Blog 2

            Margaret Cohen’s “Narratology in the Archive of Literature” is an intriguing follow-up to last week’s reading by Moretti, also questioning the canon and the way we read in the hope of finding ways to productively expand it. Her meditation on the canon begins, as one might expect, with questioning what makes some literature worthy of study than others, and I think she is right in pointing to “taste” and “social expectations” although I hadn’t thought of those as answers before (52). I guess I thought of the canon as it was explained in the GRE Subject Test study book—useful as a baseline to gauge literary knowledge. We all have to have something in common right? We teach classical myth and even some biblical scripture in high schools not only because they have been appreciated (and privileged) for millennia, but because even every day experiences put us in contact with them. We encounter allusions to these stories, to “classics,” and the canon at some point in the idiomatic speech of our daily lives—whether we’re chasing our white whale or declaring pizza to be the food of the gods. Without learning these references, we wouldn’t be able to communicate with the world that already knows them. In this sense, the canon perpetuates itself. Without its assignment, one would be considered ill-prepared for native conversation, much less literary study.

            Despite the canon’s usefulness, it is definitely limiting, as any specialist knows. And from even a bibliophile’s perspective, it seems unfair to leave out 99% of all published writing just for the sake of making it easier on us. It is understandable that Cohen, Moretti, and company would brainstorm ideas on how to expand the canon to privilege as much literature as possible. I’m skeptical of what Moretti seemed to be suggesting, which is relying on other scholars to be right about a text in order to use their analysis for distant reading one could then synthesize into some kind of understanding. But Cohen offers some interesting suggestions, including an attempt at cutting out snobbery—that is, insisting that literature meet some abstract measure of greatness rather than just being as it is.

            Cohen’s argument that sea adventure narratives leave one with a better payoff when a reader appreciates its perfectly visible surface qualities instead of attempting a close reading is a compelling one. She explains that the value in sea adventure narratives such as Robinson Crusoe is in the action of the story rather than something repressed by the text (66). I rather like this idea of appreciating a text based on what it says, and in it being a test of a critic’s attention to detail rather than his or her imagination or assumptions about its author. An approach like this almost leaves the text with more integrity.

            This argument leads into Cohen’s final meditation on whether literary scholarship is an art or a science. While I like to think of literary scholarship (not just literature) as an art because of the emphasis on original thought and the creativity it takes, it is a viewpoint that can very easily lead to snobbery. By implementing more distant and/or surface reading, one can more easily approach it as a science—an activity that follows methods and procedures and attempts a measure of accountability. But Cohen’s conclusion is that scholarship may be better described as a craft, invoking cunning and talent but also skill and precision, something of a balance between the two. As the word “craft” evokes for me the practice of creative writing, a practice recognized as an art while still very firmly considered hard work, I think it a fair word to apply also to literary study.