Eine fatale Geschichte: Eine sozialhistorische Analyse lotet die Tiefen des deutschen Bildungsbürgertums aus.” Spiegel Special, 01. 10. 1994. http:// www.spiegel.de/spiegel/spiegelspecial/d-9295526.html. Accessed 4 August 2013. Witte, W. “Alien Corn. The ‘Bildungsroman’: Not for Export?” German Life and Letters 33.1 (1979): 87–96.

Anna Auguscik

Sharing Strains: The Booker Prize and the Institution of Literary Prizes

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Introduction

In a 1916 editorial article for the US magazine Poetry, Ezra Pound made the following observation on the differing approach to supporting writers in France, England and the US, and the institutions which have taken such support as their main obligation: One of the DeGoncourt prizes has been awarded to M. Rene Benjamin, and the Prix Lasserre has been given to Charles le Goffic. I need scarcely remind the reader that for some centuries Paris and London have been the centers of the world’s literature. I believe I have pointed out as contributory causes to this effect the treatment accorded to writers in both cities. In England almost any writer of unusual talent who has not systematized and commercialized his production, can get support from the state: first, by pension for life; second, by temporary relief from a royal fund for that purpose. […] For this reason it is more likely that a man will turn his thought toward permanent writing in England than in America. Permanent writing does not bring an immediate cash reward, at least it is not likely to. In America the whole strain is on the aspirant. In England the strain is shared to a certain degree by institutions. […] It is obvious that […] America has as yet no serious intention of competing with London and Paris. E. P. (304–305)

In his reflections upon the announcement of two French literary prizes – the Prix de Goncourt and the Prix Lasserre – Pound praises France and England for their cultural policies: the former, for a choice of literary prizes of high standing; the latter, for its state institutions which watch out for their authors by allowing lifelong or temporary pensions. In contrast, he jokingly presents America – which lacks such support for writers – as a nation “most interested in the arts”. Evidently there is some national interest in investing in literature and writing (at least, it is seen as desirable), or to “share the strain”, but there are also national differences in the intensity and implementation of this interest. The following examines the various interests and investments in literary prizes and explores the perspectives of those who describe literary prizes as

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institutions. Posing the question of ‘who’ is doing the describing will also require a discussion of the various settings for and effects of such descriptions. After a short introduction to the present culture of literary prizes, I will focus on the British Booker Prize and analyse its status as institution in two steps: First, the Prize will be shortly described in its institutional context, its founders, sponsors, its architecture, and its ties to other institutions in the contemporary literary field. Secondly, those instances will be discussed in which the Booker is explicitly evoked as an institution. Finally, I will sketch the consequences of letting literary prizes “share the strain”.

2

The Proliferation of Prizes (and of Prize Commentary)

Since Pound’s comment, literary prizes can be said to have widely revolutionized literary life. His own, initially magnanimous stance changed only a decade later. Already in 1928, the author and critic had pronounced a dire verdict on prizes: “The whole system of prize-giving […] belongs to an uncritical epoch; it is the act of people who, having learned the alphabet, refuse to learn how to spell” (Pound, qtd. in English 2005a: 28). His later experience with prizes was, to say the least, controversial. In 1949 he was awarded the inaugural Bollingen Prize for The Pisan Cantos, which he had written in custody in Italy for treason against the United States. The debate about the bestowal upon a writer who was, at best, a schizophrenic and, at worst, a fascist grew so heated that it finally caused the initial creators of the award, the Library of Congress, to withdraw it.1 Although such individual prizes and individual controversies had stirred the literary world and spheres beyond already in the first half of the twentieth century, they have become especially widespread world-wide and have gained in importance since the 1980s, both in terms of sales and in procuring media interest for the winning titles.2 When and how did it all begin? What are the reasons for this proliferation of prizes as a global phenomenon with national specificities? While most prize commentary marks the beginning of the literary prize with the Nobel Prize for Literature, one of five distinctions inaugurated by Alfred 1 The Bollingen has since been in the hands of the Yale University Library, and the renowned list of eminent US poets from W.H. Auden to Adrienne Rich does not suggest that it has suffered from the incident. 2 “If the 1970s was the decade when book prizes finally achieved symbolic importance in Britain – not only as formidable badges of prestige for authors but, inseparably from that function, as serial occasions for public excitement and controversy over matters of cultural value and national identity – the 1980s was the decade when they finally achieved real economic importance.” (English 2005b: 172)

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Nobel’s will in 1901 and awarded annually by the Swedish Royal Academy (cf. Pratt 1988), some scholars have seen the advent of literary awards with the Royal Academy medals and college prizes (Street 2005b), even going back as far as the 6th century BC to the Greek drama and arts competitions (English 2005b). This line of inheritance is based just as much on a wider understanding of the terms “prize” and “award” as what is perceived as “literary”, but, either way, the position of the ‘modern’ book prize remains distinct in all commentary. The advent of the modern culture of literary prizes, then, according to James F. English, began with the Nobel Prize which had quickly “established itself as an instrument (an economic instrument, in the full sense of that term) eminently well suited to achieving cultural objectives along three main axes: social, institutional, and ideological” (2005a: 50). The first reason for its wide success, if not for the proliferation of prizes in general, is its social function. The prize performs the role of a spectacle which calls for our participation, a ‘cultural game’ much like a sporting event, which unites otherwise adverse ‘players’ under one roof of shared interests: The prize serves the function of what economists call “communication”: it brings disparate players into informed contact with one another so that mutually beneficial transactions may (in theory) take place among them. (English 2005a: 51)

The second objective of a prize is to provide its makers, sponsors, and administrators with the institutional platform of value production: The prize places a certain power (very widely underestimated by sociologists of culture) in the hands of cultural functionaries – those who organize and administer it behind the scenes, oversee the selection of members or judges, attract sponsors or patrons, make rules and exceptions to rules. (English 2005a: 52)

Finally, the prize offers an opportunity to debate such questions of literary value, to renew the belief in intrinsic value, even at the risk of being proclaimed a mere copy of the real deal: For it invariably becomes the occasion for disputes over how accurately the value has been gauged and how legitimately the sponsors and judges may claim the authority to perform the calculation – disputes whose rhetoric is predicated on, and so can only reinforce, faith in the symbolic economy of pure gifts. (English 2005a: 53)

The three objectives – social, institutional, ideological – render the prize a powerful tool of ascertaining authority and controlling the market by assembling agents and offering them legitimacy, which, as Michael Patrick Allen and Anne E. Lincoln remind their readers, Pierre Bourdieu depicted as the ultimate goal, rather than profit, in the field of cultural production (Bourdieu 1993, qtd. in Allen and Lane 2004: 872). What is of particular interest for the argument of this paper is the second: the institutional function. English purports that the in-

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auguration of one prize causes the founding of another, an anti-prize which draws its legitimation from the very criticism of the first, i. e. the prize institution provokes the founding of new institutions which ground their legitimacy in the fact that they oppose or distinguish themselves from those already existing. The Nobel Prize did, in fact, invite much offspring, filial prizes which were modelled after the Nobel, as well as others which were instituted in dissociation from the parental model. Though the immense influence of the Nobel Prize remains untouched, and its three-fold objective continues to be an inspiration for most prizes inaugurated since the early twentieth century, the role of “the father of all national book-ofthe-year awards” has been assigned to the Prix Goncourt (English 2005b: 161–163; cf. also Street 2005b: 822), one of the two French prizes mentioned in Ezra Pound’s editorial. The Prix is endowed by the acad8mie Goncourt which was founded by author, critic and publisher Edmond de Goncourt. A prize for “un ouvrage d’imagination en prose paru dans l’ann8” (“the best and most imaginative prose work of the year”), it has been awarded in honour of his brother Jule Alfred Huot de Goncourt since 1903.3 Although the Prix only comes with an award of 10 Euros, it secures nation-wide media attention and guarantees large sale revenues. The French Goncourt, in turn, is widely held to have stood as a model for a number of literary prizes, foremost the British Booker Prize, today known as the Man Booker Prize for Fiction.4 In one of many instances in which the Booker Prize has partaken in the writing of its own history and contributing to the wider interest in the Prize, Tom Maschler recalled its beginnings at the occasion of its 30th anniversary. He remembers a significant stay in France in the early 1950s during which he was mesmerized with the culture of literary prizes, and what was more, with the effect prizes had as the number one topic at parties and gatherings, and a true booster of sales – which at up to 500 000 copies per winner were enormous compared with the British awards at the time which could muster some 1 000 extra copies at best (Maschler 1998: 15). A decade later, as a publisher for one of Britain’s most prestigious publishing houses, Jonathan Cape, Maschler did not forget about the literary hub which he so admired in Paris. Finally, in the mid to late 1960s, he succeeded in first animating the Society of Young Publishers and then securing a sponsor – the wholesale retailer Booker McConnell – willing to invest in a literary award. It was hoped that a new prize in the image of the French Goncourt would fulfil the role as art prot8g8 as much as 3 “Le testament d’Edmond de Goncourt.” Acad8mie Goncourt. http://academie-goncourt.fr/ ?article=1229173897. (15. 02. 2015). Web. 4 For a detailed comparison of the Goncourt and the Booker, cf. Cachin and Ducas-Spaen 2003; for a comparison between their market positions, cf. Pickford 2011.

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sales propeller, and throw a good light on the sponsor. The goal was from the very beginning twofold: to support literature and to make a profit from it.5 Such personal accounts of influence cannot be disputed though at least two arguments have been made against drawing a direct line from the Goncourt to the Booker. For one, as Sharon Norris pointed out very early in the academic attention on the Booker in her dissertation on the Booker’s peak years, the 1980s, there are serious differences between the two. The Prix, so Norris, was founded out of personal rather than commercial motives, and while the award money which accompanies the award is negligible, the impetus on the sales of its winning titles is enormous (1995: 72). Where they do correspond, however, is in the potential for scandal and their close ties to a dominant literary establishment (Norris 1995: 73). A second argument against overhasty commingling of the two prizes is presented by James F. English in an article on the historical background of awards in Great Britain, in which he challenges the received notion of literary prizes as an imposition on the British literary field from abroad, be it in a line with the ‘Hollywoodization’ of culture, or the – traditionally suspect – continental (read, French) contagion. English claims that the reason for the success of literary prizes is not its susceptibility to foreign influences, but instead – what is especially, if paradoxically helpful in their proliferation – a home-made and rather long tradition of anti-prize sentiment (2005b: 169). Early prizes in Britain, mainly the two awards founded in 1919 in Scotland, the Hawthornden and the James Tait Black, “had been subdued, publicity-shy affairs by design” (English 2005b: 164). The appearance of the Booker in 1969 did not initially promise a very different outcome. The commentary was scarce, at best snorting, until Malcolm Muggeridge, critic and at that time recent convert to Christianity, left the jury panel in the midst of discussion proclaiming the shortlist nothing less than “pornography” in 1971 (English 2005b: 168). The first Booker controversy was born. When John Berger decided to deride the Prize’s sponsors as neo-colonialist exploiters in his 1972 acceptance speech and share half of his award money with the Black Panther movement, the press was prepared to make adequate room for the report of this provocation (cf. English 2005b: 168–69). These media-bites 5 As English explains: “Patronage of such writers is far from a central aim of the contemporary book-prize industry. The task is left to the Arts Council and other distributors of small grants and fellowships, an important but distinct set of institutions.” (2005b: 163). The Booker Prize is, of course, only one institution next to others whose goal – even if peripheral – is the promotion of literature: other prizes, as well as the mentioned Arts Council, the Granta magazine’s Best of the Young British Novelists, and Waterstones’ initiatives are other important organizations (cf. English 2005b: 172). The role of the London Book Fair in terms of these questions should be mentioned here, though this has, to my knowledge, not been investigated yet.

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have prompted English to challenge the view of Booker’s take-off in the 1980s and to persuasively claim that it had actually already started to rise in 1971 and especially 1972. The indignant phase of press commentary quickly succeeded the initial silence and finally led to mostly a mock attitude, which English describes in an earlier publication as the gradual shift of prize commentary in recent years onto a register of mock-scandal, whereby the prize can continue to occupy, discursively, the place of the illegitimate, the embarrassing, the scandalously middling institution of culture – a place with which no “serious” critic or artist wants to be too firmly associated – while securing in fact an even greater symbolic efficacy not only among the mass consumers of art but among the most specialized producers, the serious (academic) critics and artists themselves. (2002: 113)

With its presence in the news well beyond the UK and the Commonwealth, the Booker is today known as “a national institution internationally recognized” (Görtschacher 2006: 4) Not even two decades into the Booker Prize, the French newspaper Le Figaro referred to the Goncourt as the “French Booker” (qtd. in Caine 1998: 6). In 2008, some of the eligibility rules for the judging panel of the Goncourt have been changed in imitation of the Booker, which provoked the observation of “a reversal in influence between the two prizes” (Pickford 2011: 232). More recently, an editorial article in The Guardian asserted the Booker’s immense role for literature: Now in its 41st year, and with a winners’ roster that boasts some of the late 20th century’s finest novelists – from William Golding to Nadine Gordimer to last year’s Hilary Mantel – the Booker prize has established itself as one of literature’s great institutions. (Editorial 2010)

If we were to follow the editors here and take their word for granted, we may ask just what kind of institution this Booker Prize should be and what its place is amidst the rest of “literature’s great institutions”?

3

“Voilà, let me pull a rabbit out of my hat, let’s create a literary institution!”6 The Booker Prize as One of Many Institutions in the Literary Field

Initially, the Prize was administered by the Publishing Association, in imitation of the close ties of the French Goncourt with an inner circle of publishing houses in Paris, and sponsored by Booker plc. Tom Maschler had quickly persuaded the chairman of Booker McConnell, Jock Campbell of the investment as a ‘win-win 6 From a Blog reviewing all Booker winners, cf. Messenger 2011: n.p.

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situation’ for all parties involved. Campbell had already begun a major restructuring of the company with a long history of exploitation in Guyana, to focus the corporation’s activities in and around London, and to diversify these activities by, for example, setting up the Booker’s Author Division, which had bought up the copyright for Ian Fleming’s James Bond series and provided Fleming, and soon Agatha Christie and other authors, with tax-shelter. The publishers withdrew one year into the Prize and gave way to a new management which was less prone to be criticized for its sales-oriented ‘industry’ background but not less for its corporate ties to an organization with a past of colonial exploitation, as was shown above with the 1972 acceptance speech by John Berger. The new management was supposed to represent “all parts of the book world”, and consisted of an author, two publishers, a bookseller, a librarian, the Booker chairman, another Booker representative, and the administrator of the Prize, Martyn Goff. The role of the latter in administering the Prize is similarly significant to the role of Tom Maschler in instigating it. Michael Caine, the late Chairman of Booker plc until his retirement in 1993, described Goff ’s double role as administrator (Goff was Director of the administering charity organisation National Book League, today known as Booktrust), and public relations agent (today officially taken over by PR agency Four Colman Getty): In one he has been the permanent cool centre at Management Committee meetings, raising points for discussion and decision through his wide-reaching antennae in the literary world among authors, publishers, media, critics and academics. […] Martyn’s second role has been to arouse the interest of journalists and diary columnists in some aspect of the year’s happenings – never saying sufficient to give an official view, but always sufficient to start the journalists hunting the hare. (1998: 7–8)

It is no wonder that the first biographer of the Booker Prize, Richard Todd, called Goff its true “doyen” (2006: 11). When Booker had to withdraw their sponsorship in 2001, the Booker Prize Foundation was founded to secure new financial support. The new sponsor, Man Group, a British alternative investment management business with a focus on hedge funds, came with new (and more) money, with new rules, and new gossip. The tradition was upheld in the new millennium – the Prize’s name was kept despite the change and it is now called The Man Booker Prize for Fiction. Ever since, the Booker has created spin-offs such as the biannual Man Booker International Prize, the Lost Man Booker Prize, the Man Booker Best of Beryl Prize, several related prizes such as the Man Booker Arab Prize, The Russian Booker, and it served as a role-model for others, not least the German Book Prize.7 7 For a comparison of the Booker Prize and the German Book Prize, cf. Auguscik 2013.

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Its success may be owing to the scandalous potential, but it is also based on a structure of checks and balances. The Booker Prize Foundation appoints the members of the Advisory Committee. The Advisory Committee is responsible for changing the rules and the selection of the judges. Both the Foundation and the Committee consist of a diverse mix of national and corporate representatives, publishers, booksellers, academics, critics and writers. The annually changing panel of judges is, too, under the obligation to represent as many interests as possible. Since 1977, it has been set as a five-headed organ consisting of “an academic, a critic or two, a writer or two and the man in the street” (Goff 1989: 18). “The man in the street” was later exchanged by “a major figure”. It is with the judges where the actual responsibility of the Prize is placed. The panel chooses “the very best book”, or more specifically, until 2014, “the best novel of the year written by a citizen of the United Kingdom, the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland”, excluding the Unites States of America.8 From the perspective of its critics, the combination of Commonwealth writers with the confinement to UK publishers was highly problematic.9 From the perspective of the Prize, however, this area of conflict ensured an annual check of forces, and positioned the Booker as a ‘state-of-the-empire-prize’. This international debate secured circulating media coverage from Ireland to South Africa, from Canada to Australia. Mostly, however, it put the other nations in question under pressure: Should they rejoice in case ‘their’ representative wins, or withdraw attention to such a renewal of imperial imposition? A second point of criticism, still vaild, concerns the ties to the corporate world of sponsors – whether wholesale company or a financial business, both are presumed on the outside of the usual participants in the literary field, and their intervention considered dubious, if not outright dangerous. Among these usual players on the field, the Booker has not been embraced with open arms though its role has not been unanimously understood as negative either. Which institutions are closest to the Prize? Which “cultural industries and institutions” does the Prize impact on? (Street 2005a: 231) In 1989, Wouter de Nooy described the central location of literary prizes within the literary field: Literary prizes occupy a central position in the literary field, since they are related to many of its institutions. […] Quite a few of the organizations belonging to the literary 8 “About.” The Man Booker Prize. http://web.archive.org/web/20120531092147/http://www. themanbookerprize.com/prize/about (15. 02. 2015). In 2014, the eligibility rules changed and now include writers from the US: “Any novel originally written in English and published in the UK in the year of the prize, regardless of the nationality of their author. The novel must be an original work in English (not a translation) and must not be self-published.” (“Faqs.” The Man Booker Prize. http://www.themanbookerprize.com/faqs, 15. 02. 2015) 9 Cf. esp. Graham Huggan (1997; 2001).

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field institute prizes. However, literary prizes pre-eminently relate to the institution of criticism. (De Nooy 1989: 199–200)

In fact, de Nooy has not been the only one to compare the prize’s function to that of a curtailed process of criticism: Pound’s later remark of prizes as criticism gone wrong, led some to even ask whether or not prizes may have taken the place of criticism altogether (Cowley 2006). Novelist and critic David Lodge, Booker Prize Chair in 1989 and two-time-nominee in 1984 and 1988 respectively, disclosed that he was disillusioned with prizes in their function of literary judgement as “essentially discriminatory and divisive (Lodge 2007: 140). Seemingly depending on the commentator’s position, as well as on the particular type of prize, awards are understood as a form of criticism, as a marketing tool, as the peak of a commercialized publishing industry, as a manifestation of the reader’s opinion, or as entirely idiosyncratic. Apart from being appropriated as part of criticism, prizes have been defined as part of a new culture of consumption (Todd 1996), as a continuation of the commodification of a perpetually created exotic periphery (Huggan 2001), “as a particular kind of media event” (Street 2005b: 820), as part of the promotional processes of marketing (Squires 2007). The representatives of the Booker Prize do not, however, so easily identify with one of the major players. The Prize – or its long-time administrator – claims that it tries to please both publishers and booksellers on the one hand, and critics and academics on the other (Goff 1989: 17). These pressures are somewhat relieved by bringing justice to either set of criteria by rotation – but they can never be fully resolved to the satisfaction of all participants. The annual attempt on the Booker part to do so, to combine a culture of commodification and aesthetic criteria, is media-worthy material. The Booker Prize causes massive annual coverage in print, online, on TVand radio.10 Sharon Norris sees the Booker as distinct from any of its rivals because of “the much higher level of media coverage given to this prize than any other” (1995: 76). It has the ability to cause a second wave of reviewing for the winning title as much as for the nominated books (cf. Todd 1996). Not only is it, in David Lodge’s words, “the most important single event in the British literary calendar” (Lodge, qtd. in Street 2005b: 824), but it also offers itself to debate throughout the whole year: from the selection of the Chair of judges in November to the announcement of the longlist in July, the shortlist in September and the final 10 “The Booker has tended to dominate the media coverage of arts prizes, and thereby sets a benchmark by which other prizes judge themselves. In the four-year period 1995–8, the British coverage of the Booker resulted in 120 articles, compared to 91 for the Turner and 42 for the Mercury ; added to which, the Booker pieces featured more prominently than did articles about the other two (MacRory, 1998: 3). In 1989, the prize was covered by Channel 4 News, Newsnight and The Late Show; it appeared on regional and day-time shows; it was in all the broadsheets and all the main radio news and arts shows.” (Street 2005b: 824)

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winner in October, the Booker provokes coverage of chosen titles and authors as well as those that have not been selected, speculation on annual quota, discussion of rules, mechanics, and the legitimation of this competitive element in literary life. In short, the Prize offers an opportunity for problematizing the alliances within the literary field. As the Booker interacts with other participants in literary communication, it allows for a discussion of the process of appreciation, making the whole constellation visible. Nicola Pitchford describes the media frenzy surrounding the Prize: There may be no better, nor more entertaining, site for examining the intersection of literature with issues of national identity in contemporary England than the loud buzz that annually surrounds the Booker Prize. Established in 1969 and awarded to the year’s “best novel,” the prize has taken on the status of an institution, despite or indeed because of the fact that scarcely a year has passed without major controversy attending the award. Inches and inches of newspaper columns and letters-to-the-editor pages are devoted to the relative merits of prize contenders, winners, and judges, […]. (2000: 696)

Despite the central role it assumes in literary debate, the commentators do not seem to agree on the question what kind of an institution it is, or – if it has “taken on the status of an institution” – whether it is one in the first place.

4

“It should be criticized but also cherished”11: The Booker Prize as (a British) Institution

According to the Oxford English Dictionary – itself privy to being discussed as a British institution12 – the term “institution”, apart from its somewhat archaic or ecclesiastical meanings, may apply to An established law, custom, usage, practice, organization, or other element in the political or social life of a people; a regulative principle or convention subservient to the needs of an organized community or the general ends of civilization. Something having the fixity or importance of a social institution; a well-established or familiar practice or object. An establishment, organization, or association, instituted for the promotion of some object, esp. one of public or general utility, religious, charitable, educational, etc., e. g. a church, school, college, hospital, asylum, reformatory, mission, or the like; as a literary 11 “It [the Booker Prize] remains a remarkable thing to have contributed a valuable institution to British literary culture. There aren’t many. We must be grateful to those who devised it and have maintained it. It should be criticised – but also cherished.” (Carson 1998: 29) 12 Cf. Sarah Ogilvie. Words of the World. A Global History of the Oxford English Dictionary. Cambridge et al: CUP, 2013.

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and philosophical institution, a deaf and dumb institution, the Royal National Life-boat Institution, the Royal Masonic Benevolent Institution (instituted 1798), the Railway Benevolent Institution, etc. The name is often popularly applied to the building appropriated to the work of a benevolent or educational institution. Often occurring, like INSTITUTE n., in the designations of societies or associations for the advancement of literature, science, or art, of technical knowledge, or of special education. (“institution, n.”, OED Online)

Based on the above analysis, as much as on English’s three-part objective, which applies to the Booker as to the Nobel, the prize is easily acknowledged as “an established […] element in the […] social life of a people”. It is “regulative” in so far as it influences and structures a market segment and it is “subservient” at least to the needs of other participants in the field, if maybe not quite to “the general ends of civilization”. Whether or not the Booker has “the fixity or importance of a social institution” will be the object of many discussions, but this alone would speak in favour of granting it this position. Though not charitable or religious, it has been instituted for “the promotion” of writers,13 of the novel in English, of literary debate, as much as of the UK-based publishing industry and book retail, or in fact of their own makers, sponsors, organizers.14 It is a “literary […] institution” – though this, too, will be only agreed upon when the notion of “literary” is not embedded in a moral jacketing. Whether or not, it will be described as an institution “for the advancement of literature”, or in fact, the beginning of the end, a final step to the long prophesied death of the novel, will similarly serve as the basis for many a heated debate. The Booker can be understood as part of “the institution of prizes as a whole” (North 2006: 577). In this spirit, American critic and academic Steven G. Kellman describes an indignant commentary made by William Gass, writer and philosopher, awarder and awardee of numerous prizes, as “an acerbic essay that takes dead aim at the entire institution of literary accolades” (Gass, qtd. in Kellman 2006). In contrast, the individual prize can be viewed as an institution on its own, or parts of it too, can serve to be examined as institution. John Street examines one important part of the literary prize, the judging panel and claims that “the prize jury needs to be understood as a form of political institution, in which decision rules, power and other factors play their part” (2005a: abstract). Another significant element of the Booker Prize which has been subjected to scrutiny is the sponsor as institution. Joel Best ascribes the popularity of the 13 Literary Prizes are “promoting writers and contributing to mid-term canon formation” (Squires 2007: 2). Cf. Ginsburgh (2003) for a detailed study on Booker’s impact on canon formation. 14 Claire Squires has explored the “self-fashioning” or “self-promotion” to which institutions, such as newspapers but also literary prizes are inclined: “The impact of a literary institution can also, therefore, be to praise itself” (2007: 169–170).

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prize to the many institutions which can set up awards: “Prize proliferation occurs in a wide range of institutions: government agencies, private corporations, and nonprofit organizations all seem to be presenting growing numbers of awards; these groups honour both their own members and outsiders, and they recognize all manner of accomplishments by all sorts of people” (2008: 6). Jason Cowley, too, describes the money-provider as the institution behind the prize: Any number of large corporations, wealthy institutions and patrons are lining up to partake of the frenzy as sponsors and paymasters, though one wonders how much of this is to do with tax-avoidance issues and how much with the need to be seen as socially and culturally relevant and cool. (2006: n.p.)

Additionally, some scholars have looked at the common “institutional affiliations” among judges and nominated writers (cf. Gazley 2006; Norris 1995). Any of these attributions – as part of an institution, or as comprising institutional components, but especially the Booker taken as an institution in its entirety – can be made in a positive or negative light and from any position, which, in turn, positions the speaker. Critics refer to the Booker as an institution positively as a means to advertise world-wide novels written in English: “The Booker Prize is a prime example of an institution which makes global English writing highly visible in British culture” (Cheesman et al. 1998–2002: n.p.) But the title of institution can also be used pejoratively, even for the same reasons: “For the most part, then, the Empire’s writings, or at least the writings judged worthy of critical scrutiny in Western academe have been read as addressed to the center and rewarded through institutional prizes like the Governor General’s in Canada or the Booker in England” (Bahri 1997: 285). The perception of the Booker can have a temporal component. It can be thought of as an institution at one point in time, but not at others, or only since a particular period: “By 1990, when Gilbert Adair included a chapter entitled ‘Le Booker nouveau est arriv8’ in his Barthes-inspired Myths and Memories, the prize had already become an institution, thanks to a marketing strategy not dissimilar to that of Beaujolais nouveau” (Gallix 2012: n.p.). Or, it can also be denied the status of an institution altogether : “The Pulitzer […] has assumed the character of a national institution. Its word goes. That word, it is a relief to record, has somehow eluded the Man Booker prize, and one must pray that it continues to do so” (Bailey 2012: n.p.). The title is used both by others and by those representing the Booker. In fact, Booker Prize publicists have taken over this positioning for advertising their product on the website, where it is described as “a British institution, rather like Derby Day” and as “a cultural institution of incomparable influence”, respectively quoting descriptions from the international weekly newsmagazine The Economist (1993) and the American magazine The New Yorker (1997).

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There has been a tendency to refer to the Booker Prize as a particularly British institution, as a national figurehead which, again depending on the speaker’s stance towards Great Britain and symbolic flag waving, will cause different responses. Yet in times of fear of a bigger player, even the replies of British historians can become heated with caring instincts. After the change of sponsorship from Booker to Man Group, rumours were at first heard of extending the rules of eligibility to US-Americans. In the midst of the debate in 2002, Lisa Jardine, professor of Renaissance Studies and Chair of judges for that year’s annual Prize, made her stance quite clear : “The Booker will become as British an institution as English muffins in US supermarkets. […] It will become more blandly generic, as opposed to specifically British. This will completely change the character of the prize’” (Jardine qtd. in Chrisafis 2002). Similar fears were raised when the new rules of eligibility were finally installed in 2014, but so far the character of the Prize does not seem to have suffered, though the change remains to be evaluated. The annual debate may have lost its specific Commonwealth touch to some degree but instead won the question of a perhaps more topical transatlantic power struggle. Lisa Jardine’s initial anxiety about whether an Ian McEwan could take up a Philip Roth was fully played out in the coverage of the 2014 Prize with the preliminary result of Tasmanian author Richard Flanagan taking the trophy. Perhaps more importantly than the author’s nationality, the industry aspect remained untouched: The novel still needs to be published in the UK. Authors are generally less enthusiastic about the relevance of the Booker Prize – mostly so until they actually win it, but some have been more constant in their rejection. In 1993 John Le Carr8 made a straightforward statement on his opinion of literary institutions: I don’t compete for literary prizes and I have the most profound contempt for the system – I mean, a total alienation from it. I wrote, not least in my early years, to escape institutional life and the last thing I was going to do was allow myself to become the pawn of a new institution.” (Le Carr8, qtd. in Heller 1993: n.p.)

Le Carr8 made authorial reclusion a habit and he remained almost foreseeably averse when he was nominated for the biannual Man Booker International Prize for lifetime achievement: “I am enormously flattered to be named as a finalist of 2011 Man Booker International Prize. However I do not compete for literary prizes and have therefore asked for my name to be withdrawn.” The Booker Prize website also disclosed that the author “asked that his books should not be submitted for the annual prize to give less established authors the opportunity to win” (John le Carr8, qtd. in Bosman 2011: n.p.). The addition suggests that although he may himself be beyond any need of support, there may be younger authors who might profit from such nominations. In the end, the spy novelist

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was kept on the shortlist despite his will, the final accolade went to Philip Roth, and the Booker was assured headlines again. In an article in which he shows himself bewildered about the Booker’s “institutional insecurity” in announcing a special posthumous prize for Beryl Bainbridge, who had been a Booker bridesmaid several times but never received the award in her lifetime, Robert McCrum claims that “you can’t escape the Booker’s power or its influence” (2011: n.p.). What kind of power does the Booker have over other participants, and is there really no escaping the system, as one of its most experienced journalistic commentators will have it?

5

The Institutionalization of Prizes and the Power of Institutions

In a review of James F. English’s monograph on cultural prizes in general and the Booker Prize in particular, Michael North stumbled over the literary scholar’s claim that there is no escaping “the economy of prestige”: Even the most vehement opposition to a particular prize, or, for that matter, to the institution of prizes as a whole, simply cements the prize system all the more firmly in place. Thus it would seem that The Economy of Prestige itself, in its attempt to put both prizes and their audiences in some larger perspective, simply lifts the economic cycle to another level, at which scholarly interest in the cultural institution of prizes serves to establish their importance once and for all. English is, in fact, so well aware of his own implication in this closed economy that he does not look quite so hard as he might for the loopholes in it. (North 2006: 577)

Although North does not provide a persuasive argument for the loophole he has in mind, he does insist that the debate which ensues after a strong instance of opposition – and he names the non-inclusion of Marcel Duchamp’s urinal artwork Fountain by the Society of Independent Artists and his forthwith resignation from their board as an example – may provide “some openings in what otherwise seems an utterly closed economy of prestige.” (2006: 578) English, and before him Bourdieu, have refuted such possibilities. In his ground-breaking contribution to the 1983 special issue of the journal Poetics, Pierre Bourdieu claimed that any anti-institutionalism is in itself quickly institutionalised: The position of “pure” writer or artist, like that of intellectual, is an institution of freedom, constructed against the “bourgeoisie” (in the artists’ sense) and against institutions – in particular against the State bureaucracies, Academies, Salons, etc. – by a series of breaks, partly cumulative, but sometimes followed by regressions, which have often been made possible by diverting the resources of the market – and therefore the “bourgeoisie” – and even the Stage bureaucracies. Owing to its objectively contra-

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dictory intention, it only exists at the lowest degree of institutionalization, in the form of words (“avant-garde”, for example) or models (the avant-garde writer and his exemplary deeds) which constitute a tradition of freedom and criticism, and also, but above all, in the form of a field of competition, equipped with its own institutions (the paradigm of which might be the “Salon des refus8s” or the little avant-garde review) and articulated by mechanisms of competition capable of providing incentives and gratification for emancipatory endeavours. (343)

English has hinted that there may have been a time when this was still within a writer’s repertoire of positioning themselves in the field. While he asserts that Jean-Paul Sartre’s refusal of the 1964 Nobel Prize was an instance in which the author could still use his symbolic capital and reverse the power structures, he views Thomas Pynchon’s staged acceptance of the National Book Award for Gravity’s Rainbow in 1974 as a “transitional moment” between a time when it was possible to draw empowerment from refusing a prize and one when any such attempt would be appropriated for the eventual empowerment of the prize (English 2005a: 223).15 Pynchon had the professional comedian Irwin Corey, in the guise of a professor, collect the prize for him in a performance which caused uproar but also proved a success to all parties: author, book, and prize. Pynchon was confirmed as celebrated recluse author, the novel was assured the hitherto held-off commercial success, and due to Corey’s startling performance the prize gained the much hoped-for media visibility. In addition, however, and this is where English sees the moment of transition, the event underlined the prize’s postmodern nature, “its paradoxically increasing effectivity and decreasing seriousness” (2005a: 224). The founding of anti-prize prizes, a form of the manifestation of prize criticism, can be easily viewed in this light. Thus, in response to the Booker’s favouring of male authors, a new prize was founded in 1996, then sponsored by a telecommunications company, today known as the Women’s Prize for Fiction. “[T]he institution of the Orange Prize” was “a challenge to the Booker with its all-female nominees and judges” (Squires 2007: 136; cf. Street 2005b: 824 on the Whitbread Awards). But if refusal or opposition, even non-observance, are automatically given the status of institutional acts, does this reflect on their allegedly inherent institutional nature or the particular use of the term ‘institution’? The two steps which this contribution has taken in tackling the question of literary prizes, or more specifically of the Booker Prize as institution can be understood as attempts to separate the notion of the institution in the sense of a 15 Pynchon had been declined the Pulitzer Prize earlier that year, against the recommendation of the fiction panel. Hence, the award by the rivaling National Book Awards had wider implications for the constitution of the relationship between the two awards.

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form of organisation, with a certain structure, even architecture, and a second, figurative understanding by which the Booker can be taken as a national figurehead, compared to muffins, in the same style as the much debated Sun’s page 3 can be classified as an “innocuous British institution” (Sabbagh 2012: n.p.). Different speakers use the term in different ways. Scholars in sociology, economy, or politics use it differently than scholars in literary and cultural studies, differently than journalistic commentators, and differently than authors. The application of the term has something provocative. Authors, in particular, have taken the stance that it may even be their role to oppose the institutions which are often backing prizes. Such was the opinion of John Le Carr8, and such was voiced by Alice Oswald when she explained why she did not want to be nominated for the Eliot Prize: I’m uncomfortable about the fact that Aurum Funds, an investment company which exclusively manages funds of hedge funds, is sponsoring the administration of the Eliot Prize; I think poetry should be questioning not endorsing such institutions and for that reason I’m withdrawing from the Eliot shortlist […]. (Oswald, qtd. in Flood 2011)

Is the different use of the term “institution” a question of politics, of Left or Right, liberal or conservative? The opposition of being appropriated by institutions of the wrong kind (or, in fact, of any kind) is grounded in the idea of authors as independent voices, of literature as an independent or autonomous field. The history of the Booker Prize can be told as a history of individual people – Tom Maschler and Jock Campbell, Martyn Goff and the annually changing figures on the panel of judges – or as a history of institutions – the Publishers’ Association, Booker plc, Booktrust, Getty. It can be told as a story of discontinuities or continuities. The decision for either one or the other makes for a different narrative. What difference does it make? The decision of an institution weighs more than the decision of an individual. Sociologists of literature hold that statements made by institutions secure continuity and publicity : A discussion is institutional if the statements are made in the setting of a body or organ instituted for this purpose. These bodies or organs guarantee a certain degree of continuity of the discussion, irrespective of the expert(s) involved. On the other hand, these organs are usually indispensable for making the discussion a public one. (De Nooy 1989: 200, FN 1)

Furthermore, evaluations made by such the institution of criticism, of which literary prizes are part, are understood as “a social process guided by institutional norms and constraints” (de Nooy 1999: abstract). In short, more is at stake when the Booker as institution selects one novel among a year’s production than if a single person should make such a pronouncement. In a recurring debate of a

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supposed “institutional bias” (Bissett 2012: n.p.) on the part of the Booker against Scottish authors, this has been made explicit: The Man Booker prize has a huge institutionalised problem with Scottish authors which […] lurches between Anglocentric elitism, barely disguised contempt, class hatred, and borderline racism. […] The consistency in these matters has been so systematic that this can’t be put down to the taste or otherwise of individual judges. (Williamson 2002)16

The power of an institution is extended to its propensity to institutionalize certain ideas and concepts, be it bias, or ‘competitiveness’.17 What is the particular power of literary prizes? Prizes canonize and promote authors, create literary celebrities; they boost sales, structure the market in shaping genres, even define “literary fiction” (Norman 2011: 38). In her booklength study of marketing as mediation between author and reader, Claire Squires writes that “[c]ertain establishments – the academy, schools, reading groups, peers and the critics, for example – have the power to enforce particular interpretations” (2007: 62). At the same time, she grants certain “groups and institutions involved in the processes of defining books – textually and contextually”, such as the literary prize, the power to oppose such power (ibid.). Can only institutions oppose other institutions? The argument of the opposition of the prize, e. g. its rejection, as an institution seems to work on the presumption of it being an affirmation of the initial target’s relevancy. Indeed, scandals and rows work as affirmation if a prize’s aim is understood as promoting and instigating debate. Maybe a positive argument can be made in favour of prizes here: If prizes nurture debate, then their function could be similar to what literature’s role in society is often pronounced to be – to raise an argument. If this is an argument made in favour of literature and reading, and if this argument is taken for granted as necessary in a society of information and knowledge, more so, even as a basis for democratic societies, then prizes, too, can be argued to fulfil such a function. Coming back to Ezra Pound’s 1916 comment on literary prizes on the difference between the US, where “the whole strain is on the aspirant” and England, where “the strain is

16 Such intense criticism of the Booker must take into account the critic’s background as cofounder of the journal Bella Calledonia, an online magazine “exploring ideas of independence, self-determination and autonomy”. However, the Booker’s bias has given reason to debate on several occasions, not least when James Kelman was awarded the Prize in 1994 but then was publically derided by one of its judges. For more information on the Booker’s relation with the Scots, cf. Norris 2006. 17 “The prize culture has intensified and institutionalized this competitiveness by introducing a new order of evaluation, and a new opportunity for writers to fail, or to feel they have failed.” (Lodge 2007: 140)

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shared to a certain degree by institutions”, we might say that this strain is, in fact, aimed at the creation and promotion of (literary) debate.

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English, James F. 2005b. “The Literary Prize Phenomenon in Context.” A Companion to the British and Irish Novel, 1945–2000. Ed. Brian W. Shaffer. Malden: Blackwell, 2005. 160–176. Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 28. Print. Flood, Alison. 2011. “Alice Oswald Withdraws from TS Eliot Prize in Protest at Sponsor Aurum.” Guardian.co.uk (6 Dec). Web. Gallix, Andrew. 2012. “The Booker Steps away from Being Its Own Genre.” Guardian.co.uk (28 Jul). Web. Gazley, J. Lynn. 2006. “Branding the Booker.” American Sociological Association Annual Meeting (Aug.). Web. Ginsburgh, Victor. 2003. “Awards, Success and Aesthetic Quality in the Arts.” The Journal of Economic Perspectives 17.2 (Spring): 99–111. Print. Görtschacher, Wolfgang. 2006. “Fiction and the Literary Prizes in Great Britain.” Fiction and Literary Prizes in Great Britain. Vienna, Austria: Praesens. 1–7. Salzburger Beiträge zur Sprach- und Kulturwissenschaft 5. Print. Goff, Martyn. “Introduction.” Prize Writing: An Original Collection of Writings by Past Winners to Celebrate 21 Years of the Booker Prize. Ed. Martyn Goff. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1989. 11–23. Print. Heller, Zoe. 1993. “Behind an Iron Curtain.” Interview with John Le Carr8. The Independent (1 Aug). Web. Huggan, Graham. 1997 “Prizing ‘Otherness’: A Short History of the Booker.” Studies in the Novel 29.3: 412–33. Print. Huggan, Graham. 2001. The Postcolonial Exotic. Marketing the Margins. London and New York: Routledge. Print. Kellman, Steven G. 2006. “All the Glittering Prizes.” Sobriquet Magazine 12.1. Web. Lodge, David. 2007. “A Mixed Blessing: AWriter’s View of Literary Prizes”. Pre- and PostPublication Itineraries of the Contemporary Novel in English. Eds. Vanessa Guignery and FranÅois Gallix. Paris: Pditions Publibook Universit8. 133–141. Print. Maschler, Tom. 1998. “The Booker Story.” Booker 30: A Celebration of 30 Years of the Booker Prize. 1969–1998. Ed. Booker plc. 15–16. Print. McCrum, Robert. 2011. “Is The Booker Prize Having A Crisis of Confidence?” Guardian.co.uk (20 Apr). Web. Messenger, Tony. 2011. “1969 Booker Winner – Something to Answer For – P.H. Newby.” Messengers Booker. 19 Dec. Web. Norris, Sharon. 1995. “‘Simply the Best (Better than All the Rest?)’ An Investigation into The Booker Prize, 1980–1989, With Particular Regard to The General Rise in Business Sponsorship of Literary Awards during The Eighties, And The Likely Effects of The Booker on Fiction.” Dissertation. Norris, Sharon. 2006. “Scots and the Booker.” Fiction and Literary Prizes in Great Britain. Ed. Wolfgang Görtschacher, Holger Klein, and Claire Squires. Vienna, Austria: Praesens. 37–52. Print. North, Michael. 2006. “The Economy of Prestige: Prizes, Awards, and the Circulation of Cultural Value (review).” Modernism/modernity 13.3 (September): 577–578. Print. Ogilvie, Sarah. 2013. Words of the World. A Global History of the Oxford English Dictionary. Cambridge et al: CUP. Print. Pickford, Susan. 2011. “The Booker Prize and the Prix Goncourt: A Case Study of AwardWinning Novels in Translation.” Book History 14: 221–240. Print.

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Pitchford, Nicola. 2000. “How Late It Was for England: James Kelman’s Scottish Booker Prize.” Contemporary Literature 41.4 (Winter): 693–725. Print. Pound, Ezra. 1916. “Editorial Comment: Literary Prizes.” Poetry Magazine (16 March): 304–305. Print. Pratt, William. 1988. “Missing the Masters: Nobel Literary Prizes in English, 1967–1987.” World Literature Today 62.2 (Spring): 225–228. Print. Sabbagh, Dan. 2012 “Sun editor tells Leveson inquiry page 3 is an ‘innocuous British institution’.” The Guardian (7 February). Web. Squires, Claire. 2007. Marketing Literature. The Making of Contemporary Writing in Britain. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Print. Street, John. 2005a. “Luck, Power, Corruption, Democracy? Judging Arts Prizes.” Cultural Politics 1.2: 215–232. Print. Street, John. 2005b. “Showbusiness of a Serious Kind: A Cultural Politics of The Arts Prize.” Media, Culture & Society 27: 819–840. Print. Todd, Richard. 2006. “How Has the Booker Prize Changed since 1996?” Fiction and Literary Prizes in Great Britain. Ed. Wolfgang Görtschacher, Holger Klein, and Claire Squires. Vienna, Austria: Praesens. 8–19. Print. Todd, Richard. 1996. Consuming Fictions: The Booker Prize and Fiction in Britain Today. London, England: Bloomsbury. Print. Williamson, Kevin. 2002. “The Man Booker Prize & 44 Years of Institutionalised AntiScottish Racism.” Bellacaledonia (26 Jul). Web.

Notes on Contributors

Anna Auguscik is a lecturer at the Institute of English and American Studies at the University of Oldenburg, where she completed a dissertation on the role of literary prizes and book reviewing for the literary marketplace, Prizing Debate in Literary Interaction: The Fourth Decade of the Booker Prize and the Contemporary Novel in the UK. As a ‘Fiction Meets Science’ research fellow (http:// www.fictionmeetsscience.org/ccm/navigation/), she is working on the critical and public reception of contemporary science novels. Susan Bassnett is Professor of Comparative Literature at the Universities of Warwick and Glasgow. She has written extensively on aspects of comparative literature and translation studies. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and is the incoming President of the British Comparative Literature Association. Janice Bland (PhD) is Deputy Chair of TEFL at the University of Münster. Her research interests include visual and critical literacy with children’s literature, intercultural learning, drama methodology and creative writing. Her recent books are Children’s Literature and Learner Empowerment. Children and Teenagers in English Language Education (2013) and Teaching English to Young Learners. Critical Issues in Language Teaching with 3–12 Year Olds (2015), both Bloomsbury Academic. Elizabeth Bracker, Dr. phil., research assistant at the University of Hamburg 2009–2013, teacher trainee (Referendarin) for English and German at a secondary school (Gymnasium) in Berlin 2014–2015. Currently post-doc at the University of Hamburg. Fields of interest: literature in the English language classroom, qualitative methods in educational research.

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Georgia Christinidis is a lecturer in English Literature at the University of Rostock. She is currently completing a book on the contemporary British Bildungsroman. Karolin Echarti is currently completing a PhD in English Cultural Studies at Goettingen University. She was a member of the student research group “The Personal Union of Great Britain and Hanover, 1714–1837: An International Space of Communication and Interaction”. Her main research interest is BritishGerman culture contact and the transfer of knowledge in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. Christine Gardemann teaches English and German at a secondary school in Hamburg. Thomas Kullmann is Professor of English Literature at the University of Osnabrück. Currently, his main research interests are Shakespeare and Renaissance Culture; English Children’s Fiction and Images of India in 19th-century Britain. His publications include two books on Shakespeare, one on landscape and weather in the nineteenth-century English novel and one on English children’s and young adults’ fiction as well as numerous articles on English Renaissance Literature, Victorian and twentieth-century literature and culture, and children’s literature. He also edited two volumes of essays on aspects of English children’s fiction. http://www.ifaa.uni-osnabrueck.de/mitarbeiter/tkullman. Frauke Reitemeier is a full-time lecturer at the Department of English at Göttingen University. She is mainly interested in early modern and eighteenthcentury British literature, with a focus on the reception and perception of Scotland and Scottish authors. Previous publications include books on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and on the German and English predecessors of Sir Walter Scott; she has also published on various subjects ranging from Scott and music to rhetorical strategies of emancipation in early eighteenth-century English literature. Barbara Schaff holds the chair of English Literature and Culture at the GeorgAugust-University of Göttingen. She has had visiting professorships at the Universities of Tübingen, Munich, Bochum and Vienna, and been a senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Tourism and Cultural Change, Leeds Metropolitan University. Her research interests include travel writing, tourist guidebooks, literature about the First World War, authorship, gender and cultural transfer theories.

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Johannes Schlegel teaches English literature and British cultural studies at the Georg-August-University of Göttingen. His PhD-thesis Anthropologie und Medialität des Bösen bei Blake, Hogg & Byron has been awared the Novalis-Prize 2016 for innovative research in European Romanticism. Further research interests include literary and cultural theory, temporalities, and popular culture. Christian Schmitt-Kilb teaches English Literature at the University of Rostock. Konrad Schröder is Professor Emeritus of English as foreign language at Augburg University. Carola Surkamp is Professor of TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) at the University of Goettingen, Germany. After her studies in English, French and Spanish at the Universities of Cologne and Nantes (France), she taught English Literature and Film at the University of Giessen. She is the coauthor of various books on the use of films and literature in the foreign language classroom, among them Englische Literatur unterrichten 1: Grundlagen und Methoden (42016; with Ansgar Nünning) and Filme im Englischunterricht: Grundlagen, Methoden, Genres (2011; with Roswitha Henseler and Stefan Möller). She also edited the encyclopedia Metzler Lexikon Fremdsprachendidaktik (2010). Her main research interests include literature and film in the EFL classroom and at university, teaching reading, drama activities in language learning and (inter)cultural learning. Laurenz Volkmann is Professor of EFL Teaching at Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena. He has published widely on literature, culture and media in EFL teaching, from Shakespeare to Gender Studies to Intercultural Learning. Recent major publications are Englische Fachdidaktik: Kultur und Sprache (2010) and Teaching English (with Nancy Grimm and Michael Meyer, 2015). Martina Witt-Jauch received her PhD in Comparative Literature from Purdue University (Indiana, USA) in 2010 for a study on Gothic Villains and Criminal Detectives. In addition to completing her Habilitation on the topic of trauma literature in the 19th and 20th century, she has been teaching Business English and English for Professional Purposes at both Trier University and Trier University of Applied Sciences for three years. She has published on Theoder Fontane’s gothic fiction, infanticide in 18th-century Germany, early 20th-century film, and on Heinrich Böll’s war novellas. Also, she presented her research at numerous national and international conferences.

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Daniel Xerri is a teacher of English at the University of Malta Junior College. He also teaches on the university’s MA in TESOL. He is the joint coordinator of the IATEFL Research SIG and the chairperson of the ELT Council. He holds postgraduate degrees in English and Applied Linguistics, and is currently completing a PhD in Education at the University of York. His main research interest is teacher education and development in English Language Teaching. More information about his talks and publications can be found here: www.danielxerri.com