Personal Thoughts

From the start of our Literary Criticism class, we have been studying and re-studying what it is literary scholars have written in order to answer the three questions What is Reading? What is the Author? and What is Literature? I have to be quite honest and say that after reading through the opinions and ideas of writers such as Emerson, Shelley, Arnold, and Eliot, I am disturbed by how disinterested, and frankly, bored, I have already become with this subject. This is not to say that I do not think it is important to ask these questions. I think it is very important for Literary Critics, and critics of any kind, to always be asking questions in order to gain a better understanding of what it is that is being critiqued. However, I have found that since we have begun discussing these subjects, I have become increasingly disinterested in the texts I am reading for my class as well as books I am reading in my own time for pleasure (something that I, unfortunately, rarely have the time to do). This leads me to the question: At what point does criticism and questioning of literature overexert itself to the point that those who might be affected by such works become disenchanted with the bigger picture of what they are taking in? Does literary study and criticism cause students to teeter dangerously on the edge of an abyss which, if entered into, would leave them forever floating in a quiet sea of discontent with the literature being studied and read? My personal answer to this is yes, as I see myself coming increasingly closer to the edge where I am in danger of no longer being affected by the things I read. This thought has deeply saddened me, as I am one who has taken so much pleasure out of reading ever since I have been able to. I was reminded of the childlike abandonment I used to give myself over to in reading this afternoon when, while reading for another class, I stumbled upon a poem which was undoubtedly the origin of one my all time favorite songs. Never had I made the connection that Sweet Afton, by the folk group Nicklecreek, was actually a song written by Robert Burns (Sweet Afton poem/lyrics), a historic Scottish poet who was a source of inspiration for romantic writers such as Wordsworth. I cannot even begin to express the shear delight that rose up within me as I felt a real and pure connection with Burns through his poetry. Call me a nerd, but I pulled up my iTunes program on my computer as quick as I possibly could, searched through song selections, and finally pressed play to listen to Sweet Afton as I read along in my Norton Anthology with what Burns had written so long ago. And as I listened to the song while reading the poem I thought to myself "this is what literature is and always should be-a connection" Because the fact that a 21-year old college girl can connect with a Scottish farmer/poet from so long ago is, after all, what makes reading worth while to begin with. But, my excitement was quickly smoldered as I was brought back to reality, realizing a better pick up my pen and start underlining, because heaven forbid I should get to class on Friday and anybody question the integrity of my work ethic because there is not an ink stain on any of my pages. This cultural construction and jaded view of "education" makes me long for days when I would have been able to sneak off to an orchid or garden somewhere and devour a book of MY choice on MY on time, learning as I go, whatever it is that sticks out to me or makes an impression on me the most. It is sad for me to think those days are gone (and I am scaring myself because I sound like Emerson-which I don't like). The truth is, this "education" we receive is not really an education at all, but rather a regurgitation. I always wonder to myself why I am so eager to be done with college and my education and I realize not that it is because this has not been a freeing or thought-provoking experience for me at all, but rather something more closely resembling imprisonment...And I am ready to think for myself, I am ready to be free.